Chapter 10: Out on the Town

The Songlebridge South Conservative and Unionist Party were holding their AGM in the main meeting room at the Songlebridge Golf Club, a cosy venue they had used for many years, especially in light of the ever dwindling numbers of members in recent years. Although from the general volume of the hubbub from the assembled local notables, there was a larger than average turnout tonight. The majority of the members had clearly filed through the bar on the way to the meeting and predominantly pink gins and margaritas seemed to be in evidence everywhere one looked.

The Chairperson, Cynthia Ponsonbody-Jones, was a rather portly woman in her late seventies but still quite active and smart in appearance. Her husband had been a Brigadier who had served in the Falklands many years ago and died a rather disappointed old man who could never quite get that same excitement in his life that anywhere near matched his experience in war. By the time the Kuwait War and Afghanistan came along he was too old and failing in both body and mind to take any part at all and after that he went down fast, leaving Cynthia well provided for financially but emotionally poor. Widowed in her late forties and with no children or grandchildren of her own, she threw herself into local politics as a parish councillor for the village in which she settled late in life and she had served as the Election Agent for Monty Smythe, then a Queen’s Councillor from Kent who wanted to embark on a political career and was chosen to stand for the safe Tory seat after the previous MP had been caught out in a scandal involving one of the aides at Westminster. Monty was apparently regarded as an upright citizen who could be relied upon to play a straight bat.

Cynthia soon realised that Monty was rather pompous and extremely lazy but, having got to know him over twenty-five years, realised that under the blustering exterior, Monty did care for his community and, when he did take up a case he considered worthy of his attention, he was resolute in seeking and reaching a satisfactory conclusion. But the rest of the committee work at Westminster clearly bored him and he tried to avoid active participation to get away with minimal effort into his elected role.

Cynthia had also got to know Monty’s wife too. He was married to the former Mabel Robertson, whose family owned virtually all the undeveloped land in the surrounding countryside, much of which was being earmarked for future housing development and she was therefore wealthy enough, and willing, to pay for the regular General Election campaigns so that the lack of local party members’ subscriptions hardly affected the string of successful campaigns Monty enjoyed at all.

Cynthia had become fond of Monty as a friend and colleague over the years, with mutual respect on both sides but their relationship was never any more than that. The Constituency was therefore well run with little apparent friction. Cynthia had learned from her late husband how to keep a Brigade and HQ running smoothly, despite lack of resources, and she had personally taken measures to step into the breach to cover for Monty, while demonstrating that Monty was actively working on constituents’ behalf, on those occasions when he failed to show up. Monty preferred to stay in his comfortable Bexhill on Sea home close to London rather than travel all the way up to Northamptonshire to attend his weekly Friday surgery and staying in the depressing old cottage that Mabel had bought for them so that he could pretend to have a local address on the election leaflets.

Fortunately, as a local councillor and knowing that most of the issues raised at MP’s surgery were more to do with local issues that could be dealt with by the Parish, Borough or County councils rather than by Westminster, so answering the public’s queries and requests in the surgeries was well within Cynthia’s depth of knowledge without bothering to involve the often absent MP.

Now that the Songlebridge Branch AGM was about to start and there was no sign of Monty, nor had Cynthia had any response to her email reminding him of the date, time and location of the meeting, she was worried.

She needs Monty here tonight because one of the major items on the Agenda was that a reassurance by the sitting member that he was willing to stand for another term of office for the next General Election was necessary. After all, that next General Election could be called at any time, especially with the present government in such disarray and the party’s support by the country as a whole was in deep decline, and certainly the election would have to be called within the next two years. So all the MPs around the country had to declare their intentions before the 5th of December and it was expected that the sitting member should at least give the local party executive a heads-up either way.

Cynthia noticed that Monty’s wife Mabel was standing at the far end of the hall, drinking and laughing with her locally based friends, the ones that she was particularly known to be in league with and often plotting some mischief or other.

Cynthia recognised Evelyn Mason, the magistrate and Claire Jessop the manager of that awful care home and retirement development in the village, the construction of which had been rather suspiciously forced through the planning department of the Greater Songlebridge Borough Council on unusually creaking planning wheels that appeared to have been greased sufficiently to pass through with barely a squeak. That large and expensive project was to the benefit of the Songlebridge Village Development Corporation plc, led by the Robertson family which had Mabel’s brother at the head as SEO.

That corporation had the most money to make from the development, which made use of prime farming land which was cheaper and much more profitable to develop than the possibly contaminated ex-industrial land, classed as brownfield sites, that were closer to the areas of most population and therefore much better suited as a site for older people who needed public transport to enable them to get out and about and still play an active role in the local community. The only ‘public’ transport that Cynthia had seen in the village was the care home’s very own beaten up old bus, which only did short runs to the post office, library, local convenience shops, garden centres for morning coffee or afternoon teas, and the odd bingo night somewhere in the locality.

“I better ask Mabel if she knows where her husband has got to,” Cynthia told her branch vice-chairman and the secretary who were sitting either side of her at the top table, “we are already five minutes late in starting the meeting, but if we know that Monty is on his way, maybe we could stall for a few more minutes before starting the official AGM.”

Cynthia got up stiffly and walked purposefully across the room towards the three ladies who were her objectives, with everyone in between wisely giving her a wide berth.

Now, Claire Jessop was someone Cynthia knew from various charity events that raised money for the care home, a charity that seemed to be a suspiciously deep sink hole for charity funds but Cynthia had never really got a handle on community benefits were being produced by those charity funds and Claire tended to keep her in the dark, recognising Cynthia’s suspicions.

Claire’s husband was both the secretary of the local allotment society and very active in the Rotary Club as well as the playing captain of the Songlebridge Cricket Club. Cynthia was a member of the Cricket Club Board, having followed her husband’s interest in the game, and thought that Tom Jessop was a good sort; while she would not have said that Claire had any good intentions in her at all.

As for Evelyn Mason, Mabel Scythe’s other drinking companion, Cynthia had cared neither for the Magistrate nor her husband, Charles Mason, who was a red-faced drunk who never had a good word to say for anyone and owned several businesses in Songlebridge, including an estate agents that did a lot of agency work for the Robertsons’ developments.

Cynthia just got the feeling that these three witches were boiling up some mischief in their unseen cauldron but she had no idea what that could be. Still, she pasted on a fake smile and pushed through the crowd with determination, attracting the attention of the three ladies the nearer she got to them.

“Hello, Mabel,” Cynthia says, a little breathlessly as a reflection of the urgency of her mission in seeking out the ladies, nodding to the other two present, “Claire, Mrs Mason; Mabel; now, where the hell is Monty? The AGM should have started five minutes ago and there’s no sign of him or any message of apology for his tardiness, can you assure me that he is on his way?”

Mabel lifts her eyebrows in an expression of surprise at the very question, “Why, Cynthia, dear, has Monty not been in contact with you? I’m sure he should have told you that he was away this weekend, away on a ‘jolly’, away for the whole weekend in fact.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Cynthia replies, “unless his reply has ended up in my junk file, I’ve not had any response to several of my messages or emails discussing the agenda for tonight’s meeting.”

“Ah,” Mabel replies with a rather too gleeful smile on her face Cynthia thought, “That’s probably because he’s away on a junket to the seaside today and tomorrow and he deliberately left his mobile phone behind to ensure that he couldn’t be reached and disturbed ... and thus have whatever fun he was having interrupted.”

“So where on earth is he?” Cynthia demands to know.

“The very ends of the earth it would seem, Weston Super Mare, North Devon or is it Somerset? The West Country anyway, for the weekend, with some floozie or other I wouldn’t be at all surprised, why else would he want to be out of contact for the whole weekend?”

“But, I mean ... So where in Weston Super Mare is he staying?” Cynthia asks, trying to hold her temper, looking at the three ladies in turn.

“Oh, we’ve no idea, no idea at all,” Mabel replies, her smile turning into a barely suppressed giggle, ‘“have we girls?”

The other two join in her laughter as Cynthia seethes in front of them.

“But what about the AGM tonight?” Cynthia asks, trying to keep calm and stop her temper from exploding, “What are Monty’s intentions regarding his Parliamentary seat?”

“Oh I think he intends to step down from his Parliamentary seat, Cynthia,” Mabel smiles in response, “So when the agenda item comes up tonight, you better ask the membership for nominations for interview by the Selection Panel and make your selection before the decision date on December the fifth, don’t you?”

Sally was given a rousing round of applause at the end of the dinner service that Saturday evening. She took her deep and deserving bows in response and answered that,

“I couldn’t have done it at all without the express help and assistance from Gervaise, the manager, waitresses Alison and Jennifer, who knew where everything was kept, Joe and Fred on wash-up duties and of course George who pretty well filled in with everything else.”

Both George and his late wife Molly did indeed help, Molly with her knowledge of cooking all of the basic veggies and sauces and her instinctive honing in to stop things boiling over or burning, so that every course worked out to perfection and with minimum waste of time or materials.

Dot wanted to go dancing, she said, after the girls had finished their meal by a quarter to eight. She had already showered and changed while their meal was being prepared and she was eager to get out and enjoy herself. Ada was also keen to get out and, although dancing wasn’t on her agenda as excitement for the evening, she fancied a gin and tonic or two and would gladly watch Dot’s dancing, she was sure that would be an entertainment in itself. Elsie was also energised by the rest since the bus trip and the tiny but tasty morsel of food that she managed of the set meal and was keen to get some fresh air and even dance in her wheelchair if there was room.

Angela in Reception, who handed out the printed sheet showing what was open and for what activity and where, assured Elsie that the Saturday night dancing at the Astoria was old time dancing until 10 o’clock and that wheelchair dancing at the venue was a regular thing.

Rosemary was still fatigued after the coach trip and quite sleepy after eating most of the surprisingly good steak and onion pie, that she said she would sit in the tv lounge for half an hour and then go to bed; it was around her normal bed time anyway.

Boris had also chosen the beef and onion pie with its flaky pastry topping, with vegetables in season and, in what was a rare occurrence for him, managed to eat the whole thing and even had a chocolate brownie with ice cream for afters. He also felt energised to use the scooter to find out the lie of the land, partly to check if there were any KGB agents watching him and checking to see if he was likely to fail in his vital mission. Boris didn’t want to risk being replaced or even eliminated at this late stage. He also felt that he should check to see if MI5 were checking up on him too, although he was certain that in all the thirty years he had been a resident of the United Kingdom, he had never seen any surveillance from the British authorities and only very occasionally had he seen Russian agents and only then when they were actually on their way to contact him.

So Boris decided to just scoot down to the Grand Pier, do the circuit of the Pier, where it would immediately be obvious if he was being followed, and then come back. If he found a public bar that was had easy disabled access, and Angela in Reception assured him that the Angler’s Rest readily welcomed disabled drinkers, he might stop for a beer and vodka chaser.

Boris wondered if he could ask Sofija to join him so he could quiz her about whether she was also an agent, but it appeared that she had her heart set on being escorted into the town by Monty, the driver who was also a Member of Parliament and Speaker of the House of Commons. An unlikely pairing Boris thought but he was aware that in the decadent West, and this area was even called the West Country which made such decadence virtually inevitable, that this vacation romance must have been the motivation for Monty volunteering to drive the mini-bus in the first place.

After being let out of the back remotely by Angela, Boris scooted down the footpath towards the blazing lights of the Grand Pier. It occurred to Boris that perhaps MI5 had already suspected that Sofija was a Russian spy and were using Monty to smoke her out, or they suspected Boris as being a spy and were using Monty and Sofija as decoys to lull him into a false sense of security so that they could arrest him as soon as he let his guard down.

That, thought Boris, is the occupational hazard of being a spy, you soon suspect everyone and every act as suspicious.

Doreen would have loved to have gone out with any of the others. Oscar she knew would sleep after she had virtually hand fed him his meal and insisted he take his Dementia-Away tablet with his evening meal, but no-one even offered her an invitation to join them. She didn’t want to sit in the darkened bedroom while her father slept on snoring, so she sat in the bar, where most of the hoel’s customers had sat to watch the musical duo provided as entertainment. She found the singing distracting and not to her taste, so she took her drink into the deserted ‘Sun Lounge, where she drank two amontillado sherries and read a book, one from a collection that she always brought when visiting her father because he would drift in and out of consciousness and cognisance during her visiting hours and she needed some escape from her own thoughts.

Once she had read for an hour or so and only interrupted by the passage through the bar area of staff going off or coming on shift, she didn’t want to sit and read any more. The final straw was seeing George and Sally walking down the stairs together arm in arm and walking though the bar area seeing no-one but each other.

So Doreen put down her book and left it on the table to collect on her way back, put on and buttoned up her coat and ventured outside the hotel and down the steps to the pavement. The wind, she noticed, that had been stiff and cold when they disembarked from the minibus during the afternoon, had dropped away to a very light air from the direction of the sea. It was not exactly warm out, being October, but it was dry and relatively still and the air had that wonderful aroma of the sea that was both invigorating and comfortably settling her worried mind. She didn’t really know how long her father Oscar could keep on going, possibly indefinitely with her coming in every day and helping him eat but she knew that his passing was something she would have to face at some stage sooner or later and face it alone.

Doreen had noticed that over the last couple of years that those stroke victim patients that were rarely if ever getting visitors to help them through meal-times were just allowed to fade away and not last long. Loneliness was a killer just as much as old age, she thought. Doreen wasn’t sure that such neglect was deliberate, she had no direct evidence of criminal neglect, but there were too many sick people and not enough staff to meet their caring needs and this seemed to be the cycle of life in this particular care home.

Oscar had been old fashioned in his views and lifestyle. He came here to England during the 1939-45 war, sent here as a teenage boy with his younger sister to look after while his jeweller father and mother, along with other family, remained in The Netherlands; he and his sister were the only survivors by the end of the war. He arrived with a few gem-cutting tools, a little precious metal and a couple of years’ part-time work experience in his father’s workshop, repairing watches, making rings, cutting gems. He had got an apprenticeship with a jewellers here in England, where the authorities settled him, almost straight away. He was living in lodgings, while his sister Johanna was taken in by foster parents who turned out to be quite well off. Oscar kept in contact with Joan, as she preferred to be called, but by the end of the war the siblings had grown apart, she was out in polite society and soon married well while he was a worker in a fairly rundown trade in a rundown neighbourhood in an Eastern Midlands industrial town of mines and steelworks. Oscar did manage to break out on his own and rented a little shop in Songlebridge Row, making a few special pieces to order but mostly selling cheap items that he bought in from wholesalers. Eventually even the watch repair side of the business turned into nothing as people bought cheap throwaway watches and Oscar and his growing family lived above the rented shop. When he retired, he had some savings but his investments couldn’t keep pace with the value of his contemporaries who had invested their savings in their own property, especially around where he lived and when he had the second and most devastating of his two strokes he ended up in the Songlebridge Care Home by way of the local NHS care services.

Doreen’s mother had died when Doreen was still at school, the youngest of four, with the three eldest being born 20 months or so apart, then a gap of nine years to Doreen, so she was the only one left at home to care for her mother for two years while her mother faded away. After her mother died, Doreen stayed close to her father even after she married and had two girls of her own. When her own marriage ended through divorce, she got to stay in the family house while the children were still in school and university, so she moved her father in with her when he had to give up the flat above the shop after he could no longer work in the shop. That was about the time his mind started to go and he used to wander off, leaving the house and going missing for hours on end.