The hustings began with Hetty asking each candidate to introduce themselves fully.
Guy went first: “I am passionate about the community, that’s why I sit on the parish council, the Chamber of Commerce and volunteer. My family has lived in this area for hundreds of years. I intend to go to Westminster and get them to listen to real, honest people.”
I applauded politely. Simon didn’t. Nigella elbowed him sharply, and he gave a few half-hearted claps.
Marjorie Potsdam went next. “THE BEES ARE DYING!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “DORSET COUNTY COUNCIL WANT TO BUILD A NEW DUAL CARRIAGEWAY. JOIN ME, AND WE’LL LIE IN FRONT OF THE BULLDOZERS.”
There was shocked silence. This was the most public emotion shown in Dorset in years.
“Are the bees really dying?” Sonia whispered to me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Oh my God, I swatted one the other day. Wait, no, it was definitely a wasp. Are they dying too?”
I shushed her.
Riz stood up to introduce himself. “I was born in this country to immigrants who came here for a better life, so I understand what it is to want to help your family. I’m an anaesthetist at the Royal Salisbury Hospital, so I know what challenges our NHS is under and I have ideas for how to fix them. Send me to Westminster to fix the country, not the guy from the party who actually created them.” There were a few jeers at this and some polite applause. Simon clapped for him.
Suzy Rabbit gave the most polished introduction; she cracked a joke, asked the audience how they were, complimented Hetty, and did so well that you could see Guy and Riz rebuking themselves for not doing better.
Bob Thrall stood up. “No more red tape! No more immigrants! No more lefties bleating on about bees! No more French people! No more Poles taking English jobs! No more members of the homosexual community asking for pronouns and to be referred to as a goat, no more?”
“And time for the first question,” Hetty said, cutting him off. This question is from Mr Grant A. Wish, the editor of theSittingston Citizen, who wants to know about improving train connections to Bristol.”
The next hour, let me tell you, reader, flew by. There’s barely a moment I’ve been happier to lose than that one in the swelteringly hot church hall listening to racism and conspiracy theories (and those were just the questions), while Sonia asked me questions such as “Do the Greens like other colours?” and “Why don’t Labour call themselves ‘Work!’?”.
There was some proper discussion: what to do about the comprehensive in Sittingston needing more funding to renovate its crumbling buildings, the need for a bypass through some of the villages, whether enough was being done to attract people of working age to live here, and what opportunities there were to keep those from the area from moving away.
A screaming match between Bob Thrall and Marjorie’s wife was the highlight, though. “Fascist demagogue!” she yelled as she was asked to leave. “Commie pinkeye!” he shouted back.
“I think he meant ‘pinko’,” Nigella whispered as Marjorie’s wife was escorted out.
The meeting broke up, and most people began to leave, while some made a beeline for the candidates for overtime. Riz, however, jumped off the stage and made his way to our group.
“How’d I do, babe?” he said.
“You were great,” Simon answered and planted a kiss on him.
Nigella’s eyebrows going heavenwards informed me she had been unaware of this development, too. Odette went bright red and began to make a “hhhmm” noise.
“Everyone,” Simon said, turning away from Riz, but holding his hand, “this is Riz. My … uh … well, shall we tell ’em?” he asked Riz.
“Fiancé!” Riz answered for him.
“Guess we’re telling them,” Simon said.
“Oh my … Oh my goodness!” Nigella exclaimed. “Come here and give me a hug, both of you.” She turned to me over the shoulders of both Simon and Riz and mouthed, “Oh my God.”
A woman came over to our group. She was forty-ish with dark hair that had patches of red in the sun and a pinched face.
“Riz, I thought we agreed to keep it under wraps.”
“Everyone, this is Marina Holt, my campaign manager. Normally, she’s not quite so strict and boring,” Riz said, gesturing to the woman like she was the bane of his existence. Marina tried to arrange her face in a friendly smile. She gave up and looked at her phone instead. Nigella managed to give a greeting. But I was unable. I felt like the world was spinning a bit too fast.
“Sonia, we should go,” I said.
But she was busy congratulating them as well. “What lovely news! How long have you been together?”
