We lapsed into silence as darkness fell over the countryside outside. Errol’s car, I noticed finally, was a nice late model with plush interiors.
“How—”
“I know what you’re gonna ask, and no, the party doesn’t pay for the car. This is mine. I used to be a consultant for the private sector. All very money, money. Now I’m a pauper living on donations from Brenda in Wells.”
“It’s a nice car. Very … sensible. German.”
He laughed. It was a nice laugh.
I tried to be sociable. “Did I miss much in Guy’s meeting?”
He shook his head. “Not really, he wanted to say thank you to everyone who’d helped him. To acknowledge Suzy and Riz for being gentlemanly about the whole thing and not using it to score points.”
“You guys have pretty much got it in the bag then, eh?” I said. “Whoever Guy’s party chooses has two weeks to try and build a new campaign.”
“The Tories will do what the Tories always do.” Errol shrugged. “They’ll find an old white bloke and trot him out. He’ll have stood as cannon fodder in thirty-seven previous elections in unwinnable seats, or they’ll get some local councillor to step in at the last minute. It’s not that uncommon.”
I nodded. Errol kept a constant flow of conversation as we drove. He had an easy air about him. He kept the chat to purely superfluous matters and the amount of replies I had to make to a minimum. By the time we entered thevillage, I had begun to feel slightly more human. Sittingston was in a happening mood for a Saturday night. By which I mean there were at least two pubs open.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Cock and Feather. You know it?”
“The pub? No. The bondage bar in Vauxhall? Very well.”
He laughed again. “Is that the one next to the sauna? The door charge is extortionate.”
Errol pulled up outside a less than charming looking pub at the south end of the High Street and we got out. It felt nice to not be in my house. “Come on, I’ll get you a drink.” Errol led the way.
Inside, the Cock and Feather was – as Sonia once described it to me – an old man pub. A few fruit machines in the corner, some sport on the flatscreen above the bar. An upmarket gastropub it was not, a friendly village local it was neither. It was decidedly middle of the road. The kind of pub I’d grown up in.
“This is the cheapest place in Sittingston to get accommodation,” Errol said in an almost apologetic tone.
“Don’t worry, not judging the surrounds. I’ll grab a table.”
A minute later, after the surly barmaid had been thoroughly won over by Errol’s charm (or his arse in the tight suit trousers he was wearing), he came over to the table I’d nabbed in the corner with two pints and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
“So,” he said, settling himself on a stool. “Would you like to talk about the article, or would you like to talk about literally anything else?”
“The latter, please.” I tipped my beer at him. “Cheers, by the way.”
“Cheers.” He took a sip of his own. “What can we discuss instead? Oh, I know. You can tell me about allthe hot nightlife in Sittingston. Or is Lilbury where the real late-night action happens?”
I snorted. “Late-night action? Everyone goes to bed at nine thirty.”
“They don’t even stay up to watchNewsnight?” he said aghast. “But I thought posh white people fucking lovedNewsnight.”
“Oh, no, darling. They only watch that liberal propaganda in Islington.”
“So it’s endlessCountryfileand Radio 4, then?”
I nodded. “There is literally anArchersfan club in the village. They meet in the Tea Rooms on Thursdays.”
Errol’s face went still. “You’re … you’re joking, right?”
Shaking my head, I said, “White people don’t joke aboutThe Archers, Errol. We take it very seriously.”
His face was a picture, whether he was playing it up, I didn’t know nor care because I needed a laugh.
