The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

6

Will and I arrived back at Ember House from our curtailed French honeymoon in the small hours, smelling of the melons I had insisted we buy, which had filled the car with their sweet, ripe aroma.

Early next morning, we stumbled out of bed, hoicked clean clothes out of the unpacked suitcases, and drove into Stanwinton. Mannochie met us at the party headquarters on the high street.

Will was immediately claimed by a party apparatchik and Mannochie materialized at my elbow. ‘You must meet the chairman of the association and you must get on with her.’

‘Will I be put in the stocks if I don’t?’ I asked, and realizing that it did not sound very amusing, wished I hadn’t.

The headquarters seethed with people, and was stuffed with chairs, photocopiers and baskets overflowing with brown envelopes. The persistent sound of telephones piped above the movement and activity. Mannochie piloted me towards a table where a woman was directing an elderly couple on the sorting of pamphlets. ‘No slacking,’ she addressed them collectively. ‘No mistakes.’

‘Pearl, this is Fanny.’

A heavy woman, she pulled herself to her feet. ‘About time.’

Did she always speak in such staccato sentences? A gust of nervous hilarity threatened but I said, ‘Will and I got here as fast as possible. We drove through the night.’

Pearl Veriker should have met me before – wives have to be vetted - but at the time she had been in hospital. Tall and long-nosed, she did not trouble with fashion. Her cotton shirt clashed with her skirt and she wore flesh-coloured tights with white fretworked leather lace-ups. Her scrutiny, however, was clever and merciless. Eventually, she held out her hand. ‘I’ll call you Fanny since we’ll have a lot to do with each other.’

If I had hoped for consolation over my ruined honeymoon, I was wrong. ‘As you can imagine, it’s battle stations here. I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.’ She glanced down at my bare legs under a short denim skirt. ‘I’m sorry, but it would be better if you wore tights and a longer skirt. The more far-reaching and revolutionary our ideas, the more non-threatening and respectable our appearance should be. You should have been told that.’

She meant: You should have known. I flushed at my ignorance.

A young woman carrying a pile of envelopes pushed her way past us. Pearl Veriker’s hand shot out and barricaded her passage. Where was Marcia taking these, she wanted to know. A brisk exchange ensued and the captive Marcia was released. ‘My job is to keep tabs. Keep an eye on everyone.’ Without a pause, she said, ‘I hope you’re healthy, it’s going to be a hard few weeks.’

‘I’m sure Will will brief me.’

‘Your husband, Fanny, is new to the game. Have you sorted out where you plan to live in the constituency if we triumph?’

‘When we come down we’ll stay with my father at Ember House.’

Pearl shook her head. ‘Won’t do. You need a quiet, modest, cheap house. It’s important that you have roots here.’

‘Apparently, we need a quiet, modest cheap house in the constituency,’ I informed Will in the privacy of the bedroom at Ember House.

One sock off, one sock on, he swung round. ‘We will live here. Of course. If we win. You knew that.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Will peeled off the other sock and dropped it on to the floor. ‘I did explain.’

‘You said it was possible. I don’t want to live here. The bulk of my Battista business is in London. You forget, I’ve lived here most of my life and I know what it’s like. We want to be in London.’

‘Fanny…’ Will came over and sat on the bed. ‘Darling… look at me. This is important. We’re going to have to make sacrifices. Remember what we believe in. All the things we’ve agreed.’ He slipped down on to his knees beside the bed. ‘No one said it would be easy.’

I heard him utter the words, witnessed the conviction and belief that lit up his face. ‘Will, we don’t have to live here. We can come down, lots.’

‘There can’t be any half-measures. This is a war of sorts. I see it so clearly now.’

I gazed into the dark eyes that so delighted me. ‘Will, could I point out that truth is the first casualty of war.’

‘Mrs Savage, that is not being helpful.’

I gave my all. True, I was not an expert but Mannochie did his best to ensure that I became one. Constantly at my side, he murmured instructions, dropped information, prompted my replies. He told me about those who ran the town, owned the building businesses, set the local taxes, which housing estate was likely to vote for Will. He drip-fed me facts, statistics, advice, and taught me the rules of this strange campaign. Take no prisoners.

‘Mercy isn’t part of the deal, then,’ I teased.

He turned very serious. ‘No. And don’t let anyone persuade you otherwise, Fanny’

By then we were on ‘Fanny’ terms but he was never called anything but Mannochie. His Christian name, he said, was not for public consumption.

If I gained Mannochie, I lost Will – or, rather, my private Will. The public Will was surrounded by aides with clipboards, potential voters, voters who hated him. He was admired and spat at in equal measure. But one thing was constant: wherever he went, Will was noticed.

‘Don’t say anything,’ Pearl Veriker ordered. ‘Ever. That’s not your role.’

So, silently, I climbed on to the battle bus and went the rounds with my instructions ringing in my ears. Sitting well back on the platform, I attended meetings and came forward to stand (silently) beside Will to take the applause. Suitably dressed, I attended photocalls with my arm linked in Will’s, and the results were not bad.

‘It’s so lucky you’re good-looking,’ said Pearl. ‘Your husband obeyed orders.’

I stared at her and she patted my shoulder. ‘A little pleasantry, Fanny.’

If Pearl was cracking jokes, I could only suppose that she and I were making progress.

Obediently, I trudged the streets for hours at a time and knocked on doors. More often than not a woman answered, and I caught glimpses of interiors where baskets of wet laundry waited to be hung out, children’s bicycles and pushchairs cluttered the hall and school satchels spilled their contents. Sometimes their men appeared. If they did not like me they told me so, and if they were menacing, Mannochie pulled me away.

My feet swelled and my shoulders ached from the weight of pamphlets. It was a war of sorts, even if it had to be fought on the domestic front. On our lists, we ticked off blocks of flats where the walkways reeked of urine, and quiet, net-curtained homes in neat tree-lined streets. We trudged up gravel drives to capacious, well-maintained villas, which had been built by the industrial barons at the turn of the century Their occupants were the worst for they couched any hostility in a more polite and deadly form. ‘Don’t think any of you lot do much except tax us,’ said one heavily jewelled and made-up woman. ‘Can’t think what you get up to all day.’ She made to shut the front door in our faces. ‘Who did you say you were?’

Mannochie cornered me one evening. He looked embarrassed. ‘Fanny, could you keep your thoughts on local transport to yourself?’

I was startled. ‘Do I have any?’

‘Apparently you do, and you were overheard talking about them at the Guides’ coffee morning.’

‘I said I thought there should be more buses.’

Mannochie looked concerned. ‘Precisely. You are playing into a lobby’

On the evening before polling day, I planned that Will and I would eat together quietly in a local Chinese restaurant. But he was caught up with a last-minute conference at the headquarters and we made do with a snatched sandwich that Mannochie had conjured. Will barely touched his but drank two glasses of a dreadful wine.

At the other end of the room, the television beamed last-minute predictions and figures. I eased my aching shoulders. Only a few more hours… Then Will and I would have some privacy and we could return to the business of making our lives together.

Mannochie came up. ‘Figures are looking quite good.’ The two men conferred and I ate my chicken sandwich. I listened and I did not listen but, at that moment, it flashed across my mind that in marrying Will I had launched my boat on to a sea that was stormier than I had supposed. Eventually Mannochie moved off and Will grabbed my hand.

‘Do you hear? The figures. We might be in with a chance.’ He squeezed my fingers painfully. ‘Do you think we might just do it?’

My heart filled with love and hope for him, I cherished his hand in mine. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

At midnight we arrived in the town hall. The last two ballot boxes had just been brought in and the final count was on. The tellers bent over the trestle tables, forefingers and thumbs encased in rubber guards. The piles mounted, shifted; a couple were re-counted, the tally noted.

Will and the other candidates strode up and down between the trestles, but kept a wide berth of each other. The returning officer hovered by the microphone on the stage.

Someone touched my arm and I turned. ‘Hallo,’ said Meg. ‘Sorry I didn’t get here earlier.’ She was flushed and bright-eyed, impeccable in a red linen dress and pretty shoes. ‘I couldn’t miss little brother’s big day.’

At one thirty, Pearl Veriker chivvied me into a side room. ‘Looking good,’ she said. ‘Let’s check you out.’

Skirt long enough? Tights? Make-up?

‘Where’s your wedding ring?’ Her eyes were fixed on my naked left hand.

I fished it out of my pocket. ‘It’s given me a rash. I’m not used to it yet.’

‘Wear it, Fanny.’

I pushed it over my red, swollen finger and endured the itch and burn. To my astonishment, the itch and burn of my rebellion was no less urgent. As surely as an ox, I was being yoked and, if I had not bargained on it, it was far too late to do anything about it.

I pulled myself together and went over to talk to our party workers, whose average age was well above mine but there were one or two younger ones. ‘Isn’t it funny how the other side always seems so much uglier than your own?’ a sharp youth breathed to me.

I was pouring orange juice into plastic cups when I happened to look up and caught Will’s gaze. Our eyes met for a long moment and his mouth moved in a faint smile. He was asking me to keep faith. Short-lived and unfocused, my rebellion died.

At three o’clock in the morning, I stood beside Will on the platform as the returning officer read out the votes and Will was declared the new Member for the constituency of Stanwinton. We stood side by side, both of us light-headed and almost incoherent. There was pleasure and pride – and an explosion of joy in my chest. The future seemed as if it could be tackled.

Down below, the indomitable Pearl sat down suddenly and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Mannochie was clapping, and a couple of the party workers danced.

Will slid his arm round my shoulders and kissed me, and I promised silently to give him what I had and more. I promised to do my best for him.

‘Will…’ Meg pushed her way up to the platform, her red dress a bright blur, and linked her arm through his. ‘Darling Will…’

The photographers flashed away, someone else cheered, Mannochie continued to clap.

Later that day the official photograph was published in the Stanwinton Echo. It had that grainy, blurred look that local papers sometimes have and it was hard to make out some of the figures crowded on to the platform. A smiling Will stood tall and straight. He looked young, happy and full of promise. Beside him was a slender, fair-haired figure, wreathed in smiles. It was not me. It was Meg.

I set about my first task as Mrs MP of sorting out Will’s tiny one-bedroom London flat. This involved wresting an extra inch in Will’s cupboard to hang up my clothes, winnowing out boxes and papers, and rearranging the sitting room to accommodate my antique chair. I gritted my teeth and searched for a space to stack my business files.

I made the bed and my foot nudged one of Will’s abandoned shoes. I picked it up and my heart melted. It was part of Will, the man I loved. I slipped my hand inside. Burnt into the inner sole, was the private imprint of a person. My shoes held one too. Will’s second toe was longer than the first and I rubbed my finger over the indentation in the leather. It was my secret, and my secret knowledge.

The phone rang. ‘Fanny Savage? My name is Amy Greene.’ She went on to explain that her husband was a backbencher and she was organizing a get-together in Westminster for the new wives. ‘We oldies like to take care of you infants.’

For all the briskness, an underlying note of depression was detectable. I asked her politely how long her husband had been in Parliament. ‘How long as an MP as opposed to a sod? Twenty-five years, three months and two days.’

‘Oh.’

She gave a smoker’s cough. ‘You might as well know that Parliament hates women. Hates them. Be warned.’

Will made his maiden speech in October when Parliament reassembled after the long vacation. The night before, we argued over which colour suit he should wear. I opted for the grey. He preferred the blue. Did it matter? Apparently. Colours (or so the apparatchiks had suggested) conveyed subtle meanings. This was, I felt, a little puzzling for I had assumed it was the message that was the important thing.

‘I know it’s nonsense,’ he maintained stoutly, ‘but just this once, I think I ought to listen to what the advisers advise.’

I rubbed his shoulders which felt like tensed steel. ‘Hey, take a few deep breaths. Loosen those muscles.’

I did not tell him that my own nerves were conducting a nauseous dance in the pit of my stomach. All I had to do was to watch Will get to his feet and talk about the social benefits of cheaper housing, and impress his peers. But this first showing would affect his future – and mine.

‘I must not muck this up, Fanny,’ Will said.

‘Spare a thought for your sister and me,’ I pointed out. ‘We get to look down at all the bald spots where we sit in the strangers’ gallery.’

He gave a muffled snort.

Will’s speech went off well.

At least, I think it did for, when he got to his feet, cleared his throat and began to speak easily and fluently, my attention veered off into another sphere.

It was nerves, I know, but I found myself thinking about trees. Tall ones, like the sycamore, whose stout uncompromising leader branches emphasize its winter nudity. I thought of poplars swaying in the summer breeze, and feathery acacias and the astonishing reds of the maple. But the trees that speak to me most particularly have always been the cypress, the Cupressus sempervirens, the dark exclamations dotted over medieval and Renaissance Italian paintings. And the box, which is not strictly a tree. Box was probably introduced to this country by the Romans and its stems and roots are so heavy that they sink in water.

Meg caught my eye, and I coloured up guiltily. I had promised to hang on Will’s every word, in order to assemble a useful Situation Report.

You spoke too quickly. Your hands were too busy, they distracted the listener. Don’t look at your feet.

Etc.

‘To the manner born,’ whispered Meg.

Meg misinterpreted my lack of response as lack of control. Furthermore she would be thinking of Will: indeed, I suspected, that she thought of little else. Her Situation Report would be immaculate and very helpful.

She laid one small hand with its exquisitely shaped nails on my arm. Today, they were painted pink to match her lipstick. ‘You have to learn to lighten up, Fanny,’ she advised in a low, concerned voice. ‘Develop a sense of humour. Then you will cope better.’

I gritted my teeth. Quite apart from the insult to my perfectly operational sense of humour, did she consider I was that lacking in the requisite qualifications? Was my ignorance and inexperience obvious? ‘I will bear it in mind,’ I muttered.

Meg pressed on. ‘Please don’t be offended,’ she said. ‘You are so nice, Fanny, and I am only trying to help.’ She smiled understandingly. ‘I’ve been at it a bit longer than you.’

Outside the House of Commons, a photographer was on the prowl for a national newspaper and he inveigled Will and I to pose for him and we were snapped, hand in hand, framed in the doorway.

‘Parliament’s newest Golden Couple,’ ran the caption in a weekend paper. The camera had caught Will looking grave but irresistible. I less so, I concluded, after glancing briefly at the photo, for I had a wary look on my face, startled almost.

At any rate, Mannochie, who had bedded down overnight on the sofa in the flat, pronounced himself pleased. ‘This will go down well in the constituency.’

Will studied the photograph for longer, it seemed to me, than was decent. ‘Better of me than you,’ he pronounced.

‘That’s what I think.’ I concentrated on frying up the bacon. ‘But I’ll pass.’

‘Certainly you do,’ said Mannochie.

Will still had his teeth into the subject. ‘I can’t afford to photograph badly. Ever. Back me up, Mannochie. One bad showing and it takes years to eradicate.’

We perched on the sofa and chair in the sitting room, ate bacon, egg and toast, drank coffee, and rifled through the morning papers. Will and Mannochie discussed tactics and, at great length, diary commitments.

I looked up from the paper and tossed a fact into the date discussion. ‘I shall be in Australia in December.’

As one, both men turned in my direction.

Will said: ‘You didn’t mention it to me, Fanny.’

‘Yes, I did. You’ve forgotten.’

Mannochie brushed the crumbs surrounding his plate into a tidy little heap. ‘Stanwinton is big on Christmas. It’s part of the civic pride. There’s a frenzy of fund raising which the sitting MP always supports. Then there are parties for the local children’s homes, the evergreens and the disabled.’ He smiled apologetically. Attendance really is compulsory.’

I addressed Will. ‘Fine. You will be there.’

Will fumbled for a second piece of toast and buttered it. ‘Fanny. I am not sure how to put this, but I need you with me.’ He looked especially desirable: slightly rumpled, boyish and pleading. It made me want him very badly.

I shook my head. ‘Dad and I have set up a lot of business. We’re due at the Hunter Valley, we are guests of honour at a dinner in Adelaide and Bob and Ken are coming over from the Yarra.’

These names meant nothing to either of the men. They were part and parcel of my and my father’s territory and we had done business with them for years. ‘You want me to smile sweetly, kiss cheeks, sing carols, pat sticky hands?’

‘That was the deal.’ Will’s gaze shifted from Mannochie to me.

Will and I had discussed the theory of our division of work plenty of times, and I assumed that I would be at liberty to choose when to go on duty – when to be a good wife. ‘This is business, Will. These are long-term commitments.’

Mannochie picked up his egg-stained plate and edged towards the door. ‘Will, Fanny, I am sure you need to talk things over… Fanny, perhaps it would be a good idea if we went through the diary for the year. That way, we will avoid future clashes.’

This was the cue for our first quarrel… which went along the lines of: why didn’t you say something earlier? And me saying tartly back at him: you don’t listen to what I say. Then Will demanded how could I have made him look a fool in front of Mannochie?

‘Very easy,’ I said, quick as a flash.

That made Will grin. After that, the atmosphere calmed down and we began to talk properly. It was clear we had not agreed demarcation lines and we needed to sort this out.

It was not as if Will demanded that I give up my work for his. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. He scratched his head with the Biro. ‘Your work is important, and it has to be slotted in. It’s just, I would have liked you to have been there for the Christmas run-up. Just this first year.’

This caused me to lie awake for most of the night, sifting over the pros and cons of the respective demands on our time.

The subject suddenly appeared so vexing that I ended up making myself tea at four o’clock in the morning. While the kettle boiled, I ran my fingers over the glass jars with red screw tops that I had bought soon after we married.

Kitchens should be larger than this. They shouldn’t be mean proportioned and stingy with storage.

Not like the big house in Fiertino, if my father was to believed, where a larder led off the main kitchen. This was used to store pâtés and dried meats, and tins. ‘There were rows of bottles in there, in wonderful colours,’ he told me. ‘Fruit and pickles and walnuts… if you could bottle summer, it was in those bottles. My mother checked the larder every day. It was a habit, and it was unthinkable to her she did not make that daily check. “It is important for the family,” she always said. “I have to make sure there is food otherwise I can’t sleep nights.’”

Meanwhile, I was going to make do with two small shelves in the kitchen and fill my glass jars with rice, nuts, pasta and lentils. I had already arranged my wine manuals on the spare bit of worktop by the toaster.

The kettle boiled.

Next door, a bedspring creaked and feet hit the floor. Will appeared at the door. ‘Fanny… you must be freezing.’ He squeezed into the kitchen and slipped his arms around my waist. ‘You are freezing. Here, let me make the tea.’

We took it back to bed and drank it, with my cold feet resting on Will’s legs to warm them up. ‘My fault,’ he said.

‘It’s my fault, too.’

Then, he took away my cup of tea and put it down on the bedside table. He stroked my hair and I had a minor revelation as to why arguments were so necessary, for making up was extremely sweet.

‘Mannochie and I will manage,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Almost.’

That made me laugh. I slipped my hand under his T-shirt and rested it on his exciting bare flesh.

During what remained of the night, Chloë was conceived. I had no inkling of this when, at the first opportunity, I bought a large, looseleaf, leatherbound diary and gave it to Will. ‘It will last us,’ I said, ‘for years and years.’