surrounding fields; not lightbulbs this time, but furniture and paint. There had then been a long policy of “infilling,” the building of large numbers of small houses on every patch of vacant grass. The resulting town strained against its green belt and suffered from interior traffic snarl-ups on a standstill scale. It worked well for soapbox orators: in the summer heat cars crept past with their windows down, getting the message.
Among the blizzard of VOTE JULIARD posters there were some for TITMUSS and WHISTLE and, of course, many for BETHUNE IS BETTER. GIVE HIM YOUR X. Bethune’s notices on the whole looked tattered, and I found it wasn’t merely because it was three days since he’d stomped inner Quindle on his own soapbox tour, but because the local weekly paper, the Quindle Diary, had hit the newsstands with “Bethune for Sleaze” as its headline.
One of the volunteers having tucked the Quindle Diary under my elbow, I read the front page, as who wouldn’t.
“As our representative in Westminster, do we want an adulterer who says he upholds the family values to which this newspaper in this young town is dedicated? Do we believe the promises of one who can’t keep a solemn vow?”
I read to the end and thought the whole tone insufferably pompous, but I didn’t suppose it would do the Bethune camp much good.
At each of his three ascents of the soapbox my father was bombarded with demands that he should at least deplore the Bethune hypocrisy, and at each place, carefully sidestepping the loaded come-ons, he attacked Bethune and his party only for their political aims and methods.
His restraint didn’t altogether please his own army of volunteers.
“George could demolish Bethune if he would only take a hatchet to his character,” one of them complained. “Why won’t he do it?”
“He doesn’t believe in it,” I said.
“You have to play the aces you’re given.”
“Not five aces,” I said.
“What?”
“He would think it cheating.”
The volunteer raised his eyes to heaven but changed his approach. “You see that thin man standing near your father, writing in a notebook?”
“Do you mean the one in a pink jogging suit and a baseball hat on backwards?”
“I do indeed. He’s called Usher Rudd. He writes for the Hoopwestern Gazette and his column is also syndicated to the Quindle Diary. It’s he who wrote the personal attacks on Paul Bethune. He’s been following Bethune around ever since his party chose him as their candidate. Rudd’s a highly professional slinger of mud. Never, never trust him.”
I said in apprehension, “Does my father know who he is?”
“I told George that Usher Rudd would be bound to turn up again, but he doesn’t always look the same. The pink overalls and baseball cap are new.”
“Usher Rudd’s an unusual name.”
The volunteer laughed. “He’s really young Bobby Rudd, always a menace. His mother was Gracie Usher before she married a Rudd. The Rudd family have a string of body shops, for anything from bicycles to combine harvesters, but fixing cars isn’t to young Bobby’s taste. He calls himself an investigative journalist. More like a muckraker, I’d say.”
I said tentatively, “Was he at the dinner last night?”
“That big do at The Sleeping Dragon? He would have been for a certainty. He’ll be furious that the gunshot and all that happened was too late for today’s Gazette. The Gazette is only twenty-four pages long, mostly advertisements, sports results, local news and rehashed world events. Everyone buys it for the dirt Rudd digs up. He was a rotten Peeping Tom as a little boy, always had his snotty nose glued to people’s windows, and he hasn’t got better with time. If you want to have sex with the vicar, don’t do it in Quindle.”
I said dryly, “Thanks for the advice.”
He laughed. “Beware of Bobby Rudd, that’s all.” With the present crowd listening to my galvanic father with devouring eyes as much as
Among the blizzard of VOTE JULIARD posters there were some for TITMUSS and WHISTLE and, of course, many for BETHUNE IS BETTER. GIVE HIM YOUR X. Bethune’s notices on the whole looked tattered, and I found it wasn’t merely because it was three days since he’d stomped inner Quindle on his own soapbox tour, but because the local weekly paper, the Quindle Diary, had hit the newsstands with “Bethune for Sleaze” as its headline.
One of the volunteers having tucked the Quindle Diary under my elbow, I read the front page, as who wouldn’t.
“As our representative in Westminster, do we want an adulterer who says he upholds the family values to which this newspaper in this young town is dedicated? Do we believe the promises of one who can’t keep a solemn vow?”
I read to the end and thought the whole tone insufferably pompous, but I didn’t suppose it would do the Bethune camp much good.
At each of his three ascents of the soapbox my father was bombarded with demands that he should at least deplore the Bethune hypocrisy, and at each place, carefully sidestepping the loaded come-ons, he attacked Bethune and his party only for their political aims and methods.
His restraint didn’t altogether please his own army of volunteers.
“George could demolish Bethune if he would only take a hatchet to his character,” one of them complained. “Why won’t he do it?”
“He doesn’t believe in it,” I said.
“You have to play the aces you’re given.”
“Not five aces,” I said.
“What?”
“He would think it cheating.”
The volunteer raised his eyes to heaven but changed his approach. “You see that thin man standing near your father, writing in a notebook?”
“Do you mean the one in a pink jogging suit and a baseball hat on backwards?”
“I do indeed. He’s called Usher Rudd. He writes for the Hoopwestern Gazette and his column is also syndicated to the Quindle Diary. It’s he who wrote the personal attacks on Paul Bethune. He’s been following Bethune around ever since his party chose him as their candidate. Rudd’s a highly professional slinger of mud. Never, never trust him.”
I said in apprehension, “Does my father know who he is?”
“I told George that Usher Rudd would be bound to turn up again, but he doesn’t always look the same. The pink overalls and baseball cap are new.”
“Usher Rudd’s an unusual name.”
The volunteer laughed. “He’s really young Bobby Rudd, always a menace. His mother was Gracie Usher before she married a Rudd. The Rudd family have a string of body shops, for anything from bicycles to combine harvesters, but fixing cars isn’t to young Bobby’s taste. He calls himself an investigative journalist. More like a muckraker, I’d say.”
I said tentatively, “Was he at the dinner last night?”
“That big do at The Sleeping Dragon? He would have been for a certainty. He’ll be furious that the gunshot and all that happened was too late for today’s Gazette. The Gazette is only twenty-four pages long, mostly advertisements, sports results, local news and rehashed world events. Everyone buys it for the dirt Rudd digs up. He was a rotten Peeping Tom as a little boy, always had his snotty nose glued to people’s windows, and he hasn’t got better with time. If you want to have sex with the vicar, don’t do it in Quindle.”
I said dryly, “Thanks for the advice.”
He laughed. “Beware of Bobby Rudd, that’s all.” With the present crowd listening to my galvanic father with devouring eyes as much as
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