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work and keep an eye out for me. I’d like it to be you.’

      ‘Would I live in London?’

      ‘Aye, Bunty, you would.’

      ‘And would I live in a flat? By myself?’

      ‘Aye, Bunty, you would.’

      ‘And would I have money to spend – on food and stuff? And go about?’

      ‘Aye, Bunty. Not a lot. But aye.’

      ‘And Mr Petrie, would the work be difficult? And would you get cross at me?’ She coloured.

      ‘No, Bunty, it wouldn’t be hard. And I wouldn’t get cross with you.’

      ‘OK, then.’

      They shook hands, and he turned to leave, satisfied with his brilliant stroke.

      Bunty spoke again. ‘Mr Petrie, my mum will be dead happy I’ve got a chance at last.’

      ‘I’m sure she will, Bunty, I’m sure she will.’

      ‘Mr Petrie, are you doing this just to get my mum to vote for you?’

      ‘Certainly not, Bunty. I’ll just need someone I can trust down there.’

      He didn’t suppose that Elspeth Cook would be fooled for a moment, but the strongest binding force on the planet is a mother’s love, and she might just go for it. But one further touch was needed. He dialled Elspeth’s number, told her what he’d done, and insisted that it shouldn’t affect her decision to vote for Patrick Connelly.

      ‘I’ll vote for who I bloody want to, you cheeky young man,’ she replied. ‘And as I’ve told you, that’s Pat Connelly, right enough.’

      So Davie had lumbered himself with Bunty Cook. If he did ever get elected he’d have to look at her every day, possibly for years. The sacrifices he made …

      But although Elspeth Cook continued to proudly speak up for the bus driver Connelly, what she said to her friends about Davie Petrie won him votes across the local party. Later, he would reflect that she had probably won him the nomination.

      The Wallace was a proper bar. There was a television – only for the football – and although smoking had been banned for years, the walls and ceiling were still stained a dirty yellow-brown, a memorial to the lungs of generations of long-dead drinkers. The barman was young and truculent, a Nationalist who made himself deliberately offensive to the overwhelmingly Labour-supporting customers. They, however, approved of his rudeness – a proper man should never hide his views. The Wallace had been the favoured haunt of the railwaymen’s union and the Transport & General long before it was inherited by Crusade, whose small offices were only a street away. The district organiser, Douglas McGuinness, a tall, white-bearded Irishman who claimed to be a direct descendant of Wolfe Tone, was drinking with Murdoch White. He looked up as Petrie entered.

      ‘So, this is your laddie?’

      ‘Not my laddie, Douglas,’ said White. ‘Davie Petrie here belongs to nobody. It’s just that I can spot a winner. I know Pat Connelly’s one of the boys, but you might think about a little side bet, just in case.’

      The days of the union block vote being wielded like trumps had passed during the long Ed Miliband rumpus. And indeed, as the former leader had hoped at the time, many individual trade unionists had joined the Labour Party in their own right. But in Glaikit, as in many constituencies, the habit of union solidarity died hard. Shop stewards and ordinary paid-up members would come into the Wallace and scan the union paper to find out what the leadership thought. Crusade had an authority in the town rivalling that of the Kirk itself. Who was their boy? What did Douglas McGuinness want to happen?

      Murdoch White had used the past hour well. Luckily, Davie had always encouraged union membership among his employees – one eye to the future – and had spoken up in the past against New Labour in ways they appreciated hereabouts. Most of the Crusade members, when it came to the general management committee, would vote for Connelly first; but it would be closer than predicted, and many would happily switch to Petrie.

      And so the first days passed. White and Petrie had drawn up their lists, and went around the town ticking off addresses. Lines and arrows connected one member with another. Sometimes White told Petrie to ‘cast a wee bit of bread’. So Davie would tell the church minister who took the minutes for a particular branch that, for instance, he’d once been on holiday with Douglas Alexander. Then they would monitor where the story appeared. Who was talking to whom? Another arrow would be drawn on the chart. Eventually they ended up with a swirling, dynamic and relatively accurate picture of the secret life of Glaikit – the rivalries, the alliances, the drinking buddies and the unofficially extended families. Davie found it all infinitely more interesting than the mundane business of fixing councillors and knowing who’d take a backhander. Though those furtive little felonies also helped to bind in a few who prided themselves on their independence.

      A fortnight before the final selection meeting, Davie was beginning to allow himself to hope. He had given up drink – apart from the occasional obligatory pint with potential supporters – and was eating less, and all the pounding of the streets had made him fitter than he had been for years. But there were two big problems left. First, Labour rules insisted that at least one woman should appear on the shortlist. And second, the London carpetbaggers were pretty damn impressive.

      Murdoch White had clear views about how to deal with the woman problem. ‘In effect, we need to run a couple of our own people. Good enough to be plausible, but not good enough to win on the night.’ So they talked up a primary-school head teacher with a good party record whose whining, nasal voice and invincible self-belief were simply intolerable. And among the candidates from outside the constituency there was one outstanding woman. She was, in a small way, a celebrity cook, and quite well known from the television. A handsome mother of two, she had worked publicly for the Labour cause for years before declaring her hand. To Petrie’s surprise, White was very keen to get her through the nomination process.

      ‘But she’s damn good,’ Petrie protested. ‘I’d vote for her myself.’

      ‘No you wouldn’t, don’t worry.’

      White drove over to her house himself, right across Scotland to East Lothian. He introduced himself, and told her not to worry about the black spot on her record – that she had sent her children to a private school, even though there was an excellent comprehensive on her doorstep.

      ‘The party’s changing, and fast. We just want the best possible candidates. So the main thing is, be honest. Tell the whole truth. They’ll respect you for it.’

      And so, on the night of the open meeting, when she was asked the traditional last question – ‘Is there anything in your past that would embarrass the Labour Party if it became known?’ – she did tell the truth. All of it. And the pile of ballot papers with crosses against her name was embarrassingly small.

      On paper, two good women had very nearly been chosen for Glaikit. In reality, neither had ever had a chance. That left the southerners, and Connelly.

      There was one last incident before David Petrie’s coronation. Murdoch White had had a brief conversation with the schoolteacher ‘Smelly’ Smedley.

      ‘Just a wee word in your ear about what young Callum Petrie’s been saying. And I’m afraid he’s not the only one. It’s not a big problem, Mr Smedley. It’s just one of those silly things. This could get right out of control if the head teacher had to be told. We don’t want to make any trouble. We just want Davie to get his chance.’

      Walter Smedley was in his early sixties, and lived with his elderly mother. Divorced with a daughter long gone, no one knew where, Wally had let himself go, if only on the outside. He was an intellectual. That was no problem. The problem was, he looked like one. His clothes were always slightly stained. His shaving had become erratic, giving his great head, an object that seemed crudely carved from sandstone, like Samuel Johnson’s, an awesome ruggedness. His almost supernatural talent for teaching now flickered only intermittently.

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