10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [12]
Dearest Polly, chief de-selector of Dennis’s widow, regarded my father euphorically, as if she had invented him herself; and indeed without her he might not have been there to seize the first rung of his destiny.
Eyes alight with the triumph of his reception, he asked for questions and, true to his intention, he stripped off his tie. He flung it on the table in front of him, and then he rounded the table so that there was nothing between him on the platform and the crowd below. He opened his arms wide, embracing them. He invited them to join him in a political adventure, to build for a better world and in particular for a better world for the constituents of Hoopwestern.
He held them in his hands. He had them laughing. His timing could have been learned from stand-up comics. He generated excitement, belief, purpose; and I, in my inconspicuous end-of-row seat, swelled with a mixture of amazement, understanding and finally pride that my parent was publicly delivering the goods.
“I’m here for you,” he said. “Come to my office across the square. Tell me your concerns, tell me what’s troubling you here in Hoopwestern. Tell me who to see, who to listen to. Tell me your history ... and I’ll tell you your future. If you elect me I’ll work for you, I’ll take your wishes to Westminster, I’ll be your voice where it matters. I’ll light a bulb or two in the House of Commons....”
Laughter drowned him. The lightbulb factory fueled the town’s economy, and he wanted the lightbulb votes.
To do good one needed power, he said. Lightbulbs were so much wire and glass without power. In humans, power came from inside, not delivered and metered. Power gave light and warmth. “If you give me power, I’ll light your lamps.”
My father’s own electricity galvanized the crowd. They shouted questions, he shouted answers. He was serious where it mattered and funny everywhere else. He had horror for genocide and sympathy for cats. He dodged cornering demands and promised never to put his name to anything whose consequences he didn’t understand.
“Legislation,” he said jokingly, “often achieves exactly what it is designed to avoid. We all know it. We moan about the results. I promise not to jump into emotional deep ends on your behalf. I beg the brains and common sense of Hoopwesterners to foresee disaster and warn me. I’ll raise your voices in whispers, not shouts, because shouts annoy but whispers go around persuasively and travel sweetly to the heart of things, and lead to sensible action.”
Whether they understood him or not, they loved him.
The most dedicated hecklers of the evening proved not to be the Paul Bethune opposition supporters, several of whom had bought tickets to the dinner and who had afterwards formed an aggressive bunch on the flip-up chairs, but my father’s presumed political allies (but in fact personal enemies) Orinda Nagle- and Leonard Kitchens.
Both of them demanded firm commitments to policies they both approved. Both shouted and pointed fingers. My father answered with unfailing good humor and stuck to the party’s overall stated position: he needed also to keep the die-hard backbone votes safely in his bag.
Orinda was professional enough to see she was out-gunned, but she didn’t give up trying. Mr. A. L. Wyvern narrowed his eyes and sank his ears down into his collar. Mr. A. L. Wyvern’s influence over Dennis and Orinda waned before my eyes.
My father paid tribute to Dennis Nagle. Orinda, far from placated, said that no way could an inexperienced novice like George Juliard replace her husband, however Hollywood-handsome he might be, however manly his hairy chest, however witty, quick-tongued, charismatic. None of that made up for political know-how.
Someone at the back of the hall booed. There was general laughter, a nervous release of the tension Orinda had begun to build up. The impetus swung back to my father, who sincerely thanked Orinda for her years of