10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [46]
“I’ll kiss every baby in sight,” I promised recklessly.
He frowned at me, never one to take a joke. I was reminded of my father’s most recent lesson: “Never, ever make a joke to the police, they have no sense of humor. Never make a political joke, it will always be considered an insult. Always remember that umbrage can be taken at the lift of an eyebrow. Remember that if offense can possibly be given, it will be.”
I’d gazed at my father. “Are people that silly?”
“Silly,” he said with mock severity, “isn’t a word you should ever apply to people. They may be totally stupid, in fact, but if you call them silly you’ve lost their vote.”
“And you want silly people to vote for you?”
He laughed. “Don’t make jokes.”
He had gone to London on Wednesday morning when the miracle happened. There were just Mervyn, Crystal, Faith, Marge, Lavender and me in the makeshift office, just the bunch of us putting the best face possible on the lack of computer (for the totals spent on tea bags), copier (schedules for volunteers) and fax (reports from distant galaxies like Quindle).
Orinda walked in.
All business stopped.
She wore pale citrus green: pants, jacket and headband. Gold chains. She carried, beside the black lizard handbag, a substantial roll of papers.
She looked around the bare room, smiled faintly at Marge and fixed her gaze on me.
“I want to talk to you,” she said calmly. “Outside.”
I followed where she led. We stood on the sidewalk in the sun, with shoppers passing by.
“Since Saturday,” she announced, “I have been considering things. On Sunday morning, at half past eight or so, a newspaperman appeared at my house in an invasive procedure I believe is called ‘door stepping.’ ”
She paused. I nodded faintly.
“He asked if I was glad or sorry that you hadn’t been burned to death. You and your father, that is.”
“Oh.”
“It was the first I’d heard about the fire.”
“I’m surprised no one had phoned you.”
“I unplug the telephone when I sleep. I find it hard to sleep in any case.”
I said “Oh” again, vaguely.
“The journalist wanted to know my opinion of the information he’d been given that close-to-death attacks had been made on George Juliard so that he would have to retire from the candidacy, clearing the way for my return.”
She paused, studying my face, and continued. “I see that that thought isn’t new to you.”
“No, but I don’t think you did it.”
“Why not?”
“You’re hurt. You’re furious. But you wouldn’t murder.”
“When will you be eighteen?”
“In ten days.”
“Then consider this a coming-of-age present.” She thrust the roll of papers into my hands. “This is for you. It is because of you ...” She stopped abruptly, swallowing. “Use it in any way you like.”
With curiosity I unrolled the stiff sheets, having to hold them wide to prevent them rolling up again. The top one, in very large capital letters, read ORINDA NAGLE SAYS VOTE FOR JULIARD.
My mouth, I know, fell open.
“There are ten of them,” she said simply. “They’re all the same. I had them printed this morning. They’ll print dozens, if you like.”
“Orinda ...” I was all but speechless.
“You showed me ... at the races ... ,” she began, and stopped again. “You’re so very young, but you showed me it’s possible to bear an unbearable disappointment. You made me look into myself. Anyway, I will not have people thinking I would set fire to our old headquarters in order to get rid of your father, so I’ll join him. I’ll support him from now on in every way. I should never have listened to all those people who told me he had robbed me. I don’t know, to