The Mummyfesto (26 page)

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in the Eureka car park was the BBC television van. Parked next to the Yorkshire TV van.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered, as I ran up the yellow brick road to the front door, aware that I was out of breath, dishevelled and very late.

I burst through the main doors and hurried up to the reception desk.

‘I’m here for the Lollipop Party launch,’ I said.

‘They’re in the town square,’ the young receptionist said. ‘Just around the corner to your right.’ I realised she thought I was one of the guests, not one of those presenting it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, holding out my hand for the dinosaur stamp I always got when I came here with Alice. The receptionist looked at me, clearly trying to stifle a giggle.

‘Just testing,’ I said, laughing awkwardly. I pushed through the turnstile. It was weird being here after closing time. The complete lack of children was unnerving, as was the quietness and stillness of it all. Like stumbling on to the set of
Justin’s House
when everyone had gone home for the night. I took a deep breath before rounding the corner, but I still wasn’t prepared for the sight which greeted me. There were two television cameras set up with lights glaring, a couple of dozen journalists holding copies of the mummyfesto and assorted microphones on the table at which Sam and Anna were sitting.

‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to them. They both gave rather strained smiles. I sat down heavily next to Sam, feeling awful for letting them down and thinking what a shame it was that my fifteen minutes of fame should come at a
time when I probably looked like some bag lady they’d dragged in off the streets.

‘Apologies again for the unavoidable delay, folks,’ said Sam. ‘Thank you all for your patience. I hope you’ve had a chance to look through our mummyfesto. We’re now ready to begin.’

She paused for a second and glanced at Jackie and me in turn. I could see it on her face. Exactly what I was feeling inside. A rush of adrenalin that this was actually happening, that we were going public and there was no going back now, coupled with a cramping feeling in the stomach as the enormity of it all sank in. We weren’t sitting around Sam’s kitchen table, winding each other up and stuffing our faces with Pringles any more. This was real. I nodded at Sam. She nodded back and turned to face the media.

‘We decided to launch the Lollipop Party because we, like many people, were so disillusioned with what the mainstream political parties had to offer. In particular, we wanted to give a voice to the weakest and most vulnerable people in society: the children, young people, elderly people and those with disabilities who successive governments have treated with scant regard. Our mission is to put those people at the heart of everything we do.

‘We are not in this because of our egos, or because we’re on some power-kick or simply to line our own pockets. I can assure you that none of us have any intention of buying a duck-house or getting a moat installed, accepting money to ask questions in parliament or
charging anyone two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to come round to our place for dinner.’

There were a few smiles from the assembled journalists. I glanced across at Sam, who hadn’t appeared to notice. She was on a roll now. And she was sounding bloody good.

‘The reason we’re doing this is because it’s time the public were offered an alternative to the Oxbridge men in suits who lead the mainstream political parties. Women are woefully under-represented in parliament and we aim to put that right by introducing a radically different system that doesn’t discriminate against women, or any parents for that matter.

‘Setting up mini regional parliaments across the UK will make government more family-friendly, will reconnect MPs with their constituents and end the London-centric political set-up.’

I stared out at the journalists who were either busily scribbling it all down in shorthand or staring at Sam with stunned and rather bemused expressions on their faces. Maybe the world wasn’t ready for this. Maybe what had sounded radical to us around Sam’s kitchen table was coming over as stark-raving mad out here in the real world.

Sam stopped and looked at me. I’d prepared my speech as instructed, but decided on the spur of the moment to ditch it and attempt to address the doubts which were clearly out there.

‘We’re the first to admit that we don’t have all the answers,’ I said. ‘That’s one of the things that makes us
so refreshing. Our mummyfesto has been built with the help of women of all sorts of political persuasions all over the country. We’ve also pulled together lots of great ideas which various charities and pressure groups have put forward over recent years.

‘We make no apologies for the fact that we want to revolutionise politics in this country. We aim to create a fairer society where wealth and power are more evenly distributed and where our most vulnerable citizens, rather than wealthy fat-cats, are our priority.’

I looked down the line at Anna. She grinned at me, ready to take up the baton.

‘Our mummyfesto is also a living thing,’ said Anna. ‘What we’d like now is for people to get in touch with us through our website, Twitter and Facebook and tell us their ideas about how we can make the UK a better place for our children to grow up in.

‘We’re starting small with just the three of us, but we aim to grow organically. We want to hear from ordinary people who would like to stand for our party in the constituency they live in.

‘We started out by successfully fighting to save the lollipop lady at our children’s school. We know that there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of other women out there fighting for justice and what’s right for their children, their families and their communities. We’d like them to join us and together we can make a real difference.’

Anna smiled and clasped her hands as she finished. I looked out at the faces of the journalists. The words dazed
and bewildered came to mind. They didn’t have a clue what to make of us. I couldn’t help but smile too.

‘Now,’ said Sam, ‘we’re very happy to answer any questions you have.’

There was a slight pause before the first hand was raised.

‘Michelle Wilson,
Huddersfield Examiner
. You have no political experience whatsoever. Why do you expect people to vote for you?’

I nudged Sam, keen to take this one. She nodded.

‘Look at the mess the professional politicians with years of experience have made of it,’ I said. ‘All three main parties have had a go in recent years and they have all screwed up. People have nothing to lose in giving us a chance.’

‘John Anderson, Radio Leeds. Are any men allowed to join your party?’

I looked at Sam and Anna. We all appeared to be sporting the same awkward expression. We’d never even discussed it. I felt so bloody stupid. I kicked Sam under the table, confident that she’d say the right thing.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’re not excluding men from this at all; we’re hoping lots of them will vote for us. And if any of them would like to support our campaign or stand as an MP we’d be delighted to hear from them.’

‘Virginia Mason,
Halifax Courier
. I see you’ve got plans to privatise the Royal Family. How do you think the Queen is going to respond to that?’

Sam was straight in. ‘Hopefully she’ll see it as a way of increasing her income, without having to justify every penny she spends to the taxpayer. And her children have
already demonstrated their entrepreneurial skills: Prince Charles charges more than three quid for a packet of his organic biscuits, and if they get stuck Prince Edward could start a
Royalty’s Got Talent
TV show.’

There were a few more smiles from the hacks. I sensed we were winning them over.

‘Aiden Kielty, Calendar News. Perhaps you’d like to explain why you intend to actively encourage skipping?’

‘I’d be delighted to,’ I said. ‘Would you like to step this way?’ Everyone turned to face Mr Kielty, who I knew from watching the programme was game for anything. Sure enough he stepped forward, albeit somewhat gingerly.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘just follow me. We’ll go three times around the fountain. Don’t look so worried. It’ll make great television.’ The main thought that crossed my mind as we skipped merrily around the fountain was that I wished I’d worn a sports bra for the occasion. Not that I had a sports bra because the only exercise I did was swimming, but I made a mental note to pick one up the next time I was in M & S.

We were given a round of applause at the end. Mr Kielty took a bow. I did my best with a curtsey.

‘See,’ I said. ‘Our policies are guaranteed to put a smile on everyone’s faces. And what other political party can say that?’

It was getting dark by the time I got back to Mum’s. The curtains were drawn, which meant a carer must have been. She never did them herself now. I let myself in and called
out, ‘Hello, Mum. It’s me, Jackie.’ There was no reply. I hurried through to the living room. She was sitting in her armchair, still in her nightie. I suspected the carer had decided it wasn’t worth dressing her and had simply left her in it.

‘Have you had your supper?’ I asked.

Mum frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. I popped through to the kitchen to check. There was a plate and knife and fork on the draining board. The carer had at least washed up after her.

‘It’s OK,’ I said, going back in to her. ‘You’ve had it.’

‘What were it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Mum.’

Her face crumpled. I thought for a moment she was going to cry.

‘Did you enjoy film?’ I asked.

‘What film?’

‘
Hello Dolly
. I left you watching it this afternoon.’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t watched that since Deborah were little.’

I nodded, walked over to the TV, pressed eject on the recorder and put the DVD back in its case without saying another word.

It was surreal, watching it all on TV later; as if I were having some kind of out-of-body experience, hovering above someone who looked like me and sounded like me but couldn’t possibly actually be me.

Only the presence of my children, piled on to the sofa next to me and shouting in turn, ‘Mummy’s on the telly’, ‘Oh my God’ and ‘Get in’, indicated that it was indeed me we were all watching.

We saw it on Calendar first, complete with Jackie’s skipping, then turned over to see it all again on
Look North
, minus the skipping, of course, as they clearly didn’t want to showcase their rival reporter’s star turn. I was still getting my breath back and trying to take it all in when my mobile rang. Sam’s number was on the display. Although, to be fair, ‘screaming, hysterical woman’ would have been more accurate.

‘Turn back to ITV,’ she shouted, above a cacophony at her end. ‘We’re going to be on the national news.’

She put the phone down before I could say anything. I reached for the remote and pressed 3.

‘What are you doing?’ David asked. He had been standing quietly in the doorway all this time, seemingly interested enough to want to watch, but not supportive enough to join the rest of us on the sofa.

‘That was Sam,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be on the national news as well. She said they trailed it at the beginning.’

David looked at me as if I had been caught in flagrante with Nick Clegg. I wasn’t sure whether it was me he was disgusted at, or simply a world where people could graft hard all their life and never get any further than first base, not because they weren’t any good but because they didn’t have whatever it took to capture the media’s attention.

I shrugged. What did he expect? I could hardly offer an apology. He remained in the doorway, resolutely refusing to join us, but equally unwilling or unable to go the other way. An old-school Liberal Democrat if ever there was one.

We were the ‘And Finally’ piece on ITN. The introduction was bordering on the patronising and they didn’t mention many of our most serious policies, but I was past caring. We were out there. Our policies were out there. And raising a few eyebrows too, no doubt.

‘Are you famous now?’ Esme asked, when it had finished.

I smiled and hesitated before answering, aware that David was in earshot.

‘Being on the news once doesn’t make you famous, love.’

‘But you weren’t on once,’ said Esme. ‘You were on three times in a row.’

‘And one of those was the national news,’ chipped in Charlotte, who despite being thirteen, couldn’t disguise the fact that she was more than a little impressed with her mother’s performance. ‘Everyone in the country saw this one.’

‘What, even the Queen?’ asked Esme.

‘Yes, she might have.’ I smiled. ‘Although I suspect she watches the BBC news. I don’t think she’d like the adverts.’

‘But if she did, she won’t be very happy because Mum’s going to abolish her,’ said Will, his legs sprawled over the arm of the sofa. ‘She’ll probably send her to the Tower.’

‘Will,’ I said.

‘The Blackpool tower?’ asked Esme.

‘No, love. Don’t worry about it, Will was only joking.’

‘Wait till Esme finds out you’re ditching party bags too,’ Will whispered into my left ear, ‘then you really will be for it.’