and burst into tears. Colin had cried in her surgery before now; sobbed in desperation at the burden of fear he carried with him every day of his life.
‘Come on,’ she said, unembarrassed, and she took his arm and steered him through to the kitchen, where she handed him kitchen roll and let him sob himself into hiccups again. ‘Where’s Tessa?’
‘At work,’ he gasped, mopping his eyes.
There was an invitation to Howard Mollison’s sixty-fifth birthday party lying on the kitchen table; somebody had torn it neatly in two.
‘I got one of those, as well,’ said Parminder. ‘Before I shouted at him. Listen, Colin. Voting—’
‘I can’t,’ whispered Colin.
‘—shows them they haven’t beaten us.’
‘But they have,’ said Colin.
Parminder burst out laughing. After contemplating her with his mouth open for a moment, Colin started to laugh too: a big, booming guffaw, like the bark of a mastiff.
‘All right, they’ve run us out of our jobs,’ said Parminder, ‘and neither of us wants to leave the house but, other than that, I think we’re in very good shape indeed.’
Colin took off his glasses and dabbed his wet eyes, grinning.
‘Come on, Colin. I want to vote for you. It isn’t over yet. After I blew my top, and told Howard Mollison he was no better than a junkie in front of the whole council and the local press—’
He burst out laughing again and she was delighted; she had not heard him laugh so much since New Year, and then it had been Barry making him do it.
‘—they forgot to vote on forcing the addiction clinic out of Bellchapel. So, please. Get your coat. We’ll walk down there together.’
Colin’s snorts and giggles died away. He stared down at the big hands fumbled over each other, as if he were washing them clean.
‘Colin, it’s not over. You’ve made a difference. People don’t like the Mollisons. If you get in, we’d be in a much stronger position to fight. Please, Colin.’
‘All right,’ he said, after a few moments, awed by his own daring.
It was a short walk, in the fresh clean air, each of them clutching their voter registration cards. The church hall was empty of voters apart from themselves. Each put a thick pencil cross beside Colin’s name and left with the sense that they had got away with something.
Miles Mollison did not vote until midday. He paused at his partner’s door on the way out.
‘I’m off to vote, Gav,’ he said.
Gavin indicated the telephone pressed against his ear; he was on hold with Mary’s insurance company.
‘Oh — right — I’m off to vote, Shona,’ said Miles, turning to their secretary.
There was no harm in reminding them both that he was in need of their support. Miles jogged downstairs and proceeded to the Copper Kettle, where, during a brief post-coital chat, he had arranged to meet his wife so that they could go down to the church hall together.
Samantha had spent the morning at home, leaving her assistant in charge at the shop. She knew that she could no longer put off telling Carly that they were out of business, and that Carly was out of a job, but she could not bring herself to do it before the weekend and the concert in London. When Miles appeared, and she saw his excited little grin, she experienced a rush of fury.
‘Dad not coming?’ were his first words.
‘They’re going down after closing time,’ said Samantha.
There were two old ladies in the voting booths when she and Miles got there. Samantha waited, looking at the backs of their iron-grey perms, their thick coats and their thicker ankles. That was how she would look one day. The more crooked of the two old women noticed Miles as they left, beamed, and said, ‘I’ve just voted for you!’
‘Well, thank you very much!’ said Miles, delighted.
Samantha entered the booth and stared down at the two names: Miles Mollison and Colin Wall, the pencil, tied to the end of a piece of string, in her hand. Then she scribbled ‘I hate bloody Pagford’ across the paper, folded it over, crossed to the ballot box and dropped it, unsmiling, through the slot.
‘Thanks, love,’ said Miles quietly, with a pat on her back.
Tessa Wall, who had never failed to vote in an election before, drove past the church hall on her way back home from school and did not stop. Ruth and Simon Price spent the day talking more seriously than ever about the possibility of moving to Reading. Ruth threw out their voter registration