Political Suicide by Robert Barnard

Author:Robert Barnard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

Chapter 10

Dear Old Granny

They made their way slowly but with a certain style in the direction of the Trueman Bar of the Unicorn Hotel. It was a little side bar that did not serve eats, and now, at nearly two, it was practically deserted. Only one other couple was seated there, the woman sipping her glass sceptically.

“No, don’t complain: it’s quite interesting. I’ve never had a gin and soda before.”

Gianni was behind the bar.

As Sutcliffe settled Granny Masterson—or Isobel Ainslie, as he preferred to think of her—down in a comfortable corner, Gianni smouldered over to them. He was, Sutcliffe thought, one of the few things in the industrial desert that was Bootham that was smouldering. Isobel Ainslie appeared delighted to see him.

“Oh, here’s Fairy Lightfoot, my own favourite dago! Ciao, Gianni! Campari soda, darling. I strongly recommend you to have it too. He understands both words, don’t you, Don Giovanni?”

But Sutcliffe, who had once holidayed on Lake Garda, experimented with “Birra?,” and actually got just that. The triumph he felt was lessened by the two pounds Gianni gave him as change from a five-pound note.

“Well!” said Isobel Ainslie. “This is nice. How lovely to find people who remember me—and so affectionately, too! Glowing memories, wouldn’t you say? Of course, they do too in the Home, but there we’re all in the Profession. They all crowd around if they show one of my old films on television, but then I have to crowd round when their old films are shown. Actually to be remembered by the public! So good for the old ego, darling. I really am glad I decided to come.”

“Was it a surprise to be asked?”

“Bolt from the blue, darling. Hadn’t heard from him for years, and didn’t expect to. Knew he was standing, that was all.”

“Why do you think he asked you?”

“Oh, to show off the only Yorkshire connection he has, of course. Quite silly. They all remember me, and come along and get my autograph, but whoever heard of anyone voting for someone because he had a Yorkshire grandmother? I really think, you know, that that young man is underestimating his voters.”

Sutcliffe thought again what a sharp old lady Isobel Ainslie was.

“So you hadn’t seen your grandson for a while, Mrs—”

“Call me Isobel. As one gets older there are fewer and fewer who do. No, not for years, darling. In fact, I can remember the last time. It was on Waterloo Station, or Victoria, or somewhere, and I was on my way to a television studio somewhere to film an episode of Steptoe, in which I had a lovely little part, and he was on his way to Stowe or Lancing or whatever school it was he went to. Old Mrs Craybourne who brought him up was with him, going to give him a bust-up at the Savoy, or the Ritz. Anyway, I was in a fearful rush and I gave him half-a-crown, which he made it devastatingly clear was not enough.”

“And that was the last time?”

“The last time.

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