The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

barricaded her passage. Where was Marcia taking these, she wanted to know. A brisk exchange ensued and the captive Marcia was released. ‘My job is to keep tabs. Keep an eye on everyone.’ Without a pause, she said, ‘I hope you’re healthy, it’s going to be a hard few weeks.’

‘I’m sure Will will brief me.’

‘Your husband, Fanny, is new to the game. Have you sorted out where you plan to live in the constituency if we triumph?’

‘When we come down we’ll stay with my father at Ember House.’

Pearl shook her head. ‘Won’t do. You need a quiet, modest, cheap house. It’s important that you have roots here.’

‘Apparently, we need a quiet, modest cheap house in the constituency,’ I informed Will in the privacy of the bedroom at Ember House.

One sock off, one sock on, he swung round. ‘We will live here. Of course. If we win. You knew that.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Will peeled off the other sock and dropped it on to the floor. ‘I did explain.’

‘You said it was possible. I don’t want to live here. The bulk of my Battista business is in London. You forget, I’ve lived here most of my life and I know what it’s like. We want to be in London.’

‘Fanny…’ Will came over and sat on the bed. ‘Darling… look at me. This is important. We’re going to have to make sacrifices. Remember what we believe in. All the things we’ve agreed.’ He slipped down on to his knees beside the bed. ‘No one said it would be easy.’

I heard him utter the words, witnessed the conviction and belief that lit up his face. ‘Will, we don’t have to live here. We can come down, lots.’

‘There can’t be any half-measures. This is a war of sorts. I see it so clearly now.’

I gazed into the dark eyes that so delighted me. ‘Will, could I point out that truth is the first casualty of war.’

‘Mrs Savage, that is not being helpful.’

*

I gave my all. True, I was not an expert but Mannochie did his best to ensure that I became one. Constantly at my side, he murmured instructions, dropped information, prompted my replies. He told me about those who ran the town, owned the building businesses, set the local taxes, which housing estate was likely to vote for Will. He drip- fed me facts, statistics, advice, and taught me the rules of this strange campaign. Take no prisoners.

‘Mercy isn’t part of the deal, then,’ I teased.

He turned very serious. ‘No. And don’t let anyone persuade you otherwise, Fanny’

By then we were on ‘Fanny’ terms but he was never called anything but Mannochie. His Christian name, he said, was not for public consumption.

If I gained Mannochie, I lost Will – or, rather, my private Will. The public Will was surrounded by aides with clipboards, potential voters, voters who hated him. He was admired and spat at in equal measure. But one thing was constant: wherever he went, Will was noticed.

‘Don’t say anything,’ Pearl Veriker ordered. ‘Ever. That’s not your role.’

So, silently, I climbed on to the battle bus and went the rounds with my instructions ringing in my ears. Sitting well back on the platform, I attended meetings and came forward to stand (silently) beside Will to take the applause. Suitably dressed, I attended photocalls with my arm linked in Will’s, and the results were not bad.

‘It’s so lucky you’re good-looking,’ said Pearl. ‘Your husband obeyed orders.’

I stared at her and she patted my shoulder. ‘A little pleasantry, Fanny.’

If Pearl was cracking jokes, I could only suppose that she and I were making progress.

Obediently, I trudged the streets for hours at a time and knocked on doors. More often than not a woman answered, and I caught glimpses of interiors where baskets of wet laundry waited to be hung out, children’s bicycles and pushchairs cluttered the hall and school satchels spilled their contents. Sometimes their men appeared. If they did not like me they told me so, and if they were menacing, Mannochie pulled me away.

My feet swelled and my shoulders ached from the weight of pamphlets. It was a war of sorts, even if it had to be fought on the domestic front. On our lists, we ticked off blocks of flats where the walkways reeked of urine, and quiet, net-curtained homes in neat tree-lined streets. We trudged up gravel drives to capacious, well-maintained villas, which had been built by the industrial barons at the turn of the century Their occupants were the worst for they couched any hostility in a more polite and deadly form. ‘Don’t think any of you lot do much except tax us,’ said one heavily jewelled and made-up woman. ‘Can’t think what you get up to all day.’ She made to shut the front door in our faces. ‘Who did you say you were?’

Mannochie cornered me one evening. He looked embarrassed. ‘Fanny, could you keep your thoughts on local transport to yourself?’

I was startled. ‘Do I have any?’

‘Apparently you do, and you were overheard talking about them at the Guides’ coffee morning.’

‘I said I thought there should be more buses.’

Mannochie looked concerned. ‘Precisely. You are playing into a lobby’

On the evening before polling day, I planned that Will and I would eat together quietly in a local Chinese restaurant. But he was caught up with a last-minute conference at the headquarters and we made do with a snatched sandwich that Mannochie had conjured. Will barely touched his but drank two glasses of a dreadful wine.

At the other end of the room, the television beamed last-minute predictions and figures. I eased my aching shoulders. Only a few more hours… Then Will and I would have some privacy and we could return to the business of making our lives together.

Mannochie came up. ‘Figures are looking quite good.’ The two men conferred and I ate my chicken sandwich. I listened and I did not listen but, at that moment, it flashed across my mind that in marrying Will I had launched my boat on to a sea that was stormier than I had supposed. Eventually Mannochie moved off and Will grabbed my hand.

‘Do you hear? The figures. We might be in with a chance.’ He squeezed my fingers painfully. ‘Do you think we might just do it?’

My heart filled with love and hope for him, I cherished his hand in mine. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

At midnight we arrived in the town hall. The last two ballot boxes had just been brought in and the final count was on. The tellers bent over the trestle tables, forefingers and thumbs encased in rubber guards. The piles mounted, shifted; a couple were re-counted, the tally noted.

Will and the other candidates strode up and down between the trestles, but kept a wide berth of each other. The returning officer hovered by the microphone on the stage.

Someone touched my arm and I turned. ‘Hallo,’ said Meg. ‘Sorry I didn’t get here earlier.’ She was flushed and bright-eyed, impeccable in a red linen dress and pretty shoes. ‘I couldn’t miss little brother’s big day.’

At one thirty, Pearl Veriker chivvied me into a side room. ‘Looking good,’ she said. ‘Let’s check you out.’

Skirt long enough? Tights? Make-up?

‘Where’s your wedding ring?’ Her eyes were fixed on my naked left hand.

I fished it out of my pocket. ‘It’s given me a rash. I’m not used to it yet.’

‘Wear it, Fanny.’

I pushed it over my red, swollen finger and endured the itch and burn. To my astonishment, the itch and burn of my rebellion was no less urgent. As surely as an ox, I was being yoked and, if I had not bargained on it, it was far too late to do anything about it.

I pulled myself together and went over to talk to our party workers, whose average age was well above mine but there were one or two younger ones. ‘Isn’t it funny how the other side always seems so much uglier than your own?’ a sharp youth breathed to me.

I was pouring orange juice into plastic cups when I happened to look up and caught Will’s gaze. Our eyes met for a long moment and his mouth moved in a faint smile. He was asking me to keep faith. Short-lived and unfocused, my rebellion died.