The Casual Vacancy

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 cards while clearing the kitchen table for supper.
    Gavin had never intended to vote; if Barry had been alive to stand, he might have done so, but he had no desire to help Miles achieve another of his life’s goals. At half-past five he packed up his briefcase, irritable and depressed, because he had finally run out of excuses not to have dinner at Kay’s. It was particularly irksome, because there were hopeful signs that the insurance company was shifting in Mary’s favour, and he had very much wanted to go over and tell her so. This meant that he would have to store up the news until tomorrow; he did not want to waste it on the telephone.
    When Kay opened the door to him, she launched at once into therapid, quick-fire talk that usually meant she was in a bad mood.
    ‘Sorry, it’s been a dreadful day,’ she said, although he had not complained, and they had barely exchanged greetings. ‘I was late back, I meant to be further on with dinner, come through.’
    From upstairs came the insistent crash of drums and a loud bass line. Gavin was surprised that the neighbours were not complaining. Kay saw him glance up at the ceiling and said, ‘Oh, Gaia’s furious because some boy she liked back in Hackney has started going out with another girl.’
    She seized the glass of wine she was already drinking and took a big gulp. Her conscience had hurt her when she called Marco de Luca ‘some boy’. He had virtually moved into their house in the weeks before they had left London. Kay had found him charming, considerate and helpful. She would have liked a son like Marco.
    ‘She’ll live,’ said Kay, pushing the memories away, and she returned to the potatoes she was boiling. ‘She’s sixteen. You bounce at that age. Help yourself to wine.’
    Gavin sat