The Casual Vacancy

had a monopoly on medical speculation, given that she was a hospital volunteer. ‘They’ll run tests up at the General, I expect.’
    ‘I’d be feeling very worried if I were Dr Jawanda.’
    ‘She’s probably hoping the Weedons are too ignorant to sue, but that won’t matter if the General finds out it was the wrong medication.’
    ‘She’ll be struck off,’ said Maureen with relish.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Shirley, ‘and I’m afraid a lot of people will feel good riddance.
Good riddance
.’
    Methodically Howard sorted letters into piles. Miles’ completed application forms he set aside on their own. The remaining communications were from fellow Parish Councillors. There were no surprises here; as soon as Parminder had emailed him to tell him that she knew of somebody who was interested in standing for Barry’s seat, he had expected these six to rally round her, demanding an election. Together with Bends-Your-Ear herself, they were the ones he dubbed ‘the Obstreperous Faction’, whose leader had recently fallen. Onto this pile he placed the completed forms of Colin Wall, their chosen candidate.
    Into a third pile he placed four more letters, which were, likewise, from expected sources: professional complainers of Pagford, known to Howard as perennially dissatisfied and suspicious, all prolific correspondents to the
Yarvil and District Gazette
. Each had their own obsessive interest in some esoteric local issue, and considered themselves ‘independent minded’; they would be the ones most likely to scream ‘nepotism’ if Miles had been co-opted; but they were among the most anti-Fields people in town.
    Howard took the last two letters in each hand, weighing them up. One of them was from a woman whom he had never met, who claimed (Howard took nothing for granted) to work at the Bellchapel Addiction Clinic (the fact that she styled herself ‘Ms’ inclined him to believe her). After some hesitation, he placed this on top of Cubby Wall’s application forms.
    The last letter, unsigned and typed on a word processor, demanded an election in intemperate terms. It had an air of haste and carelessness and was littered with typos. The letter extolled the virtues of Barry Fairbrother and named Miles specifically as ‘unfit to fill his sheos’. Howard wondered whether Miles had a disgruntled client out there who might prove to be an embarrassment. It was good to be forewarned of such potential hazards. However, Howard doubted whether the letter, being anonymous, counted as a vote for an election. He therefore fed it into the little desktop shredder that Shirley had given him for Christmas.

II
    Edward Collins & Co., the Pagford solicitors, occupied the upper floor of a terraced brick house, with an optician’s on the ground floor. Edward Collins was deceased and his firm comprised two men: Gavin Hughes who was the salaried partner, with onewindow in his office, and Miles Mollison, who was the equity partner, with two windows. They shared a secretary who was twenty-eight, single, plain but with a good figure. Shona laughed too long at all Miles’ jokes, and treated Gavin with a patronage that was almost offensive.
    ‘Mary’s called. There’s a bit of a glitch with Barry’s life insurance. She wants me to help her sort it.’
    ‘Right, well, you can handle that, can’t you? I’ll be back at two, anyway.’
    Miles slipped on his overcoat, jogged down the steep stairs and walked briskly up the rain-swept little street that led to the Square. A momentary break in the clouds caused sunlight to flood the glistening war memorial and the hanging baskets. Miles experienced a rush of atavistic pride as he hurried across the Square towards Mollison and Lowe, that Pagford institution, that classiest of emporia; a pride that familiarity had never blighted, but rather deepened and ripened.
    The bell tinkled at the door as Miles pushed it open. There was something of a lunchtime rush on: a queue of eight waited at the counter and Howard, in his mercantile regalia, fisherman’s flies glinting in his deerstalker, was in full tongue.
    ‘… and a quarter of black olives, Rosemary, to
you.
Nothing else, now? Nothing else for Rosemary … that’ll be eight pounds, sixty-two pence; we’ll call it eight, my love, in light of our long and fruitful association …’
    Giggles and gratitude; the rattle and crash of the till.
    ‘And here’s my lawyer, come to check up on me,’ boomed Howard, winking and