To Rule britannia

Book 2

“Sellie, it’s your dad on the phone. He sounds angry.”

“Be there in a second sweetheart.”

The sweetheart in question encapsulated Selwyn Letchford Junior’s life for two days now. She was smoking hot, and boy was she up for it. Sellie, as she liked to call him, was more of a brunette man, but something was alluring in this girl’s short, boy-like blonde hair. Yes! It reminded him of Monkey, Toyah’s character in Quadrophenia.

Who wouldn’t do Toyah? he thought.

Neither of the two of them had much use for clothes during their time together, but Selwyn now searched the garment-strewn room for something to wear. It had been an amazing interlude. However, rather embarrassingly, he’d forgotten to ask her name when they met. Or, if he did, it had slipped his mind by now, and it was way past the time he could ask her. Sweetheart, she would have to stay until he managed to bin her later today…or maybe she would be Monkey.

It was obvious what Dad would be harping on about. This fucking General Election. It was only mid-May, and the thing wasn’t ‘til June. There was plenty of time to start campaigning. Anyway, Dad and Grandpa had held the seat for forty years. Surely, the loyal sheep-worrying plebs would turn out to keep it in the family name. Yes, the man was intent on his son going to Parliament. Dad was heading for the House of Lords, of course. Selwyn always knew that The Commons would be his destiny. It was just he fancied a few more years sowing the old oats first.

While scratching his privates, he spotted the poncho that he’d worn briefly last night. It wasn’t that long, it wouldn’t cover much, but it would have to do.

Monkey and her fantastic body stood naked at the foot of the stairs, phone in hand. “Your dad has invited me to shoot this weekend,” she said as he took the handset. He covered the mouthpiece.

“Feel free to join the old bastard, but what he means by shooting isn’t what you think,” he whispered to her, patted her arse and smiled. Monkey rolled her eyes.

“Father, dear, to what…”

“Don’t father dear me, you little prick. What are you doing down there in London? There is an election to be won.”

“But Daddy, it’s weeks away yet,” Selwyn whined.

“You have to campaign, you blithering idiot. We will lose the seat with the way you are carrying on. God, I wish I hadn’t selected you as the candidate. If we lose this one, I will be thrown out of the Party.”

“There’s no way that the good people of Mentford are going to vote for anything other than a Letchford,” Selwyn said in a placatory voice.

“There is a poll in this morning’s Advertiser, and they have Lyon five points ahead for the Liberals. You need to get your backside up here today and do something about it. Lose this seat, and I cut you off, you little shit.”

The line went dead.

Selwyn ignored the knots in the curly cord and thumped the handset back on the receiver. He really didn’t want to head out to that bloody backwater today of all days. A friend got him tickets to see Duran Duran at the Albert Hall tonight. The place would be full of shaggable babes. With his good looks, long blonde hair, and the awesome poncho, he’d be fighting them off with a shitty stick. “Fuck,” he said, resigning himself to a miserable weekend amongst Norfolk sheep-shaggers instead.

“Sweetheart, I must go home for the weekend. Come give me one more quickie before I go get the bloody train to nowhere-nowhere land.

Reluctantly boarding the first-class carriage, Selwyn went to bin the piece of paper that carried Daphne’s phone number. Daphne had been her bloody name. However, after contemplating the joyous interlude, he decided to stick with calling her Monkey. The idea of a dirty weekend with Toyah was in his head now. As soon as he was in Parliament, looking the tangerine-haired goddess up would be his first duty. “The real Toyah, of course,” he said, suddenly deciding to hold on to Daphne’s number. Selwyn had no further use for the girl but needed something to placate Dad.

It wouldn’t be the first time that the old bugger had plugged one of his former girlfriends. They were not always even exes before Daddy would lure them into the sack with some gold trinket and the promise of a trip to his Monaco yacht. It bothered Selwyn when he was younger, but he now realised this was part of life. It was the only thing that would be close to collectivism in the Letchford family.

Yes, Daddy would be pleased to meet sex kitten Daphne.

Mentford

Mum’s burly chauffeur sat outside the station in the gleaming Rolls Royce. Selwyn jumped in the back seat.

“Hey Angus, how have things been in England’s arsehole backwater?” As the car purred along leafy lanes, Selwyn stared out the window at the depressing rural scene.

The driver laughed. “There’s life enough here if you know where to look, young Selwyn.”

Angus was recruited a few years ago to replace Jarvis. Jarvis drove for the Letchfords all his life and was basically blind before finally being pensioned off at Mum’s insistence. Thereafter, she chose Angus, and Selwyn was sure that the new driver’s duties extended beyond motoring. Mum had taken to frequent and extended car trips in the country since the burly Scotsman took over, and even Selwyn noticed how dishevelled she appeared on her return. Thinking about it, Mum also spent much more time in the greenhouse since Donald the gardener was hired a year or two back. She seemed to have a thing for Scotsmen. Selwyn looked at the leather seat that he sat on and tried to pretend it had never been used for anything other than its god-given purpose.

“There’s little here but sheep and old women,” Selwyn said as the car accelerated smoothly past a neighbour exercising their equine shit factory, and holding up the traffic.

“Ha. I’m from Inverness. Up there, we only had the sheep. Old women are a blessing, young Selwyn. I’ll tell you something more: what you call old women are far better in the saddle than those young things you hang about with. The young uns may look good, but once you’ve tried a mare, you’ll never return to fillies.” The annoyingly jovial driver laughed heartily at his own pearl of wisdom.

Selwyn smiled. “I think I’ll stick to the fillies if you don’t mind.”

“Fair enough, but you don’t know what you’re missing,” Angus said.

Low in the west, the shepherd’s delight sun played peekaboo with the trees as the car quietly traversed the long poplar-lined road to the house. They crunched to a stop on the red gravel driveway, and Selwyn got out, leaving his bag to be handled by Angus. He walked up the six marble stairs and into the public hallway. Young Catherine stood to the right of the door. She bowed low as he entered.

“Welcome home, Master Letchford,” she said in her carrot-crunching Norfolk accent. Selwyn removed his coat and handed it to the girl. He made his way to the end of the lavish hallway, passed the Venus de Milo marble replica, and turned right into Mother’s wing. The house was H-shaped. The middle section contained the hall and other public areas. The right wing was Mum’s quarters, and the left wing Dad’s. In all his life, he had never seen either of them stray into the other’s territory. Their limited interactions took place in public areas.

On reaching the end of the hallway, he knocked on his mother’s apartment door.

“Come,” Mum called out from within.

She sat across from another woman. Mother was around fifty, but her visitor looked a little older.

“Ah, Selwyn, love. Welcome home. How was your trip?” Mum got up, laid her teacup on the table, and approached to kiss his cheek.

Already pissed off at the call home, Selwyn’s ire was raised further at his mother’s question. She had absolutely no interest in his journey from London to Mentford, but this was the inane crap that people spoke about in this God-forsaken place. He so missed the capital.

“You haven’t introduced me to your lovely guest, mother.”

“Of course, how rude of me. Selwyn, meet Francoise Lyon. Francoise, this is my favourite son, Selwyn.”

The older woman stood and walked over. She offered a hand, and Selwyn kissed it. Chuckling, she said, “You only have one son, Lady Letchford.”

The name seeped into Selwyn’s consciousness for once. “Lyon,” he said. “Are you the mother of my Liberal Party rival by any chance?” Until now, Selwyn paid very little attention to the contest. He believed it was a done deal that he would be heading to Westminster in June. However, he seemed to remember that the main rival was Christopher Lyon.

The woman gave a wry smile. “Christopher is my husband, dear. Married these last thirty three years.” She turned to Mother. “We were school sweethearts, you know.”

“That is magnificent,” mother replied. “I wish I could say the same, but I am the second Lady Letchford. Selwyn’s senior’s first wife died in an accident thirty years ago. I have known Sir Letchford since I left school, but he was nearly forty when we met.”

The two women returned to their seats. Selwyn sat on a third chair between them. Mother poured him a cup of tea, and Selwyn wished he was back in his London flat with Monkey rather than here now. As much as he loved his mother, this was not his idea of a good time.

“So, how did you and Sir Letchford meet?” Francoise asked Mother.

Selwyn knew this story. When angry with Dad, she relayed it to her young son often. He was sure that Mrs Lyon would not be getting the true version. At just eighteen, a young and naïve Bridgette Hoskins was dragged, kicking, and screaming down to Norfolk to meet her intended. Her suitor was a forty-something, fat old man with a very big house. Daddy Hoskins was upwardly motivated. Owner of several coal mines in Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Nottingham, he came into a small fortune when the last Labour Government acquired all of his mines in mandatory purchase before incorporating them into the National Coal Board. Daddy Hoskins wasn’t as opposed to the move as other owners. Unknown to the government of the day, most of the pits were spent. The Hoskins family was months from bankruptcy before the grabbing socialists made them stupidly rich.

What the Hoskins didn’t know, was that the Letchfords shared their earlier lack of cash. Mentford house, with its sweeping lands, was expensive to maintain, and Sir Letchford’s penchant for the gee-gees left the family short.

Perhaps fortuitously, Sir Letchford’s first wife had died in an accident, and an insurance payment tided the family over until another income stream could be found. That replacement income was set to be the Hoskins millions. Young Bridget and a sizeable purse were traded for her father’s seat in the Lords and titles for his male children. Everyone, except Bridgette, got what they wanted out of the deal. Sir Letchford, now back in the money, was soon to be blessed with a sprog. The previous Lady Letchford seemed to have some trouble in providing an heir. Having done her job, Bridgette (now) Letchford was cast aside, and Daddy returned to servicing half the county, both boys and girls. Bitter for many years, the second Lady Letchford finally decided that if you couldn’t beat them, you should join them. The two Letchfords now led totally separate lives, coming together only for summer fetes or Tory party functions.

Selwyn suddenly noticed that both women looked at him. “Sorry, I missed that,” he said.

“Mrs Lyon was asking how your campaign against her husband is going?” his mother said.

“I assume all is well. I’m afraid that matters in London have kept me from home for the last few weeks.” Selwyn smiled at the older woman. He suddenly noticed she had a bit of the Thatcher look about her. The Thatch…Now there was an older woman with whom he wouldn’t mind going three or four rounds. “What do you say we drop the tea and maybe get the champers out?” Selwyn said, looking in his china teacup with disdain.

“What a fabulous idea,” Lady Letchford said, but Mrs Lyon raised her grey eyebrows and checked her watch. “It’s only just gone four. Isn’t it a little early for alcohol?”

“It’s never too early for champagne,” Lady Letchford said, ringing the bell on the table. A butler appeared from a side room and was sent to retrieve a very expensive bottle. As he returned with the tray and three glasses, Selwyn stood and moved next to Mrs Lyon on the sofa.

“I’ll pour,” he said, filling all three glasses to the brim. Bottoms up.” He held his glass out, and his mother immediately clinked hers against it. Francoise Lyon seemed a little more reticent about the afternoon libation.

Lady Letchford quickly drained her glass. She leaned over the table and refilled it, then placed the bottle back in the silver ice bucket. “Oops, excuse my manners.” She picked up the bottle again, wiped it with a bright white napkin, and topped up Mrs Lyon’s nearly full flute. There was a knock at the door, and before being beckoned, Father’s butler entered.

“Forgive me, Lady Letchford, Selwyn’s father would like to speak with his son as a matter of urgency.” The man stood at attention, years in the military having set him in his ways.

“We will be finished presently,” Mother answered. She waved him away, but the butler did not move.

“Sir Letchford requires the attention of his son directly, mam.” The man didn’t bother hiding his contempt for the afternoon party that he’d interrupted.

Her eyes rolled. “Sorry son. You better go see what the old prick needs.” She turned back to her drink and then remembered their company. “I’m so sorry for my language, Mrs Lyon, but husbands can be so tiresome. Don’t you think?”

“No need to apologise,” said the older woman. “I hardly ever see mine these days. If I didn’t have his election posters, I’m not sure I would recognise him.” She laughed as if this was the funniest joke ever told.

Selwyn stood. “Were I married to such a beauty, I would never leave her side.” He bowed and kissed her proffered hand.

“Oh my,” said Francoise, “what a charmer. At least I know who I’m voting for now!” And she blushed.

Selwyn took another look at the well-presented woman. She’s not quite Maggie, but I could do that, he thought, and then he headed for the door.

Major Ponsonby was dutifully followed along the portrait-lined corridor and through to Dad’s chambers. In all the years that the haughty butler served Dad, he’d yet to issue one word to Selwyn. Selwyn took some small pleasure in giving the old bastard the v-sign behind his back. Ponsonby knocked and then opened the door to Father’s quarters.

“Master Selwyn for you, sir.” The man turned and left. Selwyn skulked through the door with trepidation and was assailed by the familiar cloud of Old Holborn tobacco.

“What the hell are you doing down in London when an election is to be won? Don’t you realise the shame you will bring on this family if you lose? Your grandfather and I have held this seat since Churchill was in power. The Old Bulldog himself has stood where you stand now and congratulated me on my victory. You’re a damned disgrace, young man.”

Father slammed his hand on the nearby oak table and returned the pipe to his lips. The right side of his face always looked a little tanned. In reality, it was coloured from many years of being kippered by the smoke.

“Hello to you too, father.” Selwyn Junior grinned but then had to duck the porcelain ashtray that flew across the room.

“Always with the wisecracks. Well, let’s see how smart you are in two weeks when Christopher Bloody Lyon is drinking my malt in my club in Mayfair.” Letchford senior reached for another ashtray, then thought the better of it. “You, my boy, will be cut off completely. No monthly income. No comfy little whorehouse in London to shack up in, and I will tell you another thing – you certainly won’t be darkening this doorstep ever again.” He slumped down into the winged armchair, and a puff of dust rose into the last sunbeam of the day. The meagre light leaked through the huge bay window behind.

“Sorry father.” Selwyn lowered his head. “I will get on the campaign tomorrow. Once the local fillies get a look at this,” he pointed to his face, “they won’t go voting for that craggy old Liberal bastard.”

Letchford senior shook his head, and after taking a long draw on his pipe, he removed it from his mouth and pointed the stem at Selwyn. “I don’t doubt if the poll was held among eighteen-year-old girls, we would be fine, but I have a wake-up call for you, son. They don’t bloody vote. It’s the crinkly old bastards you need to impress. We have to get you into a proper suit and around local businesses. That’s where our power base is. Now, get out of my sight. Be back here tomorrow morning at eight. You, Ponsonby, and I will devise a strategy to turn this back around.”

“Why Ponsonby?” Selwyn asked.

Father shook his head. “Ponsonby is one of the finest military and political strategists of the era. Why did you think I kept him around? He’s a damned awful butler.”

Young Selwyn nodded and put his hands in his pockets, setting to leave. He felt the slip of paper that may just lighten his father’s dark mood.

“Oh, father. The girl you spoke to this morning lives near your Mayfair club. Here is her phone number.” He laid the note on the table.

His father’s scowl softened. “Oh Selwyn, and here’s me thinking you’re completely useless.”

Selwyn lay in the bed’s over-soft mattress, listening to the house’s many antique clocks and staring at the darkened ceiling. He wasn’t good at falling asleep. Mainly, he slept through exhaustion due to a night’s passion or inebriation following a soiree in town. When had he last slept alone? He wracked his brain but couldn’t recall. There was always way too much going on in his head to ever just fall asleep. Like this since six or seven, he wished to go back in time and ask very young Selwyn how you just turned over and slept. Being sent to boarding school at seven, sleeping at night was a luxury you were seldom afforded in the dorm. The abuse started with older boys. Then you moved to prefects if you took their fancy. Finally, the school masters partook, should your services be recommended.

He wasn’t complaining. School taught him that doing so only led to more trouble.

 Tonight, the meagre choices were to go down to the kitchen and find a bottle of Scotch or visit one of the maids. Young Catherine looked okay today, he seemed to remember. He hadn’t paid her a visit in a while. The problem was Catherine wasn’t very entertaining, but the choice was limited. Of course, there were Rachael and Andrea, Dad’s maids, but he knew what would happen if he touched either of them. At seventeen, he’d made that mistake with Margo, one of Dad’s earlier staff. When dad found out the next day, Selwyn had been beaten to within an inch of his life – the family habit of sharing only went one way.

The whisky mission got shelved. Dad seemed serious about tomorrow, and a candidate reeking of alcohol may not be a good look. Or smell. With the decision made, he was already on his way to the staff quarters. Mum and Dad were ensconced in the distant wings, so he really didn’t need to be quiet, but padded down the stairs shoeless in any case. He was alone in the centre section with the few live-in staff. Angus and Donald both had houses in the grounds. Only the domestics resided in the main building.

Young Catherine came into service when her parents could not repay a loan to father. It seemed they had gladly forfeited their daughter, and, to Selwyn’s knowledge, they’d never even been back to visit. Of course, Catherine may have made contact on her own time, but as the girl only got one-half day off a week, Selwyn doubted she’d been able to do so. Maybe nineteen, he thought; she’d served the family for three or four years. He visited her regularly before he moved to London, But even so, he doubted they exchanged more than twenty words in total. Obliging certainly, but the girl was no fun.

On reaching the staff quarters, Selwyn changed his mind once more, spurned the idea of unfulfilling sex and made for the kitchen instead. Two minutes later, he returned to his room with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue label and a glass[A1] [JG2] .

He was only five minutes late for the appointment with Dad and Ponsonby, but Selwyn already knew this would be an issue. He popped another polo mint into his mouth and knocked.

“You’re late. Get in here now.” His father’s familiar angry voice came from within.

“Good morning Father. And to you too, Major Ponsonby.” Selwyn tried to sound breezy, but Johnny Bloody Walker was still pounding in his head, and he needed water or maybe a hair of the dog. In return for his greeting, Dad scowled, and Ponsonby, true to form, completely ignored him.

Father handed him a piece of paper. The major has listed the most important places to visit first. Read this,” another sheet was stuffed in his hand, “This is what you will talk about. Do not stray from these issues. Do not let them start quizzing you on Tory party policy, as I’m guessing you didn’t bother reading the manifesto that I left in your room last night?” Dad stood with an angry look that he successfully mixed with a smile of self-satisfaction. He knew he was correct.

“Right,” Father continued, “the campaign office team will be here soon to pick you up. Let them do the heavy lifting. Don’t get involved with the electorate unless you really must. Just be there in the background, smile, kiss a few babies and shake the odd hand. Don’t fuck this up, son.”

Selwyn looked at Dad’s doubtful façade and then to Ponsonby, who, as usual, looked back at him as if Selwyn were shit on his shoe. There and then, Selwyn decided he would screw the man over one day soon.

The early part of the day went reasonably well. Selwyn was led into several local businesses, shook hands with the owners, and was then whisked away before anyone could seriously engage him. The girl sent from Tory HQ was stunning, but despite many attempts, he’d had no luck getting her to talk about anything besides work. Probably a lesbian, he decided.

After three interminable hours, the team were finally persuaded that he needed to stop for lunch. One of the party’s biggest donors owned a fancy restaurant, so they mixed work and pleasure by eating there. Of course, only Selwyn and the officials would eat. The footsloggers being despatched to the suburbs to leaflet the great unwashed.

Parking right outside on the double yellows, they entered the restaurant. To the surprise of all, in the corner were Christopher and Francoise Lyon at a table with the Tory party donor. Although in his own establishment, the restauranteur blushed like he’d been caught in the local farmer’s barn with his strides around his ankles.

Christopher Lyon smiled, as did his wife, but Selwyn believed that they did so for entirely different reasons. Mr Lyon was the cat that got the cream. Francoise maybe had a little crush on Selwyn. A man nearly forty years her junior had paid her much attention yesterday.

The discovered secret liaison between the donor and the Liberal enraged his Tory colleagues, but Selwyn smiled. “Christopher, we meet at last. Your beautiful wife and I talked about your marvellous campaign only yesterday.” He walked over and shook the opposition candidate’s hand. Lifting Francoise’s, he kissed it and looked into her eyes. “Francoise, you look positively stunning today.” Selwyn waited ten seconds before releasing her manicured hand and breaking their gaze. He was pleased she blushed deeply.

The campaign team took the table on the other side of the room while the owner scuttled off into the kitchens. Selwyn took a seat from a table nearby and, without asking, sat down with the couple.

“So, Mr Lyon. What is your secret? You’re converting even party members to your cause, I see.” Selwyn pointed to the kitchen.

“Well, I show up for one thing,” Christopher Lyon said.

“Ah, yes. I believe that history is written by those who show up. Well, here I am now,” said Selwyn, picking up a bread roll from the basket and chomping. He moved his foot under the table and brushed Francoise’s leg.

“I think you and your father have taken this town for granted for too long. It’s time for a change,” the Liberal said.

“At the risk of repeating myself, if change is needed, here I am,” Selwyn said. He was trying to be smooth but my god, did he have the worst itch in his groin right now. Luckily, there was a tablecloth, so no one could see him scratch. What was visible were the daggers being shot by his campaign colleagues across the room. Selwyn smiled at them. As he did, a girl came in. She looked around and then headed toward Selwyn. She was cute, a little plump for his taste, but certainly doable.

From behind him, he heard Christopher Lyon say, “Jennifer, what is it?”

It was only then that Selwyn noticed the orange rosette. The girl came over and whispered in Christopher’s ear. They changed head positions, and he whispered in hers. This interaction went on for a couple of minutes. Selwyn noted the little smiles that went between the Liberal candidate and his young assistant.

Christopher turned to Francoise. “Sorry dear, must dash. I’m late for my next meeting. Are you okay to make your own way home?”

“No problem, dear. We are only five minutes’ walk away after all.”

“I won’t hear of it,” said Selwyn. “We are all friends here. I will give Mrs Lyon a lift home. My car is right at the door.” He pointed out of the window.

Christopher Lyon looked at Selwyn and then at his wife. She nodded. Seemingly placated by the arrangement, the Liberal man rushed for the door with the little hottie, Jennifer, in tow.

Francoise went to stand, but Selwyn waved her back to her seat. “No hurry, Frannie. Finish your drink.” Mrs Lyon didn’t complain about her new nickname. Selwyn rubbed his leg higher against hers. He turned to the group eating across the room. “Throw me the car keys, please. I must drive Frannie home soon. I will be back before you have finished lunch.”

He pulled the car up outside her house. Mrs Lyon turned to him, “Thank you, Selwyn. You are such a gentleman.”

“I don’t have to be,” he said, smiling at her.

She sat there quietly for two whole minutes. “What’s… what’s… that supposed to mean?” Francoise’s face blushed.

“Anything you want it to mean.” He opened the driver’s door and went to get out.

“Where are you going?” Francoise asked nervously.

He turned back to her, reached over and undid the top button of her blouse. “Bed, I hope.”

A whistling Selwyn drove back home. He didn’t bother checking the restaurant as he doubted the campaign team would have stuck around. It was now nearly teatime, after all. He parked whoever’s car this was, in the visitor’s spot at the extreme right of the house. Walking to the main door, he waved to Angus, who stood, polishing the Roller.

“Good evening, Young Selwyn,” the driver said.

“It is indeed, sir,” said Selwyn, grinning, “And what’s more, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“And why would that be?” Angus looked a little perplexed.

“Older woman,” said Selwyn and as he went through the door, he repeated, “Older woman.”

Father’s face was purple now. Selwyn thought he might have a heart attack if he didn’t calm down.

“We are only three days out, and after your late intervention, the bloody Liberal has tripled his lead. This is an absolute disaster!”

Selwyn stood looking at his shoes. “We can try again in five years.”

Dad went two shades darker.

“Forty fucking years. For forty years, we have held this seat for the Tory Party, and you say that letting it go for the next five will be just dandy by you; that’s okay then. I didn’t really want a seat in the House of Lords anyway.” He slapped Selwyn as hard as he could on the cheek. Although it stung, it was nothing to the thrashings that Dad dished out in years past. Selwyn knew he could beat the man senseless now, should he wish. The old bastard would have earned it many times over, but you didn’t do that in his world. Anyway, any pain caused would never quell the raging itch burgeoning in his trousers. Embarrassment made him hold out as long as possible, but Selwyn was now absolutely going to have to see the doctor. He was sure the culprit must have been Daphne. Dad had already called her to arrange a meeting, and Selwyn’s vengeance on both would be to say nothing and allow it to proceed.

“You’re finished here,” dad said, and Selwyn decided to return to his room. There was very little point in any further campaigning. Even he himself had to admit that he just seemed to keep turning people off. He wasn’t sure why, but already thought that the error was in allowing these plebs to vote at all, rather than anything he had done. He would have to consider that idea seriously, were there ever to be another election.

Half a bottle of Glenmorangie later, he was lying on his bed and listening to Duran Duran’s new album. “I can’t believe I missed the gig,” he said to no one. It was all bloody dad’s fault. Selwyn was happy in London. He didn’t need all this Westminster bull…but what about Toyah? She was never going to jump into bed with a nobody. No matter how much money he had…Or did have, before this all blew up.

Fuck, thought Selwyn. I really do need all that bullshit. Hell, it wasn’t as if it is work anyway. You have people to do the actual toil. His understanding was that you just spent your time in the bars by day and shagging celebrities by night. But it was too late. He’d bollocks the whole thing up. As he thought of bollocks, the itch raged back, and he pushed his underwear off and scratched. Just then,, Catherine walked in with bedding and fresh towels.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, Master Letchford, so sorry.” She started to back out of the room but stopped and pointed to his groin. “You’ve gone and got yourself a dose there.”

Flashing the python to the maids would have got him going, on any other day, but today, he just couldn’t stop scratching. “Thanks, Doctor, but you can piss off, please.” He really didn’t care about the hurt look on her face.

“There’s no need for that.” Her broad Norfolk accent was extremely irritating, and now he remembered why they never talked. “Hold on a minute,” she said and left.

An eternal minute of scratching later, she walked back in, minus the linen but holding a white tube. Without any ceremony, she squeezed a large blob onto her hand and grabbed his family jewels. She coated him in the ointment, and the itch was immediately soothed. Many prettier girls played around down there, but right then, he had to admit that Catherine just jumped to the head of that list.

“Oh my God, thank you. If I had a wedding ring handy, I would marry you right here and now, girl.”

“A girl might just hold you to that. Be careful, Master Selwyn.” She giggled for the first time he ever heard.

Selwyn finally slept. When he woke, it was morning. He must have been out for twelve hours. It took a second to realise that the noise downstairs had woken him. Someone was screaming and banging metal objects together.

He sat up, re-applied a coating of Catherine’s ointment and found his trousers. He still wasn’t right down there, but he could tell it was at least a hundred times less itchy. Catherine said it may take five days to heal completely.

Once the verbal dam was broken, he and Catherine chatted for more than an hour while she cleaned his room last night. It turned out that those who had traded her for their debt were not, in fact, her true family. Catherine had been liberated from an orphanage years ago by a band of travelers. She’d been with them for around ten years before the deal took her here. Selwyn was surprised when she said that she loved it here and hoped to stay all her life. She’d always looked so unhappy to him. Well, on the few times he’d bothered to look. Somehow, he saw her in a new light. He would spend more time with her in future.

Selwyn got to the bottom of the stairs. As he did, his normally straight-laced dad came out of a side door with a soup pan on his head and another in hand. He banged the second with a wooden spoon. Behind him in miniature conga, Ponsonby seemed to be wearing the dining room curtains and a fez. Selwyn had no idea where the hat came from. On spotting him, the conga altered direction and headed straight over. Singing Rule Britannia, the two men passed by, and Selwyn was handed one of Ponsonby’s maybe fifty local newspapers. Selwyn just looked at the two and assumed they were very drunk.

“My favourite son,” Father shouted as they wheeled with military precision and headed back down the hall.

Baffled, Selwyn looked at the lead on the newspaper.

“Local girl sues Liberal candidate for giving her an STD.”

“Jennifer Smith, election agent for Christopher Lyon, is suing the candidate, claiming to have contracted a sexually transmitted disease from him. Lyon first tried to silence the girl with ten thousand pounds and, when she turned the amount down, fired her and claimed the allegations were spurious. However, it has come to light that Mr Lyon appears to have infected his wife of forty years also. It is believed that the two were school sweethearts, but according to friends of Francoise Lyon, the marriage is now over…

Sitting at 52% in a poll yesterday, in a snap poll today, the Liberal vote has fallen to single figures. The local Tory Party candidate appears to be the beneficiary and now looks to romp the election with a higher majority than either his father or grandfather ever achieved.”

At 3.12am in the early morning light, Selwyn Letchford sat on the banks of the Yar. It really wasn’t much of a river at all here in Mentford. More of a stream, but he loved it. Today anyway. Selwyn was going to Westminster. The good people of the borough had finally seen sense.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned, expecting one of the partying campaign team to have come out of the sports centre to see where their hero was. But no, behind him stood the normally mousy Catherine sporting the widest grin.

“Hey, Catherine. What are you doing here?” he asked. She seldom left the house.

“Well, I wanted to congratulate my future husband on his victory,” the young girl said mirthlessly.

Selwyn remembered what he said when he received the ointment treatment. “Ha, of course. Yes, thank you, dear.”

“Well, Master Letchford, seems you made a promise to me, and it would be a shame if it leaked out who really did spread the STD to the Lyon family in the first place. The way I see it, only two people in this county know the true story. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if they kept a very close eye on each other?”

Selwyn stood. “You’re serious?”

She nodded.

He looked in her eyes. This woman was blackmailing him. Little Catherine, largely ignored in the Letchford household, was making a pitch to be lady of the manor. What a brass neck, he thought. From orphanage to caravan to seat of the county in twenty years. My God, the girl had ambition. The way Selwyn saw it, he had two options: do as she asked or drown her in the river right now. Hardly anyone on the planet knew she existed. Dad wasn’t paying tax for her. He wasn’t even paying her. He could probably do it and walk away unscathed. Never one to ponder things too much, he came to a decision. Okay, here goes, he thought.

Selwyn reached over, took her hand, dropped to his knees and said, “Catherine, my dear, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

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