God's Country

Part Fifty-Seven

'Pray without ceasing.'

1 Thessalonians 5:17

Sister Martha fell to her knees with the others and slowly repeated the lengthy, unfamiliar prayers after Mother Margaret, her head bowed and her voice no more than a whisper. She had not been beaten again, because she was following the rules. From her sort of background that made some sort of sense. Her father imposed his version of discipline with his fists. He did not much care who he hit or how hard, and she had got her fair share. In fact, she preferred the paddle. No bruises for one thing and no lasting pain, so she did what she usually did and got on with things. She had been told she was being trained as a nun, and that seemed to involve a lot of prayer. There were five other novices and just three trainers, but the convent had other sisters of course. Martha was told that they were the famous Meadvale sisters, volunteers to the Order, who helped in the Cathedral and manned the local nursing home. She wondered if that was what she would be doing when she started to work.

She had no real idea what National Service was. No one had explained anything much to her and she had not asked; all she cared about was avoiding gaol and serving a shorter sentence. And the convent was better than gaol, even taking into account the beatings. She was not really hurt. One fight in gaol and she could be scarred for life.

'And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.'

Colossians 3:23

Brogan Hardcastle could not keep up with everything anymore. Her job was insane. Her internship had been turned into a series of duckings in the deep end of political journalism by circumstance. Once again, the political editor was having to throw all available hands into the fray and as basically little more than an office junior Brogan could not expect to be put on any of the really big stories. She tried, of course. She argued that she knew more about the Reformists than anyone else. But Charles Buckingham was neck and neck with Strickland at the bookmakers and the senior journalists got the top jobs. She continued with her private research in her spare time, but thanks to Nigel Farage and the Tory defectors she had not had much of that, and found herself resentfully following the LibDem's again, desperately trying to find anything to write which might get her an inch on page twelve. Gavin Williams tried to tell her that she was having an unbelievable apprenticeship, and in some ways that was hard to argue against, but she could not get Meadvale out of her mind. Williams still regularly accused her of being obsessed, and she realised that she was, but she thought she had every reason to be.

Everything had happened so quickly. Much too quickly. No one seemed to be digging too deeply into anything or anyone. There had not really been a lull to allow anyone to take stock and ask any deeper questions. She knew someone would, sooner or later, but news journalism had become an instant business in the age of social media and twenty four hour television and with so much going on no one cared what Reformism was hiding beneath its relentlessly modest and decent facade. Maybe nothing as Gavin Williams always pointed out to her when they discussed it, usually just before another drunken pass, but the fact that she had a chance to get inside Meadvale was still eating away in the back of her mind, never letting her forget it was there. Williams kept trying to talk her out of it, and the need to impress the editor kept her toiling away in other directions, but she had not given up on the idea. She kept turning her plans over and over in her mind, testing and perfecting them, and she promised herself that as soon as she could, she would put them into practice.

And then she had to put her mind to what the LibDem's were doing, which was not very much in truth. The old parties, the old politicians, all seemed to be devoid of ideas, but Brogan had to write it all down anyway.

'So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing the word of God.'

Romans 10:17

"Gentlemen, this is not a speech as such, so if you have any questions, please just stop me and ask one." Charles Buckingham told everyone as he stepped casually up to the lectern, set in the corner of the Broomwaters ballroom, with almost seven hundred people squeezed into the room, perched on chairs with far too little space for their legs. He had no idea how David Harrington had got hold of so many chairs, or quite how Alistair Forbes had actually got every candidate there, but he knew it was an important moment, for both himself and for the party and it was the most suitable place. It felt like home. "I know this is a bit of squeeze, but this is our unofficial headquarters...and my home... and I am rather looking forward to doing a lot more living above the shop from now onwards. And this is just about the most private place in the country not guarded by the police, so I am glad that we could all get here and squeeze in here. My intention is to go through the bones of our manifesto in summary form and then break into smaller groups to allow you to discuss, dissect and challenge the contents one last time. In three days, you will all be on doorsteps defending these policies so you need to know all the angles. Philip and I have agreed them...I do not expect any last minute changes of heart, because there is nothing in the manifesto that you have not already signed up for, but this is your last chance to change the wording or have an influence on the concepts."