Tuesday 23rd June
My first day back on the road.
The interview was straightforward enough; I turned up suited and booted to the depot on Friday with all my paperwork and met Harpeet (“call me Harry”) Singh who runs the show. After the initial formalities – types of wagons I’ve driven, convictions (none), references (good), availability for long runs (occasional) – we came onto why I needed occasional evenings off.
“I gather you are a local politician.” Harry said. “It’s good to see someone dedicating time to their local community. I’m too busy for that, but my wife is a JP.”
He looked at me, checking that I knew what that meant. I answered with some joke about I hoped I wouldn’t meet her in the dock, and we moved on.
Before getting into the cab, I fitted it up with the creature comforts needed when you spend hours in the driving seat: beaded back massage seat cover (otherwise my back gives me gip); inflatable seat cushion (anti-Chalfont protection), heated mug and, the final touch, the Union Jack attached to the back panel. That last I wasn’t sure of, so when I saw Harry come over as I was about to set off, I got out of the cab and fired first, so to speak.
“No problem me putting the flag up, is there?”
“Why should there be? It’s our flag, after all,” he said, emphasising the word “our” as he looked at me. He’s a serious young man, our Harpeet, but I thought I saw a slight smile appear with what he said next.
“There is one thing wrong with it though.”
“What?”
“It’s upside-down”.
Thursday 25th June
Thank God for air-con. By the time I’ve hit the A12, starting a route to Doncaster, the cab’s wonderfully cool. Now I’m working again, Sharon is pulling out the stops with the packed lunches – beef sandwiches today, made as only she knows how, and a couple of mini pork pies as well. All should be well in my world, but the WhatsApp sprang back to life last night, with the announcement of the by-election date for Donna’s seat in Mardon East, and Darren saying we’ll “fight it hard.” I’ve seen what fighting it hard looks like. It looks like me and Ethan on a Saturday morning with a leaflet that says ENOUGH IS ENOUGH and a map of streets that don’t want to see us.
I know about Benfieldside. Everyone in a Reform WhatsApp group knows about Benfieldside – it’s become a kind of cautionary tale people mention and then go quiet about. Reform councillor steps down within days of being elected, by-election called, Reform come third. Third. Behind Labour and the Lib Dems in a seat we’d just won. I mentioned this to Darren. He said Benfieldside was “a unique set of circumstances.” They always are, until they’re not.
The wider picture isn’t what I’d call encouraging either. Makerfield was supposed to be the moment – Greg’s voice notes had been building to it for weeks, all hands on deck, this is how we win. Reform came second on thirty-four percent. In a constituency where sixty-five percent voted Leave. Second. And now Starmer’s gone and there’s a Labour leadership contest and suddenly nobody’s talking about Reform at all, they’re all talking about whether it’s going to be Burnham or Streeting and what it means for the country, and we’re just – not in that conversation. At all.
I came home at six. Sharon had the news on. Someone was asking someone else whether Burnham was electable. I stood in the kitchen doorway for a minute, listening.
“You alright?” Sharon said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking.”
She looked at me for a moment in the way she does – the way that means she knows exactly what I’m thinking and is deciding whether to say so – and then she turned back to the telly. This time seven weeks ago I didn’t put my hand in my pocket once down the Crown, and we were dead certs to be in power at the next Election. Now – well, I wouldn’t put money on it.
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