Chidimma Agu (FF) took real pleasure in the sight of her face at the top of the ballot paper. She showed it to Kelechi and Anuli.
–Look at your mother.
They were with her in the booth because they had no school – the school was the local polling station.
–You look pretty, said Kelechi.
–Thank you.
–You should smile more often, said Anuli.
Chidimma smiled.
–Like this?
–No.
Anuli pointed at the ballot paper.
–Like that. It’s funnier.
This day – the day of the election – was actually a quiet day, an anti-climax, but pleasant. Chidimma could do nothing but vote and wait, and wait and eat, and wait and wait, until the next day when the counting of votes would begin – and end.
She woke up on Saturday morning, surprised that she had slept. She heard rain battering the window. She’d get up when it stopped. But it didn’t stop. It was even heavier when she arrived at the Fingal count centre. Ike was with her; they’d left the girls with Ike’s cousin.
The atmosphere in the centre was strange. It was full but quiet. Lines of tallymen leaned over barriers, examining the ballot papers, and they shouted news and predictions over their shoulders – but there was no real excitement. Mid-morning and, already, some pockets of people looked defeated.
¬Ah, my worthy opponent, Mrs Agu.
It was Chidi Adebisi (FG). He wore a suit that shone like dark steel, and a silver tie dotted with discreet green shamrocks.
¬–Good morning, Mister Adebisi, said Chidimma. –Any news?
–Your party is being thrashed.
–And me personally?
–You are polling quite well.
–Better than you?
–Marginally.
–As I expected, said Chidimma. –Have you met my husband?
She walked towards the barriers, behind which the Mulhuddart votes were being counted. As she drew nearer, a thought struck her, very forcefully: she knew hardly any of the men and women gathered, wearing Fianna Fáil stickers. She had met her running mates, Paddy McManus and Niamh Duffy, before. It had been agreed that they would concentrate on different areas of the ward – and that was fine. But all these others? Her party colleagues – who were they? She felt her anger rise – but blocked it.
–Here she is now.
It was the director of elections, Gerald McKeefe. He usually resembled a cheerful fish. Today, however, he looked anything but cheerful. Chidimma had never seen such misery on a white face.
–It’s not looking good, he said.
–Oh, dear.
–Desperate, said Gerald. –But you’re in with an outside chance. If the other fella’s transfers go to you.
–The other fellow?
–The African lad.
–Chidi Adebisi?
–Exactly.
–What about Paddy and Niamh’s transfers? Chidimma asked. –Are none going to me?
–Not many, said Gerald. –Look. This time around you’re the black candidate. Next time, you’ll be the candidate. Do you understand?
–Perfectly.
–You’re a pioneer, Chidimma, said Gerald. –I’m proud of you. And, actually, I’m a bit proud of myself. But, Jaysis, we’re being hammered. Come and have a look.
She smiled at faces she’d never seen before, shook hands, and realised something very clearly: this was the start of the next campaign – if she wanted it to be.
–Well done.
–Thank you very much.
–You’ve done brilliant.
–Thank you.
She wasn’t going to win but she wouldn’t let herself be disappointed – or, too disappointed.
A smiling woman pointed to a column of ballot papers on a table near the barrier.
–That’s your pile there, she said.
Two papers were added to the pile as they watched.
–A few more of them, please, said the woman.
–More than a few, I think, said Chidimma.
They both laughed.
Chidimma strolled through the crowds with Ike.
–Do all men with ponytails support the Labour Party?
–It would appear so.
–I’m not going to win.
–Chichi, said Ike. –You already have won.
Chidimma stopped walking. And she cried. It wasn’t disappointment – not really. It was pride – immense, satisfying pride – that pulled the tears to her eyes. She let them out.
Later that day, in a quiet corner of a quiet – almost deserted - city-centre restaurant, the Minister for Trade and Communications smiled across at the straight-backed man.
-So, she said. –That’s a plan, is it, Major General?
-Call me Liam.
-No, said the Minister. –I’m happier calling you Major General. It’s more – I don’t know.
She smiled again.
–So, she said, –when I get to the end of my speech and say, ‘I have great faith in the Irish people’, that’s the signal. You’ll put the tanks onto the streets.
–We’ve no tanks.
–No tanks? said the Minister. –We can’t have that. We’ll have to get you a few tanks. Would you like that, Major General?
–Yes, thank you.
–Proper order.
She lifted her glass.
–The farmers are with us.
–That’s good.
–We can make do with the tractors till we get you some tanks.
© Roddy Doyle 2009
