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making her tea with her free hand. The movement stopped with the kettle poised.
    â€˜Capstone?’ she said.
    â€˜Why does everyone get the horrors when her name’s mentioned? Ought I to know? It rings a bell, but there aren’t any Capstones in the telephone book. I checked.’
    â€˜She’ll be ex-directory—she’s that sort. Don’t you read the papers, Poppy? Don’t you watch the telly?’
    â€˜Of course I know her name—it’s just slipped. You aren’t being fair. I listen to the radio all day long.’
    Janet laughed. It was well known that Poppy listened to the radio all day long—Radio 3, switching off mentally for the news bulletins and on again when the music started. She watched the arts programmes and wildlife and travel on TV and read the review pages of the Guardian.
    â€˜Mrs Capstone proposes to become our second woman Prime Minister. At the moment her Thatchering is confined to Ethelden.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, of course! But she isn’t really a Maggie clone, is she? There can’t be two of them. And she’ll have to win this constituency first, won’t she? D’you think she can?’
    â€˜It’s up to you.’
    â€˜Me?’
    â€˜Did you remember to renew your Labour Party membership?’
    â€˜Of course I did, darling. Well, the moment you told me.’
    Poppy didn’t feel she’d got the sturdy indignation right. It was often like that, talking to Janet, as if the conversation were being conducted on a slightly ill-tuned radio, the words clear enough, but the tones unreliable. All her life Poppy had voted Liberal but about fifteen months ago she’d happened to say she was thinking of going Labour because of the intransigent, self-savaging stupidities of the centre parties, and next morning Janet had pushed the membership form in front of her nose and demanded a cheque. Now Janet looked at her over the rim of her mug, her eyes mocking.
    â€˜There’s every chance I and Mrs Capstone will be standing against each other at the next election.’
    â€˜Oh. I mean Oh?’
    Janet ignored the note of doubt. She lowered Toby to the floor and gave him the egg-whisk and a bowl of water.
    â€˜At least you’ve heard that Tom Charleswick has decided not to stand next time.’
    â€˜Something to do with loans?’
    â€˜Officially it’s health. In fact he used his contacts in Town Hall to get them to use a company which pays his brother a retainer to do some so-called creative accounting for them, which turned out not to be legal. The brother’s an alcoholic wreck. Anyway, the Tories are going to make hay with it, and that gives Capstone a chance, and that gives me more than a chance. They haven’t announced the short list yet, but I’ve been told. It’s me and Bob Stavoli and Trevor Evans. Bob’s a good bloke, but a useless speaker as well as being gay—you can imagine what Capstone could make of that. Trevor’s not a bad speaker in a ranting kind of way, but he’s such a shit, he’s let so many people down over the years, and I bet he’s got just as many skeletons in his cupboard as Tom Charleswick—anyway, Trish Edwards who’s running my campaign says that Walworth Road want me.’
    â€˜Walworth Road?’
    â€˜Oh, Poppy! Labour Party HQ. In a few weeks’ time there’ll be a meeting of our constituency General Management Committee to select a candidate from the short list, so you’ve got to come along and vote for me.’
    â€˜I’m not even on …’
    â€˜Anyone who’s been a paid-up member of the party for a full twelve months is entitled to vote. That’s why I wanted to be sure you’d renewed your subscription.’
    â€˜I see. Well, that’s very exciting, darling. What does Hugo …’
    â€˜Hugo knew what I wanted when he married me.’
    â€˜Yes, of course,’ said Poppy,