CHAPTER 9. THE FÜHRER GETS AN EDUCATION.
The following day, while Naismith scanned through the camera's SD memory card; in his own office the Mayor of Sleaford leaned against the oak-lined wall and gazed out of his window, which also overlooked Kesteven Street's car park. His Jaguar gleamed in the morning's sunshine below.
Peachornby wondered if a Jaguar was impressive enough for a man of his stature. A man with his responsibilities deserved something larger. A Rolls Royce perhaps? That was British so he'd be being patriotic and supporting British jobs if the Urban Council bought him one. He'd have to look into getting one. The tax-payers would want their leader to represent them in style.
Turning away from the view and his thoughts, Peachornby spoke. "They're up to something, Mason. Why did they send us over to the Bass Maltings to pick up that money?"
"I still reckon it was a set-up, boss. Why should they bung us ten large?"
"So we can push that planning application through. I told you that before, Mason."
"Yeah, but why there?"
"Supp... supposedly because it was out of the way."
"Still seems fishy, boss – not like we were fixing a ruck. But I was thinking, boss..."
"Go ahead Mason. I'm all ears. Let's hear it," Peachornby said while fishing a glob of wax from his ear.
Mason rubbed his crooked nose, beetling his heavy brows in unwonted thought. "Well, I was thinking...," Mason said slowly, trying to get his words in order. He was more used to talking with his fists but since becoming Assistant to the Mayor, sorry Senior Assistant, he'd been trying to use his brains more. He'd moved on from the Daily Star to the Express and although he didn't quite grasp all the concepts he was making an effort. He still didn't understand why the paper was so obsessed with the late Princess Diana.
"Well, I was thinking that, I mean, if Naismith can bung you ten K for pushing through a planning application, how much could we make if we were in charge of the planning committee ourselves?"
Mason studied Peachornby's back as the Mayor turned round to look at his Jag. "Only a thought, boss, I mean..."
Peachornby slowly swivelled around away from the window. He smiled. "Just what I was thinking myself," he lied. He wondered why he hadn't come up with that when his minder had. All the same it was a good idea.
His inflamed nose itched so he picked it. "Then we've got to get Naismith out the way. Him and his Masonic pals have got the planning committee sewn up."
"How shall we do that, boss?" Mason asked, his flow of ideas having stopped after the first one.
Peachornby grinned. An evil grin that would have worried Naismith if he'd seen it. He unlocked his desk drawer, moved a USB flash drive that had been defaced with a swastika and placed his bible onto the leather top. An early edition of Mein Kampf; signed on the flyleaf by the Nazi's ambassador to Britain, Joachim von Ribbentrop, with a laminated photograph of Hitler himself as a bookmark.
Despite Peachornby's urging, Mason had never read Hitler's autobiography. Years ago, he'd got half way through The Turner Diaries about a race war between whites and the rest of the world. It had been okay but he hadn't managed to finish the book.
"How did Hitler come to power? Did he ask for it or seize it with both hands?"
"He took it," said Mason, going for the obvious answer.
"That's right. He grabbed it from those who wanted to keep it for themselves. And we all know how he did it."
Looking at Mason's blank face, Peachornby ran through the one single event that allowed his guru, his inspiration, to take total control of Germany from his enemies. After a minute, Mason's face lit up as he cottoned on.
"So when do you want us to do it, boss?"
Peachornby thought. Taking this action would be a big step and he wasn't sure he was ready. Now it came to it, he was unsure. Doing this would be a game changer and even Peachornby knew he would need to cover his tracks. "Soon. Let me have a think."
"Just give me the word, boss."
***
Later, there was a knock on the oak panelled door.
"Good morning, Mayor," said Naismith. "Donna said it was all right to stop by. Are you busy?"
Peachornby quickly covered his Mein Kampf with a copy of The Times. The newspaper had never been opened as The Times had not yet introduced topless babes on page three and the articles were rarely about reality TV celebs or footballers. Or reality TV celebs bonking footballers.
"Sure, Naismith. No probs. What can I do you for?"
Naismith opened a buff coloured folder and spread it out over the leather surface.
"If you could sign there... and there, Mayor. And there..."
"What's this one for, Naismith?"
"It's the compulsory purchase for some land, Mayor. The greenfield land Lincolnshire County Council now want to appropriate in order to house our nomadic, travelling community after we prevented their scheme by buying up those flats on Mareham Lane. Didn't I mention it before?"
"Another gyppo camp."
"I wouldn't put it like that, Mayor. At least not in public."
Peachornby shrugged. "Only telling it like it is." He leafed through the rest of the file before Naismith had chance to close it. Towards the end, Peachornby spread out a large A2 size sheet of paper. On the map was superimposed an outline for a proposed housing estate of mock-Tudor executive homes, each with a double garage and conservatory. There was a small area set aside behind a high fence for social housing. These did not have garages or conservatories let alone the mock-Tudor features. They were as plain and functional as possible.
"Sav... Sav... Saveiro Canadian funding this?" Peachornby asked. He flicked through a few more pages. "Oh, I see they are. Has planning permission been given?"
Naismith shuffled his feet. "I see no grounds for refusal, Mayor. Sleaford needs quality new housing to attract young, upwardly mobile families."
"But it's slap bang by my garden centre! I never got told about it. I might've wanted to buy that land myself."
"I'm sure your notification was posted along with all those to other interested parties."
"Well I never got it. Listen, Naismith, I'm gonna object. That'll throw a spanner in the works."
"Maybe..."
"On the other hand if your mates at Saveiro Canadian were to make me another present, and I don't mean a poxy ten K..."
"I'm positive that will be forthcoming, Mayor."
"Better had be. And right sharpish. You with me?"
Concealing his disappointment, Naismith carried on. "Perfectly, Mayor. Now, don't forget that you are scheduled for the prize giving at Sydenham Private Girl's School at three pm. It was booked before the election."
Naismith slid over a sheet of paper giving the names of the girls who had won prizes and awards. The list was dominated by one name, a girl who had seemingly won almost everything going from the chess championship, several science prizes as well as the hundred metres race and athletic trophies. It was like the other girls had only been awarded consolation prizes to cheer them up.
"You're having a laugh. That's not a name; it sounds like a witch-doctor's curse," Peachornby barked. He pushed the paper to one side.
"I would recommend that it is best not to say anything too inflammatory this afternoon, Mayor. There will be some very important people present. Chidiebere Tsholofelo is a very gifted scholar and comes from a good home. She's on course for straight As and been awarded a place at Somerville College," Naismith said soothingly. His white gold cuff link glittered as he replaced the paper before the Mayor.
Peachornby looked blank. "Never heard of it. Is it near here?"
"It's a prestigious girl's college at Oxford University." Naismith talked Peachornby through the pronunciation of the schoolgirl's name until the Mayor could make a reasonable stab at it.
"Should have chosen an English girl," Peachornby grumbled.
"She is. Her family have British citizenship now."
"You know what I mean."
Shortly after, Naismith let himself out of the office and grinned. A smile that made Donna, who was just going out for a doctor's appointment, go weak at the knees. But this smile wasn't for Donna. Naismith was thinking that young Chidiebere Tsholofelo's triumphs blew Peachornby's white supremacist theories out of the water.
"Clear my diary from two thirty this afternoon," Naismith told his own secretary. "I can't miss this ceremony."
***
By two fifty, Naismith slipped into the back of Sydenham Private Girl's School assembly hall and took his place with the beaming parents. He sat on a gym form, his knees almost up to his chin, and nodded to those people he knew. Chidiebere Tsholofelo's parents sat in the front row. Her father wore a black suit and sober tie. Naismith had heard that the man was a London barrister. He might be a useful contact if Saveiro Canadian ever went belly up and he was caught with his pants down in the wreckage. Naismith made a mental note to exchange business cards with him afterwards.
The schoolgirls all sat in rows facing the stage. The youngest and smallest nearest the front with the older girls towards the back wearing their unflattering and thus resented bottle green uniform with a yellow trim. Not wanting to get into trouble today, none of the girls had rolled up their skirts to much higher than regulation length.
Up on the stage sat the headmistress and senior teachers with a discreet distance between themselves and the Mayor of Sleaford and his Senior Assistant. Mason was tipping back in his chair like a naughty schoolboy. He lost his balance and his chair crashed forwards, his bovver boots slamming onto the wooden staging, drawing everyone's eyes. There was a titter of laughter from the assembled schoolgirls until their headmistress fixed them with a steely glare. She also frowned over her spectacles at Mason, who went red, again like a naughty schoolboy.
The headmistress stood, walked forwards to an oak lectern with a brass donor's plaque fixed to the front. She made a brief speech welcoming the parents and praising the girls for their hard work during the year. Then she reminded the parents that cheques were due for the school trip to Morocco. She hoped that those girls who were leaving Sydenham at the end of the term would carry the school's values with them throughout their lives.
With the subtext being that she hoped that when they had daughters of their own, they would send them to Sydenham as well. Naismith smiled. There was a woman who understood the value of pounds, shillings and pence.
Finally, and with a well concealed gesture of distaste, she introduced Peachornby as the Mayor. There was scattered polite applause but a few muted boos and hisses from the girls. They stopped the instant the headmistress's eye fell on them.
Peachornby stood, sucked in his gut and walked to the lectern. As always he was dressed entirely in black. His wig had been glued in place and looked almost natural from Naismith's vantage at the back of the gym.
The Mayor blew into the microphone. "Good afternoon, everyone." Like an end of pier comedian he waited for people to say "good afternoon," back to him. No-one did. He was greeted with stony silence.
Coughing, Peachornby looked at the list clutched in his hand. Deciding his best option was to press ahead, he started. "The Simkins prize for mathematics goes to...," he paused as if he was the compère on some TV quiz show.
"Frances Williams."
There was applause from the girls and especially from her parents. An undersized girl with calves like q-tips stood and made her way to the front. She climbed the few steps onto the stage and stood uncertainly. Peachornby handed over a certificate emblazoned with the Sydenham coat of arms. He held out his hand and said a few words. The girl took the certificate but ignored his sweaty paw. She turned her back and returned to her place.
Peachornby ignored the snub. He'd certainly had worse than that in his time, Naismith reasoned. The man looked at the second name on the list while his mouth rehearsed the unfamiliar syllables.
"The Strom prize for physics, which comes with a £10 book voucher, goes to Chidiebere Tsholofelo," Peachornby said making a good attempt at the name. Behind him, Mason scowled. Chidiebere stood and to wild cheering from her friends walked up to the front.
Sometimes fate doesn't play fair. And, as if to compensate, sometimes it overplays its hand. As well as being incredibly intelligent, athletic, and musically gifted; Chidiebere was a beautiful young woman. She was tall and slim and Naismith thought that if she'd gone into modelling, she would be gracing the catwalks of Milan or Paris or else her face would be on all the billboards. And if that wasn't enough she was also popular with her friends. Not an easy feat in the bitchy environment of an all-girl's school. And to top off her blessings the girl had supportive, wealthy, high achieving parents, which always helps in life.
Chidiebere mounted the steps with the lithe grace of a panther. She stood before the toad-like Peachornby and Naismith was struck by the contrast. Even the pitbull Mason leaned forwards as his eyes followed the girl's movements. If Peachornby had any brains to reason with, the girl standing before him would blow away his outdated racial theories as to the supremacy of the Nordic races.
Peachornby picked up a small trophy, an emblazoned certificate and the book token. He offered them to Chidiebere and then dropped his hand. She took them and smiled a smile of pure brilliant radiance. Then she held out her hand. Peachornby looked shocked, his bloodshot peepers making Os. After a moment, he raised his hand again and shook with Chidiebere and said a couple of polite words.
As Chidiebere returned to her place Peachornby stood isolated on the stage. He gazed at his hand and looked as if he wanted to rub his palm on his trouser leg. That was almost certainly the first black person Peachornby had touched with his hand and not his fist in his life, Naismith thought. It didn't look like he'd enjoyed the experience much.
There were a few jeers for Peachornby but they were drowned out by cheers and clapping for Chidiebere. As soon as the noise died down, Peachornby read out the next name.
"The Windrow Cup for applied biology...," that brought a smirk from Mason. Naismith knew how Mason liked applying his biological functions. How many kids had the man fathered on how many women? Looked like Mason would like to use his biology – even with Chidiebere Tsholofelo herself. "... goes to Helena Robinson."
Peachornby looked happier when a well built Anglo-Saxon blonde came up. But as with the earlier Frances Williams, Helena Robinson also refused to shake hands with the Mayor. She took her certificate as if it was contaminated, tipped her nose in the air and left the stage without speaking. Mason, being an equal opportunities type of sexist as well as a racist, tilted his head and admired her rear view as she descended.
The next two academic prizes both went to Chidiebere Tsholofelo. Her parents beamed with delight at the rewards for their daughter's hard work. Both times, the girl held out her hand for Peachornby to shake. To Naismith's eyes, it didn't look like he enjoyed the experience any more than the first time.
Linda White also refused to speak or shake Peachornby's hand and neither did the unfortunately named Doris Lott. By now, Naismith was suspecting a well organised conspiracy amongst the girls. The only one who spoke or insisted on shaking hands every time was Chidiebere Tsholofelo herself. A single prize winner for swimming called Debi Jaleel also shook hands but Peachornby looked less than happy presenting her award either.
Naismith looked up at the headmistress. She was sitting primly with her legs crossed. But a little smile played about her face and Naismith guessed she wasn't upset by the girls' show of rudeness. Naismith enjoyed the prize giving but eventually all the awards were dished out. Somehow, Naismith didn't think Sydenham Private Girls School would invite the Mayor back to give out next year's prizes.
Finally, the headmistress read out her annual report which told of all the sports trophies won by the various teams. Looking up, he noticed once again an array of glittering silverware on a baize covered table up on the stage. Then she listed all the university entrances gained and then a discreet plea of how Sydenham could not afford to lose one benefactor or grant. A not so subtle hint that: as to how this was a good school, worthy of support. Help us keep afloat next year, and the next after that.
Afterwards, Naismith mingled with some of the parents, congratulated Mr. Tsholofelo on his accomplished daughter and managed to swap cards with him; then had a chat with Charles Langton-Gore, whose gawky daughter had won an award for her essay. Charles being on the board of governors probably helped the English teacher make her decision.
Naismith saw both Peachornby and Mason heading off on a brief guided tour of the school so he slipped out unnoticed with those parents who didn't want to hang about having canapés with the headmistress and staff. All things considered, Naismith thought, Peachornby hadn't done such a bad job. He'd even made a more than reasonable attempt at Chidiebere Tsholofelo's name. Granted, not up to BBC Radio 4 standards but nothing anybody could object to.
Maybe the fat führer was under control after all.