2. Dikkerby Goes to University

2.                                 Dikkerby goes to University

Smelling faintly of after shave and customary self satisfaction Dikkerby smiled at the small but committed crowd before him. Their applause warmed him to the stone in his heart. He had just been elected President of the University Conservative Club – by a landslide. True, he had been the only candidate this year and true, there were only seven voters, but Dikkerby had conquered, as he knew he would. His copy of “The Prince” by Machiavelli nestled snugly in the jacket pocket of his light grey suit.

            “In the words of the great Margaret, this man is not for turning!” Dikkerby smiled his most venomous smile, a smile that would come to haunt many in the years to come.

A ragged cheer resounded round the small tutorial room on the university campus.

            “What’s the plan, Dikkerby?” called one of the voters. She had centre-parted mouse brown hair, crooked upper teeth and refused to shave her legs.

            “The Plan?” asked Dikkerby carefully placing the capital letter at the front, “Why, that’s easy. We will find premises - One. We will recruit members - Two. And we will challenge the leftwing idiocies of the student body - Three.”

            There was silence. No-one had ever actually had a plan at the young conservatives before. They were as despised as a leper colony in Galilee. Other students shunned them when they weren’t calling them “Right wing Knobheads!”

            “Fancy a pint, boyo?” asked Arthur, the bespectacled student of Greek who came from some obscure valley in Wales.

            “Well, perhaps a half or a small sherry” said Dikkerby and scratched at a spot on the back of his hand. His psoriasis was beginning to flare again. He must control his emotions at all times and avoid stressful situations.

            Next day Dikkerby visited the Bank Manager. He asked for a loan on behalf of the young conservatives. The meeting did not go well.

            “Stupid man!” muttered Dikkerby as he walked out of the bank, red face glowing with embarrassment. Madge, the girl with the hairy legs, who had escorted him to the meeting, said, “Don’t worry, Dikkerby. You’ll find a way. I know you will.” And there was an almost hidden glint in her eyes as she looked at him. So forceful! Such drive! Her heart gave an unaccustomed flutter.

            Together they went round all the estate agents and Dikkerby succeeded.

            “It’s a bit poky” said Madge and twisted her mouth into a sneer of disgust, which Dikkerby would come to know oh so well through the next fifty years.

            “It’s bijou!” Dikkerby was proud of his French and used it at every opportunity.

            For a deposit of £25 it was theirs.

Dikkerby planned and schemed for the Grand Opening. He booked a string quartet to play Bartok. He had heard that she was a great composer. He painted the walls and the ceilings blue and white. Madge and Arthur and the others helped remove the fusty carpet and washed the grimy window. Dikkerby had a large sign made which cost him £5 he could not really afford. This too could be seen as an indication of the way things would go in the future. The sign read     

 N E W   Y O U N G  C O N S E R V A T I V E S

                                                       A L L   W E L C O M E

The sign was hung over the door. A table was prepared with glasses and a couple of bottles of Prosecco were purchased.

            “Well, it’s fizzy!” snapped Dikkerby as he clipped on his bowtie. Madge thought he looked almost magnificent in his black dress suit.

            “It’s the Press!” shouted Arthur as he showed a bedraggled journalist in. Yes, Dikkerby had even invited the press.

            “Have a glass of champagne” said Madge and grinned as best she knew how. The journalist shuddered from head to foot, whether at the taste of the cheap fizz or the sight of Madge’s grin we shall never know.

            “It’s basically – a shed!” said the journalist looking round and jotting notes on his pad.

            “This will be the hub of our future success,” smarmed Dikkerby. “Have a peanut.”

            “Not many here, I see” said the journalist who was beginning to irritate Dikkerby.

            “The name’s Dikkerby, President,” said Dikkerby and spelled his name as he escorted the journalist out the door with a firm grip on his elbow.

            Three years later Dikkerby sat in the former scout hut. Madge was with him, standing looking out the grimy window. The place had clearly been abandoned some time ago.

            “Why couldn’t they see, Madge? Why couldn’t they see?”

            “Never mind, Dikkerby,” said Madge laying a slightly possessive hand on his shoulder, “Your time will come, Dikkerby. Your time will come!”

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