Vaulting Ambition
It was a glorious day in Ardenvale. The sky was a deep blue, and the buildings glowed underneath the relentless June sun.
Everyone was out and about, enjoying the summer that had finally arrived.
Everyone, except for Sophie Johnson, because election season had rolled around once again.
You see, Sophie hated politics, even the very notion of democracy, ever since she had to navigate past self-righteous progressive moralists and deranged traditional nut jobs bloviating at each other whilst navigating the cloisters of Oxford.
England would be an absolute monarchy in an ideal world, but even she knew that would most likely never happen. But a girl can dream.
After almost a month of enduring her colleagues’ pointless political arguments, she looked forward to celebrating Father’s Day with her father-in-law, Geoffrey. This man was, in a sense, a surrogate father to her as an unknown assailant murdered her father when she was ten.
She and her husband, Chris, had planned to take Geoffrey to the Falstaff Arms, a pub in the centre of town beloved by all despite the range of other pubs and hotel restaurants.
Sophie hoped that the meal would be a refreshing break from the election, and for the most part, it was at first.
Chris talked in detail about his work organising the election as an Administrator. Still, his dad offset that by telling banal anecdotes about digging up Dandelions in the gardens of Cedarvale House, which coincidentally was owned by a man running in the election as a representative of his own ultra-right-wing United Kingdom Reformation Party, Lord Christoph Flooding.
But then, everything changed following the arrival of the drinks and first course, when Geoffrey took out the canvas flyer of said United Kingdom Reformation Party and began to read it.
“You don’t have to be that interested in it,” Sophie said. “I fed all the fliers the candidates sent Chris and me through the shredder without a second glance.”
Being slightly more interested in political matters than his wife, Chris had a different concern.
”Did Christoph hand you that earlier, Dad?”
“Indeed, son,” Geoffrey said. “Christoph ensured none of us left work without one of these in our hands.”
”At least Christoph didn’t waste the money spent on printing those pamphlets,” Sophie said, taking a refined sip of her Gin and Tonic.
“I hope you’re not considering voting for him,” Chris said. “Especially after all mum went through.”
“No, no. I’m quite happy to keep Benson,” Geoffrey said.
Suddenly, Geoffrey slowly leaned closer to Chris, making him slightly uncomfortable.
“But rumours are going around that Christoph will raise the salary of those who vote for him and sack all the rest.”
Chris looked at his father with shock and horror. Sophie rolled her eyes and took another sip of her G&T.
“That’s blackmail,” Chris said. “Should I tell Gord at work?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “No, no. There’re just rumours, that’s all. No truth in them.”
He then took a substantial bite out of his steak.
”Even if they were true, he’s not going to do anything,” Sophie said. “He keeps saying he’s going to get back with my mother, but he’s made no real effort to do so.”
Lord Flooding had a brief fling with Sophie’s mother when they were both students at Oxford before she met Sophie’s father, but then split up because of political differences.
He had regretted the decision ever since, and even Amanda Anderson marrying another man wasn’t enough to make him think he didn’t have a chance to rekindle things with her.
This little fact did not convince Sophie to lend him her vote; if anything, it made her more determined to have nothing to do with the man.
”You’re not going to let the rumours make you vote UKRP, are you, dad?” Chris said.
Geoffrey sighed.
”Well, he provides me with reliable employment and a good salary; perhaps I owe him my vote.”
”That’s not how politics works, dad,” Chris said. “You should vote for what you believe in.”
Geoffrey sat back in his chair.
”Fair point,” he said.
”You could also not vote at all,” Sophie said. “Nothing’s going to change, no matter who gets in.”
She took a bite out of her Seabass.
Geoffrey scrutinised the canvas flyer in his hand once more.
Some of Lord Flooding’s pledges were extreme, others not so much.
”Say what you will about Christoph,” Geoffrey said. “But making Taylor Swift have a gig in Ardenvale would benefit the community.”
”He’s also proposing to deport refugees and asylum seekers to South Guard Island, where the local uncontacted tribe will most likely kill them,” Chris said.
”That’s not great, granted,” Geoffrey said. “But also, Taylor Swift.”
”He’s not going to do anything he proposes,” Sophie said. “He’s only saying what he believes will make people vote for him, which will prove fruitless.”
Chris turned towards his dad, his face grave.
”Please don’t vote for Christoph, dad,” Chris said. “What would mum think?”
Geoffrey’s face fell. His wife was a political activist and very vocal against Christoph. Like Sophie’s father, she too was mysteriously murdered when Chris was ten, which brought him closer to his wife.
It may have been over twenty years ago, but the memory still stung.
”You’re right,” Geoffrey said, ripping up the flyer and placing the pieces in his pockets.
”I don’t know why I still work for him,” Geoffrey said. “But I also can’t imagine doing anything other than pottering about in that garden with my team.”
”I understand,” Chris said before taking a bite out of his cod.
“Excellent,” Sophie said. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, let’s discuss the weather, shall we?”
Realising that it was probably for the best, Geoffrey and Chris turned their thoughts towards the beautiful hot weather outside, trying their best to remain jovial and not broach the topic of irreversible climate change.
Sophie’s mood immediately lifted as if a refreshing cold breeze had filled her body.
She couldn’t wait for the election to be over in twelve days time, then she wouldn’t have to listen to another election argument until another five years… hopefully.
The Robinsonverse 