Toeing the party line

It wasn't about being ashamed. It was about decorum. Ivor was a man of principles, and wooden legs didn't fall into the category of polite conversation. Now, if it had been a war injury, that would be different. He could let it slip in a delicately understated comment, merely hinting at altruism, bravery and sacrifice. The wooden leg would be a feather in his cap. But no, for he had been born just too late for the hope of any combat. Instead, it was a motorcyclist with a stomach full of rum who had mowed Ivor down one dark night, twenty years ago now.

Even back then, Ivor had been a proud man. The stick that he carried was a mark of distinction, rather than a prop, a support for someone who couldn't stand by himself. And these days, Ivor had plenty to be proud of. His success in business was equalled only by his rise through the party ranks, until now he stood, ready, for the pinnacle of his success. To become the man the community would look up to. Within a week, the by-election being a mere formality, Ivor would take his rightful place as mayor of the town he had lived in for the last eighteen years.

It was only at times like this, late at night, that he would sit by the fire, thinking about his leg; the secret that could ruin him.

His wife was the only other person who knew, and she knew better than to mention it. she remembered those terrible days after the accident, when her once sprightly and ambitious husband lay with his face turned to the wall, struggling to come to terms with what had happened. Although he might believe that he had, she often thought, he would never quite be the same again.

A couple of days later, Ivor returned home after addressing the party meeting on the approaching by-election. His wife lay already asleep in bed, and Ivor poured himself a glass of whisky and sat at his desk. In a few days time, he would be a very high profile figure in the community. And there was a chance someone might discover his secret. What sort of a politician would he be then? He knew that these days, there were politicians with glass eyes and false teeth and guide dogs, and probably even a couple with wooden legs, but he didn't want to be one of those. Firstly, he thought, they had used their injuries to get into power; celebrated them. And secondly, his wooden leg was his secret and nothing to do with his political career. He imagined the effect of an announcement, just days before the election, of his leg status, and shuddered. Not his style at all. It would stink of vote grabbing. Of going for the 'pity vote'.

And yet, he thought, what would happen if it came out? The party had enough trouble with scandal already, let alone discovering that he had decieved people about his wooden leg. That was why he had moved here in the first place, to make a new start. To not be known as 'the man with the wooden leg'.

Ivor finished his glass of whisky, and poured himself another one. There was really only one thing for it. And with slow, deliberate gestures, he reached for first his writing paper, and then his fountain pen.

Dear Sirs,

It is with a heavy heart that I must offer my resignation from the party, and I understand that the timing could not be worse. However, my reasons, whilst personal, are serious enough, I believe, to warrant such a decision.

I hope that I remain,

Your friend,

Ivor Harrington