First Among Equals (7 page)

The only method
the Opposition has for removing the Government in under five years is to call
for a vote of “noconfidence” in the House of Commons. If the Government is
defeated, the Prime Minister has to call an election within a few weeks – which
may well not be to his advantage. In law, the monarch has the final say, but
for the past two hundred years the Kings and Queens of England have only
rubber-stamped the Prime Minister’s decision, although they have been known to
frown.

By 1966 Harold
Wilson was left with little choice. Given his majority of only four, everyone
knew it would not be long before he had to call a General Election. In March of
1966 he sought an audience with the Queen andshe agreed to dissolve Parliament
immediately. The election campaign started the next day.

“You’ll enjoy
this,” said Simon as he walked up to the first door. Elizabeth remained
uncertain, but could think of no better way to find out what grass roots
politics was really like. She had taken the few days’ vacation due her in order
to spend them in Coventry with Simon. It had never crossed her mind that she
might fall for a politician, but she had to admit that his vote-catching charm
was proving irresistible compared to her colleagues’ bedside manner.

Simon Kerslake,
with such a tiny majority to defend, began spending his spare time in his
Coventry constituency. The local people seemed pleased with the apprenticeship
of their new member, but the disinterested statisticians pointed out that a
swing of less than I percent would remove him from the House for another five
years.

By then his
rivals would be on the second rung of the ladder.

The Tory Chief
Whip advised Simon to stay put in Coventry and not to participate in any further
parliamentary business. “There’ll be no more important issues between now and
the election,” he assured him. “The most worthwhile thing you can do is pick up
votes in the constituency, not give them in Westminster.”

Simon’s
opponent was the former member, Alf Abbott, who became progressively confident
of victory as the national swing to Labour accelerated during the campaign. The
smaller Liberal Party fielded a candidate, Nigel Bainbridge, but he admitted
openly that he could only come in third.

For their first
round of canvassing, Elizabeth wore her only suit, which she had bought when
she had been interviewed for her first hospital job.

Simon admired
her sense of propriety, and while Elizabeth’s outfit would satisfy the matrons
in the constituency, her fair hair and shm figure still had the local press
wanting to photograph her.

The street list
of names was on a card in Simon’s pocket.

“Good morning,
Mrs. Foster. My name is Simon Kerslake. I’m your Conservative candidate.”

“Oh, how nice to meet you.
I have so much I need to discuss
with you-won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”

“It’s kind of
you, Mrs. Foster, but I have rather a lot of ground to cover during the next
few days.”
When the door closed.
Simon put a red line
through her name on his card.

“How can you be
sure she’s a Labour supporter?” demanded Elizabeth. “She seemed so friendly.”

“The Labourites
are trained to ask all the other candidates, in for tea and waste their time.
Our side will always say, ‘You have my vote, don’t spend your time with me’ and
let you get on to those who are genuinely uncommitted.”

Elizabeth
couldn’t hide her disbelief. “That only confirms my worst fears about
politicians,” she said. “How can I have fallen for one?”

“Perhaps you
mistook me for one of your patients.”

“My patients
don’t tell me they have broken arms when they’re going blind,” she said.

Mrs. Foster’s
next-door neighbor said, “I always vote Conservative.”

Simon put a
blue line through the name and knocked on the next door.

“My name is
Simon Kerslake and I...”

“I know who you
are, young man, and I’ll have none of your politics.”

“May I ask who
you will be voting for?” asked Simon.

“Liberal.”

“Why?” asked
Elizabeth.

“Because I believe in supporting the underdog.”

“But surely
that will turn out to be a waste of a vote.”

“Certainly not.
Lloyd George was the greatest Prime Minister
of this century.”

“But
. .
_” began Elizabeth enthusiastically.

Simon put a
hand on her arm.

“Thank you,
sir, for your time,” he said, and prodded Elizabeth gently
down
the path.

“Sorry,
Elizabeth,” said Simon, when they were back on the pavement. “Once they mention
Lloyd George we have no chance: they’re either Welsh or have remarkably long
memories.”

He knocked on
the next door.

“My name is
Simon Kerslake, I...”

“Get lost, creep,”
came back the reply.

“Who are you
calling creep?” Elizabeth retaliated as the door was slammed in their faces.
“Charming man,” she added.

“Don’t be
offended, Dr. Drummond. He was referring to me, not you.”

“What shall I
put by his name?”

“A question mark.
No way of telling who he votes for.
Probably abstains.”

He tried the
next door.

“Hello, Simon,”
said a jolly red-faced lady before he could open his mouth.

“Don’t waste
your time on me, I’ll always vote for you.”

“Thank you,
Mrs. Irvine,” said Simon, checking his house list.
“What
about your next-door neighbor?” he asked, pointing back.

“Ah, he’s an
irritable old basket, but I’ll see he gets to the polls on the day and puts his
cross in the right box.

He’d better, or
I’ll stop keeping an eye on his greyhound when he’s out.”

“Thank you very
much, Mrs. Irvine.”

“One
more blue
,” said Simon.

“And you might
even pick up the greyhound vote.”

They covered
four streets during the next three hours, and Simon put blue lines only through
those names he was certain would support him on
election day
.

“Why do you
have to be so sure?” asked Elizabeth.

“Because when
we phone them to vote on Election Day we don’t want to remind the Opposition,
let alone arrange a ride for someone who then takes pleasure in voting Labour.”

Elizabeth
laughed. “Politics is so dishonest.”

“Be happy
you’re not going out with an American Senator,” said Simon, putting another
blue line through the last name in the street. “At least we don’t have to be
millionaires to run.”

“Perhaps I’d
like to marry a millionaire,”

Elizabeth
said,
griinning.

“On a
parliamentary salary it will take me about two hundred and forty-two years to
achieve.”

“I’m not sure I
can wait that long.”

Four days
before the election Simon and Elizabeth stood in the wings behind the stage of
Coventry Town Hall with Alf Abbott, Nigel Bainbridge and their wives for a
public debate. The three couples made stilted conversation. The political
correspondent of the Coventry Evening Telegraph acted as chairman, introducing
each of the protagonists as they walked onto the stage, to applause from
different sections of the hall. Simon spoke first, holding the attention of the
large audience for over 59 twenty minutes. Those who tried to heckle him ended
up regretting having brought attention to
themselves
.
Without once referring to his notes, he quoted figures and clauses from
Government bills with an ease that impressed Elizabeth. During the questions
that followed, Simon once again proved to be far better informed than Abbott or
Bainbridge, but he was aware that the packed hall held only seven hundred that
cold March evening, while elsewhere in Coventry were fifty thousand more
voters, most of them glued to their television watching “Ironside.”

Although the
local press proclaimed Simon the victor of a one-sided debate, he remained
downcast by the national papers, which were now predicting a landslide for
Labour.

On election
morning Simon picked up Elizabeth at six so he could be among the first to cast
his vote at the local primary school. They spent the rest of the day traveling
from polling hall to Party headquarters, trying to keep up the morale of his
supporters.

Everywhere they
went, the committed believed in his victory but Simon knew it would be close. A
senior Conservative backbencher had once told him that an outstanding member
could be worth a thousand personal votes, and a weak opponent might sacrifice
another thousand. Even an extra two thousand wasn’t going to be enough.

As the Coventry
City Hall clock struck nine, Simon and Elizabeth sat down on the steps of the
last polling hall. He knew there was nothing he could do now – 4he last vote
had been cast. Just then, ajolly lady, accompanied by a sour-faced man, was
coming out of the hall. She had a smile of satisfaction on her face.

“Hello, Mrs.
Irvine,” said Simon. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,
Simon.” She smiled.

“Looks like she
fixed the greyhound vote,”

Elizabeth
whispered in Simon’s ear.

“Now don’t fret
yourself, lad,” Mrs. Irvine continued.

“I never failed
to vote for the winner in fifty-two years, and that’s longer than you’ve
lived.” She winked and led the sour-faced man away.

A small band of
supporters accompanied Simon and Elizabeth to the City Hall to witness the
count. As Simon entered the hall, the first person he saw was Alf Abbott, who
had a big grin on his face. Simon was not discouraged by the smile as he
watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Abbott should have
remembered that the first boxes to be counted were always from the city wards,
where most of the committed Labourites lived.

As both men
walked around the tables, the little piles of ballots began to be checked-first
in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed
over to the town clerk. As the night drew on, Abbott’s grin turned to a smile,
from a smile to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles
grew closer and closer in size.

For over three
hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked
each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one in the
morning the Coventry town clerk added up the list of numbers in front of him
and asked the three candidates to join him.

He told them
the results.

Alf Abbott
smiled. Simon showed no emotion, but called for a recount.

For over an
hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and
double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote
discovered, and, on one occasion, the name on the top of the pile of one
hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it.

At last the
scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the town clerk added up the
columns of numbers before asking the candidates to join him.

This time Simon
smiled, while Abbott looked surprised and demanded a further recount. The town
clerk acquiesced, but said it had to be the last time. Both candidates agreed
in the absence of their Liberal rival, who was sleeping soundly in the comer,
secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position
in the contest.

Once again the
piles were checked and doublechecked and five mistakes were discovered in the
42,588 votes cast. At 3:30 A.M. with counters and checkers falling asleep at
their tables, the town clerk once more asked the candidates to join him. They
were both stunned when they heard the result, and the town clerk informed them
that there would be yet a further recount in the morning when his staff had
managed to get some sleep.

All the ballots
were then replaced carefully in the black boxes, locked and left in the
safekeeping of the local constabulary, while the candidates crept away to their
beds. Simon and Elizabeth booked into separate rooms at the Leofric Hotel.

Simon slept in
fits and starts through the remainder of the night.

Elizabeth
brought a cup of tea to his room at eight the same morning to find him still in
bed.

“Simon,” she
said, “you look like one of my patients just before an operation.”

“I think I’ll
skip this operation,” he said, turning over.

“Don’t be such a wimp
, Simon,” she said rather snappily.
“You’re still the member, and you owe it to your supporters to remain as
confident as they feel.”

Simon sat up in
bed and stared at Elizabeth. “Quite right,” he said, stretching for his tea,
unable to hide the pleasure he felt in discovering how much she had picked up
of the political game in such a short time.

Simon had a
long bath, shaved slowly, and they were back at the Town Hall a few minutes
before the count was due to recommence. As Simon walked up the steps he was
greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors
as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to
be absent as the final drama unfolded.

The counters
looked eager and ready when the town clerk checked his watch and nodded. The
boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once
again the little piles of ballots grew from tens into hundreds and then into
thousands. Simon paced around the tables, more to bum up his nervous energy
than out of a desire to keep checking.

He had thirty
witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by
sleight of hand or genuine mistake.

Once the
counters and scrutineers had finished, they sat in front of their piles and
waited for the slips to be collected for the town clerk.