Mightier Than the Sword (24 page)

“I can see it now,” said Giles. “Vote for Barrington if you’ve had an extramarital affair.”

Emma scowled at her brother, clearly disapproving of Griff’s casual attitude to Giles’s behavior.

“And here’s another one,” said Griff, ignoring Giles’s comment. “
Dear Sir Giles, I’ve never voted Labour before, but I’d prefer to vote for a sinner than for someone like Alex Fisher who poses as a saint. Yours reluctantly,
etc. But this one’s my favorite.
Dear Sir Giles, I must say I admire your taste in women. I’m off to Berlin next week and wondered if you could give me her phone number.”

I only wish I knew her phone number, thought Giles.

*   *   *

FISHER TURNS DOWN DEBATE CHALLENGE.

“He’s made his first mistake,” said Griff, turning the paper around so they could all see the headline on the front page.

“But he’s the one with a three percent lead in the polls,” said Giles. “That’s not a mistake, it’s just common sense.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Griff, “but it’s his reason for turning you down that’s the mistake. I quote, ‘I wouldn’t want to be seen in the same room as that man.’ A foolish error. People don’t like personal attacks, so we must take advantage of it. Make it clear that you will turn up, and if he doesn’t the electorate can draw their own conclusions.” Griff continued to read the article, and it was not long before he smiled for a second time. “It’s not often that the Liberals come to our aid, but Simon Fletcher has told the
News
that he’ll be happy to participate in the debate. But then, he’s got nothing to lose. I’ll issue a press statement immediately. Meanwhile, you lot get back to work. You’re not winning any votes sitting around in my office.”

*   *   *

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth…”

Just as Giles was beginning to feel a little more confident about the outcome, a Gallup Poll in the
Daily Mail
predicted for the first time that Edward Heath and the Tories were on track to win the election with a thirty-seat majority.

“We’re thirty-fifth on the list of seats the Tories will need to capture if they hope to get an overall majority,” said Giles.

“Read the small print,” responded Griff. “The same poll is saying that Bristol Docklands is too close to call. And by the way, have you seen today’s
Evening News
?” He passed the first edition to the candidate.

Giles rather admired the neutral stance the
News
always took during an election campaign, only coming out in favor of a particular candidate on the day before the election, and in the past it hadn’t always backed him. But today it broke its rule with a couple of weeks to go. In a leader, the paper made its position clear, below the damning headline:

WHAT’S HE FRIGHTENED OF?

It went on to say that if Major Fisher failed to turn up for next Thursday’s debate, they would be recommending that their readers vote Labour, and return Giles Barrington to Westminster.

“Let’s pray he doesn’t turn up,” said Giles.

“He’ll turn up all right,” said Griff, “because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose the election. Our next problem is how we handle him when he does.”

“But surely it ought to be Fisher who’s worried,” said Emma. “After all, Giles is a far more accomplished debater, with over twenty years’ parliamentary experience.”

“That won’t matter a damn on the night,” said Miss Parish, “if we don’t find a way of dealing with the elephant in the room.”

Griff nodded. “We may have to use our secret weapon.”

“What have you got in mind?” asked Giles.

“Harry. We’ll put him in the front row, facing the audience, and get him to read the first chapter of his next book. Then no one will even notice what’s happening on stage.”

Everyone laughed except Harry. “What are you implying?” he asked.

*   *   *

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on…”

I’LL BE THERE, screamed the headline on the front page of the
Bristol Evening News
the following day.

Giles read the article that followed, and accepted that the debate might well decide who would be the next Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands.

Griff agreed and suggested Giles should take time off to prepare as if he was being cross-examined by Robin Day, the BBC’s political interrogator. He asked Seb to play the role of Alex Fisher.

“Do you feel that a man with your lack of morals should be standing for Parliament?”

“Whose side are you on, Seb?”

“He’s on your side,” said Griff, “and you’d better have an answer to that question by next Thursday night.”

“May I ask why we haven’t seen your wife in the constituency during the election campaign?”

“She’s visiting her parents in Wales.”

“That’s at least a thousand votes down the drain,” said Griff.

“Tell me, Sir Giles, do you plan to make another trip to Berlin in the near future?”

“That’s below the belt, Seb.”

“Which is exactly where Fisher will aim most of his punches,” said Griff. “So make sure you keep your guard up.”

“He’s right, Seb. Keep on punching.”

*   *   *

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands…”

“They’ve changed the venue,” said Griff at the morning prayer meeting.

“Why?” asked Giles.

“There’s been such a huge demand for tickets that it’s been moved from the Guildhall to the Hippodrome Theatre.”

“But the Hippo holds two thousand people,” said Giles.

“I wish it held ten thousand,” said Griff. “You’ll never get a better chance to talk to the voters direct.”

“And at the same time expose Fisher for the fraud he is,” said Seb.

“How many seats have been allocated to us?” asked Griff, turning to Miss Parish.

“Each candidate is entitled to three hundred.”

“Any problem in filling our seats with the faithful?”

“None at all, the phone hasn’t stopped for the past week. It could be a Rolling Stones concert. In fact, I’ve been in touch with my opposite number at the Liberal Party, to see if they’ve got any spare tickets.”

“They can’t be stupid enough to release them to you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with stupidity,” said Miss Parish. “I have a feeling it’s something far closer to home.”

“Like what?” said Griff.

“I’ve no idea, but I’ll get to the bottom of it before next Thursday.”

“And what about the remaining tickets?” said Griff. “Who gets those?”

“First come, first served,” said Miss Parish. “I’ll have a hundred of our people standing in the queue an hour before the curtain goes up.”

“So will the Tories,” said Griff. “Better make it two hundred, two hours before.”

*   *   *

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate…”

For the next week, Giles didn’t let up for one minute, the weekend included. He canvassed, visited pubs, held evening meetings, and attended any gathering where more than half a dozen people were likely to turn up.

On Saturday, he put on his county tie and went to watch Gloucestershire play Middlesex at Nevil Road, but only stayed for about an hour. After walking slowly around the boundary perimeter, making sure all five thousand spectators had seen him, he made his way back to the constituency headquarters on Park Street.

On Sunday, he attended matins, communion, and evensong in three different churches, but during each sermon his thoughts often strayed back to the debate, testing out arguments, phrases, even pauses …

“In the name of the Father…”

By Wednesday, Griff’s polling was showing that Giles was still a couple of points behind, but Seb reminded him, so was Kennedy before his debate with Nixon.

Every detail of the encounter had been analyzed at length. What he should wear, when he should have a haircut, not to shave until an hour before he walked on to the stage, and, if he was offered the choice, to speak last.

“Who’s chairing the debate?” asked Seb.

“Andy Nash, the editor of the
Evening News.
We want to win votes, he wants to sell newspapers. Everyone has an angle,” said Griff.

“And be sure you’re in bed before midnight,” said Emma. “You’re going to need a good night’s sleep.”

Giles did get to bed before midnight, but he didn’t sleep as he went over his speech again and again, rehearsing answers to all of Seb’s questions. His concentration wasn’t helped by Karin regularly barging into his thoughts. He was up by six, and outside Temple Meads station half an hour later, megaphone in hand once again, ready to face the early morning commuters.

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington…”

“Good luck tonight, Sir Giles, I’ll be there to support you.”

“I don’t live in your constituency, sorry.”

“Where do you stand on flogging?”

“I think I’ll give the Liberals a go this time.”

“Don’t have a spare fag, do you, guv?”

“Good morning…”

21

G
RIFF PICKED
Giles up from Barrington Hall just before six. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for.

Giles was wearing a charcoal-gray single-breasted suit, a cream shirt, and a Bristol Grammar School tie. He suspected that Fisher would be wearing his usual blue pinstriped double-breasted suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and his regimental tie.

Giles was so nervous that he hardly spoke on the journey to the Hippodrome, and Griff remained accommodatingly quiet. He knew the candidate was silently rehearsing his speech.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled up outside the stage door where Giles had once hung around after a matinee of
Pride and Prejudice
to get Celia Johnson’s autograph. Griff accompanied his candidate backstage where they were met by Andy Nash, who would be chairing the debate. He looked relieved to see them.

Giles paced up and down in the wings as he waited impatiently for the curtain to go up. Although there was still thirty minutes before the chairman would bang his gavel and call for order, Giles could already hear the buzz of an expectant audience, which made him feel like a finely tuned athlete waiting to be called to the starting line.

A few minutes later, Alex Fisher swept in, surrounded by his entourage, all talking at the tops of their voices. When you’re nervous, Giles decided, it reveals itself in many different ways. Fisher marched straight past him, making no attempt to engage him in conversation and ignoring his outstretched hand.

A moment later, Simon Fletcher, the Liberal candidate, strolled in. How much easier it is to be relaxed when you’ve nothing to lose. He immediately shook hands with Giles and said, “I wanted to thank you.”

“What for?” asked Giles, genuinely puzzled.

“For not continually reminding everyone that I’m not married, unlike Fisher, who mentions the fact at every opportunity.”

“Right, gentlemen,” said Nash. “Please gather around, because the time has come to determine the order in which you will speak.” He held out a fist that gripped three straws of differing lengths. Fisher drew the short one, while Fletcher pulled out the longest one.

“You have first choice, Mr. Fletcher,” said the chairman.

The Liberal candidate cocked his head to one side and whispered to Giles, “Where do you want me to go?”

“Second,” Giles replied.

“I’ll go second,” said Fletcher. Fisher looked surprised.

“And you, Sir Giles? First or last?”

“Last, thank you, chairman.”

“Right, that’s settled. You’ll be speaking first, Major Fisher. Let’s put our heads above the parapet.”

He led the three candidates out onto the stage, and it was the only time that evening that the whole audience applauded. Giles looked out into the auditorium where, unlike a theatre production, the lights wouldn’t be going down. Two thousand lions had been waiting patiently for the Christians to appear.

He wished he’d stayed at home and was having supper on a tray in front of the TV; anywhere but here. But he always felt like that, even when he addressed the smallest gathering. He glanced across at Fisher to see a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead, which he quickly mopped with a handkerchief from his top pocket. He looked back at the audience and saw Emma and Harry seated in the second row, smiling up at him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Andy Nash, and I am editor of the
Bristol Evening News
. It’s my privilege to chair the meeting this evening, which is the only occasion on which all three candidates will appear on the same platform. Now, allow me to explain how the debate will be conducted. Each candidate will make an opening address of six minutes. That will be followed by thirty minutes of questions from the audience. The evening will end with all three candidates summing up for two minutes each. I will now call upon the Conservative candidate, Major Alex Fisher, to address us.”

Fisher made his way purposefully to the center of the stage and was greeted with warm applause from one section of the audience. He placed his speech on the lectern and immediately began to read it word for word, only occasionally raising his head.

Giles sat nervously in his seat listening carefully as he waited for the sarcastic comment, the barbed innuendo, but none came. Instead, Fisher concentrated on what legislation would be treated as a priority if the Tories formed the next government. He could have been reading out a shopping list that he regularly interspersed with the words “Time for a change.” At no point did he mention either of his opponents. And then Giles worked out what Fisher was up to. He was not going to indulge in any personal attacks himself; that would be left to his lieutenants, spread evenly throughout the audience. When Fisher returned to his seat, it was not difficult to spot where those supporters were seated from their enthusiastic applause.