Mightier Than the Sword (25 page)

The Liberal candidate opened his speech by thanking the packed audience for giving up
Coronation Street
to come and hear him, which was greeted with laughter and warm applause. He then spent the next six minutes discussing local politics, everything from potholes in the roads to rural bus fares. When he returned to his seat, another section of the audience was equally loyal and supportive.

Once Fletcher had sat down, Giles walked to the center of the stage, although he wasn’t as relaxed as he hoped he looked. He placed a postcard on the lectern on which were typed seven headings: Education, Unemployment, Unions, the NHS, Europe, Defense, and Bristol.

He barely glanced at the card as he spoke about each subject with confidence and authority, while looking directly at his audience. When he returned to his seat, his supporters rose as one, and a large number of undecided members of the audience joined them. Had the debate ended then, there would have been only one winner, but no sooner had Giles sat down than the chairman called for questions, adding, “I hope any contributions will be worthy of a debate of this importance, and that no one will resort to personal comments in the hope of getting a cheap headline in tomorrow’s paper, because I assure you, as its editor, they won’t.”

This statement elicited such a spontaneous round of applause that Giles began to relax for the first time that evening.

“Yes, madam. The lady in the fourth row.”

“With the population growing ever older, can the candidates tell us about their long-term plans for the state pension?”

Giles was back on his feet before the chairman had a chance to decide which candidate should answer the question first.

“The state pension has gone up year on year while the Labour Party has been in power,” he declared, “because this government considers that a civilized society is one that takes care of its young and old alike.”

Fisher then delivered the party line as outlined in a Central Office brief, after which the Liberal candidate talked about his mother being in an old people’s home.

“I’ll take you next, sir,” said Nash, pointing to a man in the dress circle who had to wait for some time before a microphone reached him.

“Do all the candidates feel that the United Kingdom should join the Common Market?”

Fisher was well prepared for this question, and reminded the audience of Ted Heath’s long-standing commitment to Europe, adding that if the Tories were elected, they would do everything in their power to ensure that Britain became a member of the EEC.

Simon Fletcher reminded the audience it was his party that had pioneered the idea of entry into the Common Market, and how glad he was that the two other parties were now jumping on the Liberal bandwagon.

Giles rose to face the audience. How he would have liked to tell them that when he was in Berlin he had received overtures from the French foreign minister, making it clear that France would welcome a dialogue being opened between the two countries. But any mention of Berlin would have been the red rag one section of the audience was waiting for. So he simply said, “When it comes to joining the Common Market, I think I can safely say that all three parties are broadly in agreement, so I suspect it will only be a matter of which prime minister finally signs the Treaty of Rome.”

Several more questions on local, national, and foreign issues followed without any blows below the belt, and Giles was beginning to think he might be home and dry. “I’ll take two more questions,” said Nash, glancing at his watch. “Yes, madam, the lady standing near the back.” Giles recognized her immediately.

“Can all three candidates tell us their marital status, and if their wives are with them tonight?” A well-rehearsed question delivered by a seemingly innocent old lady, whom Giles well remembered from her days as a Tory councillor.

This time it was Fisher who was first on his feet, and he delivered an equally well-prepared reponse. “Sadly, I’ve been divorced for some years, but that hasn’t stopped me hoping that one day I will find the right partner. But, whatever my marital status, let me assure you that I would never consider becoming involved in a casual sexual relationship.”

A gasp went up in the hall, and one section of the crowd applauded enthusiastically.

The Liberal candidate said, “I have just as much difficulty finding a girlfriend as I do finding people who will vote for me, but, like the major, I haven’t given up yet.” This was greeted with laughter and applause.

Giles felt sad that Fletcher wasn’t able to be open about his sexuality, and looked forward to the day when he could admit that his partner was seated in the front row, and that they had been living happily together for many years.

When Giles took his place, he stood to one side of the lectern, looked directly at the audience and smiled. “I’m no saint.”

“True!” shouted a Conservative supporter, but he was greeted only by an embarrassed silence.

“I admit that I’ve strayed, and, as you all know, that is why Gwyneth is not here tonight, which I deeply regret. She has been a loyal and faithful wife, who has played an active role in the constituency.” He paused for a moment before adding, “But when the time comes for you to cast your vote, I hope you will place on the scales of human frailty twenty-five years of service to the people of this great city against one foolish lapse of judgement, because I would like the honor and privilege of continuing to serve all of you for many years to come.”

Giles suppressed a smile when the audience began to applaud, and was just about to return to his seat when someone shouted, “Don’t you think it’s time you told us more about Berlin?”

A loud undercurrent of chattering broke out in the hall and the chairman immediately leapt up, but Giles had already returned to the lectern. He gripped the sides so no one could see how nervous he was. Two thousand people looked up expectantly as he faced his inquisitor, who was still on his feet. Giles waited for complete silence.

“I’m only too delighted to do so, sir. I found Berlin to be a tragic city divided by a twelve-foot concrete wall crowned in barbed wire. It wasn’t built to keep the West Germans out, but to keep the East Germans in, creating the largest prison on earth. Hardly a compelling argument for Communism. But I pray that I will live to see it razed to the ground. I hope that is something we can both agree on, sir.”

The man sank back into his place as Giles returned to his seat with the sound of thunderous applause ringing in his ears.

The final question was about the power of the unions, and both Giles’s and Fisher’s responses were unconvincing; Giles, because he had lost his concentration, while Fisher hadn’t recovered from his demon fast bowler being knocked out of the ground.

Giles had recovered by the time it came to deliver his summing up, and it took him some time to leave the hall, as he had to shake so many outstretched hands. But it was Griff who best summed up the evening.

“We’re back in the race.”

22

T
HE
Bristol Evening News
made a valiant attempt to present a balanced account of the debate that had taken place at the Hippodrome theatre the previous evening, but you didn’t have to read between the lines to be in any doubt who it felt was the winner. Although it had some reservations, the paper recommended that their readers should send Sir Giles Barrington back to the House of Commons.

“We haven’t won yet,” said Griff, dropping the paper in the nearest wastepaper basket. “So let’s get back to work. There’s still six days, nine hours, and fourteen minutes to go before the polls close next Thursday.”

Everyone set about their allotted task, whether it was checking canvass returns, preparing voting sheets for polling day, double-checking who needed a lift to the polling station, answering queries from the public, distributing last-minute leaflets, or making sure the candidate was fed and watered.

“Preferably on the move,” said Griff, who returned to his office and continued to work on the eve-of-poll message that would be dropped through the letterbox of every registered Labour supporter the night before the election.

*   *   *

At 5:45 a.m. on polling day Giles was once again standing outside Temple Meads station reminding everyone he shook hands with to “Vote for Barrington—today!”

Griff had designed a schedule that accounted for every minute of election day until the polls closed at 10:00 p.m. He had allocated Giles ten minutes for a pork pie, a cheese sandwich, and half a pint of cider in the most popular pub in the constituency.

At 6:30 p.m., he looked up to the heavens and cursed when it began to rain. Didn’t the gods know that between eight and ten in the morning, and five and seven in the evening, were Labour’s peak voting times? The Tories always got their vote out between ten and five. From seven o’clock in the evening until ten, when the polls closed, was anybody’s guess. The gods must have heard his plea, because the shower only lasted for about twenty minutes.

Giles ended the sixteen-hour day standing outside the gates of the dockyard, making sure that those clocking on for the night shift had already voted. If they hadn’t, they were immediately dispatched to the polling station on the other side of the road.

“But I’ll be late clocking on.”

“I know the chairman,” said Giles. To those who were coming off duty before going to the pub, Giles kept repeating, “Make sure you vote before you order your first pint.”

Griff and his team constantly checked their canvass returns so they could “knock up” those who still hadn’t cast their vote and remind them that the polling stations didn’t close until ten.

At one minute past ten, Giles shook the last hand and, desperate for a drink, walked down the road to join the dock workers in the Lord Nelson.

“Make mine a pint,” he said, leaning on the bar.

“Sorry, Sir Giles. It’s gone ten, and I know you wouldn’t want me to lose my license.”

Two men sitting at the bar grabbed an empty glass and filled it from their own two pints.

“Thank you,” said Giles, raising his glass.

“We’re both feeling a little guilty,” one of them admitted. “We ran in during the shower, so we haven’t voted.”

Giles would happily have poured the beer over their heads. Looking around the pub, he wondered how many more votes he’d lost when it was raining.

Harry walked into the Lord Nelson a few minutes later. “Sorry to drag you away,” he said, “but Griff has ordered me to take you home.”

“Not a man to be disobeyed,” said Giles, downing his pint.

“So what happens next?” asked Harry as they set off in his car for Barrington Hall.

“Nothing new. The local constabulary will be collecting the ballot boxes from all over the constituency before taking them to the Guildhall. The seals will be broken in the presence of Mr. Hardy, the town clerk, and once the ballot papers have been checked, the counting begins. So there’s no point in turning up at City Hall yet, as we can’t expect a result much before three a.m. Griff’s picking me up around midnight.”

*   *   *

Giles was dozing in his bath when the front-door bell rang. He climbed slowly out, pulled on a dressing gown, and pushed open the bathroom window to see Griff standing on the doorstep below.

“Sorry, Griff, I must have fallen asleep in the bath. Let yourself in and fix yourself a drink. I’ll be down as quickly as I can.”

Giles put on the same suit and tie he wore for every count, although he had to admit he could no longer do up the jacket’s middle button. He was on his way downstairs fifteen minutes later.

“Don’t ask me, because I don’t know,” said Griff, as he drove out of the front gates. “All I can tell you is that if the exit polls are to be believed, the Tories have won by about forty seats.”

“Then it’s back to opposition,” said Giles.

“That’s assuming you win, and our polling returns are showing it’s too close to call,” said Griff. “It’s 1951 all over again.” Griff didn’t say another word until they pulled into the car park outside City Hall, when three weeks of pent-up frustration and not a great deal of sleep suddenly came bursting out.

“It’s not the thought of losing that I can’t stomach,” said Griff. “It’s the thought of Major fucking Fisher winning.”

Giles sometimes forgot how passionately Griff felt about the cause, and how lucky he was to have him as his agent.

“Right,” said Griff, “now I’ve got that off my chest, let’s report for duty.” He got out of the car, straightened his tie and headed toward City Hall. As they walked up the steps together, Griff turned to Giles and said, “Try and look as if you expect to win.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to deliver a speech you’ve never made before, which will be a new experience for you.” Giles laughed as they entered the packed, noisy room where the count was taking place.

A dozen long trestle tables filled the room, with council officials and selected party representatives seated on both sides, furiously counting or observing. Every time a new black ballot box was emptied onto the tables, a forest of hands stretched out and quickly sorted the names of the candidates into three separate piles, before the counting could begin. Little stacks of ten soon became stacks of a hundred, at which point a red, blue, or yellow band was placed around them and they were lined up like infantrymen at the end of the table.

Griff watched the process warily. A simple mistake and a hundred votes could be placed in the wrong pile.

“What do you want us to do?” asked Seb as he and Miss Parish came over to join them.

“Take a table each and report back to me if you spot anything you’re not happy about.”

“And what about you?” asked Giles.

“I’ll do what I always do,” said Griff, “scrutinize the votes from the Woodbine Estate and Arcadia Avenue. Once I’ve checked their returns, I’ll be able to tell you who’s going to win.”

Griff’s team took a table each and, although the process was slow, it was running smoothly. Once Giles had made a complete circuit of the room, deftly avoiding Fisher, he rejoined Griff.