Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  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

  THE 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,