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  ‘And I suppose it’s because I come from Gloucestershire,’ said Emma, ‘that I have a tendency to call a scheming bitch a scheming bitch.’

  Emma rose from her place and marched out of the room. For the first time that evening, Giles looked embarrassed. Harry was now certain that neither Giles nor Virginia was aware that Elizabeth had executed a new will. He chose his words carefully.

  ‘Emma’s a little overwrought following the funeral. I’m sure she’ll have recovered by the morning.’

  He folded his napkin, bade them goodnight and left the room without another word.

  Virginia looked at her fiancé. ‘You were magnificent, Bunny. But I have to say, what a touchy lot your family are, though I suppose that’s only to be expected after all they’ve been through. However, I fear it doesn’t augur well for the future.’

  10

  ‘THIS IS THE BBC Home Service. Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it. At ten o’clock this morning, the prime minister, Mr Attlee, requested an audience with the King and asked His Majesty’s permission to dissolve Parliament and call a general election. Mr Attlee returned to the House of Commons, and announced that an election would be held on Thursday, October twenty-fifth.’

  The following day, 622 members packed their bags, cleared their lockers, bade farewell to their colleagues and returned to their constituencies to prepare for battle. Among them was Sir Giles Barrington, the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands.

  Over breakfast one morning during the second week of the campaign, Giles told Harry and Emma that Virginia would not be joining him in the run-up to the election. Emma didn’t attempt to hide her relief.

  ‘Virginia feels she might even lose me votes,’ admitted Giles. ‘After all, no member of her family has ever been known to vote Labour. One or two may have supported the odd Liberal, but never Labour.’

  Harry laughed. ‘At least we have that in common.’

  ‘If Labour were to win the election,’ said Emma, ‘do you think Mr Attlee might ask you to join the Cabinet?’

  ‘Heaven knows. That man plays his cards so close to his chest even he can’t see them. In any case, if you believe the polls, the election is too close to call, so there’s not much point in dreaming about red boxes until after we know the result.’

  ‘My bet,’ said Harry, ‘is that Churchill will scrape home this time. Mind you, only the British could kick a prime minister out of office after he’d just won a war.’

  Giles glanced at his watch. ‘Can’t sit around chatting,’ he said. ‘I’m meant to be canvassing in Coronation Road. Care to join me, Harry?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘You must be joking. Can you see me asking people to vote for you? I’d turn off more people than Virginia.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Emma. ‘You’ve handed in your latest manuscript to the publisher, and you’re always telling everyone firsthand experience is more worthwhile than sitting in a library checking endless facts.’

  ‘But I’ve got a busy day ahead of me,’ protested Harry.

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Emma. ‘Now let me see, you’re taking Jessica to school this morning and, oh yes, you’re picking her up this afternoon and bringing her home.’

  ‘Oh all right. I’ll join you,’ said Harry. ‘But strictly as an observer, you understand.’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name is Giles Barrington. I hope I can count on your support at the general election on October twenty-fifth?’ he said as he stopped to chat to a constituent.

  ‘You certainly can, Mr Barrington. I always vote Tory.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Giles, quickly moving on to the next voter.

  ‘But you’re the Labour candidate,’ Harry reminded his brother-in-law.

  ‘There’s no mention of the parties on the ballot paper,’ said Giles, ‘only the candidates’ names. So why disillusion him? Good afternoon, my name is Giles Barrington, and I was hoping—’

  ‘And you can go on hoping, because I won’t be voting for a stuck-up toff.’

  ‘But I’m the Labour candidate,’ protested Giles.

  ‘Doesn’t stop you being a toff. You’re as bad as that Frank Pakenham fellow, a traitor to your class.’

  Harry tried not to laugh as the man walked away.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam, my name is Giles Barrington.’

  ‘Oh, how nice to meet you, Sir Giles. I’ve been a great admirer of yours ever since you won the MC at Tobruk.’ Giles bowed low. ‘And although I would normally vote Liberal, on this occasion you can rely on me.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Giles.

  She turned to Harry, who smiled and raised his hat. ‘And you needn’t bother raising your hat to me, Mr Clifton, because I know you were born in Still House Lane, and it’s disgraceful that you vote Tory. You’re a traitor to your class,’ she added before marching off.

  It was Giles’s turn to try not to laugh.

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for politics,’ said Harry.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name is—’

  ‘—Giles Barrington. Yes, I know,’ the man said, refusing Giles’s outstretched hand. ‘You shook hands with me half an hour ago, Mr Barrington, and I told you I’d be voting for you. But now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Is it always this bad?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Oh, it can be far worse. But if you place your head in the stocks, don’t be surprised if there are people who are only too happy to throw the occasional rotten tomato in your direction.’

  ‘I would never make a politician,’ said Harry. ‘I take everything too personally.’

  ‘Then you’ll probably end up in the House of Lords,’ said Giles, coming to a halt outside a pub. ‘I think a quick half pint is called for, before we return to the battlefield.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been in this pub before,’ said Harry, looking up at a flapping sign with a Volunteer beckoning them in.

  ‘Me neither. But come the day of the election, I’ll have had a drink in every hostelry in the constituency. Pub landlords are always happy to express an opinion.’

  ‘Who’d want to be a Member of Parliament?’

  ‘If you have to ask that question,’ said Giles as they entered the pub, ‘you’ll never understand the thrill of fighting an election, taking your seat in the House of Commons and playing a role, however minor, in governing your country. It’s like war without the bullets.’

  Harry headed for a quiet alcove in a corner of the pub, while Giles took a seat at the bar. He was chatting to the barman when Harry returned to join him.

  ‘Sorry, old fellow,’ said Giles. ‘I can’t hide away in a corner. Have to be seen at all times, even when I’m taking a break.’

  ‘But there are some confidential matters I was hoping to discuss with you,’ said Harry.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to lower your voice. Two half pints of bitter, please, barman,’ said Giles. He settled back to listen to what Harry had to say, in between being slapped on the back and told by several customers – not all of them sober – how to run the country, and called everything from ‘sir’ to ‘you bastard’.

  ‘So, how’s my nephew getting on at his new school?’ asked Giles after he’d drained his glass.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be enjoying Beechcroft any more than he did St Bede’s. I’ve had a word with his housemaster, and all he said was that Seb’s very bright, and almost certain to be offered a place at Oxford, but still doesn’t make friends easily.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Giles. ‘Perhaps he’s just shy. After all, no one loved you when you first went to St Bede’s.’ He turned back to the barman. ‘Two more halves, please.’

  ‘Coming right up, sir.’

  ‘And how’s my favourite girlfriend?’ asked Giles.

  ‘If you’re referring to Jessica,’ said Harry, ‘you’ll have to join a long queue. Everybody loves that little girl, from Cleopatra to the postman, but she only loves her dad.’

  ‘When will you tell her