45
GILES WAS pleasantly surprised by how civilized the general election campaign turned out to be, not least because Jeremy Fordyce, his Conservative opponent, an intelligent young man from Central Office, never gave the impression that he really believed he could win the seat, and certainly didn’t involve himself in the sort of underhand practices Alex Fisher had engaged in when he was the candidate.
Reginald Ellsworthy, the perennial Liberal candidate, had only one aim, to increase his vote, and even Lady Virginia failed to land a blow, above or below the belt, possibly because she was still recovering from the knockout punch Emma had landed at the Barrington’s AGM.
So when the city clerk announced, ‘I, the returning officer for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
Sir Giles Barrington
21,114
Mr Reginald Ellsworthy
4,109
Mr Jeremy Fordyce
17,346.
‘I therefore declare Sir Giles Barrington to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Bristol Docklands,’ no one seemed surprised.
Although the vote in the constituency may not have been close, the decision as to who should govern the country was, to quote the BBC’s grand inquisitor, Robin Day, looking as if it would go to the wire. In fact, it wasn’t until the final result had been declared in Mulgelrie at 3.34 p.m. on the day after the election that the nation began to prepare itself for the first Labour government since Clement Attlee’s thirteen years before.
Giles travelled up to London the following day, but not before he, Gwyneth and five-week-old Walter Barrington had carried out a tour of the constituency to thank the party workers for achieving the biggest majority Giles had ever secured.
‘Good luck for Monday,’ was a sentence that was repeated again and again as he travelled around the constituency, because everyone knew that was the day the new prime minister would decide who would join him around the Cabinet table.
Giles spent the weekend listening to colleagues’ opinions on the phone, and reading the columns of leading political correspondents, but the truth was, only one man knew who would get the nod, the rest was mere speculation.
On Monday morning, Giles watched on television as Harold Wilson was driven to the palace to be asked by the Queen if he could form a government. Forty minutes later he emerged as prime minister, and was driven to Downing Street so he could invite twenty-two of his colleagues to join him as members of the Cabinet.
Giles sat at the breakfast table pretending to read the morning papers, when he wasn’t staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It rang several times, but each time it was either a member of his family or one of his friends calling to congratulate him on his increased majority, or to wish him luck on being invited to join the government. Get off the line, he wanted to say. How can the PM call me if the phone is always engaged? And then the call came.
‘This is the Number Ten switchboard, Sir Giles. The prime minister wondered if it would be possible for you to join him at Number Ten at three thirty this afternoon.’
I might just be able to fit him in, Giles wanted to say. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, and put the phone down. Where in the pecking order was 3.30 p.m.?
Ten o’clock and you knew you were either Chancellor of the Exchequer, Foreign Secretary or Home Secretary. Those posts had already been filled, by Jim Callaghan, Patrick Gordon Walker and Frank Soskice. Noon: Education, Michael Stewart and Employment, Barbara Castle. Three thirty was on the cusp. Was he in the Cabinet, or would he be expected to serve a probationary period as a minister of state?
Giles would have made himself some lunch if the phone had stopped ringing every other minute. Colleagues calling to tell him what job they’d got, colleagues calling to say the PM hadn’t phoned them yet, and colleagues wanting to know what time the PM had asked to see him. None of them seemed sure what 3.30 p.m. meant.
As the sun was shining on a Labour victory, Giles decided to walk to Number 10. He left his Smith Square flat just after 3 p.m., strolled across to the Embankment and past the Lords and Commons on his way to Whitehall. He crossed the road as Big Ben struck a quarter past, and continued past the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, before turning into Downing Street. He was greeted by a raucous pack of pit bull terriers, hemmed in behind makeshift barriers.
‘What job are you expecting to get?’ shouted one of them.
I only wish I knew, Giles wanted to say, while being almost blinded by the endless flashbulbs.
‘Are you hoping to be in the Cabinet, Sir Giles?’ demanded another.
Of course I am, you idiot. But his lips didn’t move.
‘How long do you think the government can survive with such a small majority?’
Not very long, he didn’t want to admit.
The questions continued to be thrown at him as he made his way up Downing Street, despite the fact that every journalist knew he had no hope of getting an answer on the way in, and not much more than a wave and perhaps a smile on the way out.
Giles was about three paces from the front door when it opened, and, for the first time in his life, he entered Number 10 Downing Street.
‘Good morning, Sir Giles,’ said the cabinet secretary, as if they had never met before. ‘The prime minister is with one of your colleagues at the moment, so perhaps you could wait in the anteroom until he’s free.’
Giles realized that Sir Alan already knew which post he was about to be offered, but not even the twitch of an eyebrow came from the inscrutable mandarin before he went on his way.
Giles took a seat in the small anteroom where Wellington and Nelson had reputedly sat waiting to see William Pitt the Younger, neither realizing who the other was. He rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers, although he knew he would not be shaking hands with the PM, as, traditionally, Parliamentary colleagues never do. Only the clock on the mantelpiece was beating louder than his heart. Eventually the door opened and Sir Alan reappeared. All he said was, ‘The prime minister will see you now.’
Giles stood up and began what is known as the long walk to the gallows.
When he entered the Cabinet Room, Harold Wilson was sitting halfway down a long oval table surrounded by twenty-two empty chairs. The moment he saw Giles, he rose from his seat below a portrait of Robert Peel, and said, ‘Great result in Bristol Docklands, Giles, well done.’
‘Thank you, prime minister,’ said Giles, reverting to the tradition of no longer calling him by his first name.
‘Come and have a seat,’ Wilson said as he filled his pipe.
Giles was about to sit down next to the PM when he said, ‘No, not there. That’s George’s place; perhaps one day, but not today. Why don’t you sit over there –’ he said, pointing to a green leather-backed chair on the far side of the table. ‘After all, that’s where the Secretary of State for European Affairs will be sitting every Thursday when the Cabinet meets.’