GILES BARRINGTON
1955
22
IT WAS JUST after midnight when the phone rang. Giles knew there was only one person who’d dare to call him at that hour.
‘Don’t you ever go to bed, Griff?’
‘Not when the Conservative candidate resigns halfway through an election campaign,’ replied his agent.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Giles, suddenly wide awake.
‘Greg Dunnett has resigned, stating health reasons. But there has to be a lot more to it than that, since Fisher has taken his place. Try to get some sleep, as I need you in the office by seven so we can decide how to play this. Frankly, as the Americans would say, it’s a whole different ball game.’
But Giles didn’t sleep. He’d thought for some time that Fisher was up to something, and now he knew what it was. He must have planned to be the candidate from the start. Dunnett was nothing more than a sacrificial lamb.
Giles had already accepted that as he was defending a majority of only 414, and the polls were predicting that the Tories would increase their number of seats, he had a real fight on his hands. And now he was up against someone he knew was willing to send men to their graves if he thought it would help him survive. Gregory Dunnett was his latest victim.
Harry and Emma turned up at Barrington Hall the following morning. They found Giles having breakfast.
‘No more lunches or dinners for the next three weeks,’ said Giles as he buttered another piece of toast. ‘Just wearing out shoe leather on hard pavements, and shaking hands with countless constituents. And make sure you two stay out of the way. I don’t need anyone to be reminded that my sister and brother-in-law are staunch Tories.’
‘We’ll also be out there, working for a cause we believe in,’ said Emma.
‘That’s all I need.’
‘As soon as we heard Fisher was standing for the Conservatives, we decided to become fully paid-up members of the Labour Party,’ said Harry. ‘We even sent a donation to your fighting fund.’
Giles stopped eating.
‘And for the next three weeks, we intend to work night and day for you, right up to the moment the polls close, if it will help ensure Fisher doesn’t win.’
‘But,’ said Emma, ‘there are one or two conditions before we agree to ditch our long-held principles and support you.’
‘I knew there had to be a catch,’ said Giles, pouring himself a large black coffee.
‘You’ll come and live with us in the Manor House for the rest of the campaign. Otherwise, with only Griff Haskins to take care of you, you’ll end up eating fish and chips, drinking far too much beer, and sleeping on the floor of the constituency office.’
‘You’re probably right. But I warn you, I’ll never be home before midnight.’
‘That’s fine. Just make sure you don’t wake Jessica.’
‘Agreed.’ Giles stood up, a piece of toast in one hand, a newspaper in the other. ‘See you this evening.’
‘Don’t leave the table until you’ve finished eating,’ said Emma, sounding exactly like their mother.
Giles laughed. ‘Mama never had to fight an election,’ he reminded his sister.
‘She’d have made a damn good MP,’ said Harry.
‘That’s something we can all agree on,’ said Giles as he dashed out of the room, still clutching the toast.
He had a quick word with Denby before running out of the house, where he found Harry and Emma sitting in the back of his Jaguar.
‘What are you two doing?’ he asked, as he climbed behind the wheel of his car and turned on the ignition.
‘We’re off to work,’ said Emma. ‘We need a lift if we’re going to sign up as volunteers.’
‘You do realize,’ said Giles as he drove out on to the main road, ‘it’s an eighteen-hour day, and you’re not paid.’
When they followed Giles into his constituency headquarters twenty minutes later, Emma and Harry were impressed by how many volunteers of all ages, shapes and sizes were bustling about in every direction. Giles hurried them through to his agent’s office and introduced them to Griff Haskins.
‘Two more volunteers,’ he said.
‘Some very strange people have been joining our cause since Alex Fisher became the Tory candidate. Welcome aboard, Mr and Mrs Clifton. Now, have either of you ever canvassed before?’
‘No, never,’ admitted Harry. ‘Not even for the Tories.’
‘Then follow me,’ said Griff, leading them back into the main room. He stopped in front of a long trestle table laid out with rows of clipboards. ‘Each one of these represents a street or road in the constituency,’ he explained, handing each of them a clipboard and a set of red, green and blue pencils.
‘It’s your lucky day,’ continued Griff. ‘You’ve got the Woodbine estate, which is one of our strongholds. Let me explain the ground rules. When you knock on a door at this time of day, you’re more likely to get the wife answering, because her husband will be at work. If a man opens the door, he’s probably out of work, and therefore more likely to vote Labour. But whoever answers, all you have to say is, “Good morning, I’m here on behalf of Giles Barrington” – never Sir Giles – “the Labour Party candidate for the election on Thursday twenty-sixth May” – always emphasize the date – “and I hope you’ll be supporting him.” Now comes the bit where you have to use your nous. If they say, “I’ve been a Labour supporter all my life, you can rely on me,” you mark their name with the red pencil. If they’re elderly, you ask them if they’ll need a car to take them to the polling station on the day. If they say yes, write “car” next to their name. If they say, “I’ve supported the Labour Party in the past, but I’m not sure this time,” you mark them green, undecided, and the local councillor will call on them in the next few days. If they tell you they never discuss their politics, or that they’ll have to think about it, or they haven’t made up their mind, or any variation on those themes, they’re Tories, so mark them with the blue pencil, and don’t waste any more time on them. Have you understood so far?’
They both nodded.
‘These canvassing returns are vital,’ continued Griff, ‘because on Election Day we’ll revisit all the reds, to make sure they’ve voted. If they haven’t, we knock them up again to remind them to go to the polling station. If you’re in any doubt about someone’s voting intentions, mark them green, for undecided, because the last thing we want to do is remind people to vote, or even worse, give them a lift to the polling station, if they’re going to support the other side.’
A young volunteer ran up and handed Griff a piece of paper. ‘What should I do about this one?’ he asked.
Griff read the message and said, ‘Tell him to bugger off. He’s a well-known Tory who’s just trying to waste your time. By the way,’ he said turning back to Harry and Emma, ‘if anyone keeps you on the doorstep for more than sixty seconds, saying they need to be convinced, or want to discuss Labour Party policy in greater detail or would like to know more about the candidate, they’re also Tories trying to waste your time. Bid them good morning and move on. Good luck. Report back to me when you’ve completed a full canvass.’
‘Good morning, my name is Ross Buchanan, and I’m chairman of the Barrington Shipping Group. I would like to welcome you all to the company’s Annual General Meeting. You will have found on your chairs a copy of the company’s annual report. I would like to draw your attention to a few highlights. This year the annual profits have risen from ￡108,000 to ￡122,000, an improvement of twelve per cent. We have appointed architects to design our first luxury liner, and expect them to present their recommendations within the next six months.
‘Let me assure all our shareholders that we will not go ahead with this project until we are convinced it is a viable proposition. With that in mind I am happy to announce that we will be increasing our shareholders’ dividend this year to five per cent. I have no reason to believe that the company’s growth will not be sustained, or even improved on, during the coming year.’
A round of applause allowed Buchanan to turn a page of his speech and check what he would be saying next. When he looked up, he noticed a couple of financial journalists scurrying out of the room to make sure they caught the first editions of their evening papers, aware that the chairman had already highlighted the main points, and would now take shareholders slowly through the details.
After Buchanan had come to the end of his speech, he and Ray Compton took questions for forty minutes. When the meeting finally came to a close, the chairman noted with some satisfaction that most of the chattering shareholders were leaving with smiles on their faces.
As Buchanan left the stage of the hotel’s conference room, his secretary rushed up and said, ‘You have an urgent call from Hong Kong, and the hotel operator is waiting to put it through to your room.’
When Harry and Emma arrived back at Labour Party HQ, having completed their first canvass returns, they were exhausted.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Griff, checking their clipboards with a professional eye.
‘Not bad,’ said Harry. ‘If the Woodbine estate is anything to go by, we’re home and dry.’
‘I wish,’ said Griff. ‘That estate should be rock-solid Labour, but tomorrow I’ll let you loose on Arcadia Avenue, and then you’ll really find out what we’re up against. Before you go home, put your best reply of the day up on the notice board. The winner gets a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.’
Emma grinned. ‘One woman said to me, “My husband votes Tory, but I always support Sir Giles. Whatever you do, please don’t let him know.”’
Griff smiled. ‘That’s not uncommon,’ he said. ‘And, Emma, don’t forget, your most important job is to make sure the candidate is fed and gets a good night’s sleep.’
‘And what about me?’ said Harry, as Giles came bouncing into the room.
‘I’m not interested in you,’ Griff replied. ‘It’s not your name on the ballot paper.’
‘How many meetings have I got this evening?’ was Giles’s first question.
‘Three,’ said Griff, without needing to refer to any notes. ‘Hammond Street YMCA, seven o’clock, the Cannon Road snooker club at eight, and the Working Men’s Club at nine. Make sure you’re not late for any of them, and that you’re safely tucked up in bed before midnight.’
‘I wonder when Griff goes to bed,’ said Emma after he had hurried off to deal with the latest crisis.
‘He doesn’t,’ whispered Giles. ‘He’s a vampire.’