Sir Giles Barrington
18,813
Mr Reginald Ellsworthy
3,472
Major Alexander Fisher
18,809.’
This time it was the Labour supporters who erupted, holding up proceedings for several minutes before Wainwright was able to announce that Major Fisher had requested a recount.
‘Will all the counters please check their numbers carefully for a third time, and immediately inform one of my deputies if there are any changes you wish to report.’
When the town clerk returned to the desk, his secretary handed him the reference book he had requested. He turned several pages of Macaulay’s Election Law until he came to an entry he’d marked earlier that afternoon. While Wainwright was confirming his understanding of the returning officer’s duties, Fisher’s scrutiny team were charging up and down the aisles demanding to be shown the second ballot paper of every Barrington stack.
Despite this, forty minutes later Wainwright was able to announce that there were no changes from the result of the second count. Fisher immediately demanded another re-count.
‘I am not willing to grant that request,’ said Wainwright. ‘The numbers have been consistent on three separate occasions,’ he added, quoting Macaulay’s exact words.
‘But that is blatantly not the case,’ barked Fisher. ‘They’ve only been consistent twice. You will recall that I won the first count quite comfortably.’
‘They have been consistent three times,’ repeated Wainwright, ‘remembering the unfortunate mistake your colleague made on the first count.’
‘My colleague?’ said Fisher. ‘That is a disgraceful slur on my character. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. If you don’t withdraw that statement and allow a re-count, I’ll have no choice but to consult my lawyers in the morning.’
‘That would be most unfortunate,’ said Wainwright, ‘because I wouldn’t want to see Councillor Peter Maynard in the witness box, trying to explain how he’d never come across the chairman of his local party’s association, who also happens to be its prospective parliamentary candidate.’
Fisher turned scarlet and marched off the stage.
Mr Wainwright rose from his place, walked slowly towards the front of the stage and tapped the microphone for the last time. He cleared his throat and 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
18,813
Mr Reginald Ellsworthy
3,472
Major Alexander Fisher
18,809.’
‘I therefore declare Sir Giles Barrington to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Bristol Docklands.’
The Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands looked up to the balcony and bowed low to Sebastian Clifton.
SEBASTIAN CLIFTON
1955–1957
26
‘RAISE YOUR GLASSES to the man who won us the election!’ yelled Griff, who was teetering precariously on a table in the middle of the room, a glass of champagne in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
‘To Sebastian!’ everyone shouted, to laughter and applause.
‘Have you ever drunk champagne before?’ asked Griff after he had stepped unsteadily down to join Sebastian.
‘Only once,’ admitted Sebastian, ‘when my friend Bruno celebrated his fifteenth birthday, and his father took the two of us out to supper at a local pub. So I suppose this is my second glass.’
‘Take my advice,’ said Griff, ‘don’t get used to it. It’s the nectar of the rich. We working-class lads,’ he said, putting an arm around him, ‘can only expect to have a couple of glasses a year, and then at someone else’s expense.’
‘But I intend to be rich.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Griff, filling his glass again. ‘In that case you’ll have to become a champagne socialist, and heaven knows we’ve got enough of them in our party.’
‘I’m not in your party,’ said Sebastian firmly. ‘I’m a Tory in every other seat, apart from the one Uncle Giles is standing in.’
‘Then you’ll have to come and live in Bristol,’ said Griff as the newly re-elected member strolled across to join them.
‘Not much chance of that,’ said Giles. ‘His parents tell me they have high hopes of him winning a scholarship to Cambridge.’
‘Well, if it’s to be Cambridge rather than Bristol, you’ll probably end up seeing more of your uncle than we do.’
‘You’ve had too much to drink, Griff,’ said Giles, patting his agent on the back.
‘Not as much as I would have had if we’d lost,’ said Griff, downing his glass. ‘And try not to forget the bloody Tories have increased their majority in the House.’
‘We ought to be getting home, Seb, if you’re going to be in any shape for school tomorrow. Heaven knows how many rules you’ve broken in the last couple of hours.’
‘Can I say goodnight to Miss Parish before I go?’
‘Yes, of course. Why don’t you do that while I go and pay the drinks bill. The drinks are on me, now the election is over.’
Sebastian wove his way through groups of volunteers, some swaying like branches in the wind, while others, heads down on the nearest table, had passed out, or were simply incapable of movement. He spotted Miss Parish seated in an alcove on the far side of the room with two empty bottles of champagne for company. When he finally reached her, he wasn’t altogether sure she recognized him.
‘Miss Parish, I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to be in your team. I’ve learnt so much from you. I only wish you were one of my teachers at the Abbey.’
‘That is indeed a compliment, Sebastian,’ said Miss Parish. ‘But I fear I was born in the wrong century. It will be a long time before women are offered the chance to teach at an independent boys’ school.’ She hauled herself up and gave him a huge hug. ‘Good luck, Sebastian,’ she said. ‘I hope you get that scholarship to Cambridge.’
‘What did Miss Parish mean, she was born in the wrong century?’ asked Sebastian as Giles drove them back to the Manor House.
‘Simply that women of her generation weren’t given the opportunity to pursue a proper career,’ said Giles. ‘She would have made a great teacher, and hundreds of children would have benefited from her wisdom and common sense. The truth is, we lost two generations of men in world wars, and two generations of women who weren’t given the chance to take their places.’
‘Fine words, Uncle Giles, but what are you going to do about it?’
Giles laughed. ‘I could have done a damned sight more if we’d won the election, because tomorrow I would probably have been in the Cabinet. Now I’ll have to be satisfied with another stint on the Opposition front bench.’
‘Is my mother going to suffer from the same problem?’ asked Sebastian. ‘Because she’d make a damned good MP.’
‘No, although I can’t see her wanting to enter the House. I’m afraid she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and that’s part of the job description. But I have a feeling she’ll end up surprising us all.’
Giles brought the car to a halt outside the Manor House, switched off the engine and placed a finger to his lips. ‘Shh. I promised your mother I wouldn’t wake Jessica.’
The two of them tiptoed across the gravel and Giles opened the front door tentatively, hoping it wouldn’t creak. They were about halfway across the hall when Giles saw her, curled up in a chair by the last embers of a dying fire, fast asleep. He lifted her gently and carried her up the stairs in his arms. Sebastian ran ahead, opened her bedroom door and pulled back the blanket as Giles lowered her on to the bed. He was about to close the door behind him when he heard a voice say, ‘Did we win, Uncle Giles?’
‘Yes we did, Jessica,’ Giles whispered. ‘By four votes.’
‘One of them was mine,’ said Jessica after a lengthy yawn, ‘because I got Albert to vote for you.’
‘Then that’s worth two votes,’ said Sebastian. But before he could explain why, Jessica had fallen asleep again.
By the time Giles put in an appearance at breakfast the following morning, it might have been better described as brunch.
‘Good morning, good morning, good morning,’ Giles said as he walked around the table. He took a plate from the sideboard, lifted the lids of three silver salvers and selected large portions of scrambled eggs, bacon and baked beans, as if he was still a schoolboy. He sat down between Sebastian and Jessica.
‘Mummy says you ought to have a glass of fresh orange juice and some cornflakes with milk before you visit the hotplate,’ said Jessica.
‘And she’s right,’ said Giles, ‘but it’s not going to stop me sitting next to my favourite girlfriend.’
‘I’m not your favourite girlfriend,’ said Jessica, which silenced him more effectively than any Tory minister had ever managed. ‘Mummy told me that Gwyneth is your favourite girlfriend. Politicians!’ she added, mimicking Emma, who burst out laughing.
Giles tried to move on to safer ground, turning to Sebastian and asking, ‘Will you be playing for the first eleven this year?’
‘Not if we want to win any matches,’ he replied. ‘No, I’ll have to spend most of my time making sure I pass eight O levels if I’m to have any chance of joining the remove next year.’
‘That would please your aunt Grace.’
‘Not to mention his mother,’ said Emma, not looking up from her paper.
‘What will be your chosen subject if you make it to the remove?’ asked Giles, still trying to dig himself out of a hole.
‘Modern languages, with maths as my back-up.’
‘Well, if you do win a scholarship to Cambridge, you’ll have outdone both your father and I.’
‘Your father and me,’ corrected Emma.
‘But not my mama or Aunt Grace,’ Sebastian reminded him.
‘True,’ admitted Giles, who decided to keep quiet and concentrate on his morning post, which Marsden had brought across from Barrington Hall. He slit open a long white envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper that he’d been expecting for the past six months. He read the document a second time, before leaping joyfully in the air. Everyone stopped eating and stared at him, until Harry eventually asked, ‘Has the Queen asked you to form a government?’
‘No, it’s far better news than that,’ said Giles. ‘Virginia has finally signed her divorce papers. I’m a free man at last!’
‘It would appear that she’s signed them in the nick of time,’ said Emma, looking up from the Daily Express.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Giles.
‘There’s a photograph of her in the William Hickey column this morning, and she looks to me about seven months pregnant.’
‘Does it say who the father is?’
‘No, but the Duke of Arezzo is the man with his arm around her in the photo.’ Emma passed the paper to her brother. ‘And apparently he wants everyone to know that he’s the happiest man in the world.’
‘The second happiest,’ said Giles.
‘Does that mean I’ll never have to speak to Lady Virginia again?’ asked Jessica.
‘Yes it does,’ said Giles.
‘Yippee,’ said Jessica.
Giles slit open another envelope and extracted a cheque. As he studied it he raised his coffee cup to his grandfather, Sir Walter Barrington, coupled with the name of Ross Buchanan.
Emma nodded as he held it up to show her, and mouthed the words, ‘I got one too.’
A few moments later, the door opened and Denby entered the room.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir Giles, but Dr Hughes is on the line.’
‘I was just about to call her,’ said Giles, picking up his morning post and heading for the door.
‘Why don’t you take it in my study,’ said Harry, ‘then you won’t be disturbed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Giles, almost running out of the room.
‘And we’d better be on our way, Seb,’ said Harry, ‘if you still hope to be back in time for prep tonight.’
Sebastian allowed his mother to give him a perfunctory kiss before going upstairs to collect his suitcase. When he came back down a few moments later, Denby was holding the front door open for him.
‘Goodbye, Master Sebastian,’ he said. ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you again in the summer holidays.’
‘Thank you, Denby,’ Sebastian said as he ran out on to the drive, where he found Jessica standing by the passenger door of the car. He gave her a big hug before climbing into the front seat next to his father.
‘Make sure you pass all eight O levels,’ Jessica said, ‘so I can tell my friends how clever my big brother is.’