20
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth. Vote Labour. Vote Barrington on June eighteenth. Good morning, my name is…”
Giles had fought seven elections in the last twenty-five years, and won all seven of them, gradually increasing his majority to 2,166. The last two had resulted in Labour governments, when the Conservatives hadn’t been expected to win Bristol Docklands, and the Liberals knew they couldn’t.
The last time Giles had called for a recount was when his opponent was Major Alex Fisher, and on that occasion Giles had won by just four votes, and only after three recounts. It had been a dirty, personal campaign from beginning to end, with Giles’s ex-wife Lady Virginia entering the fray when she came down to Bristol to support the major, who she described as “an honest and decent man.”
Now, fifteen years later, Giles was facing a rerun against the same opponent, and talk of another divorce. Gwyneth, thank heavens, had made it clear that she would not be filing papers until after the election, and although she had no intention of visiting the constituency, she would not be suggesting that anyone should vote for Fisher.
“Thank the Lord for small mercies” was all Griff Haskins had to say. He didn’t raise the subject again.
When the prime minister asked the Queen to dissolve Parliament on 29 May 1970, Giles returned to Bristol the following day to begin the three-week election campaign. As he took to the streets and started canvassing, he was pleasantly surprised by the welcome he received, and by how few people raised the subject of Berlin, or asked where his wife was. The British are not a judgemental lot, Griff observed, although Giles didn’t admit to his agent that Karin was rarely out of his thoughts. He wrote to her every night, just before going to bed and, like a schoolboy, eagerly checked the post each morning. But there was never an envelope with an East German stamp on it.
Emma, Harry, and Seb, plus the redoubtable Labour Party stalwart Miss Parish, who had taken three weeks off work as she did for every election campaign, regularly accompanied Giles when he was out canvassing. Emma dealt with those women who expressed their doubts about Giles following his resignation from the Cabinet, while Seb concentrated on the eighteen-year-olds, who would be voting for the first time.
But the surprise package was Harry, who proved popular on several levels. There were those constituents who wanted to know how his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released was coming along, while others wondered what Detective Inspector Warwick would be up to next. Whenever he was asked who he’d be voting for, Harry always replied, “Like all sensible Bristolians, I’ll be voting for my brother-in-law.”
“No, no,” said Griff firmly. “Say Giles Barrington, not your brother-in-law. ‘Brother-in-law’ isn’t on the ballot paper.”
There was a third group who thought Harry was Bristol’s answer to Cary Grant, and told him they would certainly vote for him if he was the candidate.
“I’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals,” Harry would reply, raising his hands in horror.
“Are you jealous, Mum?”
“Certainly not,” said Emma. “Most of them are middle-aged matrons who simply want to mother him.”
“As long as they vote Labour,” said Griff, “I don’t care what they want to do with him.”
* * *
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth. Vote Labour…”
Every morning began with a “prayer meeting” in Griff’s office, so the agent could bring the candidate and the core campaign workers up to date, before allocating them their daily tasks.
On the first Monday, Griff opened the meeting by breaking one of his golden rules.
“I think you should challenge Fisher to a debate.”
“But you’ve always said in the past that a sitting member should never acknowledge the existence of his opponents because it only gives them a platform to air their views and establish themselves as credible candidates.”
“Fisher is a credible candidate,” said Griff. “He’s got a three percent lead in the polls to prove it, and we desperately need to find some way of eating into his lead.”
“But he’ll use the occasion to launch a personal attack on me and capture cheap headlines in the press.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Griff, “because our private polls show that what happened in Berlin is not a high priority for most voters, and our daily postbag confirms it. The public are far more interested in the NHS, unemployment, pensions, and immigration. In fact, there are more voters complaining about overzealous parking wardens in the Broad than about your nocturnal habits when you’re not at home. If you want proof,” he said, extracting some letters from the pile on his desk, “just listen to any of these. Dear Sir Giles, if everyone who slept with a tart or had an affair were to vote for you, you’d double your majority. Good luck.”
“I can see it now,” said Giles. “Vote for Barrington if you’ve had an extramarital affair.”
Emma scowled at her brother, clearly disapproving of Griff’s casual attitude to Giles’s behavior.
“And here’s another one,” said Griff, ignoring Giles’s comment. “Dear Sir Giles, I’ve never voted Labour before, but I’d prefer to vote for a sinner than for someone like Alex Fisher who poses as a saint. Yours reluctantly, etc. But this one’s my favorite. Dear Sir Giles, I must say I admire your taste in women. I’m off to Berlin next week and wondered if you could give me her phone number.”
I only wish I knew her phone number, thought Giles.
* * *
FISHER TURNS DOWN DEBATE CHALLENGE.
“He’s made his first mistake,” said Griff, turning the paper around so they could all see the headline on the front page.
“But he’s the one with a three percent lead in the polls,” said Giles. “That’s not a mistake, it’s just common sense.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Griff, “but it’s his reason for turning you down that’s the mistake. I quote, ‘I wouldn’t want to be seen in the same room as that man.’ A foolish error. People don’t like personal attacks, so we must take advantage of it. Make it clear that you will turn up, and if he doesn’t the electorate can draw their own conclusions.” Griff continued to read the article, and it was not long before he smiled for a second time. “It’s not often that the Liberals come to our aid, but Simon Fletcher has told the News that he’ll be happy to participate in the debate. But then, he’s got nothing to lose. I’ll issue a press statement immediately. Meanwhile, you lot get back to work. You’re not winning any votes sitting around in my office.”
* * *
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth…”
Just as Giles was beginning to feel a little more confident about the outcome, a Gallup Poll in the Daily Mail predicted for the first time that Edward Heath and the Tories were on track to win the election with a thirty-seat majority.
“We’re thirty-fifth on the list of seats the Tories will need to capture if they hope to get an overall majority,” said Giles.
“Read the small print,” responded Griff. “The same poll is saying that Bristol Docklands is too close to call. And by the way, have you seen today’s Evening News?” He passed the first edition to the candidate.
Giles rather admired the neutral stance the News always took during an election campaign, only coming out in favor of a particular candidate on the day before the election, and in the past it hadn’t always backed him. But today it broke its rule with a couple of weeks to go. In a leader, the paper made its position clear, below the damning headline:
WHAT’S HE FRIGHTENED OF?
It went on to say that if Major Fisher failed to turn up for next Thursday’s debate, they would be recommending that their readers vote Labour, and return Giles Barrington to Westminster.
“Let’s pray he doesn’t turn up,” said Giles.
“He’ll turn up all right,” said Griff, “because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose the election. Our next problem is how we handle him when he does.”
“But surely it ought to be Fisher who’s worried,” said Emma. “After all, Giles is a far more accomplished debater, with over twenty years’ parliamentary experience.”
“That won’t matter a damn on the night,” said Miss Parish, “if we don’t find a way of dealing with the elephant in the room.”
Griff nodded. “We may have to use our secret weapon.”
“What have you got in mind?” asked Giles.
“Harry. We’ll put him in the front row, facing the audience, and get him to read the first chapter of his next book. Then no one will even notice what’s happening on stage.”
Everyone laughed except Harry. “What are you implying?” he asked.
* * *
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on…”
I’LL BE THERE, screamed the headline on the front page of the Bristol Evening News the following day.
Giles read the article that followed, and accepted that the debate might well decide who would be the next Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands.
Griff agreed and suggested Giles should take time off to prepare as if he was being cross-examined by Robin Day, the BBC’s political interrogator. He asked Seb to play the role of Alex Fisher.
“Do you feel that a man with your lack of morals should be standing for Parliament?”
“Whose side are you on, Seb?”
“He’s on your side,” said Griff, “and you’d better have an answer to that question by next Thursday night.”
“May I ask why we haven’t seen your wife in the constituency during the election campaign?”
“She’s visiting her parents in Wales.”
“That’s at least a thousand votes down the drain,” said Griff.
“Tell me, Sir Giles, do you plan to make another trip to Berlin in the near future?”
“That’s below the belt, Seb.”
“Which is exactly where Fisher will aim most of his punches,” said Griff. “So make sure you keep your guard up.”
“He’s right, Seb. Keep on punching.”
* * *
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands…”
“They’ve changed the venue,” said Griff at the morning prayer meeting.
“Why?” asked Giles.
“There’s been such a huge demand for tickets that it’s been moved from the Guildhall to the Hippodrome Theatre.”
“But the Hippo holds two thousand people,” said Giles.
“I wish it held ten thousand,” said Griff. “You’ll never get a better chance to talk to the voters direct.”
“And at the same time expose Fisher for the fraud he is,” said Seb.
“How many seats have been allocated to us?” asked Griff, turning to Miss Parish.
“Each candidate is entitled to three hundred.”
“Any problem in filling our seats with the faithful?”
“None at all, the phone hasn’t stopped for the past week. It could be a Rolling Stones concert. In fact, I’ve been in touch with my opposite number at the Liberal Party, to see if they’ve got any spare tickets.”
“They can’t be stupid enough to release them to you.”
“It’s got nothing to do with stupidity,” said Miss Parish. “I have a feeling it’s something far closer to home.”
“Like what?” said Griff.
“I’ve no idea, but I’ll get to the bottom of it before next Thursday.”
“And what about the remaining tickets?” said Griff. “Who gets those?”
“First come, first served,” said Miss Parish. “I’ll have a hundred of our people standing in the queue an hour before the curtain goes up.”
“So will the Tories,” said Griff. “Better make it two hundred, two hours before.”
* * *
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate…”
For the next week, Giles didn’t let up for one minute, the weekend included. He canvassed, visited pubs, held evening meetings, and attended any gathering where more than half a dozen people were likely to turn up.
On Saturday, he put on his county tie and went to watch Gloucestershire play Middlesex at Nevil Road, but only stayed for about an hour. After walking slowly around the boundary perimeter, making sure all five thousand spectators had seen him, he made his way back to the constituency headquarters on Park Street.
On Sunday, he attended matins, communion, and evensong in three different churches, but during each sermon his thoughts often strayed back to the debate, testing out arguments, phrases, even pauses …
“In the name of the Father…”
By Wednesday, Griff’s polling was showing that Giles was still a couple of points behind, but Seb reminded him, so was Kennedy before his debate with Nixon.
Every detail of the encounter had been analyzed at length. What he should wear, when he should have a haircut, not to shave until an hour before he walked on to the stage, and, if he was offered the choice, to speak last.
“Who’s chairing the debate?” asked Seb.
“Andy Nash, the editor of the Evening News. We want to win votes, he wants to sell newspapers. Everyone has an angle,” said Griff.
“And be sure you’re in bed before midnight,” said Emma. “You’re going to need a good night’s sleep.”
Giles did get to bed before midnight, but he didn’t sleep as he went over his speech again and again, rehearsing answers to all of Seb’s questions. His concentration wasn’t helped by Karin regularly barging into his thoughts. He was up by six, and outside Temple Meads station half an hour later, megaphone in hand once again, ready to face the early morning commuters.
“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington…”
“Good luck tonight, Sir Giles, I’ll be there to support you.”
“I don’t live in your constituency, sorry.”
“Where do you stand on flogging?”
“I think I’ll give the Liberals a go this time.”
“Don’t have a spare fag, do you, guv?”
“Good morning…”