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“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.
