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“Just twenty-one votes,” said Giles.
“Eleven,” said Griff.
“Eleven?” repeated Giles.
“If eleven voters had changed their minds.”
“And if it hadn’t rained for twenty minutes at six thirty.”
“It’s been a year of ifs.”
23
GILES FINALLY climbed into bed just before 5:00 a.m. He switched off the bedside light, put his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes, just as the alarm went off. He groaned and switched the light back on. No longer any need to be standing outside Temple Meads station at 6:00 a.m. to greet the early morning commuters.
My name is Giles Barrington, and I’m your Labour candidate for yesterday’s election … He switched off the alarm and fell into a deep sleep, not waking again until eleven that morning.
After a late breakfast, or was it brunch, he had a shower, got dressed, packed a small suitcase, and drove out of the gates of Barrington Hall just after midday. He was in no hurry, as his plane wouldn’t be taking off from Heathrow until 4:15 p.m.
If, another if, Giles had stayed at home for a few more minutes, he could have taken a call from Harold Wilson, who was compiling his resignation honors list. The new leader of the opposition was going to offer Giles the chance to go to the House of Lords and sit on the opposition front bench as spokesman on foreign affairs.
Mr. Wilson tried again that evening, but by then Giles had landed in Berlin.
* * *
Only a few months before, the Rt. Hon. Sir Giles Barrington MP had been driven out onto the runway at Heathrow, and the plane took off only after h
e’d fastened his seat belt in first class.
Now, squeezed between a woman who never stopped chatting to her friend on the other side of the aisle, and a man who clearly enjoyed making it difficult for him to turn the pages of the Times, Giles reflected on what he hadn’t missed. The two-and-a-half-hour flight seemed interminable, and when they landed he had to dash through the rain to get to the terminal.
Although he was among the first off the plane, he was almost the last to leave baggage reclaim. He had forgotten just how long it could take before your luggage appeared on the carousel. By the time he was reunited with his bag and had been released from customs and finally made it to the front of the taxi queue, he was already exhausted.
“Checkpoint Charlie” was all he said as he climbed into the back of the cab.
The driver gave him a second look, decided he was sane, but dropped him off some hundred yards from the border post. It was still raining.
As Giles ran toward the customs building, carrying his bag in one hand and his copy of the Times held over his head in the other, he couldn’t help recalling his last visit to Berlin.
When he stepped inside, he joined a short queue, but it still took a long time before he reached the front.
“Good evening, sir,” said a fellow countryman, as Giles handed over his passport and visa.
“Good evening,” said Giles.
“May I ask why you are visiting the Eastern sector, Sir Giles?” the guard inquired politely, while inspecting his documents.
“I’m seeing a friend.”
“And how long do you plan to stay in the Eastern sector?”
“Seven days.”
“The maximum period your temporary visa allows,” the officer reminded him.
Giles nodded, hoping that in seven days’ time all his questions would have been answered, and he would at last know if Karin felt the same way as he did. The officer smiled, stamped his passport, and said “Good luck” as if he meant it.
At least the rain had stopped by the time Giles stepped back out of the building. He set out on the long walk across no-man’s-land between the two border posts, not in the British Embassy’s Rolls-Royce accompanied by the ambassador but as a private citizen representing no one other than himself.
