To that end, he and Louise never stopped working from seven that morning until ten at night. Helpers arrived from the most unexpected places, as if to prove the Scotsman wrong about the Labour party machine, but Andrew couldn’t help noticing that there were red rosettes everywhere he went.
Toward the end of the day even Sir Duncan joined him and began chauffeuring SDP voters to the polls in his Rolls Royce.
“We’ve faced the fact that our candidate has lost so now I’ve come to help you,” he told Andrew bluntly.
As the city hall clock struck ten Andrew sat down on the steps of the last polling station. He knew there was nothing he could do now. He had done everything possible, only avoiding members of the House of Lords and lunatics — neither of which group was entitled to vote.
An old lady was coming out of the polling station with a smile on her face.
“Hello, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Andrew.” She smiled. “I nearly forgot to vote and that would never have done.”
He raised his tired head.
“Now don’t fret yourself, laddie,” she continued, “I never failed to vote for the winner in fifty-two years and that’s longer than you’ve lived.” She chuckled and left him sitting on the steps.
Andrew somehow picked himself up and made his way through the dark cobbled streets to his election headquarters. They cheered him as he entered the room, and the chairman offered him a “wee dram of whisky.”
“To hell with a wee dram,” said Andrew. “Just keep pouring.”
He tried to get round the room to thank everyone before Hamish Ramsey told him it was time to go over to the city hall for the count. A small band of supporters accompanied the Frasers to the city hall to witness the proceedings. As he entered the hall the first person he saw was Boyle, who had a big smile on his face. Andrew was not discouraged by the smile as he watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Boyle had yet to learn that the first boxes to be counted were always from the inner wards, where most of the committed Socialists lived.
As both men walked round the tables, the little piles began to be checked — first in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed over to the Sheriff. As the night drew on Boyle’s smile turned to a grin, from a grin to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles grew closer and closer in size.
For over three hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one twenty-two in the morning the Sheriff added up the list of numbers in front of him and asked the three candidates to join him.
He told them the result.
Frank Boyle smiled once again. Andrew showed no emotion, but called for a recount.
For over an hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote discovered and, on one occasion, the name on the top of a pile of one hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it. At last the scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the Sheriff added up the columns of numbers and asked the candidates to join him.
This time Andrew smiled while Boyle looked surprised and demanded another recount. The Sheriff acquiesced, but said it must be the last time. Both candidates agreed in the absence of their Conservative rival, who was sleeping soundly in a corner, secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position in the contest.
Once again the piles were checked and double-checked and five mistakes were discovered in the 42,588 votes cast. At three-twenty a.m., with counters and checkers falling asleep at their tables, the Sheriff once more asked the two candidates to join him. They were both stunned when they heard the result and the Sheriff informed them that there would be a further recount in the morning after his staff had managed to get some sleep.
All the voting papers were then placed carefully back in the black boxes, locked, and left in the safekeeping of the local constabulary while the candidates crept away to their beds.
Andrew slept in fits and starts through the remainder of the night. Louise, pale with exhaustion but still grinning, brought him a cup of tea at eight in the morning. He took a cold shower, shaved slowly, and was back at the city hall a few minutes before the count was due to recommence. As he walked up the steps he was greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to be absent as the final drama unfolded.
The counters looked eager and ready when the Sheriff checked his watch and nodded. The boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once again the little piles grew from tens into hundreds and then into thousands. Andrew paced around the tables, more to burn up his nervous energy than out of a desire to keep checking. He had thirty witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by sleight of hand or genuine mistake.
Once the counters and scrutineers had finished they sat in front of their piles and waited for the slips to be collected and taken to the Sheriff. When the Sheriff had added up his little columns of figures for the final time he found that no votes had changed hands.
He explained to Andrew and Frank Boyle the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome. He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Wylie at nine that morning and the Lord Advocate had read out the relevant statute in election law that was to be followed in such circumstances. Both candidates agreed on which of the two choices they preferred.
The Sheriff walked up onto the stage with Andrew Fraser and Frank Boyle in his wake, both looking anxious.
Everyone in the room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing back of chairs, the coughing, and the nervous chattering had stopped, the Sheriff began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent room. Satisfied, he began to speak.
“I, the returning officer for the district of Edinburgh Carlton, hereby declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
Frank Boyle 18,437
Jamie Lomax 5,714
Andrew Fraser 18,437.”
The supporters of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy. It was several minutes before the Sheriffs voice could be heard above the babble of Scottish burrs.
“In accordance with section sixteen of the Representation of the People Act 1949 and rule fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” he announced. “I have spoken with the Lord Advocate of Scotland, and have confirmed that the drawing of straws or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”
Pandemonium broke out again as Andrew and Boyle stood motionless on each side of the Sheriff waiting for their fate to be determined.
“I have borrowed from the Royal Bank of Scotland,” continued the Sheriff, aware that twenty million people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George III, on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Fraser, to call his preference.” Boyle curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected the coin.