“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.
“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:
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.