‘We’re expected to go on eating that rubbish for an hour?’ said Joe.
‘No, I don’t want you to eat anything, Joe, I need you moving from table to table, never two of you at the same table, and remember that Elliot’s team will probably be carrying out exactly the same exercise, so don’t waste any time asking for their vote. OK, let’s go.’
Fourteen people ran out of the room and across the lawn, disappearing through the swing doors and into the dining hall, leaving Nat and Su Ling to hang around near the entrance.
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for student president, and I hope you’ll be able to support me in today’s election.’
Two sleepy-eyed students said, ‘Fine, man, you’ve already wrapped up the gay vote.’
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for student president, and I hope you’ll be able to support me...’
‘Yes, I know who you are, but how can you possibly understand what it’s like to survive on a student loan, when you earn an extra four hundred dollars a month?’ came back the sharp reply.
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, I’m running for student president and...’
‘I won’t be voting for either of you,’ said another student, as he pushed through the swing doors.
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for...’
‘Sorry, just visiting from another campus, so I don’t have a vote.’
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright and I’m...’
‘Good luck, but I’m only voting for you because of your girlfriend, I think she’s terrific’
‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright...’
‘And I’m a member of Ralph Elliot’s team, and we’re going to kick your butt.’
‘Hi, I’m Nat...’
Nine hours later, Nat could only wonder how many times he had delivered that line, and how many hands he’d shaken. All he knew for certain was that he had lost his voice and was sure his fingers would fall off. At one minute past six, he turned to Tom and said, ‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright and...’
‘Forget it,’ said Tom with a laugh, ‘I’m the president of Yale, and all I know is if it wasn’t for Ralph Elliot you’d have my job.’
‘What have you planned for me now,’ asked Nat, ‘because my schedule ends at six, so I don’t have a clue what to do next.’
‘Typical of every candidate,’ said Tom, ‘but I thought the three of us could have a relaxed dinner at Mario’s.’
‘What about the rest of the team?’ asked Su Ling.
‘Joe, Chris, Sue and Tim are acting as observers at the count over in the Commons, while the others are getting a well-earned rest. As the count begins at seven and should take at least a couple of hours, I’ve suggested that everybody be there by eight thirty.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Nat. ‘I could eat a horse.’
Mario guided the three of them to their table in the corner, and kept addressing Nat as Mr President. As the three of them sipped their drinks and tried to relax, Mario reappeared with a large bowl of spaghetti which he covered in a bolognese sauce, before sprinkling parmesan cheese all over it. However many times Nat stuck his fork in the heap of pasta, it never seemed to diminish. Tom noticed that his friend was becoming more and more nervous and eating less and less.
‘I wonder what Elliot is up to right now?’ asked Su Ling.
‘He’ll be at McDonald’s along with the rest of his wretched gang, eating burgers and fries and pretending to enjoy them,’ said Tom as he sipped a glass of house wine.
‘Well, at least there are no more dirty tricks he can play now,’ said Nat.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Su Ling, just as Joe Stein came rushing through the door.
‘What can Joe want?’ asked Tom as he stood and waved at him. Nat smiled as his chief of staff rushed over to their table, but Joe didn’t return his smile.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ said Joe. ‘You’d better come over to the Commons immediately.’
Fletcher began pacing up and down the corridor, much in the same way as his father had done over twenty years before, an evening that had been described to him by Miss Nichol on many occasions. It was like the replaying of an old black-and-white movie, always with the same happy ending. Fletcher found he was never more than a few paces from the door of the operating room as he waited for someone — anyone — to come out.
At last the rubber doors swung open and a nurse rushed out, but she hurried quickly past Fletcher without saying a word. It was several more minutes before Dr Redpath finally emerged. He removed his face mask, but his lips weren’t smiling. ‘They’re just settling your wife into her room,’ he said. ‘She’s fine, exhausted, but fine. You should be able to see her in a few moments.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘Your son has been transferred to the special care nursery. Let me show you,’ he said, touching Fletcher’s elbow and guiding him along the corridor, stopping at a large plate-glass window. On the other side were three incubators. Two of them were already occupied. He watched as his son was placed gently in the third. A scrawny, helpless little thing, red and wrinkled. The nurse was inserting a rubber tube down his nose. She then attached a sensor to his chest and plugged the lead into a monitor. Her final task was to place a tiny band around the baby’s left wrist, displaying the name Davenport. The screen began to nicker immediately, but even with his slight knowledge of medicine, Fletcher could see that his son’s heartbeat was weak. He looked anxiously across at Dr Redpath.
‘What are his chances?’
‘He’s ten weeks premature, but if we can get him through the night, he’ll have a good chance of survival.’
‘What are his chances?’ Fletcher pressed.
‘There are no rules, no percentages, no laid-down laws. Every child is unique, your son included,’ the doctor added as a nurse joined them.
‘You can see your wife now, Mr Davenport,’ she said, ‘if you’d like to come with me.’
Fletcher thanked Dr Redpath and followed the nurse down one flight of stairs to the floor below, where he was taken to his wife’s bedside. Annie was propped up with several pillows behind her.
‘How’s our son?’ were her opening words.
‘He looks terrific, Mrs Davenport, and he’s lucky to begin his life with such an amazing mother.’
‘They won’t let me see him,’ said Annie quietly, ‘and I so much want to hold him in my arms.’
‘They’ve put him in an incubator for the time being,’ Fletcher said gently, ‘but he has a nurse with him the whole time.’
‘It seems years ago that we were having dinner with Professor Abrahams.’
‘Yes, it’s been quite a night,’ said Fletcher, ‘and a double triumph for you. You wowed the senior partner of a firm I want to join, and then produced a son, all on the same evening. What next?’
‘That all seems so unimportant now we have a child to take care of.’ She paused. ‘Harry Robert Davenport.’
‘It has a nice ring about it,’ said Fletcher, ‘and both our fathers will be delighted.’
‘What shall we call him,’ asked Annie, ‘Harry or Robert?’
‘I know what I’m going to call him,’ said Fletcher as the nurse returned to the room.
‘I think you should try and get some sleep, Mrs Davenport, it’s been an exhausting time for you.’
‘I agree,’ said Fletcher. He removed several pillows from behind his wife’s head, as she lowered herself slowly down the bed. Annie smiled and rested her head on the remaining pillow as her husband kissed her. As Fletcher left, the nurse switched off the light.
Fletcher raced back up the stairs and along the corridor to check if his son’s heartbeat was any stronger. He stared through the plate glass window at the monitor, willing it to flicker a little higher, and managed to convince himself that it had. Fletcher kept his nose pressed up against the window. ‘Keep fighting, Harry,’ he said, and then began counting the heartbeats per minute. Suddenly he felt exhausted. ‘Hang in there, you’re going to make it.’