Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“But if the polls are to be believed, the Tories are going to win the seat anyway.”

“We’ve defied the polls before,” said Griff. “And the Tories haven’t even selected their candidate yet.”

“Nothing is going to persuade me to change my mind,” said Giles.

“But you’re the only person who can win the seat,” said Griff as the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. “Whoever it is, tell them to bugger off.”

“It’s the editor of the Bristol Evening News ,” said his secretary.

“And the same applies to him.”

“But he says he has a piece of news you’ll want to hear immediately. It’s the lead story in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Put him on.” Griff listened for some time before he slammed the phone down. “That’s all I need.”

“So what’s the news that can’t possibly wait?”

“The Tories have announced their candidate.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Major Alex Fisher.”

Giles burst out laughing. “I can’t believe how far you’re prepared to go, Griff, just to make sure I stand.”

“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. Vote Barrington on June eighteenth. Good morning, my name is...”

Giles had fought seven elections in the last twenty-five years, and won all seven of them, gradually increasing his majority to 2,166. The last two had resulted in Labour governments, when the Conservatives hadn’t been expected to win Bristol Docklands, and the Liberals knew they couldn’t.

The last time Giles had called for a recount was when his opponent was Major Alex Fisher, and on that occasion Giles had won by just four votes, and only after three recounts. It had been a dirty, personal campaign from beginning to end, with Giles’s ex-wife Lady Virginia entering the fray when she came down to Bristol to support the major, who she described as “an honest and decent man.”

Now, fifteen years later, Giles was facing a rerun against the same opponent, and talk of another divorce. Gwyneth, thank heavens, had made it clear that she would not be filing papers until after the election, and although she had no intention of visiting the constituency, she would not be suggesting that anyone should vote for Fisher.

“Thank the Lord for small mercies” was all Griff Haskins had to say. He didn’t raise the subject again.

When the prime minister asked the Queen to dissolve Parliament on 29 May 1970, Giles returned to Bristol the following day to begin the three-week election campaign. As he took to the streets and started canvassing, he was pleasantly surprised by the welcome he received, and by how few people raised the subject of Berlin, or asked where his wife was. The British are not a judgemental lot, Griff observed, although Giles didn’t admit to his agent that Karin was rarely out of his thoughts. He wrote to her every night, just before going to bed and, like a schoolboy, eagerly checked the post each morning. But there was never an envelope with an East German stamp on it.

Emma, Harry, and Seb, plus the redoubtable Labour Party stalwart Miss Parish, who had taken three weeks off work as she did for every election campaign, regularly accompanied Giles when he was out canvassing. Emma dealt with those women who expressed their doubts about Giles following his resignation from the Cabinet, while Seb concentrated on the eighteen-year-olds, who would be voting for the first time.

But the surprise package was Harry, who proved popular on several levels. There were those constituents who wanted to know how his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released was coming along, while others wondered what Detective Inspector Warwick would be up to next. Whenever he was asked who he’d be voting for, Harry always replied, “Like all sensible Bristolians, I’ll be voting for my brother-in-law.”

“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.”