Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“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.

“Tell me, Sir Giles, do you plan to make another trip to Berlin in the near future?”

“That’s below the belt, Seb.”

“Which is exactly where Fisher will aim most of his punches,” said Griff. “So make sure you keep your guard up.”

“He’s right, Seb. Keep on punching.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands...”

“They’ve changed the venue,” said Griff at the morning prayer meeting.

“Why?” asked Giles.

“There’s been such a huge demand for tickets that it’s been moved from the Guildhall to the Hippodrome Theatre.”

“But the Hippo holds two thousand people,” said Giles.

“I wish it held ten thousand,” said Griff. “You’ll never get a better chance to talk to the voters direct.”

“And at the same time expose Fisher for the fraud he is,” said Seb.

“How many seats have been allocated to us?” asked Griff, turning to Miss Parish.

“Each candidate is entitled to three hundred.”

“Any problem in filling our seats with the faithful?”

“None at all, the phone hasn’t stopped for the past week. It could be a Rolling Stones concert. In fact, I’ve been in touch with my opposite number at the Liberal Party, to see if they’ve got any spare tickets.”

“They can’t be stupid enough to release them to you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with stupidity,” said Miss Parish. “I have a feeling it’s something far closer to home.”

“Like what?” said Griff.

“I’ve no idea, but I’ll get to the bottom of it before next Thursday.”

“And what about the remaining tickets?” said Griff. “Who gets those?”

“First come, first served,” said Miss Parish. “I’ll have a hundred of our people standing in the queue an hour before the curtain goes up.”

“So will the Tories,” said Griff. “Better make it two hundred, two hours before.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate...”

For the next week, Giles didn’t let up for one minute, the weekend included. He canvassed, visited pubs, held evening meetings, and attended any gathering where more than half a dozen people were likely to turn up.

On Saturday, he put on his county tie and went to watch Gloucestershire play Middlesex at Nevil Road, but only stayed for about an hour. After walking slowly around the boundary perimeter, making sure all five thousand spectators had seen him, he made his way back to the constituency headquarters on Park Street.

On Sunday, he attended matins, communion, and evensong in three different churches, but during each sermon his thoughts often strayed back to the debate, testing out arguments, phrases, even pauses...

“In the name of the Father...”

By Wednesday, Griff’s polling was showing that Giles was still a couple of points behind, but Seb reminded him, so was Kennedy before his debate with Nixon.

Every detail of the encounter had been analyzed at length. What he should wear, when he should have a haircut, not to shave until an hour before he walked on to the stage, and, if he was offered the choice, to speak last.

“Who’s chairing the debate?” asked Seb.

“Andy Nash, the editor of the Evening News. We want to win votes, he wants to sell newspapers. Everyone has an angle,” said Griff.

“And be sure you’re in bed before midnight,” said Emma. “You’re going to need a good night’s sleep.”

Giles did get to bed before midnight, but he didn’t sleep as he went over his speech again and again, rehearsing answers to all of Seb’s questions. His concentration wasn’t helped by Karin regularly barging into his thoughts. He was up by six, and outside Temple Meads station half an hour later, megaphone in hand once again, ready to face the early morning commuters.

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington...”

“Good luck tonight, Sir Giles, I’ll be there to support you.”

“I don’t live in your constituency, sorry.”

“Where do you stand on flogging?”

“I think I’ll give the Liberals a go this time.”

“Don’t have a spare fag, do you, guv?”

“Good morning...”

Griff picked Giles up from Barrington Hall just before six. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for.