Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

The little piles grew into large stacks which were then placed next to each other, and as the hours passed it became obvious even to a casual observer that the outcome was going to be extremely close.

The tension on the floor mounted as each hundred, then each thousand, was handed over to the clerk. Rumors that began at one end of the room had been puffed up like soufflés long before they had reached the waiting crowd standing in a chill wind outside the hall. By midnight, several constituencies’ results around the country had been declared. The national swing seemed to be much as predicted, around three percent to Labour, which would give them the promised majority of seventy or over.

At twelve-twenty-one the Coventry town clerk invited all three candidates to join him in the center of the room. He told them the result of the count.

A recount was immediately demanded. The town clerk agreed, and each pile of voting slips was returned to the tables and checked over again.

An hour later the town clerk called the three candidates together again and briefed them on the result of the recount; it had changed by only three votes.

Another recount was requested and the town clerk reluctantly acquiesced. By two o’clock in the morning Elizabeth felt she had no nails left. Another hour passed, during which Heath conceded defeat while Wilson gave an extended interview to ITN spelling out his program for the new Parliament.

At two-twenty-seven the town clerk called the three candidates together for the last time and they all accepted the result. The town clerk walked up on to the stage accompanied by the rivals. He tapped the microphone to check the speaker was working, cleared his throat, and said:

“I, the undersigned, being the acting returning officer for the constituency of Coventry Central, hereby announce the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

Alf Abbott 19,716

Nigel Bainbridge 7,002

Simon Kerslake 19,731

“I therefore declare Simon Kerslake to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Coventry Central.”

Even though the Labour party ended up with an overall majority in the House of ninety-seven, Simon had still won by fifteen votes.

Raymond Could increased his majority to 12,413 in line with the national swing, and Joyce was ready for a week’s rest.

Andrew Fraser improved his vote by 2,468 and announced his engagement to Louise Forsyth on the night after the election.

Charles Seymour could never recall accurately the size of his majority because, as Fiona explained to the old earl the following morning, “They don’t count the Conservative vote in Sussex Downs, darling, they weigh it.”

In most democratic countries a newly elected leader enjoys a transitional period during which he is able to announce the policies he intends to pursue and whom he has selected to implement them. In Britain MPs sit by their phones and wait for forty-eight hours immediately after the election result has been declared. If a call comes in the first twelve hours they will be asked to join the Cabinet, the second twelve given a position as a Minister of State, the third twelve made an Under-Secretary of State, and the last twelve a Parliamentary Private Secretary to a Cabinet minister. If the phone hasn’t rung by then, they remain on the back benches.

Andrew Fraser had not bothered to be anywhere near a phone when the BBC midday news announced that Hugh McKenzie had been promoted from Minister of State to Secretary of State for Scotland, with a seat in the Cabinet. Andrew and Louise Forsyth decided to spend a quiet weekend at Aviemore, he to relax and climb other mountains before returning to the House, she to make plans for their forthcoming wedding.

It had taken Andrew countless trips to Edinburgh to convince Louise what had happened to him at Bute House that night had not been mere infatuation that would soon pass, but held long-term conviction. When the one weekend he couldn’t travel to the Scottish capital and she came down to London he knew she no longer doubted his resolve. Andrew had found in the past that once the conquest was achieved interest soon waned. For him, though, his love for “the wee slip of a thing,” as his mother had come to describe Louise, grew and grew.

Although Louise was only five foot three she was so slim she appeared far taller, and her short black hair, blue eyes, and laughing smile had many tall men bending down to take a closer look.

“You eat like a pig and look like a rake. I don’t know how you manage it,” grumbled Andrew over dinner one night. He played regular games of squash and swam three times a week to keep his own heavy frame in trim. He stared in admiration and not a little envy as Louise’s eyes twinkled mischievously before she devoured another portion of Black Forest gâteau .

Although she had been brought up in a strict Calvinist household in which politics were never discussed Louise quickly learned about the machinery of Government and soon found herself debating long into the night with Sir Duncan. At first he scored points off her with ease, but it was not long before he had to answer her demands with more and more reasoned arguments, and sometimes even that was not enough.

By the time the election had taken place Louise had become a total convert to Andrew’s views. The squalor in some of the parts of the Edinburgh Carlton constituency, which she had never set foot in before, made her sick at heart. Like all converts, she became zealous and began by trying to reform the entire Forsyth clan. She even paid twelve shillings to join the Scottish Labour party.

“Why did you do that?” asked Andrew, trying not to show his pleasure.

“I’m against mixed marriages,” she replied.

Andrew was delighted and surprised by the interest she took, and the local constituency’s suspicions of “the wealthy lady” soon turned to affection.

“Your future husband will be Secretary of State for Scotland one day,” many of them shouted, as she walked down the narrow cobbled streets.

“It’s Downing Street, not Bute House, that I want to live in,” he had once confided to her. “And in any case I’ve still got to become a junior minister.”

“That could change in the very near future.”

“Not while Hugh McKenzie is Secretary of State,” he said, not under his breath.

“To hell with McKenzie,” she said. “Surely one of his Cabinet colleagues has the guts to offer you the chance to be his PPS?” But despite Louise’s sentiments the phone did not ring that weekend.

Raymond Gould returned from Leeds the moment the count was over, leaving Joyce to carry out the traditional “thank you” drive around the constituency.

When he wasn’t sitting by the phone the following day he was walking around it, nervously pushing his glasses back up his nose. The first call came from his mother who had rung to congratulate him.

“On what?” he asked. “Have you heard something?”

“No, love,” she said, “I just rang to say how pleased I was about your increased majority.”

“Oh.”

“And to add how sorry we were not to see you before you left the constituency, especially as you have to pass the shop on the way to the A1.”

Not again, Mother, he wanted to say.

The second call was from a colleague inquiring if Raymond had been offered a job.

“Nothing so far,” he said before learning of his contemporary’s promotion.

The third call was from one of Joyce’s friends.

“When will she be back?” another Yorkshire accent inquired.

“I’ve no idea,” said Raymond, desperate to get the caller off the line.

“I’ll call again this afternoon, then.”