This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

Giles kept to roughly the same routine: same modes of transport, same hours, different constituencies. Far from them being able to spy continuously on each other, their paths rarely crossed.

The polls consistently showed the Labour Party a couple of points ahead, and John Lacy warned Emma that during the last week of any campaign the electorate tended to move toward the government of the day. Emma didn’t get that feeling while she was out canvassing on the high streets, but she did wonder if the voters were just being polite when they spotted her blue rosette and she asked if they’d be voting Conservative. Whenever Mrs. Thatcher was as

ked about the polls as she traveled around the country, she would always reply, “Straw polls are for straw people. Only real people will be voting on May the third.”

Although she and Mrs. Thatcher only had one conversation during the twenty-eight-day campaign, Emma concluded that her party leader was either a very accomplished actress, or really did believe the Conservatives were going to win.

“There are two factors the polls are unable to take into account,” she told Emma. “How many people are unwilling to admit they will vote for a woman prime minister, and how many wives are not telling their husbands they will be voting Conservative for the first time.”

* * *

Both Giles and Emma were in Bristol Docklands on the last day of the campaign, and when ten p.m. struck and the last vote had been cast, neither felt confident enough to predict the final outcome. They both hurried back to London by train, but didn’t share the same carriage.

John Lacy had told Emma that the hierarchy of both parties would descend on their headquarters—Conservative Central Office and Labour’s Transport House, political sentinels perched at different corners of Smith Square—where they would await the results.

“By two a.m.,” Lacy briefed her, “the trend will have been set, and we’ll probably know who’s going to form the next government. By four a.m., the lights will be blazing in one building and celebrations will continue until daybreak.”

“And in the other building?” said Emma.

“The lights will begin to go out around three, when the vanquished will make their way home and decide who to blame as they prepare for opposition.”

“What do you think the result will be?” Emma had asked the chief agent on the eve of the poll.

“Predictions are for mugs and bookies,” Lacy had retorted. “But whatever the result,” he added, “it’s been a privilege to work with the Boadicea of Bristol.”

When the train pulled into Paddington, Emma leapt off and grabbed the first available taxi. Arriving back in Smith Square, she was relieved to find that Giles hadn’t yet appeared, but Harry was waiting for her. She quickly showered and changed her clothes before the two of them made their way across to the other side of the square.

She was surprised how many people recognized her. Some even applauded as she passed by, while others stared at her in sullen silence. Then a cheer went up, and Emma turned to see her brother getting out of a car and waving to his party’s supporters before disappearing into Transport House.

Emma reentered a building she had become all too familiar with during the past month, and was greeted by several leading party apparatchiks she’d come across while out on the campaign trail. People surrounded televisions in every room, as supporters, party workers, and Central Office staff waited for the first result to come in. Not a politician in sight. They were all back in their constituencies, waiting to find out if they were still Members of Parliament.

Croydon Central was declared at 1:23 a.m., with a swing of 1.8 percent to the Conservatives. Only muted cheers were offered up because everyone knew that suggested a hung parliament, with Jim Callaghan returning to the palace to be asked if he could form a government.

At 1:43 a.m. the cheers became louder when the Conservatives captured Basildon, which on Emma’s chart suggested a Conservative majority of around 30. After that, the results began to come in thick and fast, including a recount in Bristol Docklands.

By the time Mrs. Thatcher drove over from her Finchley constituency just after three a.m., the lights were already going out in Transport House. As she entered Central Office, the doubters were suddenly long-term supporters, and the long-term supporters were looking forward to joining her first administration.

The leader of the opposition paused halfway up the stairs and made a short speech of thanks. Emma was touched that hers was among the names mentioned in dispatches. After shaking several outstretched hands, Mrs. Thatcher left the building a few minutes later, explaining that she had a busy day ahead of her. Emma wondered if she would even go to bed.

Just after four a.m., Emma dropped into John Lacy’s office for the last time to find him standing by the chart and filling in the latest results.

“What’s your prediction?” she asked as she stared at a sea of blue boxes.

“It’s looking like a majority of over forty,” Lacy replied. “More than enough to govern for the next five years.”

“And our sixty-two marginal seats?” Emma asked.

“We’ve won all except three, but they’re on their third recount in Bristol Docklands, so it could be just two.”

“I think we can allow Giles that one,” Emma whispered.

“I always knew you were a closet wet,” said Lacy.

Emma thought about her brother, and how he must be feeling now.

“Goodnight, John,” she said. “And thank you for everything. See you in five years’ time,” she added before making her way out of the building and back across to her home on the other side of the square, where she planned to return to the real world.

* * *