Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“My name is Robert Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the Bristol Docklands by-election on May twentieth.” The young man tried to shake hands with a woman who was laden down with shopping bags.

“What are you doing about Concorde?” she asked.

“Everything in my power to make sure the plane will be built at Filton and not Toulouse,” said Fielding.

The woman looked satisfied. “Then I’ll be voting for you. But I’d rather have voted for him,” she said, pointing at Giles. As she walked away, the young man looked despondent.

“Don’t worry about her. On May twenty-first you’ll be the member and I’ll be history.”

“And Concorde?”

“You gave the only credible response. The French will put up a hell of a fight, but then they have every right to, and in the end I suspect the work will be divided fairly equally between the two countries. Just be sure you never spell it with an ‘e,’” said Giles. “You might have asked if her husband worked at Filton because I suspect that’s why she asked the question.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. Anything else?”

“Perhaps Bob Fielding rather than Robert. Don’t want to continually remind your supporters that you went to a public school and Oxford.”

Fielding nodded and turned to the next passerby. “Hello, my name’s Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on May twentieth. I hope you’ll be supporting me.”

“Sorry you’re not standing, Sir Giles.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve chosen an excellent candidate. I hope you’ll be voting for Bob Fielding on Thursday May twentieth.”

“If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.

“Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”

The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.

“Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty cl

ear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”

“But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passer-by.

“Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”

“No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”

“Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.

“Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”

“Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “Employment. You must always try to sound positive.”

“Good morning, my name is Bob…”

“Is that who I think it is?” said Emma, looking across the road.

“It most certainly is,” said Giles.

“Will you introduce me?”

“You must be joking. Nothing would please the lady more than to have her photo on every front page tomorrow morning shaking hands with the former member.”