* * *
“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 Fathe
r…”
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…”
21
GRIFF PICKED Giles up from Barrington Hall just before six. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for.
Giles was wearing a charcoal-gray single-breasted suit, a cream shirt, and a Bristol Grammar School tie. He suspected that Fisher would be wearing his usual blue pinstriped double-breasted suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and his regimental tie.
Giles was so nervous that he hardly spoke on the journey to the Hippodrome, and Griff remained accommodatingly quiet. He knew the candidate was silently rehearsing his speech.
Thirty minutes later, they pulled up outside the stage door where Giles had once hung around after a matinee of Pride and Prejudice to get Celia Johnson’s autograph. Griff accompanied his candidate backstage where they were met by Andy Nash, who would be chairing the debate. He looked relieved to see them.
Giles paced up and down in the wings as he waited impatiently for the curtain to go up. Although there was still thirty minutes before the chairman would bang his gavel and call for order, Giles could already hear the buzz of an expectant audience, which made him feel like a finely tuned athlete waiting to be called to the starting line.
A few minutes later, Alex Fisher swept in, surrounded by his entourage, all talking at the tops of their voices. When you’re nervous, Giles decided, it reveals itself in many different ways. Fisher marched straight past him, making no attempt to engage him in conversation and ignoring his outstretched hand.
A moment later, Simon Fletcher, the Liberal candidate, strolled in. How much easier it is to be relaxed when you’ve nothing to lose. He immediately shook hands with Giles and said, “I wanted to thank you.”
“What for?” asked Giles, genuinely puzzled.
“For not continually reminding everyone that I’m not married, unlike Fisher, who mentions the fact at every opportunity.”