First Among Equals

“Because the oil belongs to us, not those bloody Sassenachs.”

“Surely it’s better for the United Kingdom to remain as one body?” suggested Andrew. “At least that way—”

“Never. The Act of 1707 was a disgrace to our nation.”

“But—” began Louise enthusiastically. Andrew put a hand on her arm. “Thank you, sir, for your time,” and prodded his wife gently down the path.

“Sorry, Louise,” said Andrew, when they were back on the pavement. “Once they mention the 1707 Act of Union we have no chance; some Scots have remarkably long memories.”

He knocked on the next door. A fat man answered it, a dog lead in his hand.

“My name is Andrew Fraser, I—”

“Get lost, creep,” came back the reply.

“Who are you calling creep?” Louise retaliated as the door was slammed in their faces. “Charming man.”

“Don’t be offended, darling. He was referring to me, not you.”

“What will you put by his name?”

“A question mark. No way of telling who he votes for. Probably abstains.”

He tried the next door.

“Hello, Andrew,” said a lady before he could open his mouth. “Don’t waste your time on me, I always vote for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Irvine,” said Andrew, checking his house list. “What about your next-door neighbor?” he asked, pointing back.

“Ah, he’s an irritable old basket, but I’ll see he gets to the polls on the day and puts his cross in the right box. He’d better, or I’ll stop keeping an eye on his greyhound for him when he’s out.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Irvine,” said Andrew, laughing.

“One more red,” he told Louise as they returned to the pavement.

“And you might even pick up the greyhound vote.”

They covered four streets during the next three hours, and Andrew put red lines through those names he was certain would support him on polling day.

“Why do you have to be so sure?” asked Louise.

“Because when we pick them up to vote on election day we don’t want to remind the opposition, let alone arrange a lift for someone who then takes pleasure in voting Tory.”

Louise laughed. “Politics is so dishonest.”

“Be relieved you’re not married to an American senator,” said Andrew, putting a red line through the last name in the street. “At least we don’t have to be millionaires to stand. Time for a quick bite before the evening meeting,” he added, taking his wife’s hand. On their way back to their headquarters they came across their Conservative opponent, but Andrew didn’t respond when Hector McGregor tried to engage him in conversation, again holding him up.

Louise never joined her husband again on these sessions, deciding she could be of more use working back in the Committee Rooms.

In the public meetings held each evening, Andrew made the same speech thirty-two times in twenty-four days with only slight variations to account for national developments. Louise sat loyally through every one of them, always laughing at his punch lines and starting the clapping whenever he made a telling point. Somehow she managed to remain fresh and lively even at the end of the day when she drove her husband home.

By the eve of the election all the press were predicting a clear majority for Labour, but Andrew observed the gleam in his father’s eye when he passed him in the street canvassing for McGregor.

At five-thirty on the morning of the election Louise woke Andrew with a cup of tea. He didn’t see another cup that day. To his relief the sun was shining when he pulled back the curtains after he had had his bath: bad weather invariably helped the Tories with their never-ending pool of cars, ferrying voters to the polling booths. He returned to the bedroom to find his wife pinning to the lapel of his jacket a vast red rosette bearing the exhortation, “Send Fraser back to Westminster.”

He was strolling through the streets of Edinburgh shaking hands, chatting to well-wishers, trying to convince last-minute “don’t knows” when he spotted his father heading toward him. They ended up facing each other in the middle of the street.

“It’s going to be a close-run thing,” said Sir Duncan.