First Among Equals

“I know, but it did help me to swing the ladies on the Women’s Advisory Committee round to my way of thinking.”

“You’re a rogue, Father.”

“No, I’m not. There isn’t a Conservative in Scotland who would rather see Frank Boyle in the House than you, and as we have no chance of winning the seat, why let him in?”

Louise and Clarissa spent the Christmas recess in Edinburgh. Sir Duncan warned Louise that if Andrew lost this election he could never hope to return to the House of Commons again.

During 1983 Margaret Thatcher stuck firm to her monetarist policies and brought inflation below four percent, while in parts of Scotland unemployment rose to fifteen percent. She had gradually stifled any opposition from the “wets” and by the end of her first administration they were totally outmaneuvered. But it was the outcome of the Falklands crisis that had kept her ahead in the opinion polls for over a year. The press speculated on the date of the general election all through the month of April, and after the Conservatives’ success in the local elections on 5 May the Prime Minister sought an audience with the Queen. Shortly afterward Margaret Thatcher told the nation that she needed another five years to continue her policies and prove that they worked. The election date was set for 9 June.

Once the election campaign had begun in earnest Stuart Gray interviewed all three candidates on behalf of the Scotsman and told Andrew he had a plan to help him.

“You can’t,” said Andrew. “You’re bound to remain neutral and give all three candidates equal column inches during the campaign.”

“Agreed,” said Stuart. “But on the one hand we know Frank Boyle is sharp and has the looks of an escaped convict, while Jamie Lomax looks like a film star but makes crass statements every time he opens his mouth.”

“So?” said Andrew.

“So I’m going to cover the political pages with the worst shots I can find of Boyle and fill up inch after inch with the sayings of Lomax. They’ll both get equal coverage while at the same time they’ll lose votes.”

“They’ll suss it out and complain to the editor.”

“I doubt it,” said Stuart. “I have yet to meet a politician who complained about having his photo in the paper, or one who was angered by seeing his mad views aired to a larger audience than he could have hoped to influence in the past.”

“And what do you propose to do about me?”

“That’s a problem,” admitted Stuart, laughing. “Perhaps I’ll leave the columns blank. That’s one way you can’t lose votes.”

Whenever Andrew carried out a door-to-door canvass he found a clear division between those who still backed him and those who thought he had been disloyal to the Labour party. As the canvass returns came in and the colors were put out on the trestle tables in the new party headquarters it became clear from even a cursory glance that it was going to be his toughest election yet.

Andrew had experienced some dirty campaigns over the years, especially when he had been up against the Scottish Nationalists, but after only a few days he had sweet memories of Jock McPherson who was Little Red Riding Hood compared with Boyle. Andrew could just about tolerate hearing that he had been thrown out of the Labour party because he was such a lazy member, even that he had left them in the lurch because he had been told he could never hope to be a minister again, but when it was repeated to him that the Boyle camp were spreading a rumor that Louise had lost her voice because, when she had her baby, it turned out to be black he was furious.

If Andrew had seen Boyle that day he would undoubtedly have hit him. Sir Duncan counseled restraint, pointing out that any other action could only harm Louise and Clarissa. Andrew took a deep breath and said nothing.

With a week to go a local opinion poll in the Scotsman showed Boyle leading by thirty-five percent to Andrew’s thirty-two. The Conservatives had nineteen percent but fourteen percent remained undecided. Jock McPherson had kept his word: no Scottish Nationalist candidate had entered the lists.

On the Friday before the election McPherson went one better by issuing a statement advising his supporters to back Andrew Fraser.

When Andrew phoned to thank him, he said, “I’m returning a favor.”

“l don’t remember ever doing you a favor,” said Andrew.

“You certainly did, remembering you’re an Edinburgh man. One mention to the press of my offer of the leadership of the Scottish Nationalists and I’d have been sunk down the nearest pothole.”

With five days to go Alliance supporters from the two Edinburgh constituencies which were not fielding an SDP candidate swarmed in to help Andrew, and he began to believe the canvass returns that were now showing he could win. With two days to go the Scotsman proclaimed it was thirty-nine percent to thirty-eight percent in Boyle’s favor, but also went on to point out that the Labour party would have a better-oiled machine to depend on when it came to polling day.

In his eve-of-poll message Andrew issued a clear statement on why his views differed from those of his opponent in the Labour party, and how he saw the future of Britain if the Alliance gained enough seats to hold the balance of power. He reminded voters that without exception the national opinion polls showed the SDP now running neck and neck with Labour.

Frank Boyle also put out an eve-of-poll message, delivered to every house in the constituency, showing a picture of Andrew holding Clarissa in his arms under the caption “Does your member tell you the whole truth?” There was no mention of Louise or Clarissa in the text but the innuendo could not have been clearer. Andrew didn’t see the sheet until the morning of polling day by which time he knew there was nothing effective he could do to refute Boyle’s implied slur. Issuing a writ that could not be dealt with until weeks after the election was over could only prove impotent. He either won the day or he lost it.

To that end, he and Louise never stopped working from seven that morning until ten at night. Helpers arrived from the most unexpected places, as if to prove the Scotsman wrong about the Labour party machine, but Andrew couldn’t help noticing that there were red rosettes everywhere he went.

Toward the end of the day even Sir Duncan joined him and began chauffeuring SDP voters to the polls in his Rolls Royce.

“We’ve faced the fact that our candidate has lost so now I’ve come to help you,” he told Andrew bluntly.

As the city hall clock struck ten Andrew sat down on the steps of the last polling station. He knew there was nothing he could do now. He had done everything possible, only avoiding members of the House of Lords and lunatics—neither of which group was entitled to vote.

An old lady was coming out of the polling station with a smile on her face.