Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles 3)

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Giles. 'Perhaps he's just shy. After all, no one loved you when you first went to St Bede's.' He turned back to the barman. 'Two more halves, please.'

'Coming right up, sir.'

'And how's my favourite girlfriend?' asked Giles.

'If you're referring to Jessica,' said Harry, 'you'll have to join a long queue. Everybody loves that little girl, from Cleopatra to the postman, but she only loves her dad.'

'When will you tell her who her real father is?' said Giles, lowering his voice.

'I keep asking myself that question. And you don't have to tell me I'm storing up trouble for the future, but I never seem to find the right time.'

'There won't ever be a right time,' said Giles. 'But don't leave it too long, because one thing's certain, Emma will never tell her, and I'm fairly certain Seb's already worked it out for himself.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Not here,' said Giles, as another constituent slapped him on the back.

The barman placed two half pints on the counter. 'That'll be ninepence, sir.'

As Harry had paid for the first round, he assumed it must be Giles's turn.

'Sorry,' said Giles, 'but I'm not allowed to pay.'

'Not allowed to pay?'

'No. A candidate is not permitted to buy any drinks during an election campaign.'

'Ah,' said Harry, 'at last I've found a reason for wanting to be an MP. But why, pray?'

'It might be thought I was trying to buy your vote. Goes back to the reform of the rotten boroughs.'

'I'd want a damn sight more than half a pint before I'd consider voting for you,' said Harry.

'Keep your voice down,' said Giles. 'After all, if my brother-in-law isn't willing to vote for me, the press are bound to ask, why should anyone else?'

'As this clearly isn't the time or the place for a conversation on family matters, is there any chance of you joining Emma and me for dinner on Sunday evening?'

'Not a hope. I have three church services to attend on Sunday, and don't forget, it's the last Sunday before the election.'

'Oh God,' said Harry, 'is the election next Thursday?'

'Damn,' said Giles. 'It's a golden rule that you never remind a Tory of the date of the election. Now I'll have to rely on God to support me, and I'm still not altogether sure which side he's on. I shall fall on my knees on Sunday morning at Matins, seek his guidance during Vespers and pray during evensong, and then hope the vote will end up two to one in my favour.'

'Do you really have to go to such extremes, just to win a few more votes?'

'Of course you do if you are contesting a marginal constituency. And don't forget, church services get far bigger turnouts than I ever manage at my political meetings.'

'But I thought the church was meant to be neutral?'

'And so it should be, but vicars will always tell you they have absolutely no interest in politics, while having few qualms about letting their parishioners know exactly which party they will be voting for, and often from the pulpit.'

'Do you want another half, as I'm paying?' asked Harry.

'No. I can't waste any more time chatting to you. You not only don't have a vote in this constituency, but even if you did, you wouldn't be backing me.' He leapt off his stool, shook hands with the barman and dashed out of the pub on to the pavement, where he smiled at the first person he saw.

'Good afternoon, sir. My name is Giles Barrington and I hope I can count on your support next Thursday at the general election.'

'I don't live in this constituency, mate, I'm down from Birmingham for the day.'

On the day of the election, Giles's agent, Griff Haskins, told the candidate he felt confident the voters of Bristol Docklands would keep faith with their member and send him back to represent them in the House of Commons, even if it was with a slightly reduced majority. However, he was not convinced that the Labour Party would hold on to power.

Griff turned out to be right on both counts, because at three o'clock on the morning of 27 October 1951, the returning officer announced that after three recounts, Sir Giles Barrington was duly elected as the Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands, with a majority of 414 votes.

Once all the results across the nation had come in, the Conservative Party ended up with an overall majority of 17 seats, and Winston Churchill once again found himself residing at No.10 Downing Street. The first election he'd won as Conservative leader.

The following Monday, Giles drove up to London and took his seat in the House of Commons. The chatter in the corridors was that as the Tories only had a majority of 17, it wouldn't be long before another election had to be called.

Giles knew that whenever that took place, with a majority of only 414, he would be fighting for his political life, and if he didn't win it could well be the end of his career as an MP.

11

THE BUTLER HANDED Sir Giles his post on a silver tray. Giles flicked quickly through it, as he did every morning, separating the long, thin, brown envelopes, which he placed to one side, from the white, square ones which he would open immediately. Among the envelopes that caught his attention that morning was a long, thin white one that bore a Bristol postmark. He tore it open.

He pulled out a single sheet of paper addressed To Whom It May Concern. Once he'd read it, he looked up and smiled at Virginia, who had joined him for a late breakfast.

'It will all be done and dusted next Wednesday,' he announced.

Virginia didn't look up from her copy of the Daily Express. She always began the morning with a cup of black coffee and William Hickey, so she could find out what her friends were up to, and which debutantes were hoping to be presented at court that year, and which had no chance.

'What will be done and dusted?' she asked, still not looking up.

'Mama's will.'

Virginia forgot all about hopeful debutantes, folded her newspaper and smiled sweetly at Giles. 'Tell me more, my darling.'

'The reading of the will is to take place in Bristol next Wednesday. We could drive down on Tuesday afternoon, spend the night at the Hall, and attend the reading the next day.'

'What time will it be read?'

Giles glanced at the letter once again. 'Eleven o'clock, in the offices of Marshall, Baker and Siddons.'

'Would you mind terribly, Bunny, if we drove down early on the Wednesday morning? I don't think I can face another evening being nice to your chippy sister.'

Giles was about to say something, but changed his mind. 'Of course, my love.'

'Stop calling me "my love", Bunny, it's dreadfully common.'

'What sort of day have you got ahead of you, my darling?'

'Hectic, as usual. I never seem to stop nowadays. Another dress fitting this morning, lunch with the bridesmaids, and then this afternoon I have an appointment with the caterers, who are pressing me on numbers.'

'What's the latest?' asked Giles.

'Just over two hundred from my side, and another hundred and thirty from yours. I was rather hoping to send out the invitations next week.'

'That's fine by me,' said Giles. 'Which reminds me,' he added, 'the speaker has granted my request to use the Commons' terrace for the reception, so perhaps we ought to invite him as well.'