by Paul Gallico
‘It’s not that Ada Harris is a fool,’ Bayswater concluded his narrative, ‘you know that, Your Excellency, and you too, sir and madam,’ addressing the Marquis de Chassagne and Mr and Mrs Joel Schreiber directly, ‘or even puffed up or vain. It’s none of that. It’s just that she’s got a heart as big as a house and they deceived her by saying that she would be able to do so much for everyone if she got into Parliament. You know how women are when it comes to a chance of airing their views – begging your pardon, madam. And not being experienced with anything to do with politics, she believed them. Now she’s convinced she’s as good as elected – you know how she is, sir – in some ways just like a child – and when they let her down she might never get over it. She’s just got to be elected.’
The conference, which John Bayswater had been addressing movingly from a somewhat delicate balance on the edge of a spidery Louis XV chair, was taking place in the drawing-room of the elegant London residence in Chester Square of the Marquis. It included himself and Mr and Mrs Joel Schreiber, America’s film tycoon and now a television millionaire.
Joel Schreiber was the first to speak. He said vehemently, ‘By God, Bayswater, you’re right and you’ve come to the right person. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that good woman, after what she’s done for Henrietta and me, and little Henry who, by the way, sends you his regards.’
The Marquis de Chassagne arose from the sofa on which he had been sitting and strode the room, tall and erect for all of his advanced age, but there was a worried air upon his features. He said, ‘It would be a good thing if the tables could be turned upon these schemers, but it seems to me very doubtful. I am not au courant with the politics of this particular district, but I suppose these people you have told us about would not have attempted to engineer such a plot unless they were certain it would work. At the moment I don’t see …’
Joel Schreiber reached inside the pocket of his jacket, expanded by his somewhat rotund form – he was a stout, hard-headed, balding, little man – and produced a long, black object easily identifiable as a cheque book. ‘This is how,’ he said. ‘The first thing we do is establish a campaign fund. I’m sure she hasn’t got a dime. I’m telling you, as far as I’m concerned, the sky’s the limit.’
Bayswater’s eyes gleamed. He had been certain of support from that quarter, and said, ‘I was sure I could count upon your assistance, sir. If perhaps you could advance us a hundred pounds, it would be most …’
Schreiber was looking at him as though he were out of his mind. He said, ‘A hundred what? Did I hear you say a hundred pounds?’
Somewhat taken aback, Bayswater said, ‘Why y-yes, sir. If it isn’t asking too much. We could probably make do with fifty. I happen to have a little money of my own.’
‘A hundred pounds,’ repeated Schreiber, ‘two hundred and eighty dollars! Why you couldn’t get elected dog-catcher in Punkin Seed, Iowa, for two hundred and eighty bucks! You mean a hundred thousand, don’t you? You name it, we’ve got it. Momma here, and me, we’re counting ourselves in on this election.’
Bayswater gasped in absolute horror. ‘A hundred thousand pounds! My goodness gracious, sir, that would never be allowed.’
‘Not be allowed …?’
‘No, sir. I’ve found out that a hundred pounds is the maximum any candidate is permitted to contribute or accept towards expenses for his election. The entire constituency is limited to £450 total.’
The room was thick with Mr Schreiber’s incredulity. ‘You mean a little over a grand for the works – for everyone? Even the Prime Minister?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. The Prime Minister must stand for a seat in the House of Commons from his constituency just like anyone else.’
Mr Schreiber put his cheque book back in his pocket and mopped the front of his skull. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ he said. ‘How does anybody ever get elected to anything in this country? It takes money to run a campaign the way it should be. Offices, staff, pretty girls, flowers, lapel buttons and badges, mimeograph machines, campaign literature, printing, stationery and stamps, travel and transportation, entertainment, persuasion, clambakes, barbecues, corn roasts, souvenirs, bands, banners, liquor, cigars, drum-majorettes, hiring halls, radio and television time, photographers, newspaper and magazine advertising, fireworks, speech writers, loudspeaker wagons, telephones, tips, balloons, transparencies, bill-boards, not to mention what you’ve got to pay for votes these days – all those things cost money, boy. Don’t tell me that your two-bit organization over there in Battersea can afford to get a show like that on the road!’
In spite of his anxieties, Bayswater was deeply shocked. ‘Oh, my dear sir,’ he said, ‘we would never do anything like that over here! One or two speeches in the district, a bit of house-to-house canvassing, perhaps a rally in the local hall and a whist drive, and that’s about the limit.’
‘A whist drive!’ Schreiber said in amazement, ‘You mean you all get around, sit down and play cards?’
‘No, no, sir! It’s not quite like that …’
But Joel Schreiber was shaking his head and saying to the Marquis, ‘Can you beat these people?’ He turned to Bayswater once more. ‘Don’t you ever hire a place like the Albert Hall, or Earls Court for speeches?’
‘I should hope not, sir.’
‘Or have parades with animals like, or floats? For instance, see, the Democrats in America have donkeys and the Republicans an elephant to stand for them. So in the parade we’d have donkeys or an elephant.’
‘That would be considered very bad taste, sir.’
‘Or sky-writing, or an airplane pulling a streamer?’
‘I doubt if the police would allow it.’
‘You don’t even kiss babies, I suppose?’
Bayswater looked relieved to be able at last to come up with something. ‘Oh, yes, sir. We do kiss babies regularly,’ he said. ‘A very repulsive custom.’ And then as he remembered an item from the long list of extravagances that seemed to attend American politics he added, ‘They go on telly, too, when they can. But that’s where the trouble lies.’
‘What trouble?’
‘Well, you see, sir, they won’t let Ada go on the telly, though I’m sure she’d be most able.’ And then he explained the further restrictions on British politicians; so much free time allotted to each Party with the Central Committee deciding upon who should appear, etc.
Schreiber said, ‘OK, that’s on the BBC. But what about commercial television? Supposing somebody wanted to buy time, say a whole hour of it, and pay for it?’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t be allowed to, sir. And, besides, the limitation of expenses would see to that, wouldn’t it?’
But Schreiber was now on to something about which he knew a great deal and was not prepared to let go. ‘But what if they were invited on to some shows? Like a sort of guest star?’
Bayswater began to see the drift and perked up, ‘I suppose that would be all right, sir, so long as they didn’t make political speeches.’
Schreiber said, ‘Who needs to make political speeches? So we load the questions and all she has to do is give the answers.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Momma, how many shows have we got control of over here?’
Mrs Schreiber began to count on her fingers. ‘Well, there’s “What Do You Think?” …’
Bayswater quickly interpolated, ‘Oh, she’d like that. She always looks at that one.’
‘… “Guess Again”,’ Mrs Schreiber continued, ‘and – “Mother Hubbard’s Household Hints”.’
‘Say,’ interrupted Schreiber enthusiastically, ‘that one would be great for her, wouldn’t it? Millions of women watch that. She’d put them in her pocket.’
‘… Then we got the “Battle of the Sexes” men against the women quiz and a couple of others I can’t think of right now.’
Schreiber said, ‘OK, Bayswater, so we got Ada on television. What do we do next? Marquis, you’re more savvy than the rest of us on this political stuff, have you got any
suggestions?’
Bayswater said, ‘I was wondering whether Your Excellency might not issue some sort of statement to the press, endorsing Mrs Harris. It would, I am sure, carry tremendous weight with the class of people who might ordinarily not be expected to support her position.’
Joel Schreiber said with glee, ‘Say, that’s a great idea, Bayswater! How about it, Marquis? My office here could arrange for the press conference.’
‘My dear friends,’ the Marquis replied, ‘I regret that it is impossible.’
All three stared at him in stunned silence.
‘Consider the circumstances,’ the Marquis continued gently but firmly. ‘I am a diplomat, the Ambassador of France to the United States of America. If I were to issue such a statement it would be looked upon at Whitehall, the Quai d’Orsay, not to mention the State Department and the White House, as an unwarrantable interference in the internal affairs of a friendly power.’
They all stared at him aghast and Bayswater, as he sometimes did when he was deeply shocked, reverted to his earlier days when he was less cultured, for he was heard to murmur, ‘Blimey!’
‘Not to overlook the fact that at the moment the relationship of our three countries is, shall we say, slightly delicate owing to NATO and the Common Market. Any such interference on a Government or diplomatic level would be deeply resented. Such a statement would do our dear friend Mrs Harris not only no good but, on the contrary, might work incalculable harm.’
Gloom, so thick that it might have served for a London fog, enveloped the drawing-room and the Marquis attempted to dispel it with, ‘Don’t despair, my friends, I am as anxious as you to be of some assistance to this astonishing person who in one way or another has managed to bring more than a little sunshine into all of our lives. Wait. Let me reflect.’
Reflection consisted of lighting a mild cigar, after offering the box first to Schreiber and then to Bayswater and pacing the room, his exquisite, white-haired, leonine head in the air, which was his manner of working upon knotty problems, while the other three watched him silently and anxiously like disciples waiting for the Messiah to speak. And when finally he came to rest in the centre of the room, a little smile curled under his moustaches and an almost Machiavellian expression in the penetrating, blue eyes beneath the tufted eyebrows seemed to suggest the ghost of very youthful mischief. What he had to say was most certainly the last thing any of them expected to hear.
‘But of course,’ he explained, waving his cigar, ‘since a statement in favour of Mrs Harris would work, as I have suggested, untold damage, why then there must be a statement against her!’
‘Against her!’ All three united in this cry of protest and Mrs Schreiber said, ‘Oh, Marquis, you couldn’t do a thing like that to her!’
Bayswater said, ‘Surely you can’t mean that, Your Excellency?’
Joel Schreiber put it more informally. ‘You’re kidding, ain’t you, Marquis?’
‘No, I’m quite serious.’
Schreiber queried, ‘But what do you mean, against her? I don’t get it. The idea is to help her.’
The Marquis now no longer smiled. He said, ‘My friends, you will have to trust me. I have only the welfare of Mrs Harris at heart and I shall say nothing further. In my profession the best results are obtained frequently by refraining from letting the left hand know what the right hand is up to, or vice-versa. This is one of those instances where it is best for you to remain innocent. I can only promise you that if things turn out as I think they will, Mrs Harris will be positively swamped with votes.’
Joel Schreiber knew a gentleman of his word when he encountered one. ‘That’s good enough for me,’ he said.
Bayswater, too, was convinced, and added, ‘I am sure we will all be most grateful to you, Your Excellency.’
The Marquis nodded and said, ‘Very well then, we are agreed. And, by the way, Bayswater, what is your contribution to be towards raising the level of the British Parliament?’
Joel Schreiber said, ‘Ain’t he done enough by telling us and getting us to come? I call that using his nut.’
‘Yes, indeed, that is true.’
‘Well,’ said Bayswater, looking from Schreiber to the Marquis and rising from the edge of his chair, retrieving his chauffeur’s cap at the same time, since as far as he was concerned it was ‘Mission Accomplished’, ‘I did have something of an idea that perhaps some friends of mine and myself would be doing a bit of bell-ringing on behalf of Mrs Harris.’
But not for anything would he have revealed to them the extent of the plan that had come full-flowered into his head during the conference. For he was afraid that they would have laughed at him.
When they had all departed, the Marquis went to a telephone, dialled a Paris number and when the connection had clicked through, said in French, ‘Hello? – L’Étoile? Will you put me through, please, to my son-in-law, Monsieur de Latocque. This is the Marquis de Chassagne speaking from London.’
The Marquis was on the telephone to his son-in-law, who happened to be the Editor of L’Étoile, one of the great Paris newspapers, with a tremendous circulation as well as influence, for some ten, completely satisfactory minutes. For when he had finished and hung up, he was smiling to himself somewhat in the manner of a naughty boy who has lit the fuse of a giant firecracker under a policeman and can hardly wait for it to go off.
8
The campaign of Mrs Ada Harris for the Parliamentary seat of East Battersea started off exactly as Mr Charles Smyce had planned and arranged; namely, like a very damp squib. A ghastly meeting was held in a dismal, broken-down hall to which only a dozen people came, due to the regrettable error of someone who sent out the notices containing not only the wrong date but the wrong address as well. Street corner gatherings were equally desultory, for they took place at the wrong time in the wrong districts. Party workers enthusiastic for her cause suddenly found themselves side-tracked or tangled in a confusion of orders. Campaign literature was interminably delayed at the printers. Nothing went right or as it should.
Sir Wilmot and Aldershot would most certainly have smelled a rat had they been there, but unfortunately they were not. The latter was busy mending his fences and preparing to fight for re-election in his own constituency, while the former was tossing on a bed of pain in his country home with aching limbs and a flaming throat. The bug which he had apparently defeated the first time had returned bringing a lot of friends. Thus, Bayswater found himself temporarily freed. When in the country Lady Corrison liked to drive herself in her own car.
Even so, Sir Wilmot kept up with affairs, receiving reports with, of course, those emanating from brother Smyce heavily doctored. Soothing to Sir Wilmot’s fevered brow was the news that up at Fairford Cross, Coates had kept his word by bringing about the nomination of Bunderson, an ex-Justice of the Peace, who had alienated practically everyone in the county at one time or another by embarking on a kick of law enforcements of petty and obsolete statutes. There would be no trouble from the Labour candidate who was apparently the local apothecary, a half-blind septuagenarian known as Uncle Bill Badger. From his bed, where he viewed it between bouts of fever, all was looking well for Sir Wilmot’s little idea.
To the Party workers and others back in East Battersea, taking orders from Charlie Smyce, the running of the campaign appeared neither more slipshod nor feckless, nor even much different from previous efforts.
As for Mrs Harris, it was all new to her and she could not possibly have suspected the manner in which she was being sabotaged. She was quite content to stand at street corners in a drizzling rain and expound her theories of the good life to four people and a small boy.
But on the third night of this disastrous beginning, a most astonishing rendezvous took place in one of the side streets between the King’s Road and Chelsea Embankment, not far from Battersea Bridge. Some dozen and a half Rolls-Royces were drawn up, one behind the other, bumper to bumper, reflecting the lamp standards as in a mirror from their spotless, shining
coachwork and glittering chrome. They came in every shade, shape and design; saloons, limousines, town cars, special bodies, including the Radford Conversion. They looked as though they might have been arrayed for the Prix d’Élégance at Monte Carlo.
No less gleaming were their uniformed chauffeurs, many of them matching the colours of their cars, their boots, leggings and cap visors polished to a degree even beyond that of ‘n’. These were all now gathered at the head of the line, captained by none other than Bayswater with Sir Wilmot’s Golden Cloud Super Phantom, and it was Bayswater who was engaged in calling the roll.
‘Trimper?’
‘Here.’
‘Beesworth?’
‘Present.’
‘Badgall?’
‘Hup.’
‘Timson?’
‘Right.’
‘Scudder?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Crump?’
‘OK.’
‘Adcock?’
‘On the job.’
‘Peckett?’
‘Ready.’
And so on, down the list he held in his fingers until he had established that none was missing. They were all his friends of long standing, members of one of the most exclusive fraternities in the world, the drivers and caretakers of the Rolls-Royces of London. They were specialists who considered chauffeurs of other makes of cars, even Bentleys, as beneath them. They associated only with their own kind, spoke their own language and were probably the greatest and most closed coterie of snobs to be found in the British Isles. There is no chill exported from the frozen north to compare with the look the Rolls-Royce driver bestows upon some lower species that sidles up alongside him in traffic.
‘Now, you all know what you have to do and say,’ Bayswater reminded them. ‘Once we’ve crossed the river we peel off and fan out. Get in as many visits as you can. As long as there’s a light showing they’ll be looking at the telly, at least until eleven. Everyone who can get off meets here again tomorrow night, at the same time. All right then, gentlemen, good luck!’