Mightier Than the Sword

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I can see it now,” said Giles. “Vote for Barrington if you’ve had an extramarital affair.”

  Emma scowled at her brother, clearly disapproving of Griff’s casual attitude to Giles’s behavior.

  “And here’s another one,” said Griff, ignoring Giles’s comment. “Dear Sir Giles, I’ve never voted Labour before, but I’d prefer to vote for a sinner than for someone like Alex Fisher who poses as a saint. Yours reluctantly, etc. But this one’s my favorite. Dear Sir Giles, I must say I admire your taste in women. I’m off to Berlin next week and wondered if you could give me her phone number.”

  I only wish I knew her phone number, thought Giles.

  * * *

  FISHER TURNS DOWN DEBATE CHALLENGE.

  “He’s made his first mistake,” said Griff, turning the paper around so they could all see the headline on the front page.

  “But he’s the one with a three percent lead in the polls,” said Giles. “That’s not a mistake, it’s just common sense.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Griff, “but it’s his reason for turning you down that’s the mistake. I quote, ‘I wouldn’t want to be seen in the same room as that man.’ A foolish error. People don’t like personal attacks, so we must take advantage of it. Make it clear that you will turn up, and if he doesn’t the electorate can draw their own conclusions.” Griff continued to read the article, and it was not long before he smiled for a second time. “It’s not often that the Liberals come to our aid, but Simon Fletcher has told the News that he’ll be happy to participate in the debate. But then, he’s got nothing to lose. I’ll issue a press statement immediately. Meanwhile, you lot get back to work. You’re not winning any votes sitting around in my office.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth…”

  Just as Giles was beginning to feel a little more confident about the outcome, a Gallup Poll in the Daily Mail predicted for the first time that Edward Heath and the Tories were on track to win the election with a thirty-seat majority.

  “We’re thirty-fifth on the list of seats the Tories will need to capture if they hope to get an overall majority,” said Giles.

  “Read the small print,” responded Griff. “The same poll is saying that Bristol Docklands is too close to call. And by the way, have you seen today’s Evening News?” He passed the first edition to the candidate.

  Giles rather admired the neutral stance the News always took during an election campaign, only coming out in favor of a particular candidate on the day before the election, and in the past it hadn’t always backed him. But today it broke its rule with a couple of weeks to go. In a leader, the paper made its position clear, below the damning headline:

  WHAT’S HE FRIGHTENED OF?

  It went on to say that if Major Fisher failed to turn up for next Thursday’s debate, they would be recommending that their readers vote Labour, and return Giles Barrington to Westminster.

  “Let’s pray he doesn’t turn up,” said Giles.

  “He’ll turn up all right,” said Griff, “because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose the election. Our next problem is how we handle him when he does.”

  “But surely it ought to be Fisher who’s worried,” said Emma. “After all, Giles is a far more accomplished debater, with over twenty years’ parliamentary experience.”

  “That won’t matter a damn on the night,” said Miss Parish, “if we don’t find a way of dealing with the elephant in the room.”

  Griff nodded. “We may have to use our secret weapon.”

  “What have you got in mind?” asked Giles.

  “Harry. We’ll put him in the front row, facing the audience, and get him to read the first chapter of his next book. Then no one will even notice what’s happening on stage.”

  Everyone laughed except Harry. “What are you implying?” he asked.

  * * *

  “Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on…”

  I’LL BE THERE, screamed the headline on the front page of the Bristol Evening News the following day.

  Giles read the article that followed, and accepted that the debate might well decide who would be the next Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands.

  Griff agreed and suggested Giles should take time off to prepare as if he was being cross-examined by Robin Day, the BBC’s political interrogator. He asked Seb to play the role of Alex Fisher.

  “Do you feel that a man with your lack of morals should be standing for Parliament?”

  “Whose side are you on, Seb?”

  “He’s on your side,” said Griff, “and you’d better have an answer to that question by next Thursday night.”

  “May I ask why we haven’t seen your wife in the constituency during the election campaign?”

  “She’s visiting her parents in Wales.”

  “That’s at least a thousand votes down the drain,” said Griff.

  “Tell me, Sir Giles, do you plan to make another trip to Berlin in the near future?”

  “That’s below the belt, Seb.”

  “Which is exactly where Fisher will aim most of his punches,” said Griff. “So make sure you keep your guard up.”

  “He’s right, Seb. Keep on punching.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands…”

  “They’ve changed the venue,” said Griff at the morning prayer meeting.

  “Why?” asked Giles.

  “There’s been such a huge demand for tickets that it’s been moved from the Guildhall to the Hippodrome Theatre.”

  “But the Hippo holds two thousand people,” said Giles.

  “I wish it held ten thousand,” said Griff. “You’ll never get a better chance to talk to the voters direct.”

  “And at the same time expose Fisher for the fraud he is,” said Seb.

  “How many seats have been allocated to us?” asked Griff, turning to Miss Parish.

  “Each candidate is entitled to three hundred.”

  “Any problem in filling our seats with the faithful?”

  “None at all, the phone hasn’t stopped for the past week. It could be a Rolling Stones concert. In fact, I’ve been in touch with my opposite number at the Liberal Party, to see if they’ve got any spare tickets.”

  “They can’t be stupid enough to release them to you.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with stupidity,” said Miss Parish. “I have a feeling it’s something far closer to home.”

  “Like what?” said Griff.

  “I’ve no idea, but I’ll get to the bottom of it before next Thursday.”

  “And what about the remaining tickets?” said Griff. “Who gets those?”

  “First come, first served,” said Miss Parish. “I’ll have a hundred of our people standing in the queue an hour before the curtain goes up.”

  “So will the Tories,” said Griff. “Better make it two hundred, two hours before.”

  * * *

  “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.”

  “Right, gentlemen,” said Nash. “Please gather around, because the time has come to determine the order in which you will speak.” He held out a fist that gripped three straws of differing lengths. Fisher drew the short one, while Fletcher pulled out the longest one.

  “You have first choice, Mr. Fletcher,” said the chairman.

  The Liberal candidate cocked his head to one side and whispered to Giles, “Where do you want me to go?”

  “Second,” Giles replied.

  “I’ll go second,” said Fletcher. Fisher looked surprised.

  “And you, Sir Giles? First or last?”

  “Last, thank you, chairman.”

  “Right, that’s settled. You’ll be speaking first, Major Fisher. Let’s put our heads above the parapet.”

  He led the three candidates out onto the stage, and it was the only time that evening that the whole audience applauded. Giles looked out into the auditorium where, unlike a theatre production, the lights wouldn’t be going down. Two thousand lions had been waiting patiently for the Christians to appear.

  He wished he’d stayed at home and was having supper on a tray in front of the TV; anywhere but here. But he always felt like that, even when he addressed the smallest gathering. He glanced across at Fisher to see a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead, which he quickly mopped with a handkerchief from his top pocket. He looked back at the audience and saw Emma and Harry seated in the second row, smiling up at him.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Andy Nash, and I am editor of the Bristol Evening News. It’s my privilege to chair the meeting this evening, which is the only occasion on which all three candidates will appear on the same platform. Now, allow me to explain how the debate will be conducted. Each candidate will make an opening address of six minutes. That will be followed by thirty minutes of questions from the audience. The evening will end with all three candidates summing up for two minutes each. I will now call upon the Conservative candidate, Major Alex Fisher, to address us.”

  Fisher made his way purposefully to the center of the stage and was greeted with warm applause from one section of the audience. He placed his speech on the lectern and immediately began to read it word for word, only occasionally raising his head.

  Giles sat nervously in his seat listening carefully as he waited for the sarcastic comment, the barbed innuendo, but none came. Instead, Fisher concentrated on what legislation would be treated as a priority if the Tories formed the next government. He could have been reading out a shopping list that he regularly interspersed with the words “Time for a change.” At no point did he mention either of his opponents. And then Giles worked out what Fisher was up to. He was not going to indulge in any personal attacks himself; that would be left to his lieutenants, spread evenly throughout the audience. When Fisher returned to his seat, it was not difficult to spot where those supporters were seated from their enthusiastic applause.

  The Liberal candidate opened his speech by thanking the packed audience for giving up Coronation Street to come and hear him, which was greeted with laughter and warm applause. He then spent the next six minutes discussing local politics, everything from potholes in the roads to rural bus fares. When he returned to his seat, another section of the audience was equally loyal and supportive.

  Once Fletcher had sat down, Giles walked to the center of the stage, although he wasn’t as relaxed as he hoped he looked. He placed a postcard on the lectern on which were typed seven headings: Education, Unemployment, Unions, the NHS, Europe, Defense, and Bristol.

  He barely glanced at the card as he spoke about each subject with confidence and authority, while looking directly at his audience. When he returned to his seat, his supporters rose as one, and a large number of undecided members of the audience joined them. Had the debate ended then, there would have been only one winner, but no sooner had Giles sat down than the chairman called for questions, adding, “I hope any contributions will be worthy of a debate of this importance, and that no one will resort to personal comments in the hope of getting a cheap headline in tomorrow’s paper, because I assure you, as its editor, they won’t.”

  This statement elicited such a spontaneous round of applause that Giles began to relax for the first time that evening.

  “Yes, madam. The lady in the fourth row.”

  “With the population growing ever older, can the candidates tell us about their long-term plans for the state pension?”

  Giles was back on his feet before the chairman had a chance to decide which candidate should answer the question first.

  “The state pension has gone up year on year while the Labour Party has been in power,” he declare
d, “because this government considers that a civilized society is one that takes care of its young and old alike.”

  Fisher then delivered the party line as outlined in a Central Office brief, after which the Liberal candidate talked about his mother being in an old people’s home.

  “I’ll take you next, sir,” said Nash, pointing to a man in the dress circle who had to wait for some time before a microphone reached him.

  “Do all the candidates feel that the United Kingdom should join the Common Market?”

  Fisher was well prepared for this question, and reminded the audience of Ted Heath’s long-standing commitment to Europe, adding that if the Tories were elected, they would do everything in their power to ensure that Britain became a member of the EEC.

  Simon Fletcher reminded the audience it was his party that had pioneered the idea of entry into the Common Market, and how glad he was that the two other parties were now jumping on the Liberal bandwagon.

  Giles rose to face the audience. How he would have liked to tell them that when he was in Berlin he had received overtures from the French foreign minister, making it clear that France would welcome a dialogue being opened between the two countries. But any mention of Berlin would have been the red rag one section of the audience was waiting for. So he simply said, “When it comes to joining the Common Market, I think I can safely say that all three parties are broadly in agreement, so I suspect it will only be a matter of which prime minister finally signs the Treaty of Rome.”

  Several more questions on local, national, and foreign issues followed without any blows below the belt, and Giles was beginning to think he might be home and dry. “I’ll take two more questions,” said Nash, glancing at his watch. “Yes, madam, the lady standing near the back.” Giles recognized her immediately.

  “Can all three candidates tell us their marital status, and if their wives are with them tonight?” A well-rehearsed question delivered by a seemingly innocent old lady, whom Giles well remembered from her days as a Tory councillor.