“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.
“Hello, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Andrew.” She smiled. “I nearly forgot to vote and that would never have done.”
He raised his tired head.
“Now don’t fret yourself, laddie,” she continued, “I never failed to vote for the winner in fifty-two years and that’s longer than you’ve lived.” She chuckled and left him sitting on the steps.
Andrew somehow picked himself up and made his way through the dark cobbled streets to his election headquarters. They cheered him as he entered the room, and the chairman offered him a “wee dram of whisky.”
“To hell with a wee dram,” said Andrew. “Just keep pouring.”
He tried to get round the room to thank everyone before Hamish Ramsey told him it was time to go over to the city hall for the count. A small band of supporters accompanied the Frasers to the city hall to witness the proceedings. As he entered the hall the first person he saw was Boyle, who had a big smile on his face. Andrew was not discouraged by the smile as he watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Boyle had yet to learn that the first boxes to be counted were always from the inner wards, where most of the committed Socialists lived.
As both men walked round the tables, the little piles began to be checked—first in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed over to the Sheriff. As the night drew on Boyle’s smile turned to a grin, from a grin to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles grew closer and closer in size.
For over three hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one twenty-two in the morning the Sheriff added up the list of numbers in front of him and asked the three candidates to join him.
He told them the result.
Frank Boyle smiled once again. Andrew showed no emotion, but called for a recount.
For over an hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote discovered and, on one occasion, the name on the top of a pile of one hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it. At last the scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the Sheriff added up the columns of numbers and asked the candidates to join him.
This time Andrew smiled while Boyle looked surprised and demanded another recount. The Sheriff acquiesced, but said it must be the last time. Both candidates agreed in the absence of their Conservative rival, who was sleeping soundly in a corner, secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position in the contest.
Once again the piles were checked and double-checked and five mistakes were discovered in the 42,588 votes cast. At three-twenty a.m., with counters and checkers falling asleep at their tables, the Sheriff once more asked the two candidates to join him. They were both stunned when they heard the result and the Sheriff informed them that there would be a further recount in the morning after his staff had managed to get some sleep.
All the voting papers were then plac
ed carefully back in the black boxes, locked, and left in the safekeeping of the local constabulary while the candidates crept away to their beds.
Andrew slept in fits and starts through the remainder of the night. Louise, pale with exhaustion but still grinning, brought him a cup of tea at eight in the morning. He took a cold shower, shaved slowly, and was back at the city hall a few minutes before the count was due to recommence. As he walked up the steps he was greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to be absent as the final drama unfolded.
The counters looked eager and ready when the Sheriff checked his watch and nodded. The boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once again the little piles grew from tens into hundreds and then into thousands. Andrew paced around the tables, more to burn up his nervous energy than out of a desire to keep checking. He had thirty witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by sleight of hand or genuine mistake.
Once the counters and scrutineers had finished they sat in front of their piles and waited for the slips to be collected and taken to the Sheriff. When the Sheriff had added up his little columns of figures for the final time he found that no votes had changed hands.
He explained to Andrew and Frank Boyle the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome. He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Wylie at nine that morning and the Lord Advocate had read out the relevant statute in election law that was to be followed in such circumstances. Both candidates agreed on which of the two choices they preferred.
The Sheriff walked up onto the stage with Andrew Fraser and Frank Boyle in his wake, both looking anxious.
Everyone in the room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing back of chairs, the coughing, and the nervous chattering had stopped, the Sheriff began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent room. Satisfied, he began to speak.
“I, the returning officer for the district of Edinburgh Carlton, hereby declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
Frank Boyle 18,437
Jamie Lomax 5,714
Andrew Fraser 18,437.”
The supporters of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy. It was several minutes before the Sheriffs voice could be heard above the babble of Scottish burrs.
“In accordance with section sixteen of the Representation of the People Act 1949 and rule fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” he announced. “I have spoken with the Lord Advocate of Scotland, and have confirmed that the drawing of straws or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”
Pandemonium broke out again as Andrew and Boyle stood motionless on each side of the Sheriff waiting for their fate to be determined.
“I have borrowed from the Royal Bank of Scotland,” continued the Sheriff, aware that twenty million people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George III, on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Fraser, to call his preference.” Boyle curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected the coin.
The Sheriff rested the golden sovereign on his thumb, Andrew and Boyle still standing on either side of him. He turned to Andrew and said, “You will call, Mr. Fraser, while the coin is in the air.”
The silence was such that they might have been the only three people in the room. Andrew could feel his heart thumping in his chest as the Sheriff spun the coin high above him.
“Tails,” he said clearly when the coin was at its zenith. The sovereign hit the floor and bounced, turning over several times before settling at the feet of the Sheriff.
Andrew stared down at the lady and sighed audibly. The Sheriff cleared his throat before declaring, “Following the decision by lot, I declare the aforementioned Mr. Andrew Fraser to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for Edinburgh Carlton.”
Andrew’s supporters charged forward and onto the stage and carried him on their shoulders out of the city hall and through the streets of Edinburgh. Andrew searched for Louise and Clarissa, but they were lost in the crush.
The Royal Bank of Scotland presented the golden sovereign to the member the next day, and the editor of the Scotsman rang to ask if there had been any particular reason why he had selected tails.
“Naturally,” Andrew replied. “George III lost America for us. I wasn’t going to let him lose Edinburgh for me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RAYMOND READ THE Daily Mail caption again and smiled: “On the toss of a coin.”
It saddened Raymond that Andrew had felt it necessary to leave the Labour party, although he was delighted that he had been returned to the Commons. Raymond was only thankful that there had been no Frank Boyles in his constituency. He often wondered if it was because Joyce kept such a watchful eye on all the committees.
Margaret Thatcher’s second victory had come as a bitter blow to him although he couldn’t have pretended it was a surprise. Her overall majority of 144 was even larger than had been predicted, while the SDP managed only six seats—although the Alliance were only two percentage points behind Labour in actual votes cast. Raymond was enough of a realist to know that now nothing was going to stop the Tories from governing for another five-year term.
Once again Raymond returned to his practice at the bar and a new round of time-consuming briefs. When the Lord Chancellor, Lord Hailsham, offered him the chance to become a High Court judge, with a place in the House of Lords, Raymond gave the matter considerable thought before finally asking Joyce for her opinion.
“You’d be bored to tears in a week,” she told him.
“No more bored than I am now.”
“Your turn will come.”
“Joyce, I’m nearly fifty, and all I have to show for it is the chairmanship of the Select Committee on Trade and Industry. If the party fails to win next time I may never hold office again. Don’t forget that the last occasion we lost this badly we were in Opposition for thirteen years.”
“Once Michael Foot has been replaced the party will take on a new look, and I bet you’ll be offered one of the senior Shadow jobs.”
“That’ll depend on who’s our next leader,” said Raymond. “And I can’t see a great deal of difference between Neil Kinnock who looks unbeatable, and Michael Foot—except that Kinnock’s ten years younger than I am.”
“Then why not stand yourself?” asked Joyce.
“It’s too early for me,” said Raymond.
“Then why don’t you at least wait until we know who’s going to be the leader of the party,” said Joyce. “You can be a judge at any time—they die off just as quickly as Cabinet ministers.”
When Raymond returned to his chambers the following Monday he followed Joyce’s advice and let Lord Hailsham know that he was not interested in being a judge in the foreseeable future, and settled down to keep a watchful eye on Cecil Parkinson, the new Secretary of State for Trade and Industry.
Only a few days later Michael Foot announced that he would not be standing for leader when the party’s annual conference took place. When he informed the Shadow Cabinet several faces lit up at the thought of the forthcoming battle at Brighton in October. Neil Kinnock and Roy Hattersley became the front runners, while during the weeks leading up to the conference several trade unionists and MPs approached Raymond and asked him to stand; but he told them all “next time.”
The vote for the new leader took place on the Sunday before the conference began: as Raymond predicted Kinnock won easily and Hattersley, his closest rival, was elected as his deputy.
After the conf
erence Raymond returned to Leeds for the weekend, still confident that he would be offered a major post in the Shadow Cabinet despite the fact he hadn’t supported the winner. Having completed his morning surgery he hung around the house waiting for the new leader to call him, even missing the match against Chelsea. He didn’t like being in the second division.
When Neil Kinnock eventually phoned late that evening Raymond was shocked by his offer and replied without hesitation that he was not interested. It was a short conversation.
Joyce came into the drawing room as he sank back into his favorite armchair.
“Well, what did he offer you?” she asked, facing him.
“Transport. Virtually a demotion.”
“What did you say?”
“I turned him down, of course.”
“Who has he given the main jobs to?”
“I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer, but I suspect we’ll only have to wait for the morning papers to find out. Not that I’m that interested,” he continued, staring at the floor, “as I intend to take the first place that comes free on the bench. I’ve wasted too many years already.”
“So have I,” said Joyce quietly.
“What do you mean?” asked Raymond, looking up at his wife for the first time since she had come into the room.
“If you’re going to make a complete break, I think it’s time for me to do so as well.”
“I don’t understand,” said Raymond.
“We haven’t been close for a long time, Ray,” said Joyce, looking straight into her husband’s eyes. “If you’re thinking of giving up the constituency and spending even more time in London I think we should part.” She turned away.
“Is there someone else?” asked Raymond, his voice cracking.
“No one special.”
“But someone?”
“There is a man who wants to marry me,” said Joyce, “if that’s what you mean. We were at school in Bradford together. He’s an accountant now and has never married.”
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