Best Kept Secret

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘And I suppose it’s because I come from Gloucestershire,’ said Emma, ‘that I have a tendency to call a scheming bitch a scheming bitch.’

  Emma rose from her place and marched out of the room. For the first time that evening, Giles looked embarrassed. Harry was now certain that neither Giles nor Virginia was aware that Elizabeth had executed a new will. He chose his words carefully.

  ‘Emma’s a little overwrought following the funeral. I’m sure she’ll have recovered by the morning.’

  He folded his napkin, bade them goodnight and left the room without another word.

  Virginia looked at her fiancé. ‘You were magnificent, Bunny. But I have to say, what a touchy lot your family are, though I suppose that’s only to be expected after all they’ve been through. However, I fear it doesn’t augur well for the future.’

  10

  ‘THIS IS THE BBC Home Service. Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it. At ten o’clock this morning, the prime minister, Mr Attlee, requested an audience with the King and asked His Majesty’s permission to dissolve Parliament and call a general election. Mr Attlee returned to the House of Commons, and announced that an election would be held on Thursday, October twenty-fifth.’

  The following day, 622 members packed their bags, cleared their lockers, bade farewell to their colleagues and returned to their constituencies to prepare for battle. Among them was Sir Giles Barrington, the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands.

  Over breakfast one morning during the second week of the campaign, Giles told Harry and Emma that Virginia would not be joining him in the run-up to the election. Emma didn’t attempt to hide her relief.

  ‘Virginia feels she might even lose me votes,’ admitted Giles. ‘After all, no member of her family has ever been known to vote Labour. One or two may have supported the odd Liberal, but never Labour.’

  Harry laughed. ‘At least we have that in common.’

  ‘If Labour were to win the election,’ said Emma, ‘do you think Mr Attlee might ask you to join the Cabinet?’

  ‘Heaven knows. That man plays his cards so close to his chest even he can’t see them. In any case, if you believe the polls, the election is too close to call, so there’s not much point in dreaming about red boxes until after we know the result.’

  ‘My bet,’ said Harry, ‘is that Churchill will scrape home this time. Mind you, only the British could kick a prime minister out of office after he’d just won a war.’

  Giles glanced at his watch. ‘Can’t sit around chatting,’ he said. ‘I’m meant to be canvassing in Coronation Road. Care to join me, Harry?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘You must be joking. Can you see me asking people to vote for you? I’d turn off more people than Virginia.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Emma. ‘You’ve handed in your latest manuscript to the publisher, and you’re always telling everyone firsthand experience is more worthwhile than sitting in a library checking endless facts.’

  ‘But I’ve got a busy day ahead of me,’ protested Harry.

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Emma. ‘Now let me see, you’re taking Jessica to school this morning and, oh yes, you’re picking her up this afternoon and bringing her home.’

  ‘Oh all right. I’ll join you,’ said Harry. ‘But strictly as an observer, you understand.’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name is Giles Barrington. I hope I can count on your support at the general election on October twenty-fifth?’ he said as he stopped to chat to a constituent.

  ‘You certainly can, Mr Barrington. I always vote Tory.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Giles, quickly moving on to the next voter.

  ‘But you’re the Labour candidate,’ Harry reminded his brother-in-law.

  ‘There’s no mention of the parties on the ballot paper,’ said Giles, ‘only the candidates’ names. So why disillusion him? Good afternoon, my name is Giles Barrington, and I was hoping—’

  ‘And you can go on hoping, because I won’t be voting for a stuck-up toff.’

  ‘But I’m the Labour candidate,’ protested Giles.

  ‘Doesn’t stop you being a toff. You’re as bad as that Frank Pakenham fellow, a traitor to your class.’

  Harry tried not to laugh as the man walked away.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam, my name is Giles Barrington.’

  ‘Oh, how nice to meet you, Sir Giles. I’ve been a great admirer of yours ever since you won the MC at Tobruk.’ Giles bowed low. ‘And although I would normally vote Liberal, on this occasion you can rely on me.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Giles.

  She turned to Harry, who smiled and raised his hat. ‘And you needn’t bother raising your hat to me, Mr Clifton, because I know you were born in Still House Lane, and it’s disgraceful that you vote Tory. You’re a traitor to your class,’ she added before marching off.

  It was Giles’s turn to try not to laugh.

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for politics,’ said Harry.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name is—’

  ‘—Giles Barrington. Yes, I know,’ the man said, refusing Giles’s outstretched hand. ‘You shook hands with me half an hour ago, Mr Barrington, and I told you I’d be voting for you. But now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Is it always this bad?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Oh, it can be far worse. But if you place your head in the stocks, don’t be surprised if there are people who are only too happy to throw the occasional rotten tomato in your direction.’

  ‘I would never make a politician,’ said Harry. ‘I take everything too personally.’

  ‘Then you’ll probably end up in the House of Lords,’ said Giles, coming to a halt outside a pub. ‘I think a quick half pint is called for, before we return to the battlefield.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been in this pub before,’ said Harry, looking up at a flapping sign with a Volunteer beckoning them in.

  ‘Me neither. But come the day of the election, I’ll have had a drink in every hostelry in the constituency. Pub landlords are always happy to express an opinion.’

  ‘Who’d want to be a Member of Parliament?’

  ‘If you have to ask that question,’ said Giles as they entered the pub, ‘you’ll never understand the thrill of fighting an election, taking your seat in the House of Commons and playing a role, however minor, in governing your country. It’s like war without the bullets.’

  Harry headed for a quiet alcove in a corner of the pub, while Giles took a seat at the bar. He was chatting to the barman when Harry returned to join him.

  ‘Sorry, old fellow,’ said Giles. ‘I can’t hide away in a corner. Have to be seen at all times, even when I’m taking a break.’

  ‘But there are some confidential matters I was hoping to discuss with you,’ said Harry.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to lower your voice. Two half pints of bitter, please, barman,’ said Giles. He settled back to listen to what Harry had to say, in between being slapped on the back and told by several customers – not all of them sober – how to run the country, and called everything from ‘sir’ to ‘you bastard’.

  ‘So, how’s my nephew getting on at his new school?’ asked Giles after he’d drained his glass.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be enjoying Beechcroft any more than he did St Bede’s. I’ve had a word with his housemaster, and all he said was that Seb’s very bright, and almost certain to be offered a place at Oxford, but still doesn’t make friends easily.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Of course, Bunny. After all, he is a Conservative.’

  ‘And possibly Mr Attlee,’ suggested Giles tentatively.

  ‘I’m not sure how Papa would feel about the leader of the Labour Party attending his only daughter’s wedding. Perhaps I could ask him to invite Mr Churchill.’

  The following Wednesday, Giles drove his Jaguar over to Cadogan Gardens and parked outside Virginia’s flat. He rang the front doorbell, expecting to join his fiancée for breakfast.

  ‘Lady Virginia has not come down yet, sir,’ said the butler. ‘But if you’d care to wait in the drawing room, I can bring you a cup of coffee and the morning papers.’

  ‘Thank you, Mason,’ Giles said to the butler, who had once confessed to him privately that he voted Labour.

  Giles settled down in a comfortable chair, and was offered a choice of the Express or the Telegraph. He settled on the Telegraph, because the headline on the front page caught his attention: Eisenhower announce
s he will stand for president. The decision didn’t surprise Giles, although he was interested to learn that the general would be standing as a Republican, because until recently no one seemed quite sure which party he supported, after both the Democrats and the Republicans had made overtures to him.

  Giles glanced at his watch every few minutes, but there was no sign of Virginia. When the clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour, he turned his attention to an article on page seven, which suggested Britain was considering building its first motorway. The stalemate in the Korean War was covered on the parliamentary pages, and Giles’s speech on a forty-eight-hour week for all workers and every hour beyond that being treated as overtime was quoted at length, with an editorial condemning his views. He smiled. After all, it was the Telegraph. Giles was reading an announcement in the court circular that Princess Elizabeth would be embarking on a tour of Africa in January, when Virginia burst into the room.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, my darling, but I just couldn’t decide what to wear.’

  He leapt up and kissed his fiancée on both cheeks, took a pace back, and once again thought how lucky he was that this beautiful woman had ever given him a second look.

  ‘You look fabulous,’ he said, admiring a yellow dress he’d never seen before, which emphasized her slim, graceful figure.

  ‘A little risqué perhaps for the reading of a will?’ suggested Virginia as she spun round in a circle.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Giles. ‘In fact, the moment you walk into the room, no one will be thinking of anything else.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Virginia as she checked her watch. ‘Heavens, is it really that late? We’d better skip breakfast, Bunny, if we’re going to be on time. Not that we don’t already know the contents of your mother’s will, but it must appear as if we don’t.’

  On the way down to Bristol, Virginia brought Giles up to date on the latest wedding arrangements. He was a little disappointed that she didn’t ask how his speech from the front bench had been received the previous day, but then, William Hickey hadn’t been in the press gallery. It wasn’t until they were on the Great West Road that Virginia said something that demanded his full attention.