Best Kept Secret

by Jeffrey Archer

  Giles and Griff, along with Miss Parish, Harry and Emma, continued to walk slowly up and down the aisles, watching carefully as piles of ballot papers were stacked in tens, and then, once they totalled a hundred, were bound by thick red, blue or yellow bands, so they could be identified quickly. Finally they were lined up in five-hundreds, like soldiers on parade.

  The scrutineers took a row each, checking that the tens were not nines or elevens, and, even more important, that the hundreds weren’t hundred-and-tens or nineties. If they thought a mistake had been made, they could ask for a pile to be re-counted in the presence of Mr Wainwright or one of his deputies. Not something to be done lightly, Miss Parish warned her team.

  After two hours of counting, Griff shrugged his shoulders in answer to Giles’s whispered question as to how he thought things were going. By this time in 1951, he’d been able to tell Giles he’d won, even if it was only by a few hundred votes. Not tonight.

  Once the counters had their neat, well-ordered piles of five-hundreds in place, they raised a hand to let the town clerk know that they’d completed the task and were ready to confirm their results. Finally, when the last hand was raised, Mr Wainwright once again blew a sharp blast on his whistle and said, ‘Now double check every pile one more time.’ He then added, ‘Would the candidates and their agents please join me on stage.’

  Giles and Griff were the first to climb the steps, with Fisher and Ellsworthy only a stride behind. On a table in the centre of the stage, where everyone could observe exactly what was taking place, was a small pile of ballot papers. No more than a dozen of them, Giles estimated.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced the town clerk, ‘these are the spoilt ballot papers. Electoral law decrees that I, and I alone, must decide if any of them should be included in the final count. However, you have the right to disagree with any of my judgements.’

  Wainwright stood over the pile of votes, adjusted his glasses and studied the top slip. It had a cross in Fisher’s box, but also scribbled across it were the words ‘God Save the Queen’.

  ‘That’s obviously a vote for me,’ said Fisher, before Wainwright could give his opinion.

  The town clerk looked at Giles, and then at Ellsworthy, and they both nodded, so the ballot paper was placed to his right. On the next slip a tick, not a cross, had been placed in Fisher’s box.

  ‘They clearly intended to vote for me,’ said Fisher firmly. Once again, Giles and Ellsworthy nodded.

  The town clerk placed the vote on Fisher’s pile, which caused the Conservative candidate to smile, until he saw that the next three ballot papers had ticks in Barrington’s box.

  On the next paper, the names of all three candidates had been crossed out and replaced by Vote for Desperate Dan. They all agreed it was spoilt. The next had a tick by Ellsworthy’s name, and it was accepted as a vote for the Liberal candidate. The eighth declared Abolish hanging, and joined the spoilt pile without comment. The ninth had a tick in Barrington’s box, and Fisher had no choice but to allow it, giving Giles a 4–2 lead with only two papers left to consider. The next had a tick in Barrington’s box, with the word NEVER written next to Fisher’s name.

  ‘That must be a spoilt ballot,’ said Fisher.

  ‘In which case,’ said the town clerk, ‘I will have to treat “God Save the Queen” in the same way.’

  ‘That’s logical,’ said Ellsworthy. ‘Better take them both out.’

  ‘I agree with Major Fisher,’ said Giles, realizing it would increase his lead from 4–2 to 4–1. Fisher looked as if he wanted to protest, but said nothing.

  They all looked at the last ballot paper. Wainwright smiled.

  ‘Not in my lifetime, I suspect,’ he said, placing a paper with the words Independence for Scotland scrawled across it on the spoilt pile.

  Wainwright then checked each ballot paper again, before saying, ‘That’s four votes for Barrington, one for Fisher and one for Ellsworthy.’ He wrote down the numbers in his note book and said, ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s not the only vote you win tonight,’ Griff mumbled to Giles as they left the stage and joined Miss Parish and her scrutineers.

  The town clerk returned to the front of the stage and once again blew his whistle. His team of deputies immediately began walking up and down the aisles writing down the final numbers from each counter, before taking them on to the stage and handing them to the town clerk.

  Mr Wainwright studied each figure carefully before entering the numbers into a large adding machine, his only concession to the modern world. Once he’d pressed the add button for the last time, he wrote down the final figures against the three names, considered them for a moment, then invited the candidates to join him on the stage once again. He then told them the result and agreed to Giles’s request.

  Miss Parish frowned when she saw Fisher giving his supporters a thumbs-up sign, and realized they had lost. She glanced up towards the gallery to see Sebastian waving energetically at her. She waved back, but looked down again when Mr Wainwright tapped the microphone, creating a hush of expectation in the hall.

  ‘I, the returning officer for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

  Sir Giles Barrington

  18,714

  Mr Reginald Ellsworthy

  3,472

  Major Alexander Fisher

  18,908.’

  A huge cheer and prolonged clapping rose from the Fisher camp. Wainwright waited for order to be restored before he added, ‘The sitting member has asked for a re-count, and I have granted his request. Will every teller please re-check their piles most carefully, and make sure no mistakes have been made.’

  The counters began to check, and re-check, every ten, then every hundred, and finally every five hundred, before raising their hands to signal that they had completed the task a second time.

  Giles looked up to the heavens in silent prayer, only to see Sebastian waving frantically, but then something Griff said distracted him.

  ‘You ought to be thinking about your speech,’ said Griff. ‘You must thank the town clerk, his workers, your workers, and above all, if Fisher wins, you must appear magnanimous. After all, there’ll always be another election.’

  Giles wasn’t so sure there would be another election for him. He was about to say so, when Miss Parish hurried across to join them.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said, ‘but Sebastian seems to be trying to catch your attention.’

  Giles and Griff looked up at the balcony where Sebastian was leaning well over the rail, almost begging one of them to join him.

  ‘Why don’t you go up and see what his problem is,’ said Griff, ‘while Giles and I prepare for the new order.’

  Miss Parish climbed the stairs to the balcony to be met by Sebastian waiting on the top step. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her towards the railing and pointed down into the body of the hall. ‘You see that man sitting on the end of the third row wearing a green shirt?’

  Miss Parish looked in the direction he was indicating. ‘Yes. What about him?’

  ‘He’s been cheating.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Miss Parish, trying to sound calm.

  ‘He reported five hundred votes for Fisher to one of the deputy town clerks.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Miss Parish. ‘He’s got five piles of one hundred in front of him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sebastian, ‘but one of those piles has a Fisher ballot paper on top, and the ninety-nine underneath are for Uncle Giles.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ asked Miss Parish. ‘Because if Griff asks Mr Wainwright to check those votes personally, and you turn out to be wrong . . .’

  ‘I’m certain,’ said Sebastian defiantly.

  Miss Parish still didn’t look sure, but she got as near to running as she had for some years. Once she arrived back on the floor, she hurried up to Giles, who was trying to look conf
ident as he chatted to Emma and Griff. She told them what Sebastian was claiming, only to be greeted by expressions of disbelief. All four of them looked up to the balcony, to see Sebastian pointing frantically at the man in the green shirt.

  ‘I find what Sebastian is suggesting quite easy to believe,’ said Emma.

  ‘Why?’ asked Griff. ‘Did you actually see that man put a Fisher ballot paper on top of one of our piles?’

  ‘No, but I did see him at the debate last Thursday. He was the one who asked why Giles had visited Cambridge more times than Bristol during the last parliament.’

  Giles looked at the man closely, as more and more hands began to shoot up around the room to indicate that the recount was nearly complete.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he said.

  Griff left them without another word and quickly made his way back up on to the stage, where he asked the town clerk if he could have a private word.

  Once he had heard what the agent was claiming, Mr Wainwright looked up at Sebastian, and then transferred his gaze to the counter who was seated at the end of the third row of tables.

  ‘That’s a very serious allegation to be making on the word of a child,’ he said, his eyes returning to Sebastian.

  ‘He’s not a child,’ said Griff. ‘He’s a young man. And in any case, this is an official request for you to make an inspection.’

  ‘Then on your head be it,’ said Wainwright, after looking once again at the counter concerned. Without another word, he summoned two of his deputies and announced without explanation, ‘Follow me.’

  The three men walked down the steps to the floor and headed straight for the table at the end of the third row, with Giles and Griff only a pace behind. The town clerk looked down at the man in the green shirt, and said, ‘I wonder if you would allow me to take your place, sir, as Sir Giles’s agent has asked me to check your numbers personally.’

  The man got up slowly, and stood to one side as Wainwright sat down in his chair and studied the five piles of Fisher votes on the table in front of him.

  He picked up the first stack, removed the blue elastic band and studied the top ballot paper. He needed only a cursory inspection to confirm that all one hundred votes had been correctly allocated to Fisher. The second pile yielded the same result, as did the third, by which time only Sebastian, looking down from the balcony, still appeared confident.

  When Wainwright removed the top ballot paper from the fourth stack, he was greeted with a cross next to the name of Barrington. He checked the rest of the pile slowly and carefully, to find that all ninety-nine of them had voted for Barrington. Finally he checked the fifth pile, which were all Fisher’s.

  No one had noticed that the Conservative candidate had joined the little group surrounding the end table.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Fisher.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ said the town clerk, turning to one of his deputies and saying, ‘Ask the police to escort this gentleman from the premises.’

  He then had a word with his secretary, before returning to the stage and resuming his place behind the adding machine. Once again, he took his time entering each figure that was presented by his deputies. After he’d pressed the add button for the last time, he entered the new numbers against each candidate’s name, and when he was finally satisfied, he asked them all to come back on stage. This time, after he had informed them of the revised figures, Giles did not ask for a re-count.

  Wainwright returned to the microphone to announce the result of the second count to an audience who, until then, had been surviving on Chinese whispers.

  ‘. . . declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

  Sir Giles Barrington

  18,813

  Mr Reginald Ellsworthy

  3,472

  Major Alexander Fisher

  18,809.’

  This time it was the Labour supporters who erupted, holding up proceedings for several minutes before Wainwright was able to announce that Major Fisher had requested a recount.

  ‘Will all the counters please check their numbers carefully for a third time, and immediately inform one of my deputies if there are any changes you wish to report.’

  When the town clerk returned to the desk, his secretary handed him the reference book he had requested. He turned several pages of Macaulay’s Election Law until he came to an entry he’d marked earlier that afternoon. While Wainwright was confirming his understanding of the returning officer’s duties, Fisher’s scrutiny team were charging up and down the aisles demanding to be shown the second ballot paper of every Barrington stack.

  Despite this, forty minutes later Wainwright was able to announce that there were no changes from the result of the second count. Fisher immediately demanded another re-count.

  ‘I am not willing to grant that request,’ said Wainwright. ‘The numbers have been consistent on three separate occasions,’ he added, quoting Macaulay’s exact words.

  ‘But that is blatantly not the case,’ barked Fisher. ‘They’ve only been consistent twice. You will recall that I won the first count quite comfortably.’

  ‘They have been consistent three times,’ repeated Wainwright, ‘remembering the unfortunate mistake your colleague made on the first count.’

  ‘My colleague?’ said Fisher. ‘That is a disgraceful slur on my character. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. If you don’t withdraw that statement and allow a re-count, I’ll have no choice but to consult my lawyers in the morning.’

  ‘That would be most unfortunate,’ said Wainwright, ‘because I wouldn’t want to see Councillor Peter Maynard in the witness box, trying to explain how he’d never come across the chairman of his local party’s association, who also happens to be its prospective parliamentary candidate.’

  Fisher turned scarlet and marched off the stage.

  Mr Wainwright rose from his place, walked slowly towards the front of the stage and tapped the microphone for the last time. He cleared his throat and announced, ‘I, the returning officer for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

  Sir Giles Barrington

  18,813

  Mr Reginald Ellsworthy

  3,472

  Major Alexander Fisher

  18,809.’

  ‘I therefore declare Sir Giles Barrington to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Bristol Docklands.’

  The Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands looked up to the balcony and bowed low to Sebastian Clifton.

  SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

  1955–1957

  26

  ‘RAISE YOUR GLASSES to the man who won us the election!’ yelled Griff, who was teetering precariously on a table in the middle of the room, a glass of champagne in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  ‘To Sebastian!’ everyone shouted, to laughter and applause.

  ‘Have you ever drunk champagne before?’ asked Griff after he had stepped unsteadily down to join Sebastian.

  ‘Only once,’ admitted Sebastian, ‘when my friend Bruno celebrated his fifteenth birthday, and his father took the two of us out to supper at a local pub. So I suppose this is my second glass.’

  ‘Take my advice,’ said Griff, ‘don’t get used to it. It’s the nectar of the rich. We working-class lads,’ he said, putting an arm around him, ‘can only expect to have a couple of glasses a year, and then at someone else’s expense.’

  ‘But I intend to be rich.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Griff, filling his glass again. ‘In that case you’ll have to become a champagne socialist, and heaven knows we’ve got enough of them in our party.’

  ‘I’m not in your party,’ said Sebastian firmly. ‘I’m a Tory in every other seat, apart from the one Uncle Giles is standing in.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to come and live in Bristol,’ said Griff as the newly re-elected member strolled across to join the
m.

  ‘Not much chance of that,’ said Giles. ‘His parents tell me they have high hopes of him winning a scholarship to Cambridge.’

  ‘Well, if it’s to be Cambridge rather than Bristol, you’ll probably end up seeing more of your uncle than we do.’

  ‘You’ve had too much to drink, Griff,’ said Giles, patting his agent on the back.

  ‘Not as much as I would have had if we’d lost,’ said Griff, downing his glass. ‘And try not to forget the bloody Tories have increased their majority in the House.’

  ‘We ought to be getting home, Seb, if you’re going to be in any shape for school tomorrow. Heaven knows how many rules you’ve broken in the last couple of hours.’

  ‘Can I say goodnight to Miss Parish before I go?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why don’t you do that while I go and pay the drinks bill. The drinks are on me, now the election is over.’

  Sebastian wove his way through groups of volunteers, some swaying like branches in the wind, while others, heads down on the nearest table, had passed out, or were simply incapable of movement. He spotted Miss Parish seated in an alcove on the far side of the room with two empty bottles of champagne for company. When he finally reached her, he wasn’t altogether sure she recognized him.

  ‘Miss Parish, I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to be in your team. I’ve learnt so much from you. I only wish you were one of my teachers at the Abbey.’

  ‘That is indeed a compliment, Sebastian,’ said Miss Parish. ‘But I fear I was born in the wrong century. It will be a long time before women are offered the chance to teach at an independent boys’ school.’ She hauled herself up and gave him a huge hug. ‘Good luck, Sebastian,’ she said. ‘I hope you get that scholarship to Cambridge.’