Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(67)

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.’