'Crap. Every poll taken during the election suggests a strong Government win, yet you want me to change the front page on the basis of feminine instinct?'
Mattie could sense her editor's nervousness. All editors live on their nerves, but the secret is not to show it. Preston showed it.
'OK’
he demanded, 'they had a majority of 102 at the last election. Tell me what you think it's going to be tomorrow. All the opinion polls are predicting around 70 seats.'
'You trust the polls if you want, Grev,' she warned, 'but I'd rather trust the feel I get out on the streets. There's no enthusiasm amongst Government supporters. They won't turn out and it will drag the majority down.'
'Come on,' he bullied. 'How much?'
She shook her head slowly to emphasise her caution, her short blonde hair brushing around her shoulders. 'A week ago I would have said it would be about 50. Now it could be even less,' she responded.
‘Jesus
, it can't be less. We've backed those bastards all the way and they've got to deliver.'
And you've got to deliver, too, she mused. She knew that the editor's only firm political view was that his newspaper couldn't afford to be on the losing side. The new cockney proprietor, Benjamin Landless, had told him so and editors didn't argue with Landless. As the country's most recent newspaper magnate constantly reminded his already insecure staff, it was easier to buy ten new editors than one new newspaper, thanks to the Government's competition policy, 'so we don't piss off the Government by supporting the other bloody side'.
He had delivered his growing army of newspapers into the Government camp, and he expected his newspapers to deliver the proper election result. It wasn't reasonable, of course, but Landless had never found that being reasonable helped get the best out of his employees. Over lunch a few weeks earlier the proprietor had explained to Preston that a change of Government could be difficult for Landless, but for Preston such a result would he fatal.
Mattie tried again. She sat herself on the corner of the editor's vast and far too tidy desk and marshalled her case, hoping that for a change he would concentrate on her arguments rather than her legs.
'Look, Grev, forget the opinion polls for a minute. Put it in perspective. When Margaret Thatcher at last decided to retire, they concluded in their wisdom that it was time for a change of style. They wanted a new fashion. Something less abrasive, less domineering; they'd had enough of trial by ordeal and being shown up by a woman.'
You of all people should understand that, she thought.
'So in their wisdom they chose Collingridge, for no better reason than he was confident on TV, smooth with little old ladies and was likely to be uncontroversial.' She shrugged her shoulders dismissively. 'But they've lost their cutting edge. It's rice pudding politics and there's no energy or enthusiasm left. He's campaigned with as much vigour as a Sunday school teacher. Another seven days of listening to him mouthing platitudes and I think even his wife would have voted for the other lot. Anything for a change.'
For the tenth time that evening Mattie wondered if her editor used
lacquer to keep his carefully c
oiffured hair so immaculate. She suspected he had an aerosol and hairbrush in his drawer, and she was certain he used eyebrow tweezers.
'Let's dispense with
the analysis and mysticism and
stick to hard numbers, shall we?' challenged Preston. 'What's the majority going to
be? Are they going to get back
in, or not?'
It would be a
rash man who said they wouldn't’
she replied.
'And I have no intention of being rash. Any majority will be good enough for me. In the circumstances it would be quite an achievement. Historic, in fact. Four straight wins, never been done before. S
o the front page stays.'
Preston quickly brought his instructions to an end by finding solace in his glass of champagne, but Mattie was not to be so easily put off. Her grandfather had been a modem Viking who in the stormy early months of 1941 had sailed across the North Sea in a waterlogged fishing boat to escape from Nazi-occupied Norway and join the RAF. He had handed down to Mattie not only her natural Scandinavian looks but also a strength and independence of spirit which she needed to survive in the masculine worlds of politics and newspapers. Her old editor on the
Yorkshire Post
who had given Mattie her first real job had always encouraged her to fight her own corner. 'You're no good to me, lass, if I end up writing all of your stories for you. Be a seeker, not just another scribbler.' It was an attitude which did not always commend itself to her new masters, but what the hell.
J
ust stop for a moment and ask yourself what we could expect from another four years of Collingridge. Maybe he's too nice to be Prime Minister. His manifesto was so lightweight it got blown away in the first week of campaigning. He has developed no new ideas and his only philosophy is to cross his fingers and hope that neither the Russians nor the trade unions break wind too loudly. Is that really what the country wants?'
'Daintily put, as always, Mattie,' he taunted, reverting, as was his custom, to being patronising whenever he was confronted by an argumentative woman. 'But you're wrong,' he continued, sounding none too certain. The punters want consolidation, not upheaval. They don't want the toys being thrown out of the pram all the time.' He stabbed his finger in the air to indicate that the discussion was almost over and this was now official company policy. 'So a quiet couple of years will be no bad thing. And Collingridge back in Downing Street will be a great thing!'
It'll be murder’
she muttered.
It was the Number 88 bus thundering past and rattling the apartment windows which eventually caused Charles Collingridge to wake up. The small one-bedroom flat above the travel agency in Clapham was not what most people would have expected of the Prime Minister's brother, but a messy divorce and an indulgent lifestyle had a nasty habit of making the money disappear much faster than it came in. He lay slumped in the armchair, still in his crumpled suit which had got
him
through lunch and which still carried some of it on the lapel.
He cursed when he saw the time. He must have been asleep for five hours yet he still felt exhausted. He needed a drink to pick himself up, and he poured himself a large measure of vodka. Not even Smirnoff any more, just the local supermarket brand. Still, it didn't hang on the breath or smell when you spilled it.
He took his glass to the bathroom and soaked in the tub, giving the hot water time to work its wonders on those tired limbs. Nowadays they often seemed to belong to an entirely different person. He must be getting old, he told himself.
He stood in front of the mirror, trying to repair the damage of his latest binge. He saw his father's" face, reproachful as ever, urging him on to goals which were always just beyond him, demanding to know why he never managed to do things quite like his elder brother Henry. They both had the same advantages, went to the same school
.
But somehow Henry always had the edge, and gradually had overshadowed him in his career and
his
marriage. He did not feel bitter. Or at least he tried not to be. Henry had always been there to help when he needed it, to offer advice and to give him a shoulder to cry on when Mary had left him. Particularly when Mary had left him. But hadn't even she thrown Henry's success in his face? 'You're not up to it. Not up to anything!' And Henry had much less time to worry about other people's problems since he had gone to Downing Street
As young boys they had shared everything together, as young men they had shared much, even a few girlfriends. But these days there was little room left in Henry's life for his younger brother, and Charles felt angry - not with Henry, but with life. It had not worked out for him, and he did not understand why.
He guided the razor past the old cuts on his baggy face, and began putting the pieces back together. The hair brushed over the balding pate, the fresh shirt and clean tie. He would be ready soon for the election night festivities to which his family links still ensured he was invited. A tea towel over his shoes gave them back a little shine, and he was almost ready. Just time for one more drink.
North of the river, a taxi was stuck in a traffic jam on the outskirts of Soho. It was always a bottleneck, and election night seemed to have brought an additional throng of revellers onto the streets. In the back of the taxi Roger O'Neill drummed his fingers impatiently, watching helplessly as the bikes and pedestrians flashed past. He did not have much time.
'Get over here quick, Rog’
they had said. 'We can't wait all bleedin' night, not even for you. And we ain't back till Tuesday.'
He neither expected nor received preferential treatment, even as the Party's Director of Publicity and one of its best-known members of staff. But then he doubted whether they voted at all, let alone for the Government. What did politics matter when there was a lot of loose tax-free money to make?
The taxi at last managed to make it across Shaftesbury
Avenue and into Wardour Street, only to be met by another wall of solid traffic. Christ, he would miss them. He flung open the door.
‘I’ll walk’
he shouted at the driver.
'Sorry, mate. It's not my fault Costs me a fortune stuck in jams like this,' replied the driver, indicating that O'Neill's impatience should not lead him to forget a tip.
O'Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver's hand and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish. He squeezed past the plastic bin liners and cardboard boxes and broke into a run. He was not fit and it hurt, but he did not have far to go. As he reached Dean Street he turned left, and a hundred yards further down ducked into the narrow opening to one of those Soho mews which most people miss as they concentrate on trying either to find the whores or to avoid them. Off the main street; the mews opened out into a small yard, surrounded on all sides by workshops and garages which had been carved out of the old Victorian warehouses. The yard was empty and his footsteps rang out on the cobbles as he hurried towards a small green door set in the far, dark comer of the yard. He stopped only to look around once before entering. He did not knock.
Less than three minutes later he had re-emerged, and without glancing to either side hurried back into the crowds of Dean Street. Whatever he had come for, it clearly was not sex.
Inside party headquarters the atmosphere was strangely quiet. After the weeks of ceaseless activity during the general election campaign, most of the officers and troops had disappeared on election day itself to carry the combat into the far outposts of the constituencies, drumming up the last few and possibly crucial converts for the cause. Most of those who remained were by now taking an early supper at nearby restaurants or clubs, trying to sound confident and relaxed but lapsing repeatedly into insecure discussion of the latest rumours about voter turnout and exit polls. Few of them enjoyed the break, and they, soon began drifting back, pushing their way through the evergrowing crowds of spectators and cordons of police. They found great comfort in their overcrowded and cluttered offices which for the las
t month had become their home,
and they set
tled in for what would seem an in
terminable wait.
As Big Ben struck 10 o'clock and dusk at last began to take a firm hold, an audible sigh of relief went up from around the building. The polling booths had closed and no further appeal, explanation, attack, insinuation or - more predictably - almighty cock-up could now affect the result. It was over. One or two of them shook each other's hand in silent reassurance and respect for the job done. Just how well done they would shortly discover.
As on so many previous evenings, like a religious ritual they turned their attention to the familiar voice of Sir Alastair Burnet. He appeared for every purpose like a latter-day Gabriel, with his reassuring tones and flowing silver hair which had just enough back lighting to give him a halo effect. For the next few hours God would have to take second place.
'Good evening. The election campaign is now over. Just seconds ago thousands of polling booths across the country closed their doors, and the first result is expected in just forty-five minutes. We shall shortly be going over live for interviews with the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge, in his Warwickshire constituency, and the Opposition leader in South Wales.
'But first ITN's exclusive exit poll conducted by Harris Research International outside 153 polling booths across the country during today's voting. It gives the following prediction...'
The country's most senior newsreader opened a large envelope in front of him, as reverently as if the A4 Manila contained his own death certificate. He extracted a large card from within the envelope, and glanced at it. Not too quickly, not too slowly he raised his eyes once more to the cameras, and the venerable broadcaster held 30 million viewers in the palm of his hand, teasing them gently. He was entitled to his moment. After twenty-eight years and nine general elections as a television broadcaster, he had already announced that this was to be his last.