surely
that will turn out to be a waste of a vote.”
“Certainly not. Lloyd George was the greatest Prime Minister
of this century.”
“But . . _” began Elizabeth enthusiastically.
Simon put a
hand on her arm.
“Thank you,
sir, for your time,” he said, and prodded Elizabeth gently down the path.
“Sorry,
Elizabeth,” said Simon, when they were back on the pavement. “Once they mention
Lloyd George we have no chance: they’re either Welsh or have remarkably long
memories.”
He knocked on
the next door.
“My name is
Simon Kerslake, I...”
“Get lost, creep,”
came back the reply.
“Who are you
calling creep?” Elizabeth retaliated as the door was slammed in their faces.
“Charming man,” she added.
“Don’t be
offended, Dr. Drummond. He was referring to me, not you.”
“What shall I
put by his name?”
“A question mark. No way of telling who he votes for.
Probably abstains.”
He tried the
next door.
“Hello, Simon,”
said a jolly red-faced lady before he could open his mouth.
“Don’t waste
your time on me, I’ll always vote for you.”
“Thank you,
Mrs. Irvine,” said Simon, checking his house list. “What
about your next-door neighbor?” he asked, pointing back.
“Ah, he’s an
irritable old basket, but I’ll see he gets to the polls on the day and puts his
cross in the right box.
He’d better, or
I’ll stop keeping an eye on his greyhound when he’s out.”
“Thank you very
much, Mrs. Irvine.”
“One more blue ,” said Simon.
“And you might
even pick up the greyhound vote.”
They covered
four streets during the next three hours, and Simon put blue lines only through
those names he was certain would support him on election day .
“Why do you
have to be so sure?” asked Elizabeth.
“Because when
we phone them to vote on Election Day we don’t want to remind the Opposition,
let alone arrange a ride for someone who then takes pleasure in voting Labour.”
Elizabeth
laughed. “Politics is so dishonest.”
“Be happy
you’re not going out with an American Senator,” said Simon, putting another
blue line through the last name in the street. “At least we don’t have to be
millionaires to run.”
“Perhaps I’d
like to marry a millionaire,”
Elizabeth said, griinning.
“On a
parliamentary salary it will take me about two hundred and forty-two years to
achieve.”
“I’m not sure I
can wait that long.”
Four days
before the election Simon and Elizabeth stood in the wings behind the stage of
Coventry Town Hall with Alf Abbott, Nigel Bainbridge and their wives for a
public debate. The three couples made stilted conversation. The political
correspondent of the Coventry Evening Telegraph acted as chairman, introducing
each of the protagonists as they walked onto the stage, to applause from
different sections of the hall. Simon spoke first, holding the attention of the
large audience for over 59 twenty minutes. Those who tried to heckle him ended
up regretting having brought attention to themselves .
Without once referring to his notes, he quoted figures and clauses from
Government bills with an ease that impressed Elizabeth. During the questions
that followed, Simon once again proved to be far better informed than Abbott or
Bainbridge, but he was aware that the packed hall held only seven hundred that
cold March evening, while elsewhere in Coventry were fifty thousand more
voters, most of them glued to their television watching “Ironside.”
Although the
local press proclaimed Simon the victor of a one-sided debate, he remained
downcast by the national papers, which were now predicting a landslide for
Labour.
On election
morning Simon picked up Elizabeth at six so he could be among the first to cast
his vote at the local primary school. They spent the rest of the day traveling
from polling hall to Party headquarters, trying to keep up the morale of his
supporters.
Everywhere they
went, the committed believed in his victory but Simon knew
that will turn out to be a waste of a vote.”
“Certainly not. Lloyd George was the greatest Prime Minister
of this century.”
“But . . _” began Elizabeth enthusiastically.
Simon put a
hand on her arm.
“Thank you,
sir, for your time,” he said, and prodded Elizabeth gently down the path.
“Sorry,
Elizabeth,” said Simon, when they were back on the pavement. “Once they mention
Lloyd George we have no chance: they’re either Welsh or have remarkably long
memories.”
He knocked on
the next door.
“My name is
Simon Kerslake, I...”
“Get lost, creep,”
came back the reply.
“Who are you
calling creep?” Elizabeth retaliated as the door was slammed in their faces.
“Charming man,” she added.
“Don’t be
offended, Dr. Drummond. He was referring to me, not you.”
“What shall I
put by his name?”
“A question mark. No way of telling who he votes for.
Probably abstains.”
He tried the
next door.
“Hello, Simon,”
said a jolly red-faced lady before he could open his mouth.
“Don’t waste
your time on me, I’ll always vote for you.”
“Thank you,
Mrs. Irvine,” said Simon, checking his house list. “What
about your next-door neighbor?” he asked, pointing back.
“Ah, he’s an
irritable old basket, but I’ll see he gets to the polls on the day and puts his
cross in the right box.
He’d better, or
I’ll stop keeping an eye on his greyhound when he’s out.”
“Thank you very
much, Mrs. Irvine.”
“One more blue ,” said Simon.
“And you might
even pick up the greyhound vote.”
They covered
four streets during the next three hours, and Simon put blue lines only through
those names he was certain would support him on election day .
“Why do you
have to be so sure?” asked Elizabeth.
“Because when
we phone them to vote on Election Day we don’t want to remind the Opposition,
let alone arrange a ride for someone who then takes pleasure in voting Labour.”
Elizabeth
laughed. “Politics is so dishonest.”
“Be happy
you’re not going out with an American Senator,” said Simon, putting another
blue line through the last name in the street. “At least we don’t have to be
millionaires to run.”
“Perhaps I’d
like to marry a millionaire,”
Elizabeth said, griinning.
“On a
parliamentary salary it will take me about two hundred and forty-two years to
achieve.”
“I’m not sure I
can wait that long.”
Four days
before the election Simon and Elizabeth stood in the wings behind the stage of
Coventry Town Hall with Alf Abbott, Nigel Bainbridge and their wives for a
public debate. The three couples made stilted conversation. The political
correspondent of the Coventry Evening Telegraph acted as chairman, introducing
each of the protagonists as they walked onto the stage, to applause from
different sections of the hall. Simon spoke first, holding the attention of the
large audience for over 59 twenty minutes. Those who tried to heckle him ended
up regretting having brought attention to themselves .
Without once referring to his notes, he quoted figures and clauses from
Government bills with an ease that impressed Elizabeth. During the questions
that followed, Simon once again proved to be far better informed than Abbott or
Bainbridge, but he was aware that the packed hall held only seven hundred that
cold March evening, while elsewhere in Coventry were fifty thousand more
voters, most of them glued to their television watching “Ironside.”
Although the
local press proclaimed Simon the victor of a one-sided debate, he remained
downcast by the national papers, which were now predicting a landslide for
Labour.
On election
morning Simon picked up Elizabeth at six so he could be among the first to cast
his vote at the local primary school. They spent the rest of the day traveling
from polling hall to Party headquarters, trying to keep up the morale of his
supporters.
Everywhere they
went, the committed believed in his victory but Simon knew
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