Read Online First Among Equals by Jeffrey Archer - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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it would be close. A
senior Conservative backbencher had once told him that an outstanding member
could be worth a thousand personal votes, and a weak opponent might sacrifice
another thousand. Even an extra two thousand wasn’t going to be enough.
As the Coventry
City Hall clock struck nine, Simon and Elizabeth sat down on the steps of the
last polling hall. He knew there was nothing he could do now – 4he last vote
had been cast. Just then, ajolly lady, accompanied by a sour-faced man, was
coming out of the hall. She had a smile of satisfaction on her face.
“Hello, Mrs.
Irvine,” said Simon. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,
Simon.” She smiled.
“Looks like she
fixed the greyhound vote,”
Elizabeth
whispered in Simon’s ear.
“Now don’t fret
yourself, lad,” Mrs. Irvine continued.
“I never failed
to vote for the winner in fifty-two years, and that’s longer than you’ve
lived.” She winked and led the sour-faced man away.
A small band of
supporters accompanied Simon and Elizabeth to the City Hall to witness the
count. As Simon entered the hall, the first person he saw was Alf Abbott, who
had a big grin on his face. Simon was not discouraged by the smile as he
watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Abbott should have
remembered that the first boxes to be counted were always from the city wards,
where most of the committed Labourites lived.
As both men
walked around the tables, the little piles of ballots began to be checked-first
in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed
over to the town clerk. As the night drew on, Abbott’s grin turned to a smile,
from a smile to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles
grew closer and closer in size.
For over three
hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked
each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one in the
morning the Coventry town clerk added up the list of numbers in front of him
and asked the three candidates to join him.
He told them
the results.
Alf Abbott
smiled. Simon showed no emotion, but called for a recount.
For over an
hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and
double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote
discovered, and, on one occasion, the name on the top of the pile of one
hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it.
At last the
scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the town clerk added up the
columns of numbers before asking the candidates to join him.
This time Simon
smiled, while Abbott looked surprised and demanded a further recount. The town
clerk acquiesced, but said it had to be the last time. Both candidates agreed
in the absence of their Liberal rival, who was sleeping soundly in the comer,
secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position
in the contest.
Once again the
piles were checked and doublechecked and five mistakes were discovered in the
42,588 votes cast. At 3:30 A.M. with counters and checkers falling asleep at
their tables, the town clerk once more asked the candidates to join him. They
were both stunned when they heard the result, and the town clerk informed them
that there would be yet a further recount in the morning when his staff had
managed to get some sleep.
All the ballots
were then replaced carefully in the black boxes, locked and left in the
safekeeping of the local constabulary, while the candidates crept away to their
beds. Simon and Elizabeth booked into separate rooms at the Leofric Hotel.
Simon slept in
fits and starts through the remainder of the night.
Elizabeth
brought a cup of tea to his room at eight the same morning to find him still in
bed.
“Simon,” she
said, “you look like one of my patients just before an operation.”
“I think I’ll
skip this operation,” he said, turning over.
“Don’t be such a wimp , Simon,” she said rather
senior Conservative backbencher had once told him that an outstanding member
could be worth a thousand personal votes, and a weak opponent might sacrifice
another thousand. Even an extra two thousand wasn’t going to be enough.
As the Coventry
City Hall clock struck nine, Simon and Elizabeth sat down on the steps of the
last polling hall. He knew there was nothing he could do now – 4he last vote
had been cast. Just then, ajolly lady, accompanied by a sour-faced man, was
coming out of the hall. She had a smile of satisfaction on her face.
“Hello, Mrs.
Irvine,” said Simon. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,
Simon.” She smiled.
“Looks like she
fixed the greyhound vote,”
Elizabeth
whispered in Simon’s ear.
“Now don’t fret
yourself, lad,” Mrs. Irvine continued.
“I never failed
to vote for the winner in fifty-two years, and that’s longer than you’ve
lived.” She winked and led the sour-faced man away.
A small band of
supporters accompanied Simon and Elizabeth to the City Hall to witness the
count. As Simon entered the hall, the first person he saw was Alf Abbott, who
had a big grin on his face. Simon was not discouraged by the smile as he
watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Abbott should have
remembered that the first boxes to be counted were always from the city wards,
where most of the committed Labourites lived.
As both men
walked around the tables, the little piles of ballots began to be checked-first
in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed
over to the town clerk. As the night drew on, Abbott’s grin turned to a smile,
from a smile to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles
grew closer and closer in size.
For over three
hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked
each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one in the
morning the Coventry town clerk added up the list of numbers in front of him
and asked the three candidates to join him.
He told them
the results.
Alf Abbott
smiled. Simon showed no emotion, but called for a recount.
For over an
hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and
double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote
discovered, and, on one occasion, the name on the top of the pile of one
hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it.
At last the
scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the town clerk added up the
columns of numbers before asking the candidates to join him.
This time Simon
smiled, while Abbott looked surprised and demanded a further recount. The town
clerk acquiesced, but said it had to be the last time. Both candidates agreed
in the absence of their Liberal rival, who was sleeping soundly in the comer,
secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position
in the contest.
Once again the
piles were checked and doublechecked and five mistakes were discovered in the
42,588 votes cast. At 3:30 A.M. with counters and checkers falling asleep at
their tables, the town clerk once more asked the candidates to join him. They
were both stunned when they heard the result, and the town clerk informed them
that there would be yet a further recount in the morning when his staff had
managed to get some sleep.
All the ballots
were then replaced carefully in the black boxes, locked and left in the
safekeeping of the local constabulary, while the candidates crept away to their
beds. Simon and Elizabeth booked into separate rooms at the Leofric Hotel.
Simon slept in
fits and starts through the remainder of the night.
Elizabeth
brought a cup of tea to his room at eight the same morning to find him still in
bed.
“Simon,” she
said, “you look like one of my patients just before an operation.”
“I think I’ll
skip this operation,” he said, turning over.
“Don’t be such a wimp , Simon,” she said rather
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