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Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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snappily.
“You’re still the member, and you owe it to your supporters to remain as
confident as they feel.”
Simon sat up in
bed and stared at Elizabeth. “Quite right,” he said, stretching for his tea,
unable to hide the pleasure he felt in discovering how much she had picked up
of the political game in such a short time.
Simon had a
long bath, shaved slowly, and they were back at the Town Hall a few minutes
before the count was due to recommence. As Simon walked up the steps he was
greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors
as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to
be absent as the final drama unfolded.
The counters
looked eager and ready when the town clerk checked his watch and nodded. The
boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once
again the little piles of ballots grew from tens into hundreds and then into
thousands. Simon paced around the tables, more to bum up his nervous energy
than out of a desire to keep checking.
He had thirty
witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by
sleight of hand or genuine mistake.
Once the
counters and scrutineers had finished, they sat in front of their piles and
waited for the slips to be collected for the town clerk.
When the town
clerk had added tip his little columns of figures for the final time he found
that four votes had changed hands.
He explained to
Simon and Alf Abbott the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome.
He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Elwyn Jones at nine that
morning and the Lord Chancellor had read out the relevant statute in election
law that was to be followed in such an extraordinary circumstance.
The town clerk
walked up on to the stage with Simon Kerslake and Alf Abbott in his wake, both
looking anxious.
Everyone in the
room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing
back of chairs, the coughing and the nervous chattering had stopped, the town
clerk began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be
sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent
room. Satisfied, he began to speak.
“I, the
returning officer for the district of Coventry Central, hereby declare the
total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
ALF ABBOTT, (LABOUR) 18,437
NIGEL BAINBRIDGE, (LIBERAL) 5,714
SIMON KERSLAKE,
(CONSERVATIVE) 18,437
The supporters
of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy.
It was several
minutes before the town clerk’s voice could be heard above the babble of
Midland accents.
“In accordance
with Section Sixteen of the Representation of the People Act of 1949 and Rule
Fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I
am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” be announced. “I have
spoken with the Lord Chancellor and he has confirmed that the drawing of straws
or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both
candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”
Pandemonium
broke out again as Simon and Abbott stood motionless on each side of the town
clerk waiting for their fate to be determined.
“Last night I
borrowed from Barclay’s Bank,” continued the town clerk, aware that ten million
people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time
in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George the Third,
on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Kerslake, to
call his preference.” Abbott curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected
the coin.
The town clerk
rested the golden sovereign on his thumb, Simon and Abbott still standing on
either side of him. He turned to Simon and said, “You will call, Mr. Kerslake,
while the coin is in the air.”
The silence was
such that they might have been the only three
“You’re still the member, and you owe it to your supporters to remain as
confident as they feel.”
Simon sat up in
bed and stared at Elizabeth. “Quite right,” he said, stretching for his tea,
unable to hide the pleasure he felt in discovering how much she had picked up
of the political game in such a short time.
Simon had a
long bath, shaved slowly, and they were back at the Town Hall a few minutes
before the count was due to recommence. As Simon walked up the steps he was
greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors
as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to
be absent as the final drama unfolded.
The counters
looked eager and ready when the town clerk checked his watch and nodded. The
boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once
again the little piles of ballots grew from tens into hundreds and then into
thousands. Simon paced around the tables, more to bum up his nervous energy
than out of a desire to keep checking.
He had thirty
witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by
sleight of hand or genuine mistake.
Once the
counters and scrutineers had finished, they sat in front of their piles and
waited for the slips to be collected for the town clerk.
When the town
clerk had added tip his little columns of figures for the final time he found
that four votes had changed hands.
He explained to
Simon and Alf Abbott the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome.
He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Elwyn Jones at nine that
morning and the Lord Chancellor had read out the relevant statute in election
law that was to be followed in such an extraordinary circumstance.
The town clerk
walked up on to the stage with Simon Kerslake and Alf Abbott in his wake, both
looking anxious.
Everyone in the
room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing
back of chairs, the coughing and the nervous chattering had stopped, the town
clerk began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be
sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent
room. Satisfied, he began to speak.
“I, the
returning officer for the district of Coventry Central, hereby declare the
total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
ALF ABBOTT, (LABOUR) 18,437
NIGEL BAINBRIDGE, (LIBERAL) 5,714
SIMON KERSLAKE,
(CONSERVATIVE) 18,437
The supporters
of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy.
It was several
minutes before the town clerk’s voice could be heard above the babble of
Midland accents.
“In accordance
with Section Sixteen of the Representation of the People Act of 1949 and Rule
Fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I
am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” be announced. “I have
spoken with the Lord Chancellor and he has confirmed that the drawing of straws
or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both
candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”
Pandemonium
broke out again as Simon and Abbott stood motionless on each side of the town
clerk waiting for their fate to be determined.
“Last night I
borrowed from Barclay’s Bank,” continued the town clerk, aware that ten million
people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time
in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George the Third,
on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Kerslake, to
call his preference.” Abbott curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected
the coin.
The town clerk
rested the golden sovereign on his thumb, Simon and Abbott still standing on
either side of him. He turned to Simon and said, “You will call, Mr. Kerslake,
while the coin is in the air.”
The silence was
such that they might have been the only three
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