Best Kept Secret

between being slapped
on the back and told by several customers – not all of them sober – how to run the country, and called everything from ‘sir’ to ‘you bastard’.
    ‘So, how’s my nephew getting on at his new school?’ asked Giles after he’d drained his glass.
    ‘Doesn’t seem to be enjoying Beechcroft any more than he did St Bede’s. I’ve had a word with his housemaster, and all he said was that Seb’s very bright, and almost
certain to be offered a place at Oxford, but still doesn’t make friends easily.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Giles. ‘Perhaps he’s just shy. After all, no one loved you when you first went to St Bede’s.’ He turned back to the
barman. ‘Two more halves, please.’
    ‘Coming right up, sir.’
    ‘And how’s my favourite girlfriend?’ asked Giles.
    ‘If you’re referring to Jessica,’ said Harry, ‘you’ll have to join a long queue. Everybody loves that little girl, from Cleopatra to the postman, but she only loves
her dad.’
    ‘When will you tell her who her real father is?’ said Giles, lowering his voice.
    ‘I keep asking myself that question. And you don’t have to tell me I’m storing up trouble for the future, but I never seem to find the right time.’
    ‘There won’t ever be a right time,’ said Giles. ‘But don’t leave it too long, because one thing’s certain, Emma will never tell her, and I’m fairly
certain Seb’s already worked it out for himself.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Not here,’ said Giles, as another constituent slapped him on the back.
    The barman placed two half pints on the counter. ‘That’ll be ninepence, sir.’
    As Harry had paid for the first round, he assumed it must be Giles’s turn.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Giles, ‘but I’m not allowed to pay.’
    ‘Not
allowed
to pay?’
    ‘No. A candidate is not permitted to buy any drinks during an election campaign.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Harry, ‘at last I’ve found a reason for wanting to be an MP. But why, pray?’
    ‘It might be thought I was trying to buy your vote. Goes back to the reform of the rotten boroughs.’
    ‘I’d want a damn sight more than half a pint before I’d consider voting for you,’ said Harry.
    ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Giles. ‘After all, if my brother-in-law isn’t willing to vote for me, the press are bound to ask, why should anyone else?’
    ‘As this clearly isn’t the time or the place for a conversation on family matters, is there any chance of you joining Emma and me for dinner on Sunday evening?’
    ‘Not a hope. I have three church services to attend on Sunday, and don’t forget, it’s the last Sunday before the election.’
    ‘Oh God,’ said Harry, ‘is the election next Thursday?’
    ‘Damn,’ said Giles. ‘It’s a golden rule that you never remind a Tory of the date of the election. Now I’ll have to rely on God to support me, and I’m still
not altogether sure which side he’s on. I shall fall on my knees on Sunday morning at Matins, seek his guidance during Vespers and pray during evensong, and then hope the vote will end up two
to one in my favour.’
    ‘Do you really have to go to such extremes, just to win a few more votes?’
    ‘Of course you do if you are contesting a marginal constituency. And don’t forget, church services get far bigger turnouts than I ever manage at my political meetings.’
    ‘But I thought the church was meant to be neutral?’
    ‘And so it should be, but vicars will always tell you they have absolutely no interest in politics, while having few qualms about letting their parishioners know exactly which party they
will be voting for, and often from the pulpit.’
    ‘Do you want another half, as I’m paying?’ asked Harry.
    ‘No. I can’t waste any more time chatting to you. You not only don’t have a vote in this constituency, but even if you did, you wouldn’t be backing me.’ He leapt
off his stool, shook hands with the barman and dashed out of the pub on to the pavement, where he smiled at the first person he saw.
    ‘Good afternoon, sir. My name is Giles Barrington and I hope I can count on your support next Thursday at the general election.’
    ‘I don’t live in this constituency, mate, I’m down from Birmingham for the day.’

    On the day of the election, Giles’s agent, Griff Haskins, told the candidate he felt confident the voters of Bristol Docklands would keep faith with their member and send
him back to represent