Best Kept Secret

teller was saying to a friend who’d just voted, ‘the Millers over there at number twenty-one, all six of them, can’t even be bothered to cross
the road, despite the fact that they never stop complaining about this Tory government. So if we lose by half a dozen votes, we’ll know who to blame.’
    ‘Why don’t you get Miss Parish on to them?’ said the friend.
    ‘She’s got enough on her plate without having to come down here. I’d do it myself, but I can’t leave my post.’
    Sebastian turned and found himself walking across the road. He came to a halt outside number 21, but it was some time before he plucked up enough courage to knock. He nearly ran away when he saw
the size of the man who opened the door.
    ‘What do you want, nipper?’ the man bellowed.
    ‘I represent Major Fisher, the Conservative candidate,’ said Sebastian, in his best public school accent, ‘and he was rather hoping that you’d be able to support him
today, as the polls are showing it’s likely to be a close-run thing.’
    ‘Bugger off before I give you a clip round the ear,’ said Mr Miller, and slammed the door in his face.
    Sebastian ran back across the road and, as he collected the latest figures from the teller, he saw the door of number 21 open, and Mr Miller reappeared, leading five members of his family across
the road. Sebastian added the Millers to his canvass return before running back to the committee room.

    Giles was back at the docks by six o’clock, to meet the day shift coming off and the night shift clocking on.
    ‘Have you been standing there all day, guv?’ quipped one of them.
    ‘Feels like it,’ said Giles, as he shook another hand.
    One or two turned back when they saw him standing there and quickly headed for the nearby polling station, while those coming out all seemed to be going in one direction, and it wasn’t to
the nearest pub.
    At 6.30 p.m., after all the dockers had either clocked on or gone home, Giles did what he’d done for the past two elections and jumped aboard the first double-decker bus heading back into
the city.
    Once on board, he climbed on to the top deck and shook hands with several surprised passengers. When he’d covered the lower deck, he jumped off at the next stop and got on another bus
going in the opposite direction. He went on jumping on and off buses for the next two and a half hours, continuing to shake hands until one minute past nine.
    Giles got off the last bus and sat alone at the stop. There was nothing more he could do to win this election.

    Giles heard a single chime echo in the distance and glanced at his watch: 9.30 p.m.; time to make a move. He decided he couldn’t face another bus, and began to walk slowly
towards the city centre, hoping the evening air might clear his head before the count.
    By now the local constabulary would have begun to collect the ballot boxes from all over the constituency before delivering them to City Hall; a process that would take more than an hour to
complete. Once they had all been delivered, checked and double checked, Mr Wainwright, the town clerk, would give the order for the seals to be broken so the count could begin. If the result was
announced before 1 o’clock that morning, it would be a miracle.
    Sam Wainwright was not a man destined to break speed records on land or sea. ‘Slowly, but surely’ would be the words etched on his gravestone. Giles had dealt with the town clerk on
local matters for the past decade and still didn’t know which party he supported. He suspected he just didn’t vote. What Giles did know was that this would be Wainwright’s last
election, as he would be retiring at the end of the year. In Giles’s opinion, the city would be very lucky to find a worthy successor. Someone might succeed Wainwright, but no man could
replace him, as Thomas Jefferson had said when he followed Benjamin Franklin into the post of American ambassador to France.
    One or two passers-by waved as Giles continued on his way to City Hall, while others simply ignored him. He began to think about his life, and what he might do if he were no longer the MP for
Bristol Docklands. He would be thirty-five in a couple of weeks. True, no great age, but since returning to Bristol just after the war ended he’d only ever done one job, and frankly he
wasn’t qualified to do much else; the perennial problem for any Member of Parliament who doesn’t have a safe seat.
    His thoughts turned to Virginia, who