Best Kept Secret

had requested. He turned several pages of
Macaulay’s Election Law
until he came to an
entry he’d marked earlier that afternoon. While Wainwright was confirming his understanding of the returning officer’s duties, Fisher’s scrutiny team were charging up and down the
aisles demanding to be shown the second ballot paper of every Barrington stack.
    Despite this, forty minutes later Wainwright was able to announce that there were no changes from the result of the second count. Fisher immediately demanded another re-count.
    ‘I am not willing to grant that request,’ said Wainwright. ‘The numbers have been consistent on three separate occasions,’ he added, quoting Macaulay’s exact
words.
    ‘But that is blatantly not the case,’ barked Fisher. ‘They’ve only been consistent twice. You will recall that I won the first count quite comfortably.’
    ‘They have been consistent three times,’ repeated Wainwright, ‘remembering the unfortunate mistake your colleague made on the first count.’
    ‘My colleague?’ said Fisher. ‘That is a disgraceful slur on my character. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. If you don’t withdraw that statement and allow
a re-count, I’ll have no choice but to consult my lawyers in the morning.’
    ‘That would be most unfortunate,’ said Wainwright, ‘because I wouldn’t want to see Councillor Peter Maynard in the witness box, trying to explain how he’d never
come across the chairman of his local party’s association, who also happens to be its prospective parliamentary candidate.’
    Fisher turned scarlet and marched off the stage.
    Mr Wainwright rose from his place, walked slowly towards the front of the stage and tapped the microphone for the last time. He cleared his throat and announced, ‘I, the returning officer
for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:
Sir Giles Barrington
18,813  
Mr Reginald Ellsworthy
3,472  
Major Alexander Fisher
18,809.’
    ‘I therefore declare Sir Giles Barrington to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Bristol Docklands.’
    The Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands looked up to the balcony and bowed low to Sebastian Clifton.

SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

1955–1957

26
    ‘R AISE YOUR GLASSES to the man who won us the election!’ yelled Griff, who was teetering precariously on a table in the middle of the room,
a glass of champagne in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
    ‘To Sebastian!’ everyone shouted, to laughter and applause.
    ‘Have you ever drunk champagne before?’ asked Griff after he had stepped unsteadily down to join Sebastian.
    ‘Only once,’ admitted Sebastian, ‘when my friend Bruno celebrated his fifteenth birthday, and his father took the two of us out to supper at a local pub. So I suppose this is
my second glass.’
    ‘Take my advice,’ said Griff, ‘don’t get used to it. It’s the nectar of the rich. We working-class lads,’ he said, putting an arm around him, ‘can only
expect to have a couple of glasses a year, and then at someone else’s expense.’
    ‘But I intend to be rich.’
    ‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Griff, filling his glass again. ‘In that case you’ll have to become a champagne socialist, and heaven knows we’ve got enough of them
in our party.’
    ‘I’m not in your party,’ said Sebastian firmly. ‘I’m a Tory in every other seat, apart from the one Uncle Giles is standing in.’
    ‘Then you’ll have to come and live in Bristol,’ said Griff as the newly re-elected member strolled across to join them.
    ‘Not much chance of that,’ said Giles. ‘His parents tell me they have high hopes of him winning a scholarship to Cambridge.’
    ‘Well, if it’s to be Cambridge rather than Bristol, you’ll probably end up seeing more of your uncle than we do.’
    ‘You’ve had too much to drink, Griff,’ said Giles, patting his agent on the back.
    ‘Not as much as I would have had if we’d lost,’ said Griff, downing his glass. ‘And try not to forget the bloody Tories have increased their majority in the
House.’
    ‘We ought to be getting home, Seb, if you’re going to be in any shape for school tomorrow. Heaven knows how many rules you’ve broken in the last couple of hours.’
    ‘Can I say goodnight to Miss Parish before I go?’
    ‘Yes, of course. Why don’t you do that while I go and pay the drinks bill. The drinks are on