That could have been done an hour ago’ snapped Urquhart.
The agent blushed. Not for the first time she resented Urquhart's sharp tongue and lack of gratitude, and promised herself that this would be her last election for him. She would swap this safe seat for a marginal seat as soon as she could. The pay would be even poorer and the hours longer, but at least she would be appreciated and not treated as another piece of constituency furniture. Or may be she would give up politics altogether and go and get a proper job.
It doesn't look quite as cheerful as last time’ she said. 'Turnout is poor, and a lot of our supporters seem to be simply staying at home. It's very difficult to read, but I suspect the majority will be down. I can't tell how much.'
Damn them. They deserve a dose of the Opposition for a few years. Maybe that would get them off their complacent rumps.'
'Darling,' his wife soothed as she had done on countless previous occasions, 'that's scarcely generous. With a majority of 22,000 you could allow for just a little dip.'
'Miranda, I'm not feeling generous. I'm feeling hot, tired and I've had as much chatter about doorstep opinion as I can take. For God's sake get me out of here.'
As she turned round to wave thanks and farewell to the packed room, she was just in time to see the standard lamp go crashing to the floor.
The air of controlled chaos which usually filled the editor's office had gone, to be replaced by a sense of panic which was getting out of hand. The first edition had long since gone to press, complete .with a bold front page headline proclaiming: 'Home and dry!’
But that had been at 6p.m., four hours before the polls closed. The editor of the Daily Telegraph, like all other editors, had taken his chance on the election result in order to make his first edition of even marginal interest by the time it hit the streets. If he was right, he would be first with the news. If he got it wrong, he would be covered in it and would not be allowed to forget. This was Greville Preston's first election as an editor. He was not feeling comfortable as he constantly changed the front page and demanded rewrites and updates from his political staff. He had been brought in just a few months earlier by the new owner of Telegraph Newspapers, and he had been given only one instruction: 'Succeed'. Failure was not an option if he wished to continue as editor, and he knew he would not be given a second chance - any more than would his staff. The demands of the accountants for instant financial gratification had required ruthless pruning, and a large number of senior staff had found themselves being 'rationalised' - as the accountants put it - and replaced by less experienced but equally less expensive substitutes. It was great for the bottom line but quite dreadful for morale. The purge left the remaining staff insecure, the loyal readers confused and Preston with a perpetual sense of impending doom, a condition which his proprietor was determined to do nothing to dispel.
Preston's efforts at increasing the circulation by taking the paper down-market had yet to show the promised results, and the smooth and dapper appearance which he effected was spoilt by the beads of perspiration and concern which constantly appeared on his brow and made his heavy rimmed glasses slip down his nose. The carefully manufactured attempt at outward authority had never fully hidden the. insecurity within.
He turned away from the bank of television monitors which had been piled up against one wall of his office to face the member of staff who had been giving him such a hard time.
'How the hell do you know it's going wrong?' he shouted. Mattie Storin did not flinch. At twenty-eight she was the youngest recruit to the paper's political staff, having only recently replaced one of the senior correspondents who had fallen foul of the accountants for his habit of conducting interviews over extended lunches at the Savoy. Yet Mattie had a confidence about her judgement which belied the nine hectic months she had spent in the job. Anyway, she was as tall as Preston, 'and almost as beautiful' as she often quipped at his expense. She did not care for this new style of editor whose job was not so much to produce a prime quality newspaper but foremost to return a good profit. Preston came from the 'management school' of editing, where they teach readership audits and costs per thousand rather than what makes a good story and when to ignore the lawyers' advice; and it stuck in Mattie's gullet. Preston knew it, and resented Mattie and her obvious if raw and unfashioned talent, but he knew in many ways that he needed her more than she needed him. Even in the management school of journalism, a newspaper still requires a sharp journalistic nose to reach its circulation target, as Preston was slowly beginning to discover.
She turned to face him with her hands thrust defensively into the pockets of her fashionably baggy trousers, which in spite of the flowing lines somehow still managed to emphasise her willowy elegance. Mattie Storin very much wanted to succeed as a journalist and to develop the skills which she knew she possessed. But she was also a woman, a very attractive one, and was determined not to sacrifice her identity simply to conform to the typecasting expected of young women working their way up in journalism. She saw no reason why she should attempt either to grow a beard in order to have her talent recognised, or to play the simpering lovely lady to satisfy the chauvinistic demands of her male colleagues, particularly so inadequate an example as Preston.
She began slowly, hoping he would get the full flavour of her logic. 'Every single Government MP I've been able to talk to in the last two hours is downgrading his forecast, and every Opposition spokesman I have talked to is smiling. I've telephoned the returning officer in the Prime Minister's constituency, who says the poll looks as if it's going to be down by 5 per cent. That's scarcely an overwhelming vote of confidence. Something is going on out there. You can feel it. The Government are not yet home and are certainly not dry, and our story is too strong.’
'Crap. Every poll taken during the election suggests a strong Government win, yet you want me to change the front page on the basis of feminine instinct?'
Mattie could sense her editor's nervousness. All editors live on their nerves, but the secret is not to show it. Preston showed it.
'OK’ he demanded, 'they had a majority of 102 at the last election. Tell me what you think it's going to be tomorrow. All the opinion polls are predicting around 70 seats.'
'You trust the polls if you want, Grev,' she warned, 'but I'd rather trust the feel I get out on the streets. There's no enthusiasm amongst Government supporters. They won't turn out and it will drag the majority down.'
'Come on,' he bullied. 'How much?'
She shook her head slowly to emphasise her caution, her short blonde hair brushing around her shoulders. 'A week ago I would have said it would be about 50. Now it could be even less,' she responded.
‘Jesus, it can't be less. We've backed those bastards all the way and they've got to deliver.'
And you've got to deliver, too, she mused. She knew that the editor's only firm political view was that his newspaper couldn't afford to be on the losing side. The new cockney proprietor, Benjamin Landless, had told him so and editors didn't argue with Landless. As the country's most recent newspaper magnate constantly reminded his already insecure staff, it was easier to buy ten new editors than one new newspaper, thanks to the Government's competition policy, 'so we don't piss off the Government by supporting the other bloody side'.
He had delivered his growing army of newspapers into the Government camp, and he expected his newspapers to deliver the proper election result. It wasn't reasonable, of course, but Landless had never found that being reasonable helped get the best out of his employees. Over lunch a few weeks earlier the proprietor had explained to Preston that a change of Government could be difficult for Landless, but for Preston such a result would he fatal.
Mattie tried again. She sat herself on the corner of the editor's vast and far too tidy desk and marshalled her case, hoping that for a change he would concentrate on her arguments rather than her legs.
'Look, Grev, forget the opinion polls for a minute. Put it in perspective. When Margaret Thatcher at last decided to retire, they concluded in their wisdom that it was time for a change of style. They wanted a new fashion. Something less abrasive, less domineering; they'd had enough of trial by ordeal and being shown up by a woman.'
You of all people should understand that, she thought.
'So in their wisdom they chose Collingridge, for no better reason than he was confident on TV, smooth with little old ladies and was likely to be uncontroversial.' She shrugged her shoulders dismissively. 'But they've lost their cutting edge. It's rice pudding politics and there's no energy or enthusiasm left. He's campaigned with as much vigour as a Sunday school teacher. Another seven days of listening to him mouthing platitudes and I think even his wife would have voted for the other lot. Anything for a change.'
For the tenth time that evening Mattie wondered if her editor used lacquer to keep his carefully coiffured hair so immaculate. She suspected he had an aerosol and hairbrush in his drawer, and she was certain he used eyebrow tweezers.
'Let's dispense with the analysis and mysticism and stick to hard numbers, shall we?' challenged Preston.
'What's the majority going to be? Are they going to get back in, or not?'
It would be a rash man who said they wouldn't’ she replied.
'And I have no intention of being rash. Any majority will be good enough for me. In the circumstances it would be quite an achievement. Historic, in fact. Four straight wins, never been done before. So the front page stays.'
Preston quickly brought his instructions to an end by finding solace in his glass of champagne, but Mattie was not to be so easily put off. Her grandfather had been a modem Viking who in the stormy early months of 1941 had sailed across the North Sea in a waterlogged fishing boat to escape from Nazi-occupied Norway and join the RAF. He had handed down to Mattie not only her natural Scandinavian looks but also a strength and independence of spirit which she needed to survive in the masculine worlds of politics and newspapers. Her old editor on the Yorkshire Post who had given Mattie her first real job had always encouraged her to fight her own corner. 'You're no good to me, lass, if I end up writing all of your stories for you. Be a seeker, not just another scribbler.' It was an attitude which did not always commend itself to her new masters, but what the hell.
Just stop for a moment and ask yourself what we could expect from another four years of Collingridge. Maybe he's too nice to be Prime Minister. His manifesto was so lightweight it got blown away in the first week of campaigning. He has developed no new ideas and his only philosophy is to cross his fingers and hope that neither the Russians nor the trade unions break wind too loudly. Is that really what the country wants?'
'Daintily put, as always, Mattie,' he taunted, reverting, as was his custom, to being patronising whenever he was confronted by an argumentative woman. 'But you're wrong,' he continued, sounding none too certain. The punters want consolidation, not upheaval. They don't want the toys being thrown out of the pram all the time.' He stabbed his finger in the air to indicate that the discussion was almost over and this was now official company policy. 'So a quiet couple of years will be no bad thing. And Collingridge back in Downing Street will be a great thing!'
It'll be murder’ she muttered.
It was the Number 88 bus thundering past and rattling the apartment windows which eventually caused Charles Collingridge to wake up. The small one-bedroom flat above the travel agency in Clapham was not what most people would have expected of the Prime Minister's brother, but a messy divorce and an indulgent lifestyle had a nasty habit of making the money disappear much faster than it came in. He lay slumped in the armchair, still in his crumpled suit which had got him through lunch and which still carried some of it on the lapel.
He cursed when he saw the time. He must have been asleep for five hours yet he still felt exhausted. He needed a drink to pick himself up, and he poured himself a large measure of vodka. Not even Smirnoff any more, just the local supermarket brand. Still, it didn't hang on the breath or smell when you spilled it.
He took his glass to the bathroom and soaked in the tub, giving the hot water time to work its wonders on those tired limbs. Nowadays they often seemed to belong to an entirely different person. He must be getting old, he told himself.
He stood in front of the mirror, trying to repair the damage of his latest binge. He saw his father's" face, reproachful as ever, urging him on to goals which were always just beyond him, demanding to know why he never managed to do things quite like his elder brother Henry. They both had the same advantages, went to the same school. But somehow Henry always had the edge, and gradually had overshadowed him in his career and his marriage. He did not feel bitter. Or at least he tried not to be. Henry had always been there to help when he needed it, to offer advice and to give him a shoulder to cry on when Mary had left him. Particularly when Mary had left him. But hadn't even she thrown Henry's success in his face? 'You're not up to it. Not up to anything!' And Henry had much less time to worry about other people's problems since he had gone to Downing Street
As young boys they had shared everything together, as young men they had shared much, even a few girlfriends. But these days there was little room left in Henry's life for his younger brother, and Charles felt angry - not with Henry, but with life. It had not worked out for him, and he did not understand why.
He guided the razor past the old cuts on his baggy face, and began putting the pieces back together. The hair brushed over the balding pate, the fresh shirt and clean tie. He would be ready soon for the election night festivities to which his family links still ensured he was invited. A tea towel over his shoes gave them back a little shine, and he was almost ready. Just time for one more drink.
North of the river, a taxi was stuck in a traffic jam on the outskirts of Soho. It was always a bottleneck, and election night seemed to have brought an additional throng of revellers onto the streets. In the back of the taxi Roger O'Neill drummed his fingers impatiently, watching helplessly as the bikes and pedestrians flashed past. He did not have much time.
'Get over here quick, Rog’ they had said. 'We can't wait all bleedin' night, not even for you. And we ain't back till Tuesday.'