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Giles ended the sixteen-hour day standing outside the gates of the dockyard, making sure that those clocking on for the night shift had already voted. If they hadn’t, they were immediately dispatched to the polling station on the other side of the road.

“But I’ll be late clocking on.”

“I know the chairman,” said Giles. To those who were coming off duty before going to the pub, Giles kept repeating, “Make sure you vote before you order your first pint.”

Griff and his team constantly checked their canvass returns so they could “knock up” those who still hadn’t cast their vote and remind them that the polling stations didn’t close until ten.

At one minute past ten, Giles shook the last hand and, desperate for a drink, walked down the road to join the dock workers in the Lord Nelson.

“Make mine a pint,” he said, leaning on the bar.

“Sorry, Sir Giles. It’s gone ten, and I know you wouldn’t want me to lose my license.”

Two men sitting at the bar grabbed an empty glass and filled it from their own two pints.

“Thank you,” said Giles, raising his glass.

“We’re both feeling a little guilty,” one of them admitted. “We ran in during the shower, so we haven’t voted.”

Giles would happily have poured the beer over their heads. Looking around the pub, he wondered how many more votes he’d lost when it was raining.

Harry walked into the Lord Nelson a few minutes later. “Sorry to drag you away,” he said, “but Griff has ordered me to take you home.”

“Not a man to be disobeyed,” said Giles, downing his pint.

“So what happens next?” asked Harry as they set off in his car for Barrington Hall.

“Nothing new. The local constabulary will be collecting the ballot boxes from all over the constituency before taking them to the Guildhall. The seals will be broken in the presence of Mr. Hardy, the town clerk, and once the ballot papers have been checked, the counting begins. So there’s no point in turning up at City Hall yet, as we can’t expect a result much before three a.m. Griff’s picking me up around midnight.”

*   *   *

Giles was dozing in his bath when the front-door bell rang. He climbed slowly out, pulled on a dressing gown, and pushed open the bathroom window to see Griff standing on the doorstep below.

“Sorry, Griff, I must have fallen asleep in the bath. Let yourself in and fix yourself a drink. I’ll be down as quickly as I can.”

Giles put on the same suit and tie he wore for every count, although he had to admit he could no longer do up the jacket’s middle button. He was on his way downstairs fifteen minutes later.

“Don’t ask me, because I don’t know,” said Griff, as he drove out of the front gates. “All I can tell you is that if the exit polls are to be believed, the Tories have won by about forty seats.”

“Then it’s back to opposition,” said Giles.

“That’s assuming you win, and our polling returns are showing it’s too close to call,” said Griff. “It’s 1951 all over again.” Griff didn’t say another word until they pulled into the car park outside City Hall, when three weeks of pent-up frustration and not a great deal of sleep suddenly came bursting out.

“It’s not the thought of losing that I can’t stomach,” said Griff. “It’s the thought of Major fucking Fisher winning.”

Giles sometimes forgot how passionately Griff felt about the cause, and how lucky he was to have him as his agent.

“Right,” said Griff, “now I’ve got that off my chest, let’s report for duty.” He got out of the car, straightened his tie and headed toward City Hall. As they walked up the steps together, Griff turned to Giles and said, “Try and look as if you expect to win.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to deliver a speech you’ve never made before, which will be a new experience for you.” Giles laughed as they entered the packed, noisy room where the count was taking place.

A dozen long trestle tables filled the room, with council officials and selected party representatives seated on both sides, furiously counting or observing. Every time a new black ballot box was emptied onto the tables, a forest of hands stretched out and quickly sorted the names of the candidates into three separate piles, before the counting could begin. Little stacks of ten soon became stacks of a hundred, at which point a red, blue, or yellow band was placed around them and they were lined up like infantrymen at the end of the table.

Griff watched the process warily. A simple mistake and a hundred votes could be placed in the wrong pile.

“What do you want us to do?” asked Seb as he and Miss Parish came over to join them.

“Take a table each and report back to me if you spot anything you’re not happy about.”

“And what about you?” asked Giles.

“I’ll do what I always do,” said Griff, “scrutinize the votes from the Woodbine Estate and Arcadia Avenue. Once I’ve checked their returns, I’ll be able to tell you who’s going to win.”

Griff’s team took a table each and, although the process was slow, it was running smoothly. Once Giles had made a complete circuit of the room, deftly avoiding Fisher, he rejoined Griff.