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'Yes, Prime Minister. I am totally thrilled and honoured to receive your first telephone call after your own election .. .I look forward to seeing you, too. Yes, I shall be at Smith Square later... Of course, of course. I will see you then, and congratulations once again. Good night'
He replaced the telephone gently in its cradle, and turned to face the whole room: Suddenly his face burst into abroad smile, and as he did so the entire gathering broke out into a series of ringing cheers. They pummelled him forcefully on the back as he tried to shake all their hands at once. He was still trying to force his way back to the beaming captains as, in the next street, Penny carefully put down the car phone and began to adjust her lipstick in the car mirror.
FRIDAY 11th JUNE
The onlookers in Smith Square had increased dramatically in number as they waited for the Prime Minister's arrival. Midnight had long since tolled but tonight biological clocks would be stretched to the limit. They could see from the TV technicians' monitors that his convoy, escorted by police outriders and pursued by camera cars, had long since left the Ml and was now approaching Marble Arch. It would be less than ten minutes before they arrived, and three youthful cheerleaders were encouraging the crowd to warm up with a mixture of patriotic songs and shouts.
They were having to work harder than at previous elections. While some people were waving enormous Union Jacks, the members of the crowd seemed to be less keen on brandishing the large mounted photographs of Henry Col-lingridge with which they had been supplied. Several of them were wearing personal radios, and informing those around them of the results. Even the cheerleaders would stop occasionally to discuss the latest information.
They also had competition, because several Opposition supporters had decided to infiltrate the crowd and were now proceeding to wave tneir own banners and chant their own slogans. Half a dozen policemen moved in to ensure that high spirits on both sides were kept under control, but they did not interfere.
Reports began to circulate that the computers were now forecasting a majority of 28, and two of the cheerleaders broke off to indulge in an earnest discussion as to whether this constituted an adequate working majority. They concluded that it probably was, and returned to their task. But the crowd had turned into an unresponsive audience, the early enthusiasm increasingly deflated with concern, and they decided to save their effort until Henry Collingridge arrived.
Inside the building, Charles Collingridge was getting increasingly drunk. His ruddy and capillaried face was covered in perspiration, and his eyes were liquid and bloodshot.
'A good man, brother Henry. A great Prime Minister' he was babbling. Those around him who were still listening could detect the alcoholic lisp which had begun to creep into his voice as he repeated the familiar family history. 'I always thought he would have been an even better manager of the family business, could have made it one of the country's truly great companies, but he always preferred politics. Mind you, manufacturing bath fittings was never my cup of tea, either, but it kept father happy. Henry could have grown the business, made something of it, I'm sure. Do you know they even import the stuff from Poland nowadays? Or is it Romania... ?'
He interrupted his monologue by knocking what was left of his glass of whisky over his already stained trousers and, amidst the fluster of apologies and appeals for help, the Party Chairman Lord Williams took the opportunity to move well out of range. His wise old eyes revealed none of it, but he resented having to extend hospitality to the Prime Minister's brother. Although Charles was not a bad man, he was a weak man who was becoming a bloody nuisance on a regular basis, and the Party's ageing and most senior apparatchik liked to run a very tight ship. Yet as experienced as he was, he was only the navigator and knew there was little point in trying to throw the admiral's brother overboard.
He had once raised the problem directly with the Prime Minister of the increasing rumours and the growing number of snide references to his brother in the gossip columns. As one of the few men left who had been a prominent player even in the pre-Thatcher days, he had the seniority and some would argue even the responsibility to do so. But it had been to no avail.
'I spend half my time having to spill blood' the Prime Minister had pleaded. 'Please don't ask me to spill my own brother's.'
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