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As Big Ben struck 10 o'clock and dusk at last began to take a firm hold, an audible sigh of relief went up from around the building. The polling booths had closed and no further appeal, explanation, attack, insinuation or - more predictably - almighty cock-up could now affect the result. It was over. One or two of them shook each other's hand in silent reassurance and respect for the job done. Just how well done they would shortly discover.
As on so many previous evenings, like a religious ritual they turned their attention to the familiar voice of Sir Alastair Burnet. He appeared for every purpose like a latter-day Gabriel, with his reassuring tones and flowing silver hair which had just enough back lighting to give him a halo effect. For the next few hours God would have to take second place.
'Good evening. The election campaign is now over. Just seconds ago thousands of polling booths across the country closed their doors, and the first result is expected in just forty-five minutes. We shall shortly be going over live for interviews with the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge, in his Warwickshire constituency, and the Opposition leader in South Wales.
'But first ITN's exclusive exit poll conducted by Harris Research International outside 153 polling booths across the country during today's voting. It gives the following prediction...'
The country's most senior newsreader opened a large envelope in front of him, as reverently as if the A4 Manila contained his own death certificate. He extracted a large card from within the envelope, and glanced at it. Not too quickly, not too slowly he raised his eyes once more to the cameras, and the venerable broadcaster held 30 million viewers in the palm of his hand, teasing them gently. He was entitled to his moment. After twenty-eight years and nine general elections as a television broadcaster, he had already announced that this was to be his last.
ITN'S exclusive exit poll forecast - and I emphasise this is a forecast, not a result - is...'
He glanced once more at the card, just to check he had not misread it. His professional, emotionless eyes betrayed not a hint of his own views on the matter. From somewhere within Smith Square the sound of a prematurely loosened champagne cork broke the straining silence, but they ignored the cold and sticky froth as it splashed over the desk top.
'... that the Government will be re-elected with a majority of 34.'
The building itself seemed to tremble as a roar of triumph mixed with relief came from deep within. It was winning and only winning that mattered to the professionals, not how they played the game or how close the result. Time enough later for sober reflection as to whether they would be deemed to have had a 'good' war or not.
The whoops of joy drowned out the protesting tones of Sir Alastair as he continued to remind his audience that this was a forecast and definitely not a result, and in any event was much closer than the opinion polls had been predicting. The screen briefly divided between mute shots of the party leaders taking in the prediction, Collingridge displaying a thin humourless smile which indicated no pleasure, while the broad grin and shake of his opponent's head left viewers in no doubt that the Opposition had yet to concede. 'Wait and see,' he was mouthing, 'wait and see', but the producer did not wait to see and cut back to Burnet as he proceeded to report on the rest of the election night news. .
'Bollocks' Preston was shouting, his hair falling into his eyes. 'What have they done?' He looked at the ruins of his first edition, and began furiously scribbling on his notepad. 'Government Majority Slashed!' he tried. It's Too Close To Call'. 'Collingridge Squeaks In'. They all ended up in the bin.
He looked around desperately for some help and inspiration.
'Let's wait' Mattie advised. It's only thirty minutes to the first result.'
Even without the first result, celebrations were already well under way at the Party's advertising agency. With the confidence that is shown by all positive thinkers, the staff of Merrill Grant & Jones Company PLC had been squashed for nearly three hours in the agency's reception area to witness history in the making projected on two vast TV screens. Not that history would be made for at least another seventeen minutes or so, but like all positive thinkers they prided themselves in being ahead of the game, and the champagne was already flowing to wash down an endless supply of deep pan pizzas and Big Macs. Indeed, the predictions of a drastically reduced majority had only served to spur those present on to greater efforts. Even at this early hour it was clear that two ornamental fig trees which had graced the reception area for several years would not survive the night, and it seemed probable that several young secretaries wouldn't either. Most of the wiser heads were pacing themselves much better, but there seemed to be little reason to exercise excessive restraint. Particularly as the client was setting a fearsome example.
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