My Father lifts the heavy door-knocker, and lets it go – hard enough to be heard, but not so forcefully as to sound threatening – hoping that no one is at home. He knows this is unlikely. At this time on a sub-zero winter evening, most people in this part of suburban Birmingham will have little reason to venture out. Supper, or tea, or whatever they call it, will soon be on the table.
He’s out of luck. Immediately, his knock is met by a staccato volley of barks and snarls, followed, more faintly from within, by a woman’s voice, trying half-heartedly to hush the dog (“for heaven’s sake, Roger, leave it be!”). And then, through the door’s frosted glass panel, one of the residents of 26 Blenheim Drive – Labour voters at the last election – looms into view.
My Father hates canvassing. It’s not that he despises ordinary people for their astounding political ignorance, or that he doesn’t enjoy the opportunity to listen to their concerns, and try to help them understand how Labour’s programme for the next parliament will infallibly satisfy all of them. It’s just that trudging through ankle-deep slush, in shoes that leak, knocking endlessly on the doors of people who, almost without exception, would seemingly prefer to welcome the Black Death into their homes, is such a godawful fucking dispiriting soul-crushing optimism-destroying way of spending two-and-a-half weeks of your life. And such an ineffective, potentially counter-productive, means of kindling true Socialist conviction in the hearts of the electorate!
He breathes in deeply, shakes his head, as if to clear water lodged in one of his ears, and – at the very last second – arranges his face.
The door opens a few inches. The householder is looking up at him, from a semi-crouching position that she’s adopted in order to restrain Roger, an overweight but still quite useful-looking bull terrier, who is now emitting a continuous menacing low growl.
“Mrs Henson?” says My Father, with a winning smile, heroically at odds with how he feels.
The woman, who is wearing a hat and what My Father judges to be some kind of house-coat, cuffs the dog’s distended snout surprisingly hard, temporarily silencing it. She could, he thinks, be anywhere between late-30s and mid-60s. She doesn’t return his smile.
“Well?”
“I’m My Father, your Labour candidate. I called round to say I hope I can rely on your vote on Thursday.”
“Thursday?” She repeats the word as if it refers to an unfamiliar concept, not of any particular interest to her.
“In the general election. I know you and your husband voted for my predecessor….”
Damn, thinks My Father, should he have used that word? Will it have made him sound out of touch, uncomradely? A toff?
“Your what?”
Fucking hell, it did! “I know you voted Labour in the last election, when it was Mr Jenkins – and I’m hoping you will again on Thursday, for me?”
To My Father’s surprise, since most dogs are instinctive Tories, Roger seems to have decided this unexpected evening visitor is essentially harmless, and now slinks off to his basket under the hall table, where he continues to eye My Father and rumble quietly, like a semi-dormant volcano. Freed from the task of restraint, the householder surveys My Father candidly, taking in the details of his appearance for the first time.
“How old are you?” she asks, with a glimmer of genuine interest.
My Father is not yet 24, which makes him the youngest of nearly 650 Labour candidates standing in the election. But he’s far from over-awed by his lack of seniority. In fact, he sees it as an asset. He sees himself as part of a new wave of exceptionally able young men, moulded by the war, their egalitarian instincts and Socialist principles forged by it, ready and waiting to bring renewed vigour and vision to the challenge of taking forward the very real and transformative achievements of the Labour government, now showing signs of running out of steam, having been elected five years ago.
“Old enough,” replies My Father, who has been asked this question before, “to know that we will all win through together under Socialism, with a Labour government!” (This is a reference to the manifesto, Let Us Win Through Together, all 5000 words of which My Father can recite by heart – though there have been disappointingly few opportunities to do so, during the campaign to date.)
“You look about the same age as my Derek. Twenty six he is – no, I tell a lie, twenty seven. It was his birthday just last Wednesday. ”
My Father continues to smile, having temporarily lost the power of speech, as well as the will to live. His exhausted brain spins and whirs, but he can think of no riposte to this, no elegant way of bringing the conversation back to Labour policy, and the urgent need for the country to trust Mr Atlee and his team to continue with the great national reconstruction project they have so impressively begun. He just wants to go back to his extraordinarily depressing digs, where the black mould is almost visibly advancing across the walls, and go straight to bed. But he knows he can’t leave while these two votes – he assumes, rightly, that the householder and her husband will come as a package – remain unsecured.
He mentally scans the manifesto, searching for something to say. Derek is presumably her son? Some link perhaps to the government’s excellent record in assuring full employment, for our nation’s young people….
Of course, My Father doesn’t expect to win on Thursday. No one expects him to win on Thursday; this is a safe Tory seat. It’s true that his predecessor as candidate, Roy Jenkins, ran the Conservative incumbent quite close in 1945; but this is a very different election, the euphoric post-war appetite for change having been fairly thoroughly extinguished by five years of extreme, gnawing austerity. Also, My Father is quick to point out, the boundaries of the constituency have been redrawn, to exclude two large council estates, rich in nothing but potential Labour voters.
No, My Father is perfectly clear that for him, “victory” on Thursday means a solid safe-pair-of-hands performance: an absolute minimum of 10,000 votes is the target he has set himself. And if he can only achieve that eminently realistic goal…. well, then there is no end to the ascending he envisages for himself. He thinks of that little tick Jenkins – quite able, but an utterly repellent human being – presented with a safe by-election seat just a couple of years after fighting Solihull, and now (bizarrely) seen as a rising star of the parliamentary party. He thinks of that bumptious creep Wilson – supposedly outstandingly able, though My Father has never seen real evidence of this – recently appointed a Cabinet minister at just 28. Provided he doesn’t fail horribly on Thursday, My Father sees absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t go on to match, and then outdo, either of his two near-contemporary comrades. (To say My Father sees life as primarily a competitive struggle against others similar to him is like saying a hungry fox views an unguarded farmyard full of chickens as probably worth a visit.)
“I’m nearly twenty four,” he says, miserably.
“Nearly twenty four?” For the first time, there is perhaps a hint of something maternal in the householder’s voice (throughout his life My Father is good at making women feel sorry for him). “Are you married?”
“No, but I am engaged.” Exhausted and demoralised as he is, My Father retains enough political instinct to avert the danger of allowing himself to be seen as a single man, or worse, a confirmed bachelor. “And we’re getting married soon.”
This is true, but My Father’s head swims and a mild-but-distinct wave of nausea surges through him as he says it.
My Mother is in her final year at Oxford, and they plan to marry as soon as she graduates in June. But My Father has been having grave doubts. Suddenly, she seems so different from when they met, less than two years ago. Of course, it was her looks that first attracted him – and she’s still stunning, though he’s not keen on her new hairstyle, a severe blue-stocking bob. But her voice has changed beyond recognition, as she has chipped and chiselled away at her accent, while lowering the pitch by a good half-octave. And somehow what she says sounds different, too. Less amusing, less compliant, more critical. My Father hasn’t yet noticed (though perhaps he senses it) that whenever My Mother expresses an opinion, it’s a negative one. She seems “nervy” (her own word) nearly all the time now, and when she’s cheerful, there’s a brittle quality to her mood that makes him feel he has to be constantly vigilant about what he does and says.
My Father needs to bag these two votes. If he can just do that, he’s going straight home, via the pub. He gathers himself for one final titanic effort.
“Mrs Henson,” he twinkles, effortfully, “much as I would love to talk about my wife-to-be, I’m here to listen to you, and to answer any questions you may have before voting Labour on Thursday!”
“I don’t think so, duck,” she says, quite kindly.
“You don’t think you have any questions?”
“Husband says we didn’t ought to have kicked Winston out last time. Says we should give him another chance to get the country back on its feet.”
“But that’s exactly what Labour has been doing over the last five years,” says My Father, much too emphatically. “Rebuilding our nation after the war, renewing the strength of our industry and business, while taking good care of the working man.”
“Says we didn’t treat him fair after what he did for us in the war.”
My Father’s debating skills have won him admiration at Oxford during his recent term as Chairman of the Labour Club.
“Well, I mean no disrespect at all to Mr Churchill, but treating people fairly has never been a strength of his party. Take Labour’s new Health Service, for example – which the Conservatives tried to prevent us from building…. ”
“He was a hero in our darkest hour.”
“…. and which they will certainly destroy if they win the election on Thursday…. ”
“Husband says Winston’s the man to get us out of a tight spot.”
My Father sees a way out of this impasse.
“Is your husband here? Might I be able to speak to him?”
“Oh no, duck, he’s in St Mary’s. Just had his gall bladder out. Been off work poorly for months, he has. But doctor says he’ll be good as new!”
My Father aches to seize on this, and destroy his opponent’s position by pointing out that, if not for Labour’s welfare state, her husband would almost certainly be dead by now, leaving her destitute.
But instead, he says, “I’m very pleased to hear that. Please do give him my best wishes for a speedy recovery. And if you change your mind before Thursday, I would be honoured to receive your vote.”
“Sorry,” she says, “but husband says Winston deserves another chance.”
As she closes the door on My Father, he notices the dog is now sound asleep. Roger doesn’t even feel he’s worth growling at.
***
Friday 24 February, 1950
Just after 4.30am – earlier than expected – the Returning Officer mounts the stage. The count has been uncomplicated. The atmosphere in the hall is surprisingly tepid. There are a few dozen Tories milling around, mostly in blazers and twin-sets, some of them politely drunk in anticipation of the result. But almost all the small crowd of younger noisier Labour activists have seeped away since the count got underway, and it quickly became clear that no upset was on the cards.
“I, Albert Miller, the Acting Returning Officer for the Solihull constituency, hereby give notice that the total number of votes given for each candidate at the election of twenty third February 1950, was as follows….”
My Father is standing next to his Tory opponent, an Ealing Comedy crusty colonel-type, with a luxuriant moustache. My Father is wearing the slightly less shabby of his two tweed jackets. (He does still have his demob suit, but it’s ill-fitting and scratchy – and, in any case, suits are not Socialist.) He is limp, bleached-out with fatigue. He looks older than 23, and somehow, simultaneously, younger.
“Lindsay, M…. twenty five thousand, seven hundred and fifty eight.”
My Father has done the maths. Assuming a 75% turnout (which would be slightly up on 1945), around 35,000 votes will have been cast in total. If that’s roughly accurate, and his opponent has secured over 25,000 of them, then his own target of 10,000 votes is looking very hard to achieve….
“My Father…. eleven thousand, seven hundred and forty one.”
My Father is swept by relief, and crushing disappointment. He’s lost. He’s failed. But almost 12,000 votes is really not bad at all. Almost two thousand votes more than his target – though roughly three thousand fewer than he was secretly hoping for. (And around six thousand down on the amazing shock-result victory for Labour that lay just beyond his secret hopes.)
“…. and that Michael Lindsay has therefore been duly elected as Member of Parliament for Solihull.”
My Father shakes his opponent’s hand, and mutters something perfunctorily gracious. He tells himself he’s all right. He has come through unscathed. His potentially brilliant political career remains on track. He could still, if the stars are aligned and absolutely everything falls into place, be entering Downing Street in 25 years from now. Or even 20. (How far off 1970 sounds!)
My Father looks around the room, but sees not a single friendly or familiar face. He feels that all he wants to do is go home, though he doesn’t know where that might be.
***
My Father has hardly slept, but he’s up and shaved, and feeling quietly pleased with himself. He’s achieved exactly what he came here to achieve, or perhaps a little more.
And the morning news of the election is, on balance, good, from My Father’s point of view. Counting continues in many constituencies, but all the indications are that Labour will retain power, though with a much reduced majority – which will cast a more flattering light on his own performance. Another landslide, or even a decisive victory, would have made his (almost) 12,000 votes look a lot less commendable.
Still chewing a leathery piece of toast, he hurries across the road to the phone box opposite his digs. Luckily, it’s unoccupied, so he’s able to call My Mother, as arranged, at 8am. He shoves in his coins exactly as the second hand on his watch sweeps up to 12, and she – poised by the phone-booth opposite the pantry in her college, still in her dressing-gown – snatches up the receiver almost before the phone has rung.
“Well?”
“Almost twelve thousand.”
“My brilliant husband!” she says. She has taken to calling him this, pre-emptively. “That’s absolutely marvellous.”
“I’m fairly pleased…. ” he says, prompting her to provide further affirmation.
My Mother loves My Father. No one thinks more highly of his outstanding intellect, or desires more passionately to see him achieve all his political ambitions. Yet she too has plans and schemes, and is far from sure that being the wife of up-and-coming backbencher – even a future Prime Minister – is compatible with the kind of comfortable semi-rural domesticity she has in mind for herself. A husband reliably home in time to put the children to bed most evenings sounds very much more appealing.
“What was the turn-out?” she asks.
“Not sure yet, but it must’ve been high. The Tory got over 25,000.”
“So that means your share must have been…. ”
“Roughly thirty per cent. A bit less.”
“And I’ve forgotten, what did little Woy get, last time?”
She knows. They both know. They have done the all the electoral calculations together.
“Well over forty per cent – closer to forty five,” he says, reluctantly.
“Well, that’s not so much more. I’m sure the Party will be very happy with thirty, aren’t you? I’m sure everyone will agree that my brilliant husband has done marvellously well.”
My Father sighs. He definitely liked My Mother better before she lost her accent. They will be married in just over four months from now.
*****