A Late Night Taxi

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Chapter 1 - Monday 31st January
John McCluskey glanced casually around the staff canteen before
putting his breakfast tray down on the red Formica topped table. It was just
after half past six in the morning and there was only one other table occupied,
at the other end of the vast room, but it was impossible for the two people who
were sitting there to overhear what he was about to say. Cautious as ever
though, he leant forward as he sat down, his voice scarcely louder than a
whisper.
‘The timing devices and the detonators arrived last night.’ He
nervously ran his short stubby fingers through his close-cropped black hair as
he looked at the man seated opposite him. He looked once again at the other
occupied table. There was no reaction from the two painters as they
continued with their breakfast without as much as a nod of acknowledgment.
Paddy Wren merely nodded and looked up from his Sporting Life. He
said. ‘Right, Johnny boy. We’ll do it tomorrow then!’
Now that the waiting was over, and the decision had been made, John
McCluskey felt relieved. He did not like the waiting. There was always a
chance of getting caught.
As he ate his bacon, sausage and two fried eggs, sunny side up, he
gazed out through one of the floor to ceiling windows that filled two walls of
the room. It was still dark outside but he could see that snow was starting to
collect on the windowsill as the wind drove it in from the sea. Very much like
it did in his hometown of Cliffony on the west coast of Ireland, and completely
different from the weather in Libya, which he had just left three months before.
That was where the timing devices had come from, via several safe
mf
Copyright A. G. Gordon – February 2011
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intermediaries. The Libyan timing devices were a departure from his normal
bomb making technique. He was changing his ‘signature’.
§§A§§
The harsh unmelodious ringing of the alarm clock woke Alisdair
Graham suddenly but not completely. Five minutes later his left hand crept
slowly from beneath the dark blue continental quilt and firmly silenced the
offending noise as the clock began the second cycle of rings.
God! He felt terrible. Even the hairs in his nostrils seemed too big for
his nose, and his mouth tasted as if a horse had slept in it all night.
For several more minutes he lay motionless in the bed with the quilt
covering half his face, his eyes still tightly shut. He vowed silently to himself
never to drink again, not spirits anyway, or at least not so many of them.
He forced himself to ease his brain up through the gears. By the time it
reached second gear he had worked out that it was Monday, but he had still
not worked out what lectures or tutorials he had timetabled for the day.
Alisdair groaned out loud and pulled the thick winter quilt completely
over his head when he heard the radio being switched on in his flat mate’s
bedroom that backed onto his. It did not improve either his hangover or his
temper to have to listen to Tony Blackburn twittering on about what a
wonderful day it was in London. Did anyone in Glasgow really care! Certainly
not Alisdair.
He raised himself and turned slightly in the bed to look at the time on
the alarm clock. A sharp pain in the right side of his chest made him gasp.
He collapsed back into the pillow and tenderly fingered the strapping around
his ribs.
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Memories of what he had done over the weekend slowly flooded back
to him, as he lay prone in the big old-fashioned double bed, staring aimlessly
at the shadowy Chinese rice paper light shade hanging from the ceiling.
The tall red haired centre half from the Glasgow University team had
certainly upset his Saturday afternoon. If the tackle near the end of the game,
which had cracked two of his ribs, had been any higher the guy would have
qualified for a pilot’s licence.
Alisdair’s trip to the Western Infirmary had only slightly delayed him
taking part in the very liquid celebrations in the Strathclyde Union’s Beer Bar.
Booze, boat races and bawdy songs had been the order of the evening.
The buzz of victory, and the painkillers the hospital had insisted he
take, had dulled the pain in his chest sufficiently for him to dance till the early
hours with that very tasty little brunette.
A cold sweat suddenly gripped him. It wasn’t anything to do with his
hangover or his cracked ribs. He clenched his fists tightly and was suddenly
confronted with a vision of what Elizabeth was capable of doing to him if she
found out about the brunette.
He closed his eyes again as if trying to blot out the scene. Elizabeth’s
temper was as fiery as the highlights in her hair.
Alisdair opened his eyes almost instantly and was relieved to see that
he wasn’t imagining the flashing lights. The headlights of a car traced a lazy
circle across the bedroom ceiling as it turned around in the cul-de-sac outside
his ground floor flat.
He turned his head and stretched over carefully to switch on the
bedside light. The forty-watt bulb seemed to sear straight through to his still
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befuddled brain. The throbbing in his head moved to his ear lobes as he
squinted at the alarm clock.
‘Fart!’ It was only twenty to seven. He must have moved the alarm
setting when he went to bed last night after an evening in the resident’s bar of
the Shawlands Hotel with his flat mate Rab McDonald.
No women this time, apart from the usual window shopping of the eye
candy available any normal twenty-year-old indulged in. Just a few pints of
Tennants, a few too many ‘nippy sweeties’, and a severe over indulgence of
Johnny Cash records. The hotel management’s idea of a Country and
Western Night!
At the time he had quite enjoyed it. He felt he owed himself a break as
he had spent all day Sunday on the final draft of his honour’s year thesis.
Apart from a few test results he still had to double check in the laboratory,
Alisdair felt it was ready to be shown to his professor for his comments.
He carefully pushed back the quilt. For the second time in as many
minutes he swore as the cold morning air struck his naked body. As quickly
as the strapping on his ribs would allow he got out of bed and pulled on a
sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
He yawned deeply as he wandered across the threadbare carpet as if
hoping the increased oxygen would help to stir his brain back to life. It didn’t
work. He yawned again.
The sound of a car bonnet being slammed shut in the street outside
drew Alisdair over to the large bay window.
He looked out at what the day held in store for him. It was still dark.
The sky was cloudless and it looked bitterly cold. Frost glistened on the cars
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parked beneath the streetlights. The lights themselves swayed gently in the
stiff breeze. The pale grey glow of daylight could be seen creeping over the
aerial clad tenement roofs across the road. At least it wasn’t raining. The
magazines wouldn’t get wet.
Alisdair pressed his forehead against the damp windowpane. The
coldness of the glass soothed his headache. He now knew the reason why
he couldn’t remember what classes he had. He wasn’t going to any today! It
was Day One of Charities Week and Ygorra, the Rag Mag he and Rab had
spent the last two months editing, was due to be released on the
unsuspecting Glasgow public at ten o’clock.
The sounds of the city coming to life filtered through to him. The
distinctive chink of milk bottles being placed on concrete steps, the
protestations of a cold car engine being coaxed into life in a nearby street,
and the rumble of the six fifty two on the Cathcart Inner Circle Line.
As he straightened up from lighting the gas fire in a vain attempt to
quickly warm up the large high ceiling room, he caught sight of the framed
photograph of Elizabeth he kept on the mantelpiece.
He wiped an imaginary speck of dust off her nose. ‘Sorry lover. If you
had stayed in Glasgow this weekend instead of going to see your parents,
none of this would have happened.’
It sounded a weak excuse but if he claimed mitigating circumstances,
being under the influence of painkillers, he might just get away with it. Then
again, he could always appeal to the Florence Nightingale in her. Failing that,
he knew he could still outrun her.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that hung over the
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fireplace. God! He looked about as rough as the football pitch he had played
on on Saturday afternoon. No two hairs on his head were pointing in the
same direction. He was definitely off alcohol for the rest of the day - at least!
He even doubted if he could hold a full mug of coffee in one hand without it
spilling all over the table.
§§A§§
The snow covered fields flashed by the windows of the train as it
picked up speed after pulling out of the railway station in Ayr. Beyond the
fields, the Firth of Clyde looked grey and angry. More snow was forecast.
Inside the carriage it was too hot. British Rail never seemed to get the
right balance at all. Elizabeth Livingstone had already taken off her trench
coat and folded it carefully on the seat beside her. Her long shapely legs
were drawing furtive glances from the man seated across the carriage from
her. Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. The ruse nearly always worked. He
quickly buried his head back in the sports section of the Daily Record in
embarrassment.
The last two days she had spent at home with her parents had been
great fun, apart from her father, who she loved dearly, trying to lecture her on
road design theory. Her father, who was the County Engineer, was naturally
proud of his only daughter taking a Civil Engineering degree but he expected
her to learn everything at once. The long walks on the beach and the fresh
sea air had recharged her batteries. It had been an extremely lazy weekend.
Her mother could not do enough for her, and waited on her hand and foot.
Every five minutes she had asked if she wanted something to eat. The
trouble was, Elizabeth had said yes!
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The next six days promised to be hectic and she would need all her
energy to get through it. As the Charities Appeal Saturday Convenor she was
ultimately responsible for Charities Day itself, the showpiece of the Appeal’s
campaign
Elizabeth gazed out of the window. The hypnotic rhythm of the train
made her drift off into thoughts of Alisdair. It had been three years to the day
that they had first met. Typically it had involved football.
She had gone with a friend to watch Strathclyde University play
Jordanhill College and she had noticed Alisdair almost immediately on the
pitch. His smile and constant encouragement to the other members of his
team had made him stand out in the crowd. That was what had drawn him to
her instantly.
After the game she had gone with her friend to The Rock, a popular
student pub. It was there that he had simply walked over to her and offered to
take her out that night. There had been absolutely no preliminaries, he had
noticed her in the crowd at the side of the pitch, and he knew that he wanted
to take her out, and the feeling had been mutual. Black Magic Woman by
Fleetwood Mac had been playing on the jukebox when he asked. It was still
her favourite record to make love to, the LP version.
She hoped he hadn’t got too drunk on Saturday night after the victory
over Glasgow University. Most of all, she hoped he hadn’t got injured again.
Alisdair called it commitment, she called it recklessness. She wanted him
totally fit for tonight.
The jolting of the train as it ran over some points brought her back to
reality. She had a lot of work to do. She took a file out of her briefcase and
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started to make a few notes in it. For Alisdair, however, his part for the
Charities Appeal would be over as soon as the magazines were handed over
to the Distribution Convenor. Maybe now they could spend a bit more time
together. Especially tonight, as it was their third anniversary. Odds on, being
a typical guy, he would have forgotten.
§§A§§
Buccleuch Street, just north of the city centre, near the Charles Rennie
McIntosh inspired Glasgow School of Art, was a hive of activity. The four-
storey tenement lined street was filled with parked, and in some areas,
double-parked cars and vans. Students streamed in and out of Number 32,
the Charities Appeal offices, like worker ants from an anthill.
Charities Week generated a lot of interest amongst both the students
and the public. It was a welcome break from the dreariness of winter. It had
also, over the years, become a City institution.
Today’s Glasgow newspapers had already blasted Ygorra as being
obscene. Two City Councillors, the Senior Magistrate, and the Moderator of
the Church of Scotland had already condemned it. None of them had read
the Rag Mag yet; only Alisdair, Rab, and the publishers had seen it. But it
was all part of the advanced publicity, and it happened every year, usually
with the same people complaining.
Alisdair was beginning to feel better. The cold blustery wind had
cleared most of the cobwebs from his brain as he and Rab had walked from
Central Station through the city centre. He could, however, still taste the
fuzziness on his tongue despite attacking it with his toothbrush covered with
copious amounts of Colgate. It had just made him nearly throw up.
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The two students eventually jostled their way up the stairs and into the
entrance foyer of the Appeal offices. There were sacks of newly covered
empty collecting cans everywhere, on the pavement, on the stairs, and on the
floor of the foyer. Cans that hopefully would be filled with money for charity
during the following week.
Andrew Todd, the General Convenor, was busy setting up the
customary cardboard Appeal thermometer in the foyer. It showed they had
already collected nearly one thousand pounds. The sale of immunity stickers
to the shops in the city centre was obviously well advanced. It was better for
a manager of a shop to pay five pounds to keep out the hoards of students
from pestering his customers; than to have his customers bothered by can
rattling students in fancy dress on Saturday.
‘God! You look rough Alisdair!’ Andrew swept a lock of hair out of his
eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Have you started celebrating the success of
Ygorra already?’
Alisdair was not amused. He though he looked at least presentable.
Rab’s cheeky grin didn’t help matters either. The little teuchter was enjoying
Alisdair’s plight. Rab had already passed several comments to Alisdair about
his hangover and had intentionally played Tony Blackburn at full volume at
breakfast.
Rab, as usual, was in with a quick quip to Andrew. He pointed at
Alisdair. ‘That’s the state you get into when you beat Glasgow for the League
title.’
Students from both universities in the city rarely missed an opportunity
to have a dig at students from the other.
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Andrew laughed. ‘Just as well we are all on the same team this week
then.’
By now the smoky atmosphere was beginning to get to Alisdair. He
had already been nearly pushed off his feet by two students carrying sacks of
empty collecting cans. He looked at Rab and growled. ‘Go and check our
mail, my little tartan torrag. I need a cup of coffee, fast.’
Alisdair and Rab were different in so many ways it was hard for most
people to imagine that the two of them had shared a flat quite happily for the
last three years. They could, and did, insult each other quite viciously at times
and get away with it. It also helped that they had a similar sense of humour.
Alisdair had been born and brought up in the Greenside area of
Edinburgh on the road to Leith, whereas Rab came from a family of crofters
on the Isle of Skye. Alisdair wore a shirt and tie when in classes. Rab on the
other hand favoured knitted Arran sweaters and jeans. To Alisdair’s way of
thinking, all that was missing was the Wellington boots and a couple of sheep
under his arms.
Their interests outside of university were just as diverse. Alisdair was
heavily into keeping fit and playing football. Rab’s idea of sport was watching
it on the television, slumped in an armchair, with a can of beer in each hand.
He was however very active in the local drama scene, with several excellent
productions to his credit as stage manager.
They had two things in common though. Both of them were studying
Metallurgy, Alisdair in his final year and Rab in his third year, and both of them
lived life to the full.
Alisdair felt decidedly overfull as he threaded his way through the
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throng of students and headed towards the narrow corridor leading to his
office.
‘Who is Pamela?’ Alisdair heard Rab shout from the secretary’s office.
He rushed back to the sliding window that separated the office from the foyer.
Rab handed him a piece of paper - ‘Pamela called, 0815, no message.‟
Sheilagh, who had been the Appeal’s permanent secretary for the past
four years, smiled at Alisdair. ‘Se sounded a nice girl. Is she one of
Elizabeth’s friends?’
Alisdair ignored Rab’s sarcastic snort of laughter as he retraced his
steps up the corridor.
‘Pamela. Short, brown hair, good figure, first year Sociology, Beer Bar,
the Disco in the Mezzanine, and then the snooker room.’ Alisdair groaned to
himself. ‘Not the bloody snooker room!’ He angrily crumpled up the piece of
paper and threw it into the nearest sack of empty cans.
The secretary looked at Rab’s grinning face. ‘Who is Pamela? Has
Alisdair been up to something?’
Rab put his hand to his throat. ‘About here.’ He grinned. I wouldn’t
like to be in his shoes when Elizabeth finds out.’
‘Tell me everything.’ Sheilagh stopped typing. She was always
interested in gossip. She felt it was part of her duty as a secretary. ‘Elizabeth
was away this weekend, wasn’t she?’
‘Aye, but she is back now!’ Rab had just noticed Elizabeth’s bouncing
blonde curls as she made her way to the Convenor’s offices through the
crowd in the entrance hall. ‘Don’t you dare say a thing Sheilagh?’
The young secretary looked at him innocently. ‘As if I would? And get
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your eyes off the outgoing mail. Some of it is private.
‘Just checking your spelling Sheilagh.’ Rab dodged the pencil she
threw at him.
§§A§§
Alisdair settled down at his desk in the small Ygorra office he shared
with Rab. For reasons of secrecy there was no paperwork connected to the
contents of the Rag Mag anywhere. It had all been put together weeks ago in
their flat and all the material they had used in the magazine had been cut up
and thrown out the day after the draft had been sent to the printers.
The solitary grey filing cabinet in the corner of the office only contained
old Rag Mags from various parts of the country, and correspondence with the
publishers and printers. There were a few Charities posters on the wall to add
colour to the institutional magnolia emulsion.
He opened the Glasgow Herald at the crossword page. A cup of coffee
lay on the desk. One across – „a chair for shoppers (13)’. Alisdair shook his
head and put down the newspaper and his pen in disgust and reached for the
coffee. Today was going to be difficult.
Alisdair hardly glanced up at the door as he heard it opening. He
expected it was only Rab intent on giving him some more stick.
The noise from the outer office increased as the door fully opened. It
certainly wasn’t Rab. Shoulder length permed blonde hair with ginger
highlights, a tight pink angora sweater, a grey mini skirt, and long long legs
that still looked tremendous encased in over the knee grey suede boots.
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Good heavens darling! You look positively
dreadful!’
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She took off her trench coat and laid it on top of the filing cabinet. She
came over to where Alisdair was sitting, kissed him full on the lips, and ran
her fingers over his unshaven chin.
‘You must feel bad. It’s not like you to miss out on shaving.’
Alisdair made as if to stand up, but Elizabeth came behind the desk
and sat on his knee. He grimaced with pain as she put her arms around his
neck and again planted one of her passionate kisses on his lips.
A look of genuine concern crossed her face when he showed her the
strapping on his ribs. ‘How the hell do you do it?’ Her fingers once again
caressed his unshaven cheek and she got off his knee and then sat on the
desk facing him. As she crossed her legs her mini skirt rode up even further
giving Alisdair an uninterrupted view of her thighs.
Alisdair decided that this was the right time to tell her about his
indiscretion on Saturday night, while she was feeling sorry for him. ‘That’s not
all…’
But she interrupted him. ‘I know. You beat Glasgow. So it was worth
it.’ She smiled at him.
‘But…’
The telephone on the desk rang. It was Andrew Todd to remind him of
the Charity Queen reception at the City Chambers at twelve. A glance at his
dairy confirmed he had already made a note of it.
Elizabeth reached forward into the top drawer of his desk whilst he was
talking on the phone. Charlie perfume assailed his nostrils. Elizabeth found
what she was looking for, his battery razor. She tried to switch it on, but like
its owner, the batteries were dead.
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He ran his hand over her knee. She shivered. It felt good.
‘What are we going to do tonight? After all, today is special.’ Alisdair
said.
He had remembered! So much for her doubting that he would. Little
did she know that he had not remembered, but the earlier glance at his diary
had suddenly reminded him of the date. ‘A nice Italian meal, a couple of
bottles of Frascati, and then a nice slow screw. Then after we leave the
restaurant!’ She smiled at him.
Alisdair now knew exactly what kind of mood she was in. There was
no way he could put a damper on it by telling her about Saturday night.
The situation could quite easily have become even more romantic, and
not for the first time in Alisdair’s office, but Rab chose that moment to burst
into the office. He was carrying three cups of coffee. ‘You two disgust me. It
isn’t even nine o’clock in the morning and I find the two of you with your
tongues down each others throats.’
Elizabeth reluctantly disentangled herself from Alisdair’s arms and took
the coffee offered by Rab. No milk, no sugar, just how he knew she liked it.
‘And how was your weekend Rab? Was it as quiet as Alisdair’s?’
Rab sat down at his own desk. It was obvious that Alisdair hadn’t yet
told her about Pamela. He hadn’t been splattered all over the walls.
‘Well. It started off reasonably quiet. Senga and I had a night in with a
Chinese carry out and a couple of bottles of home brew. Then around one
o’clock in the morning a certain drunken football hooligan crashed into the
lounge, sang the first verse of Flower of Scotland, and then fell over the back
of the settee.
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Alisdair started to protest. ‘But I don’t even know the words to Flower
of Scotland!’
‘You did on Saturday night son.’ Rab burst out laughing at the look on
Alisdair’s face. His flat mate did not have a clue what he was talking about.
‘Then I had to put you to bed.’
Elizabeth also noticed Alisdair’s embarrassment. ‘It’s obvious that you
missed the calming influence of a good woman on Saturday night then.’
Alisdair ignored Rab’s theatrical cough as best as he could. Rab
stretched over the desk and picked up the Glasgow Herald and started to
read it.
Alisdair meanwhile opened the same drawer of his desk that Elizabeth
had opened earlier. Attached to the underside of the desk with tape was a
brown envelope. He gave it to Elizabeth.
She opened the envelope excitedly but at the same time carefully.
Inside was the proof copy of Ygorra. ‘How long have you had this?’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders. ‘About two weeks I think, but I
couldn’t show it to you before, it would have spoiled the surprise.’
‘And how many other little secrets are you keeping from me?’ She
didn’t wait for an answer; she had just noticed the time. ‘I’ll see you at the
City Chambers at twelve. I must rush. I have a meeting.’ She blew Alisdair a
kiss.
Rab by this time was doubled up at his desk with silent laughter. ‘You
get more breaks than Joe Davis son. By the way, one across is
„professorship‟.’
Alisdair joined in with the joke. There wasn’t much else he could do.
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§§A§§
Tom Shearer glanced at his watch as he entered Sloanes Bar in the
Argyle Arcade. It was ten to twelve. Plenty of time to order a drink and some
food before the bar filled up. The main bar was practically deserted and so
quiet that Tom could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock at the foot of the
staircase, which led to the restaurant.
Despite his build, six foot five and sixteen stone, Tom was very light on
his feet. He was recognised as one of the fastest second row forwards in
university rugby. He had already represented Scottish Universities twice and
wore his University Blue with pride.
He ordered a pint of Export at the bar and then looked around for a
suitable table, one far enough away from the expected crush at the bar, but
with a good view of the door.
He nodded to the elderly couple that were sitting at the table next to the
one he had chosen as he took off his coat and put in on the bench seat
beside him.
The lady smiled at him in reply. He looked a nice young man. Short
hair, clean-shaven, and wearing a tie and a University blazer. So unlike so
many of the students she saw around town, with they’re long unkempt hair
and denims.
As soon as he sat down, Tom took out a well-used pipe and an old
tobacco pouch from his blazer pocket.
He inspected the inside of the bowl of the pipe, decided it was clean
enough, and began filling it with tobacco. He then struck a match and with
practised ease drew the smoke through.
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He took a pull of his pint, set it back on the table and opened his
briefcase. He took out a copy of Ygorra and a buff coloured folder. Opening
the folder he began to read through the hand-written notes. He nodded to
himself as he read them as if finally agreeing to their contents. Occasionally
he made pencil notes on them. All the time he puffed at his pipe intently.
Sixth senses made him look up at the door even before it had fully
opened. Christopher Moore was also on time. Tom got to the bar at the
same time as Christopher. Tom was a good three inches taller than
Christopher despite Christopher’s trendy spiky hairstyle.
‘What are you drinking this weather Chris?’ Tom knew that Christopher
changed drinks as often as he changed hairstyles. He was the original
dedicated follower of fashion. It had been the same when they had known
each other, at Alan Glens School. Christopher was one of the few people
who called Tom, „Tam‟.
Christopher pointed to the Guinness. He glanced around the bar. ‘First
time I have been in here. It’s not bad at all. It looks as though this place
hasn’t changed in years.’ The red flocked wallpaper looked aged but at the
same time well maintained. The same went for the green velvet covered
seats. With no windows at all in the bar, the dark oak wall panelling gave a
somewhat gloomy, but restful atmosphere to the place.
‘That’s why we like it.’ Tom ordered a Guinness and two rounds of
ham sandwiches. ‘We find it more convenient to talk here rather than in the
Union. There are too many people with big ears in the Union.
Christopher immediately recognised his notes lying on the table beside
Tom’s drink as being the policy statements he had given Tom last week.
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‘What do you think of them Tam?’
Tom sucked thoughtfully on his pipe for a few seconds before
answering. ‘Brilliant!’ He looked at Christopher for his reaction. It was at
least amazement if not outright shock.
‘We have successfully handled two Presidential candidates so far, with
you as the third. Seeing your policy statements’ has convinced me once and
for all, not that I really needed convincing, that we have got the right man
again.’
Apart from Tom’s glowing assessment of his policies there was one
other thing that intrigued Christopher. ‘You keep referring to „we‟ Tam. I
thought you always work alone as a campaign manager. Now all of a sudden
I hear the word ‘we’ used four times in as many minutes.
Tom smiled to himself. He vividly remembered having the same
conversation with the current President, Terry Pritchard. It had taken place in
the same pub, and if he remembered correctly, at the same table.
He casually opened the copy of Ygorra at the editorial page and
passed it across the table to Christopher.
Christopher looked at Alisdair’s picture in amazement. He took a long
drink of his Guinness. If this conversation were to continue as it had started
he would need to go onto the brandies, for shock!
‘Alisdair Graham is the least political person I can think of on Council!’
‘He was the one who chose you though.’ Tom inspected the glowing
tobacco in his pipe. ‘For a non-political animal, as you put it, it was he who
started the negotiations to take Strathclyde, and eventually the rest of the
Scottish universities, out of the Scottish Union of Students and into the
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National Union of Students’.
‘But the highest office he has held in the Union is Charities Convenor!
Hardly a suitable platform to become the Henry Kissinger of the student
world.’
‘What better opportunity to get into negotiations with NUS than at a
National Rag Conference?’ Tom was enjoying the conversation. So many
people who were involved in Union politics thought they knew all there was to
know. How wrong they were.
Christopher was beginning to put two and two together. ‘I thought that
you two only sat together in Council because you both represented the same
constituency.’
‘In a way. That was how we started out.’ Tom settled back in his seat.
‘I was at my first Council meeting and I could not believe the garbage I had to
listen to. People were going on and on about support for this terrorist group,
donations to that left wing group, etc. etc. At the recess I got talking to
Alisdair. He turned out to have similar views to me. All your ordinary student
is really interested in is the price of their pie and peas in the Beer Bar.’
Tom paused to empty his glass. He noticed Christopher about to
challenge what he had just said. ‘Don’t get my wrong Chris, students, and
Council, have an obligation to be involved in outside politics, but not at the
expense of an efficiently run Union.’
Christopher nodded and managed to get the attention of the waitress
and ordered two more pints. He didn’t usually drink at lunchtime, but there
was no way he could resist this conversation. He also now had time to look
around the bar. It had very quickly become full. There were some pretty girls
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amongst the crowd at the bar. It certainly could be worth a visit here again.
‘But I digress.’ Tom gave the empty sandwich plates to the waitress
when she came with their beers. ‘We have carried on this pie and peas
philosophy for the last three years now, and you have been a product of that
philosophy. You are a ‘Union Man’ Chris, and I put that in inverted commas.
As Entertainment Convenor you have a high profile in the Union, not to
mention revolutionising the way we run dances and concerts, at a vast profit I
may add. That has been phase one of your campaign. Now it is time for
phases two and three.’
Christopher pulled a face. ‘You make me sound like a packet of frozen
peas. Packaged well and then sold to the public.’
Tom pointed his pipe at Christopher. ‘But there are peas and there are
peas Chris. You are definitely Birds Eye. There is nothing green or mushy
about your past.’
Christopher laughed at the analogy. He had always admired how Tom
handled himself in council, and the way he had run Terry’s campaign last
year. He inspired confidence.
‘Just what part in the campaign does Alisdair play? I helped you with
Terry’s campaign last year, but I never saw him around.’
‘He is my Devils Advocate, and the best publicity man I have ever
worked with, even in national politics. I keep asking him to join the Labour
Party but he won’t. He describes himself as being no more than two inches
left of centre, slightly pink, a bit like you in a way.’ Tom was busy emptying
his pipe.
‘Usually we meet in here each day for two weeks before the campaign
mf
20
officially starts. We discuss ideas and tactics. Then during the campaign he
cuts the stencils and does all the posters. In fact the screen-printing
technique we used last year came from him. He stole the idea from Blue
Peter of all places.’
‘Have you two discussed the United Left offer yet?’
‘Alisdair has been too busy with Ygorra as you can imagine, and he
was in no state to talk politics on Saturday night.’
Christopher laughed. ‘And he was certainly in no state to do Pamela
any good either!’
Tom’s mood became slightly more serious as he recalled what Alisdair
had been trying to get up to in the TV Lounge. ‘That is something I have to
have a serious word with him about. After all Liz is a good friend of mine as
well.’
Christopher changed the conversation as time was getting on and he
had a lecture at two o’clock across the city in Pitt Street. ‘What does phase
two consist of?’
Tom picked up Christopher’s policy notes. ‘We have to get these
edited and set up for printing. The posters have to be thought through and
the stencils cut. Then we have to decide on a timetable. I want that
organised well before the end of this week, and then we only have what the
opposition throw at us to worry about during election week.’
Tom made smoke from his pipe to check it was well lit. ‘However, this
year I want Alisdair up front, in the limelight. He deserves some recognition
for what he has done for the Union over the years. More importantly, it will
put the United Left into a tail spin. If we accept their offer, and that will be
mf
21
your choice alone.’ He emptied his pint and refused Christopher’s offer of
another. ‘I have arranged with Terry Pritchard to give an interview to the
Strathclyde Telegraph reviewing his year in office. It will be the usual
‘establishment’ type of interview but he will mention Alisdair’s part in his
campaign several times.’
‘A bit of pre-campaign campaigning so to speak?’
‘You could put it like that.’ Tom smiled. ‘I rather look at it as simply
transferring information to the students.’ Tom also looked at watch. ‘I
suggest the three of us meet here again tomorrow.’
Christopher nodded. ‘That’s fine by me. What part can I play in the
actual running of the campaign?’
‘Bugger all. You just leave the running of the campaign to the
professionals. You will have enough to do as the candidate. If you don’t
know anything, the opposition can’t trip you up with awkward questions about
questionable electioneering.’
It was Christopher’s turn to be serious. ‘I expect a power of veto over
ideas I don’t like.’
‘Naturally Chris.’ Tom lied. ‘After all you are the candidate.’
‘And phase three?’
Tom smiled again. ‘Phase three is simple. You will become the
President Elect of Strathclyde University Students Association.’
§§A§§
A lone student, pushing an old battered pram full of Ygorras made his
way across a windswept George Square. It was bitterly cold and snow was
beginning to fall again and gusting around the Square. The Ygorras were
mf
22
selling, but not as quickly as last year. The weather was keeping people
indoors. Queens Street Station was his next target. At least there he would
be under cover.
He passed a queue of people waiting for a bus at the north side of the
Square. As he reached the front of the queue a large middle-aged woman
suddenly confronted him.
‘Is that they dirty student books son?’
The student nervously eyed the umbrella she was carrying. Her face,
framed by straight grey hair and the high collar of her heavy black coat, gave
nothing away. ‘Only ten pence each love. All for charity.’ He tried to sound
as friendly as possible.
The woman smiled. ‘Thank God for that son. I never thought I would
get one before the bus came.’ She took a fifty pence piece from her coat
pocket. ‘Gie me five. The old folk I look after in the Eventide home need
something to cheer them up.’
Alisdair smiled to himself as he overheard the exchange on his way to
the City Chambers. Glaswegians were so much more generous than those of
his home city of Edinburgh.
§§A§§
The glamour of the Charity Queen contestants paled in comparison to
the architectural splendour of the City Chambers building.
Outside the building, the first and second floor window boxes facing out
into George Square burst forth with yellows and whites of early spring
daffodils and narcissus. Inside, the marble staircase and the crystal
chandeliers outshone everyone present at the reception. From the Lord
mf
23
Provost, complete with his chain of office, to Rab, in a clean Arran sweater,
who was propping up the bar talking to some reporters about Ygorra.
It took only a few moments for the reporters to recognise Alisdair.
Andrew Todd had found him a clean razor in the office so at least the Editor of
Ygorra was clean-shaven and reasonable presentable for the photographers.
He joined Rab at the bar as the reporters crowded round the two of them.
Rab had a beer, and Alisdair had a lemonade shandy. It was about all he
could face at the moment.
‘Where did the jokes for Ygorra come from? Did he personally thing it
was obscene? Would he give a copy to his own mother? Were dirty jokes
really called for, even in the name of charity?’
The questions came from all sides and Alisdair did his best to answer
them, and not without some humour. Even although he suspected most of
the reporters had already filed their copy for the evening editions, and were
only at the reception for the free food and drink donated by the Lord Provost.
As the crowd of reporters thinned out to start interviewing the Charity
Queen contestants, Alisdair felt a cool feminine hand slip into his. Long
sharp nails dug viciously into his palm. He knew it was Elizabeth and he also
knew that she had found out about Saturday night. The pressure on his hand
increased. She stood squarely in front of him and looked him full in the face.
There were tears welling up in her eyes, but they never quite came.
‘Don’t you ever do what you did on Saturday night again! Not as long
as you are going out with me. I love you, but if you ever do that again you
won’t see me for dust, and I’ll take your balls with me!’
Alisdair forgot the pain in his palm. He could do no more than look at
mf
24
her with apologetic eyes. He felt about two inches tall. He knew he had been
well and truly ticked off. And he deserved it. All he could do eventually was
offer a pathetic apology.
Elizabeth suddenly smiled at him and the pressure from her nails
stopped as she softly held his hand. She knew he felt like shit. So had she
when a so-called friend had phoned her to tell her about what Alisdair was up
to on Saturday night. She had spoken her piece, now the matter was over, as
far as she was concerned.
‘You are forgiven. But I meant what I said.’ She briefly kissed him on
the lips. ‘Now go and enjoy yourself. It is alright for high profile Ygorra
Editors but some of us still have work to do.’
Alisdair firmly returned her kiss. ‘I’ll pick you up around seven from
your bed-sit. I have booked a table at La Cucina for eight. So we can have a
drink or something before we go out.’
‘Make it six and we can start the evening with a bang!’ Elizabeth
winked at him. ‘If you know what I mean? Now go and mingle. But
remember, stay away from other woman!’
‘At a beauty queen contest?’ Alisdair surrendered gracefully as her
nails playfully dug once again into his hand.
§§A§§
There were no other customers in the Union Beer Bar when David
Thompson ordered his usual half-pint of lager from the Head Barman. It was
the twilight zone as the bar staff called it. Dinner had finished being served in
the Refectory and most students who were still on campus were in the
Library, which closed in two hours time, at nine o’clock. Then the Beer Bar
mf
25
would fill up for the last hour.
The tall quiet Geordie looked at the two condoms filled with beer, which
were still hung precariously from the ceiling of the bar from Saturday night.
The barman gave David his lager and took the twelve pence for it.
‘You are in early tonight David. We don’t normally see you until the Library
closes at nine.’
‘I have to meet a woman Fred. And you must admit that doesn’t
happen often either!’
The Head Barman laughed. He liked David. David wasn’t a big
drinker. A couple of half-pints a night, that was all, more at the weekends
though, but not much more. He was one of the more serious students. A lot
of the Engineers were. As Head Barman he had dealings with David apart
from serving him. David was the Union Treasurer, and the barman was
theoretically answerable to him through the Union Manager.
The door to the bar opened. The Durex nearest to it swayed perilously.
The barman nodded knowingly at David when he saw who had just come into
the bar, and moved to the Guinness pump. ‘Usual Annabelle?’
‘Of course Freddie.’ Annabelle Jones’s south of England accent
sounded very out of place. She kissed David on the cheek in her usual
gushing manner, and then dropped her squash bag on the floor. ‘Am I
dreadfully late David?’
‘No more than usual Annabelle.’ David paid Fred for the Guinness.
The barman took the three ten pence’s and gave David back his
change. ‘This must be a first.’
‘What do you mean Freddie?’ Annabelle licked the froth of the top of
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26
her pint.
‘This is the first time I have been outnumbered by the English in this
bar.’ He looked at David. ‘But maybe with David here, we can call it a draw,
him being a Geordie.’
The Union Treasurer jokingly pointed his finger at the barman. ‘Eh
listen bonny lad, take it that you are outnumbered Fred.’
Beaten but not bowed, the barman sat on his seat at the back of the
bar and resumed reading the horse racing section of his Evening Times; he
had picked three winners today and hoped that his luck held for tomorrow.
David looked at Annabelle as she sipped her Guinness. She looked
and smelt freshly showered. Her high cheek boned face was slightly flushed
and her blonde hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail, was still damp. She
was, as usual, immaculately dressed. She could afford to be. She had told
David when they had first met at the Tory Club that ‘daddy was something big
in the City’. And she hadn’t meant Nelson Column either.
Annabelle put her pint on the bar. ‘You wanted to talk to me about our
candidate, David.’
David nodded. ‘It is customary, to keep a balance in the election, for
the Tory Club to put a candidate forward in the Presidential. Of course we
always hope for a win, but it had been five years since we have had a right
wing President. Unless you can think of anyone else Annabelle, I would be
prepared to stand.’ As Chairman of the Union Tories the offer was both
reasonable and expected.
Annabelle put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t get me wrong David. I do
not doubt your ability or your commitment, but I think I have someone more
mf
27
acceptable to the students in mind. It just came to me the other day. It is in
fact quite an unusual candidate, but it could well work to our advantage.’
David was not unhappy about being rejected, but could not think who
the right wing alternative could be. He racked his brains, mentally going
through the Tory Club membership.
Annabelle could tell by his silence that he was trying to work out who
she was considering. She emptied her pint and motioned to Fred to set two
more up. ‘I can’t tell you yet who it is. Negotiations are delicate.’ She smiled
her charm-the-pants-off-anyone smile.
‘I suppose you are right.’ David leant back against the bar. ‘I am better
off as campaign manager anyway.’
‘Of course David. Your experience both on Council and of Union
finances could be the deciding factor.’
David was still anxious to know whom she had in mind. ‘Are you not
going to give me any clues?’
No answer came, for at that moment the door to the Beer Bar opened.
Tom Shearer stood framed in the doorway. The draught from the opening
door was too much for one of the suspended Durex to take. It detached itself
from the ceiling, but Tom stepped forward and caught it before it could burst
on the floor.
He handed the beer filled condom to the Head Barman. ‘Export
please, Fred. Preferably in a glass!’
Tom stood beside Annabelle and put his arm around her waist.
‘What’s this then? The right wing backlash?’ He paid for his Export and then
tapped the dying embers from his pipe into an ashtray on the bar.
mf
28
Annabelle took hold of Tom’s tie and tightened the knot. ‘You have
been holding out on everyone Thomas dear.’
As Director of Publications for the Union, Annabelle had already seen
the interview with the President that was due out tomorrow in the Union’s
newspaper.
Tom shrugged his powerful shoulders and smiled at her. Annabelle
visibly melted. The two of them had been carrying out a mental affair for
months, but neither had been bold enough to ask the other out. ‘I am but the
son of a humble Clydeside welder. What do I know about politics?’
His sarcastic remark was not lost on either Annabelle or David. David
however did not know about Alisdair yet.
Annabelle told David what she had read in the article. ‘It appears that
Thomas here has had someone to hold his hand in past elections, and all the
time we thought that he was a one man band.’
David was getting impatient. ‘Who?’
‘Alisdair Graham, David.’
David looked visibly shaken, so much so that he emptied his half pint in
one go. ‘Alisdair is the least political person I know on Council.’
Tom laughed. He had heard that somewhere before.
‘Tell me Thomas dear. Did Elizabeth know about all this?’
Tom nodded. ‘Of course. Liz usually made the candidate’s rosettes for
election day.’
Annabelle frowned; she had been a friend of Elizabeth ever since she
arrived at Strathclyde in September, both of them served on the Muirhead
Committee. It was through Elizabeth and Alisdair that she had got to meet
mf
29
Tom. ‘I shall have to have words with her tomorrow.’
Tom relit his pipe. ‘What are you two planning anyway?’
Annabelle smiled at him. ‘The fall of the Shearer / Graham Empire. Or
is it the Graham / Shearer Empire?’
Tom puffed at his pipe. A cloud of smoke drifted over Annabelle. She
liked the aroma. ‘However you phrase it, it doesn’t really matter. It is a team
with a long history, but this year it has an extra dimension as well as
experience.’
Annabelle looked Tom straight in the eye. David was temporarily
forgotten. ‘Is there a more than usual left wing dimension to this year’s
relationship?’
Tom didn’t show his surprise that she already knew about the UL offer.
It was only a matter of time before it was common knowledge anyway. ‘Could
you expect anything else from the son of a welder?’
Annabelle visibly blushed when she looked once again into Tom’s clear
blue eyes. They told her that he wanted her, and not as a political ally either.
He had the most interesting face she had ever seen. He had short blonde
curly hair, eyes of a blue to rival the Mediterranean, almost like a Greek god.
Some would say the bent but not quite broken nose and the scar over his left
eyebrow spoilt his good looks. She had watched the game in which it had
happened, just before Christmas. He had needed six stitches after he had his
face stamped on, but he had been back on the pitch as soon as the Club
doctor had taped over the stitches.
The spell between the two students was broken by David’s comment.
‘Am I missing something?’
mf
30
Tom emptied his pint. ‘Probably a round David.’ He intentionally
stretched across Annabelle pressing up against her and put his glass beside
the Export tap.
Annabelle also emptied her glass and placed it side by side with Tom’s.
David as usual missed the symbolism, but paid for the beers.
§§A§§
Alisdair had just opened the front door to his flat when he heard the
telephone in the lounge ringing.
The flat was empty. Rab had announced earlier that he was going to
the opening of the Charities Café and would be out till the early hours of the
morning.
Alisdair threw his coat over the back of the settee before picking up the
receiver.
He and Elizabeth had spent a very romantic evening. Flowers from
him to her; candles on the table; good pasta and perfectly chilled Frascati.
It was Tom at the other end of the line. Alisdair slumped into the
settee. Elizabeth appeared from the kitchen with a bottle of white wine and
two glasses. She placed them on the coffee table and switched on the gas
fire.
Tom sounded as if he was buzzing. ‘The Mag is magic Alisdair, but we
have work to do.’
Alisdair took a glass of wine from Elizabeth and accepted Tom’s
backhanded compliment. ‘I take it you are talking about the Presidential son.’
‘Things are coming together nicely. Bill Cowie has declared,
Christopher as you know is in, and I caught Dave Thompson head to head
mf
31
with Annabelle in the Beer Bar tonight. And I know she is not after his body!’
Alisdair laughed. Tom’s description of the opposition was as
dismissive as ever. ‘Lunch tomorrow at Sloanes I take it?’
Elizabeth turned her back to Alisdair and indicated that she wanted him
to unzip her dress. She shrugged out of it easily and it fell to the floor. She
was not wearing any underwear. Alisdair knew that she had been like that all
night.
‘We have a complication though.’ Alisdair heard the rasp of a match as
Tom lit his pipe. ‘The United Left has offered to help Christopher. They have
stipulated a few conditions of course. Nothing we can’t handle, or lie our way
out of, or even twist to our advantage. It will change how we approach this
election. I want you to be seen to be running the campaign while I keep an
eye on Frank Green and partners.’
‘To stop them stabbing us in the back you mean.’
‘Exactly.’
Elizabeth had by this time taken Alisdair’s shirt off him and was
unzipping his trousers.
As much as Alisdair liked Tom he was more than anxious to end this
particular conversation. ‘I will have to go now Tom, Elizabeth wants me. I will
be in Sloanes just before twelve. First round is on you.’
Alisdair dropped the receiver when Tom rang off. It didn’t quite match
with the cradle. He pulled Elizabeth down on the settee and kissed her erect
nipples.
Elizabeth moaned lightly and caressed the hairs on the back of his
neck. ‘You don’t have to tell me who that was. ‘Presidential’, ‘Sloanes Bar’,
mf
32
and ‘stabbing us in the back’ can only mean one person. Tom Shearer?’
Alisdair found it difficult to speak with his mouth where it was, but he
managed. ‘There is a difference this year. He wants me up front.’
Elizabeth squealed as his tongue moved over her. ‘I had something
similar in mind for tonight. For starters anyway!’
§§A§§
mf
33
Chapter 2 - Tuesday 1st February
Frank Green and Ron Flowers even looked like archetypal left wing
students. Frank Green was of medium height, very thin, and very pale
skinned. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans and a black leather jacket. His
black hair was cut very closely to his head, almost a crew cut but not quite.
The effect was completed by John Lennon style dark glasses. He would not
have looked out of place lining up to view the other Lenin’s tomb in Moscow.
A copy of the Morning Star lay on the table in front of him.
He was the more abrasive of the two students. If the revolution started
tomorrow he would be one of the first at the barricades with a machine gun
and a red flag.
Ron Flowers, on the other hand, was the United Left’s ‘intellectual’. He
was a Maoist and boasted that he had read everything that Mao had written
that had been translated into English.
He was a mature student in his late twenties, with thinning brown hair.
He was always seen around the Union in baggy jerseys, corduroy trousers,
and Chinese made sandshoes.
The two students were the prime movers of the twenty or so strong left
wing faction in Council and they alone had decided not to put up a United Left
candidate this year for the Presidency. No one had questioned their decision.
The interview with President in the Strathclyde Telegraph explained a
lot of things to Ron. He had known Tom Shearer for nearly three years. He
knew what he was capable of as a campaign manager, but often in the past
his campaigns had suddenly changed in midcourse. Not dramatically, more in
tone than in direction. Ron now knew that it must have been Alisdair’s
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34
influence.
Frank picked up his copy of the Morning Star from the table, and then
re-lit a thin roll up. ‘What do you think of Terry’s little bombshell? Tom
Shearer is a sly bastard.’
‘I would rather call him ‘smart’.’ Ron spooned sugar into his coffee. He
enjoyed his breakfast in the Mezzanine in the Union. Both the coffee and the
sugared doughnuts were hot and fresh.
He looked up at Frank. ‘Alisdair on the other hand is very much an
unknown quantity. I don’t think we have more than two pages on him on file.’
Frank Green impatiently ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray. ‘But
where does all this leave us with Moore?’
Ron Flowers fingered the red enamel Mao badge pinned to his jersey.
‘If anything, Alisdair would like our help. He is obviously the ideas man. With
our printing press and the professional screen printing equipment he could
change the publicity material daily.’
‘So you still think our offer will be taken up?’
Ron Flowers nodded in agreement instantly. ‘No doubt about it. For a
start they get our publicity machine and all our people to distribute handouts
and stick up posters. More importantly, they have one less candidate to worry
about.’
Frank Green mentally breathed a sigh of relief. He nearly smiled. For
weeks officials higher up in the Communist Party had asked why the United
Left did not have more influence in the Union. The Party needed a toehold
into the NUS in Scotland, and Strathclyde was the key to Region 10.
He and Ron had decided to leave things be this year rather than suffer
mf
35
another blow to the organisation. That way they could watch first hand how
Tom Shearer was so successful in getting people elected. If, on the way, they
picked up a seat on the Executive, it would be a bonus.
Frank Green rolled another cigarette. He glared at a student who had
just put the Bonzo Dog Doodah Band In the Canyons of Your Mind on the
jukebox. How frivolous students were today? Just who picked the records for
the bloody thing?
‘So you think our targets are still in sight?’
‘More so now. If Tom had been running the show on his own, he would
probably have rejected our offer out of hand. We know that he does not
particularly like either of us, especially you. He sees left-wingers as giving his
precious Labour Party a bad name. He is even more of a political snob than
David Thompson.’
Frank Green did laugh this time. He liked Ron a lot. It was just a pity
that his sort would not survive the cleansing of the Left when the revolution
came.
§§A§§
Half an hour later William ‘Wild Bill’ Cowie was sitting in the Scottish
Nationalists Party constituency offices in Pollockshaws. He had earned his
nickname because of his unkempt red hair and even more unkempt straggly
beard. A Number 6 cigarette lay smouldering in the ashtray on the table in
front of him.
Bill also had a reputation as a fierce public speaker. As Debates
Convenor he could always be relied upon to liven up a boring debate in the
Union.
mf
36
A few of the students regarded him as a ‘character’. Most though,
including Tom Shearer, looked on him as being a ‘gobshite’. To Tom, Bill just
loved the sound of his own voice and often got carried away with his
speeches rather than knowing when to end them gracefully, and more
importantly, when he had already made his point.
It rather annoyed Bill that Rab McDonald had been elected as
Chairman of the SNP in the Union. Rab was fiercely nationalistic but hardly in
the William Wallace mould. To get the message across it needed a strong
and forceful personality. Bill, in his own opinion, had both
Rab however had the organisational ability to motivate the SNP Club
behind ‘Wild Bill’.
The sound of the office door opening was masked by the noise of an
express train rushing past the back of the semi-detached house, through
Pollockshaws West station.
Chris Coward, the local SNP Agent, carried a roll of posters and two
bundles of leaflets. He placed the bundles on the table in front of Bill.
It hadn’t taken a lot of persuasion on Bill’s part to convince the Scottish
National Party to support his election bid. They were currently riding high with
the electorate with the successes of Winnie Ewing and George Leslie in
recent elections. Bill’s meagre costs for publicity material would be lost in the
constituency’s budget for the forthcoming local elections.
‘It is nice to see you again Bill.’ Chris Coward extended his hand. Bill
shook it.
He showed Bill a sample poster and a copy of the handout. ‘I hope you
approve?’
mf
37
Bill studied the poster. Black lettering on a yellow background
proclaimed:
STUDENTS NOT POLITICS.
The photograph on the handout had been taken at a recent competition
debate and showed Bill in full flight, complete with evening suit and gown.
The typist had followed Chris into the office and she set two cups of
coffee in front of them.
Chris passed Bill the sugar. ‘How is the campaigning going? Has
Robert McDonald been of help?’
Bill lit another cigarette. ‘Rab’s doing his best. We don’t have the
numbers we need in the Club but with the personal friends between us, we
have a sizeable team.’
Chris Coward nodded. He had met Bill’s father often at Party
Conferences. Both father and son were forthright and abrasive. ‘I happened
to notice that your handouts do not mention your main policy.’
Bill smiled. ‘The only way to lay that on the students is verbally. The
other candidates will have had all their publicity material printed by the
opening of the campaign. I will hit them with my main policy at the Monday
lunchtime Heckling Meeting. It will be too late for any of them to go into print
to counter it.’
‘How do you think it will go down?’
Bill sat back in the overstuffed armchair and grasped the lapels of his
crumpled jacket. ‘The opposition is the key. Christopher Moore has aligned
himself with the Communists. Strathclyde students don’t like Communists,
they never have done. The right wing candidate will be David Thompson. He
mf
38
is a nice guy but very weak. On top of that he is English. I will bury him in
debate, and his nationality will bury him as far as the majority of students are
concerned.’
Bill leant forward and stirred his coffee. ‘By winning this election I will
show that the will to support a free Scotland exists amongst students.
Students are the grass roots of the electorate, the future leaders of the
country, and the next generation captains of industry. It is an ideal
opportunity to show where the Scottish electorate of five years hence really
stands.
Chris Coward smiled to himself. The sentiments expressed by Bill
were admirable, even if slightly over the top. Still, if he did pull it off and win
the Presidency, the resulting publicity would do the Party a lot of good and
help him personally in his quest to get a seat on the National Executive.
‘If I can suggest one thing Bill?’ He looked Bill up and down. His hair
looked as if it had not seen a comb in a week and his clothes looked as if they
had merely had an iron waved over them. ‘Smarten up a bit. A haircut
wouldn’t go amiss either.’
Bill laughed. He ran his fingers through his wild red hair. ‘What! And
lose the ‘Wild Bill’ image?’
He could however see from the look on the agents face that it was
more than a request.
‘I’ll have a wee trim.’ He conceded.
§§A§§
The elderly shop assistant in Frazer’s gents department approached
his first customer of the day. It was barely after nine o’clock. From the cut of
mf
39
the man’s clothes he could easily have been a regular customer, although he
did not personally recognise him. The customer wore a nicely tailored dark
grey wool suit, white shirt and a striped silk tie. His reddish sandy coloured
hair was well kept and short.
‘Does sir require any assistance?’ The assistant wiped his half moon
glasses with a stiff white linen handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket.
Patrick Wren smiled and handed the assistant two pairs of trousers he
had picked up. ‘These are usually my size, but I think I will try them on to be
sure.’
The customers soft refined Irish accent did not seem out of place
either. With Ireland playing Scotland at Murrayfield on Saturday there were a
lot of Irish in the city, out to make a week of it. There would be even more of
them in Edinburgh, in Rose Street particularly.
‘If sir will kindly follow me, I will show him the changing rooms.’
Once inside the spacious changing room Patrick Wren stood on the
chair and pushed back one of the false ceiling panels. He had already
checked the store out weeks before. On that occasion he had worn casual
clothes, a wig and a false moustache. Unlike other shops, which only had
cubicles and curtains, the changing rooms in Frazer’s had full height partition
walls, and doors which locked.
He opened the briefcase he had been carrying and removed the bomb
that McCluskey had put together last night. He opened the shoebox, which
contained the explosives and the firing mechanism. John was an artist with
explosives, having been trained in Ireland, Libya and Romania, and it only
took a matter of seconds to make the connections. He placed the shoebox
mf
40
into the empty ceiling cavity and replaced the ceiling panel. On the way out of
the changing cubicle he squeezed some superglue into the lock and shut the
door behind him.
‘Will it be cash or credit sir?’ The assistant began folding both pairs of
trousers with tissue paper before putting them in a distinctive Frazers green
carrier bag.
Wren opened his wallet. ‘Cash of course.’
The assistant was glad. He was of the old school. He still hadn’t got
used to the ‘plastic money’ as they called it nowadays.
§§A§§
‘How do you think Bill Cowie will run it?’ Alisdair asked Tom the
question.
‘Probably with motorcades and fucking pipe bands.’ Tom shook his
head at the mere thought of such a campaign.
Christopher laughed. ‘Plus a ticker tape parade, funny hats and St.
Andrews flags, no doubt.’
All three students had arrived at Sloanes Bar within a few minutes of
each other.
The interview in the Strathclyde Telegraph had had the desired effect
on the ‘politicians’ in the Union. More people had spoken to Alisdair that
morning than during the whole of last week. The article had also worked and
the students had been reminded that there was a Presidential Election next
week.
The three students were settling down to put the meat on the bones of
Christopher’s campaign.
mf
41
Christopher had spent most of the previous evening in the Council
Offices studying old Council minutes to try and get a better picture of Alisdair’s
political pedigree.
He had found out that Alisdair had served on all the Council
committees that counted - Finance, Discipline, and the Ad-hoc Constitution
Committee, as well as Charities and Entertainments.
One set of minutes revealed something about Alisdair, which totally
surprised Christopher. It appeared that Alisdair had stood against the current
President for an Executive position two years ago.
Tom was impressed when Christopher raised the point. It showed he
had been doing his homework. ‘It is simple human nature Chris. If you have
to make a choice, and neither of the options particularly appeals to you, you
chose the one you dislike the least.’
Alisdair continued the story. ‘We wanted to get Terry elected onto the
Exec to give him experience before he stood for President. We knew the
United Left weren’t strong enough to put up their own candidate, but they
weren’t too enamoured with Terry either.’
‘I had been having a real go at the United Left for weeks before the
election. So when I stood they saw their chance to get their own back on me,
and voted for Terry. He was elected by the required two thirds majority,
thanks to their votes.’
Tom ordered three more beers. Being the only three people in the bar,
the waitress was quickly available. ‘I expect that Bill will do everything
himself, as usual. And I will put money on it that his publicity material has
already been printed and has been ‘donated’ by the SNP.’
mf
42
Alisdair nodded in agreement. He did not look up though. He was still
reading through Christopher’s final draft policy statements.
Tom continued his run down on the opposition. If there was one thing
he enjoyed almost as much as actually running his campaign, it was
theorising about other people’s campaigns.
‘David Thompson on the other hand will get his posters and handouts
through Annabelle. As Director of Publications she has all the facilities at her
disposal.’
A sparkle came to his eye as he suddenly thought of something. ‘If he
does, we can use it to our advantage. If she uses the Union’s publicity
machinery for David’s posters, handouts as you all know are allowed, we can
nail her for vested interests.’
Alisdair quickly latched on to Tom’s idea. ‘Do we have anyone in
Publicity?’
Tom put his pipe in the ashtray and consulted his notorious black book.
He nodded.
‘One other thing we will have to contend with is biased reporting in the
Strathclyde Telegraph. David will be able to do no wrong. Christopher on the
other hand will make the headlines if he as much as farts out of place.’
‘Not if I am still drinking Guinness next week.’ Christopher laughed. ‘It
binds me up for days on end.’
Alisdair laughed at Christopher’s joke. He had watched him build in
confidence over the last year. Before he had been elected to the Executive,
Chris had been a bit of a scatterbrain. He was a good student, but had
become part of a bunch of similarly mad students who would do more or less
mf
43
anything for a laugh. The infamous Strathclyde University Fun-Fun Club.
In the past eleven months with Chris chairing the Entertainment’s
Committee, he had turned it on its head. Through NUS he had set up group
circuits instead of individual universities and colleges buying in groups for
separate gigs. It had meant they could book big-name groups and
consequently make bigger profits. So much so that the profits from dances
and concerts more or less covered the year’s catering subsidy. The cost of
pie and peas in the Beer Bar had not increased in a year!
Tom puffed at his pipe until a cloud of smoke almost hid his face. ‘Now
we come to the serious bit. What do we do about the United Left’s offer?’ He
looked at Christopher. ‘You had better fill Alisdair in Chris.’
Christopher dragged his attention away from a stunning looking girl
standing at the bar.
‘I was in the Assembly Hall on Saturday afternoon checking that the
groups had everything they needed, when Frank Green and Ron Flowers
came in. Frank did all the talking. He knew that I was standing for President
and that Tom was running my campaign…’
Tom interrupted Christopher. ‘Typical bloody Commie! Too chicken to
come through me.’ Tom as usual made no effort to disguise his dislike of
Frank Green. ‘The guy lives in cloud cuckoo land half the time, mostly as a
result of what he smokes.’
Alisdair wagged his finger at Tom. ‘Naughty, naughty!’
Tom made a face at Alisdair and shrugged his shoulders.
Christopher continued his story. ‘They offered to help me with my
campaign publicity if I agreed to certain conditions. Frank Green was to
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44
propose me. They wanted me to join the Communist Club. Both Frank and
Ron were to help me formulate policy. And an Exec position for next year.’
‘It’s a wonder they didn’t want free tickets for the Charities Ball as well!’
Tom’s sarcastic remark made them both laugh. ‘What do you think Alisdair?
Do we tell them to fuck off or not?’
Alisdair drained his pint before answering. His gut feeling was to agree
with Tom’s last statement. It would however be an ideal opportunity to see
the workings of the United Left’s organisation at first hand.
‘I have no objection to them seconding Chris, but not proposing him.
That’s your prerogative Tom.’ Tom nodded in agreement. ‘I have no
objection to Ron Flowers helping with the publicity, he controls their publicity
department anyway, and I have always had a sneaking admiration for how he
organises that rabble. Frank Green is a non-starter at any price. He would
spend the whole time debating every minor detail and we would get nothing
done on time. As for Chris joining the CP, I think that is entirely up to him.’
He looked at Christopher. ‘If it was up to me though, I would say no!’
Christopher nodded. He had already made his mind up to say no.
‘As for the guaranteed Exec position? Where have these two been for
the last six months? Don’t they know the Exec elections are Vox Pop this
year?’
Tom butted in. ‘I rather think they were after our help in getting their
candidates elected.’
‘In that case, I was thinking about retiring from politics after this
election.’ Alisdair looked at Tom for a reaction.
Tom puffed at his pipe. He fully agreed with Alisdair but it was against
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45
his nature to align any of his candidates with the United Left. Still, the
decision was Chris’s.
‘What do you reckon Chris? Remember, we don’t need their help, but
if we take it they will not put up a candidate and the votes left of centre will be
all yours.’
It didn’t take Christopher long to agree to what Alisdair had said. ‘Can
we get them to agree though?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care whether Frank Green
agreed or not. ‘This is your campaign Chris. We set terms and conditions.
They need us more than we need them. Okay their publicity material will be
useful, but we can do without it as the two of us have done for the past three
years.’
‘Alisdair could tell by his tone that Tom was not overly pleased with the
decision. ‘We are agreed then? Shall I liaise with Ron?’
Tom pointed the stem of his pipe at Alisdair. Just because you are
flavour of the month just now, don’t let it go to your head. ‘I am still the
campaign manager!’
Alisdair surrendered with good humour. ‘Yes, Boss!’
Tom looked at his watch. ‘Now we are agreed, we can go and give the
Marx Brothers our answer. I left them a message to meet us in the Beer Bar
in an hour. Not Christopher though. We will get enough flack about him
being associated with the United Left without giving Annabelle’s Strathclyde
Telegraph staff a bloody photo opportunity.’
Alisdair passed Christopher’s policy statements back to Tom. ‘Can I
suggest that we make a second set? It will be heavily amended and very run
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46
of the mill. We can give the second set to Ron to type set. After the
nominations close he can have the real set.’
Tom nodded. ‘Good point son. They could still double cross us.’
Secretly he wished this was one of Frank Green’s double dealing scams and
he would not have to put up with them on the campaign, and he would have a
cast iron excuse to slap him about a bit. Something he had wanted to do for
the last two years.
§§A§§
The Kenco Coffee House in Buchanan Street was one of Elizabeth’s
vices. She could not resist their chocolate éclairs. The décor was modern but
comfortable. The seating was a mixture of tables and chairs interspersed with
coffee tables, two seater settees and armchairs. She had managed to get her
favourite settee.
Elizabeth had spent a busy morning with her committee tying up the
loose ends for Charities Day. The plans were now in place. They only had to
be implemented. She felt she owed herself a treat.
Outside, the snow that had fallen during the night was turning to slush
in the wintry midday sunshine. Pedestrians were carefully avoiding the spray
thrown up by passing cars whilst negotiating the parts that were still slightly
frozen.
She wished that Alisdair could have found time to have lunch with her
today, but Tom called, so Alisdair went. It was Presidential time again. She
smiled to herself. She shouldn’t really grudge him his fun. There was a
serious side to it though, which she both understood and appreciated.
Last night had been wonderful, the flowers, the dinner, and the sex,
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47
especially the sex. Alisdair had been very attentive to her. Maybe she should
let him stray more often if he felt he really had to make it up to her. The
Americans had a phrase for it – make up sex!
A familiar voice greeted her. Annabelle sat down beside her on the
settee.
‘You really are a dark horse Elizabeth.’
Annabelle also had a weakness for éclairs. She had tried all the fad
diets but her good intentions went straight out of the window at the slightest
temptation. She relied on exercise to keep her weight down.
Elizabeth looked at her quizzically. What did she mean - dark horse?
She also noticed that Annabelle had on yet another new coat.
Annabelle produced a copy of the Strathclyde Telegraph. ‘What I
mean is. Why didn’t you let on about your better half?’
Elizabeth quickly looked through the article. As she hadn’t been to the
Union that day yet she hadn’t seen a copy of the students’ newspaper. ‘This
must be Tom’s idea. He is up to something.’
It was Annabelle’s turn to look puzzled. ‘How do you know it was
Tom’s idea?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Just put it down to experience. Tom is the master of
the pre-campaign. I think he calls it pre-conditioning or something.’
‘So you know all about Alisdair’s part in past campaigns?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘More or less. Not all the details though.’
‘Are you aware that the United Left has offered to help Christopher
Moore?’
Elizabeth certainly wasn’t aware, but she quickly answered. ‘Tom
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48
would tell them, and I quote - to fuck off! If you will excuse my French.’’
Annabelle could quite easily imagine Tom saying that to Frank Green.
Lots of people would like to say it to him, but only Tom would have the guts to
say it to his face.
Annabelle ordered two more coffees and another plate of cream cakes.
‘What if it is true though and they accept the offer?’
‘There is no way on this earth that Alisdair and Tom would be
associated with the United Left in an election. It all started with the two of
them pledging to bury the United Left because of the influence they had over
Council and as a consequence, the running of the Union.’
Annabelle was completely taken aback at the anger she saw in
Elizabeth. She hadn’t expected such a reaction. She thought it best to
change the subject, but it was interesting.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?’
‘Shopping, I have to find a dress for the Patron’s Dinner on Saturday
night.’
Now Elizabeth was talking Annabelle’s language.
‘I saw just the thing when I was in Jaeger’s the other day. It’s black
and it’s sexy, and it would look absolutely gorgeous on you.’
‘And I bet it is expensive as well.’ Elizabeth laughed.
‘Don’t worry about that. Daddy has an account, as well as being a
personal friend of Hugh Frazer.’ Annabelle passed the plate of cakes to
Elizabeth. ‘We will polish these off and then wander down Buchanan Street to
Frazers.’
§§A§§
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49
Bill Cowie was holding court in the Beer Bar. There were only six
students pretending to listen to him extolling the virtues of an independent
Scotland. Bill was in fine form with the dregs of a pint in one hand and a
Number 6 in the other.
When Tom and Alisdair entered the Beer Bar, Bill’s immediately
ignored his audience, much to their relief, and turned his attention to them.
‘Ah! The Dynamic Duo! With all the publicity you have had today
Alisdair it is a wonder you don’t stand for President!’
Tom glowered at Bill. ‘If he did, he would easily beat you. Come to
think of it Bill, an Englishman could probably beat you.’
That was the ultimate insult as far as Bill was concerned and for once
he was speechless. Alisdair could tell Tom had struck the first blow in the
campaign. Bill drained his pint and stormed out of the Beer Bar.
‘You were a bit hard on the boy there Tom. I think you have upset
him.’ Alisdair laughed.
The barman did not have to be prompted to pour Tom an Export and
Alisdair a Tennants lager.
Tom handed Alisdair the lager. ‘No more than he deserves. If he was
serious about the Union instead of treating this election as a big SNP ego trip,
I might treat his campaign with a bit of respect.’
Tom tried his pint. ‘Besides, after the way he tried to influence the
Exec Elections when he was Returning Officer. I owe him one!’
Tom lit his pipe and sat back in the bench seat furthest away from the
bar. ‘Now I have a bone to pick with you!’ Alisdair looked at him. ‘What were
you up to on Saturday night?’
mf
50
Alisdair knew that it had to come sooner or later. Tom looked after
Elizabeth like a sister and always took her part. He held up his hands in
surrender. ‘What can I say? I deceived the woman I love. And she found
out. And then she belted me!’
‘Good! I hope it was hard.’
Alisdair looked at Tom and smiled cheekily.
Tom pointed the stem of his pipe at Alisdair. ‘I know what you are
going to say. So don’t.’ The door to the Beer Bar opened. ‘Anyway, drink up,
he come the Marx Brothers. We might as well at least get a drink out of
them.’
The meeting between the four students was terse but not openly nasty.
At the same time though Tom did not try to hide his dislike of Frank Green.
He put Christopher’s decision to them clearly and concisely, so that there
would be no misunderstandings. He also made it quite clear that it was
Christopher’s decision.
Alisdair could see that Ron was happy that they were at least playing
some part in the election. Frank, true to character, tried to bargain.
Tom cut him short. ‘The matter is not up for debate Frank. The
decision has been made. Christopher, as the candidate, has a veto on
anything, including who he wants on his campaign team. I cannot, and I will
not go against his wishes.’
Alisdair knew that Tom was feeding them a line. He had never known
Tom do what a candidate wanted, if it conflicted with Tom’s agenda.
Tom finished the pint that Ron had bought and made a show of looking
at the clock behind the bar. He had decided that the meeting was over.
mf
51
Ron also finished his orange juice. ‘When do you suggest we meet
then? To go over the publicity material.’
Tom was in quickly. ‘Tomorrow, at Alisdair’s flat.’
It was no less than Alisdair expected. Tom was obviously trying to limit
the contact they had with Ron Flowers in public. He mentally consulted his
timetable for tomorrow and confirmed twelve o’clock to be the best time.
‘One final thing.’ Tom took a piece of paper from the inside pocket of
his blazer. ‘Just put your ‘X’ where it says seconder Frank.’
None of the students failed to notice that Tom had already signed as
Christopher’s proposer. It had been dated 27th January, two days before the
United Left made their offer.
§§A§§
The half an hour over coffee and cakes with Annabelle had put
Elizabeth in a happier frame of mind than the one she had been in at the start
of her conversation with Annabelle. Annabelle hadn’t mentioned anything
else about the election. They had talked about Charities Day, the Muirhead,
of which Elizabeth was President, and Annabelle’s attraction to Tom Shearer.
‘For all his bravado Tom really is a big teddy bear when it comes to the
ladies. He is not my type but I think he is yours Annabelle.’ Elizabeth was
match making now.
Elizabeth had probably been in Tom’s company more than any other
female. He was such a gentleman and always took her side when Alisdair
was rotten to her, or in one of his moods.
Sometimes Alisdair could be funny. Nothing you could quite put your
finger on. He just went quiet, sometimes for days on end. It usually
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52
happened if he had a problem. He was the type who bottled things up rather
than talking them through. Elizabeth wanted to share these difficult times as
well as the good ones.
Then just as suddenly he would be back to his normal cheery self,
cracking jokes and full of confidence. The only way that Elizabeth could cope
with his moods was to give him space. Let him work it out on his own. But on
the odd times he had wanted to talk the problem through, she was more than
willing to listen.
On the other hand, when Elizabeth had a problem, she immediately
burdened Alisdair with it. She talked him to death until he either told her not
to be stupid as no problem existed, or they found the solution.
‘Tom is just shy. Take my advice. If you were to ask him out directly
he would probably run a mile. But if you happen to be where he is it wouldn’t
look planned and he would be very easy to get on with.’
Annabelle agreed. The times they had met by chance they had got on
really well.
Despite Annabelle’s protests, Elizabeth gave Annabelle her share of
the bill. ‘By the way.’ She had suddenly remembered. ‘Tom is on heavy duty
this week as he always is during Charities Week. So you now know where to
find him every night. He also goes to the gymnasium weight room on a
Wednesday evening.’
The sound of a police siren made both girls look out of the window. It
was the third siren they had heard in the last quarter of an hour, but the other
two had been further away. Out of the window they could see a few people
looking towards the bottom of Buchanan Street.
mf
53
The girls paid the bill and went outside. They immediately saw a police
barricade across Buchanan Street at the junction with Gordon Street. There
were people hurrying up the street towards them and they could see fire
engines and police cars parked at the Argyle Street end of Buchanan Street
They stood watching the activity for about ten minutes. There had
been a bomb threat, but everyone supposed it was another hoax. Some
people around them even imagined it was a Charity stunt.
Suddenly they saw glass, bricks and smoke or dust blown out from a
first floor window of the House of Frazer. A split second later they heard the
sound of the explosion. Elizabeth felt it like a blow to the stomach. Not a
physical blow, more of a shock wave sensation.
People screamed. Others rushed to the barricade to get a better view.
Elizabeth felt weak at the knees and surprisingly detached as she watched
the fire engines come to life and their hosed played on the flames that were
flickering out of the hole in the wall left by the blast. There was thick smoke
spiralling into the wintry sky.
‘You look quite pale miss. You should go and sit down.’ Elizabeth
looked at the elderly gentleman standing next to her. He was well dressed,
but wasn’t wearing a coat. He had obviously come from one of the shops that
had been evacuated. He reminded her of her grandfather with his half moon
rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He smiled at her. ‘As far as I know miss, everyone was out of the
building. They gave a warning on the telephone.’
Elizabeth felt her composure returning. Her initial shock was turning to
anger. She hated any sort of violence. Especially the senseless violence
mf
54
against innocent everyday people she had just witnessed.
Annabelle on the other hand was more concerned if the other Jaeger
shop in Sauchihall Street had the dress she had in mind for Elizabeth.
§§A§§
To quote a popular Glasgow phrase - the place was bouncing!
Busloads of students from all over the city were converging on the ‘Wee Red
Hoose’ in the Gallowgate area of the city centre.
It was traditional stunt during Charities Week, to attempt to drink a pub
completely dry of beer. In previous years the spirits had also been severely
threatened.
The ‘Wee Red Hoose’ was no different this year. Graham Ferrie, the
publican, had been told just before the pub closed at lunchtime that his pub
was this year’s target. It had given him enough time to organise extra bar
staff but not enough time to order any more beer from the brewery. Alisdair
had frequented it in his first year as they served some excellent Forfar bridies
at lunchtime.
The students were also catered for his regular ten or twelve customers.
Their usual seats were reserved for them, and they rarely had to put their
hands in their own pockets to buy a drink.
The atmosphere was controlled, boisterous but good-humoured.
It was only seven o’clock, but in the last two hours the Tennants lager
had been finished.
Alisdair was now drinking pints of light, darker than the heavy, but not
so bitter. It was also going down well - almost too well!
He was sitting next to Rab. Both of them were well on their way to
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55
oblivion.
‘If you weren’t officially involved in the campaigns. How did you get an
invite to the post election party?’ Rab had been thoroughly quizzing Alisdair
all night about the part he played in past elections.
Alisdair dismissed the question with a drunken wave of his arm.
‘Heavy duty member, dear boy!’
Rab shook his head at the simplicity of Alisdair’s answer. He should
have guessed.
In the Union, members of Council had to take it in turn to police the
building. Each week there was one heavy-duty member and three light duty
members on duty with the heavy-duty student having to be in the Union every
night until it closed and the others only when there was a function on. It was a
useful way of getting into dances and concerts free.
‘So you even had the foresight to arrange to be on duty during election
week?’
‘And Tam was on duty the week before.’ Alisdair drained his glass.
‘So that nobody could fly-post in the Union late at night.’
Rab laughed. ‘Except you?’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘I claim the fifth
amendment on that one son.’ He gave his empty glass to Rab. ‘Another pint
of the slightly darker amber nectar dear boy.’
Whilst Rab was fighting his way to the bar, Alisdair noticed Elizabeth
coming into the pub. He managed to attract her attention. She waved back at
him.
‘Add a pint of white wine to that order Rab.’ Alisdair managed to make
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56
himself heard over a group of students who were singing rugby songs.
Alisdair made room for Elizabeth beside him on the bench seat, and
helped her off with her coat.
‘How are you feeling now gorgeous?’ Alisdair had already talked to her
in the Union about the bombing.
Elizabeth accepted the glass of wine from Rab with a smile. He
wandered off to join in the singing.
‘It was a pretty weird experience. If you blinked you would have
missed it. But if you look back on it, the whole episode seemed to happen in
slow motion. I got a bit of a fright I can tell you.’
Alisdair patted her hand. ‘You are safe now.’
‘With the amount you have apparently had to drink so far, I am certainly
safe tonight.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘I think you have gone well passed brewers droop.
I was hoping to tempt you by showing off the new dress I bought today. It
was expensive, but it is lovely. Sheer, figure hugging, black and low cut front
and back.’ Elizabeth indicated the neckline to Alisdair. ‘Unless you buy me a
new bra though, I will have to go without. None of the ones I have suited.’
‘If you don’t wear one will your nipples show though?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Probably, considering it is the middle of winter!’
Alisdair gave her a cheeky grin. ‘Well I’m skint. So at least I will have
somewhere to hang my jacket on Saturday night.’
‘More than I will have tonight by the feel of things.’ Elizabeth playfully
groped his groin. ‘Oh, and while I have our wedding tackle in my hand. What
is this I have been hearing from Annabelle about the United Left being on
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57
Christopher’s campaign team?’
Alisdair tutted and shook his head. ‘They offered to help with the
publicity and we agreed, but on our terms not theirs.’
Elizabeth looked at Alisdair hard. Her mood changed. ‘Where have
your principles gone? Three years ago you promised to bury the United Left.’
‘They are buried! They haven’t held an Exec position in two years
now!’ Alisdair was beginning to tire of this conversation. He was in the mood
to party.
‘They may be buried, but they are far from dead. You still have to put a
whip out for some Council votes. You must admit that?’
Elizabeth was trying hard to convince him that the decision he and Tom
had taken was wrong. She could tell though that the beer was blocking her
argument and making Alisdair all the more obstinate.
‘Can’t you see they are only trying to infiltrate your campaign? They
will learn all they can and then Frank Green will appear on Friday at noon and
put in his own nomination.’
‘Of course we have thought of that!’ Alisdair snapped at her. ‘He
would look a bit of a pratt though after he has seconded Chris’s nomination.’
Elizabeth exploded. People around them began to look at the two
students. Most of the students smiled at the ‘domestic’.
‘You mean that you let the leader of the left wing rat pack put his name
on Christopher’s nomination? When the students see that they won’t touch
him with a barge pole!’
Alisdair’s reply was quick, but not very well though out. ‘Nobody ever
reads the nomination forms after they have been posted.’
mf
58
‘Bill Cowie will, and he will make sure every damn student gets to know
about it.’ Alisdair shook his head and Elizabeth could see she was losing the
battle. Alisdair would not change his mind. Not tonight anyway. ‘Bill Cowie
revels in this sort of mudslinging. You have already lost Christopher twenty
percent of his vote and the election doesn’t even start for nearly a week.’
Alisdair emptied his glass. ‘We can still beat that gobshite Cowie and
the whispering Geordie.’
Elizabeth suddenly stood up and grabbed her coat. She had never
heard Alisdair talk like this before. The booze was certainly talking now. This
was not the Alisdair she knew and loved. Alisdair had in the past used every
trick in the book to get the students off their backsides and into the polling
booths.
Without another word she stormed out of the bar.
§§A§§
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59
Chapter 3 - Wednesday 2nd February
Monday morning’s hangover had only been a dress rehearsal for the
one he was now suffering. He should know now at his age that mixing your
drinks is just asking for trouble! He felt even worse for what he had said to
Elizabeth last night, and more so how he had spoken to her. He gazed
aimlessly at the last of the coffee dripping through the filter into the glass
coffeepot.
It was cold in the tiny kitchen, despite the oven being switched on with
the oven door wide open. Freshly fallen snow still lay on the kitchen
windowsill and the windows were heavy with condensation.
Of course he and Tom could handle the United Left, or at least contain
any damage they intended to inflict on Christopher’s campaign.
But maybe Elizabeth was right. Were they betraying the trust they had
earned from the students over the last three years? When all was said and
done both he and Tom had never made a deal that they couldn’t get out of.
This one with the United Left was no different. ‘Do unto others before they do
it to you’; was a very apt motto when it came to the Presidential Election?
The door to the kitchen burst open. Rab ruffled Alisdair’s hair as he sat
down opposite him at the kitchen table.
‘It looks as if you won’t be shaving again today son?’ Rab leant over
and lifted the coffeepot from under the filter.
‘By the way, we have sold nearly sixty thousand Ygorras already.
Andrew wants a meeting at ten o’clock to discuss the situation.’
Alisdair looked at his flat mate. Rab was full of the joys of spring as
usual. Considering they had matched each other pint for pint last night Rab
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60
did not display any trace of a hangover. The guy had breathed too much
highland air as a child for his own good!
‘I know we still have forty thousand to sell, but with four days left,
including Charities Day, we should shift them easily.’ Alisdair carefully
spooned sugar into his coffee, trying not to spill sugar all over the table.
Rab laughed. ‘I think you have got the wrong end of the stick Alisdair.
Andrew is talking about getting more printed!’
Alisdair shook his head. A reprint of a Rag Mag had never happened
before. To get rid of the full one hundred thousand copies was an
achievement in itself.
Alisdair heard the telephone in the lounge ringing. Despite his
hangover he was out of his chair and halfway up the hall before Rab put his
coffee mug on the table. It must be Elizabeth phoning to see how he was.
A few minutes later, a rather more thoughtful Alisdair re-entered the
kitchen.
‘That was Sheilagh from Buccleuch Street. I have to be at Craigie
Street police station at nine o’clock.’
Rab looked at Alisdair and laughed. He thought he was joking. ‘I didn’t
know that having a hangover was a criminal offence?’
‘If it is, I shall ask for several other offences to be taken into account.’
Alisdair rubbed the back of his hand over his unshaven chin. He would have
to shave now!
§§A§§
Craigie Street police station was only fifteen minutes walk from
Alisdair’s flat in Pollockshields. The three-storey grimy red sandstone building
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looked ominously quiet as Alisdair walked up the well-worn steps and
approached the sergeant’s desk.
The sergeant on duty looked at a clipboard on his desk when Alisdair
gave him his name. He nodded to himself, motioned Alisdair to the wooden
bench beside the front door, and picked up the telephone.
Alisdair couldn’t hear what he said, but a few minutes later a tall fair-
haired Inspector came through the swing doors to the right of where Alisdair
was sitting.
He approached Alisdair, smiled, and held his hand out. Alisdair, feeling
relief at seeing the friendly greeting instead of a set of handcuffs, stood up
and shook hands.
‘I am Inspector Stoddart.’ The smile was still there.
Alisdair, whose father had been in the military police until his retirement
six years ago, could see from the number of crowns on Stoddart’s shoulders
that he was at least a Chief Inspector.
Stoddart took Alisdair along a green tiled corridor and stopped at the
very end of the corridor. The brass sign on the stout wooden door read - C.I.
STODDART. He opened the door for Alisdair.
Seated behind a large, well-used desk was a middle aged, heavily built
man in civilian clothes.
Alisdair’s brain was in a complete whirl. He had no idea what was
happening. The whole visit so far had been very civilised, very low key, but
he still had no idea of why he had been summonsed.
‘Good morning Mr. Graham. My name is Smith.’ His accent was quiet,
not readily identifiable, but most probably Welsh.
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He invited Alisdair to sit down in the chair at the front of the desk.
Alisdair experienced rather than saw the Chief Inspector leave the room and
quietly close the door behind him.
Smith, who had offered no more information about himself, ran his
hand over his thinning close-cropped grey hair. Alisdair put him in his late
fifties. He wore a charcoal grey double-breasted suit, a plain white shirt, and
a regimental tie. Alisdair’s initial reaction was that he was a civil servant and
not a policeman, but his bearing probably leant towards him having been in
the military at one time.
‘Don’t look so worried Alisdair.’ He sat forward in his seat and smiled.
‘I can call you Alisdair, can’t I?’
Alisdair nodded. The man’s smile had broken the ice. He felt more at
ease, but none the wiser.
‘You are not here for anything that you have done. Rather the
opposite. I think you might be able to help me.’
He opened a plain unmarked buff file that lay in front of him on the
desk. Inside were four black and white photographs. He passed them over to
Alisdair.
One of the photographs Alisdair instantly recognised as being Frank
Green. It was a bit blurred and had obviously been taken from a distance with
a telephoto lens. The other student Alisdair knew by sight but couldn’t put a
name to. The design of the college scarf identified him as coming from
Glasgow University. He had never seen the other two men.
‘I take it from the look on your face that you recognise some of these
people.’
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Alisdair at last found his voice. He pointed to Frank Green’s
photograph.
‘That’s Frank Green; he is a student at Strathclyde. The other student I
know by sight but just now I can’t put a name to him. I do know that he goes
to Glasgow University and I have seen him with Frank Green.’
‘His name is Ian McPherson, and as you said he was at Glasgow
University, but do you recognise the other two? Have you seen them around
the Union for instance?’
Alisdair shook his head.
Smith put the photographs back in the folder and put it on one side,
upside down. There were no identifying marks on the folder at all. He paused
for a moments as if finally making up his mind to tell Alisdair something he
hadn’t originally intended to.
‘What I am about to tell you is highly confidential.’ He paused again.
‘In fact I will require you to sign the Official Secrets Act.’
The words seemed to explode in Alisdair’s ears.
‘Without going into detail, I am connected with the Home Office. Anti-
terrorism to be exact.’
‘Yesterday’s bombing?’ The words had come from Alisdair’s mouth
involuntarily. It was almost as if he had been thinking out loud.
Smith nodded. ‘The two men you did not recognise form part of an
active IRA unit who have been in the West of Scotland area for the last few
weeks. Our information is that Green and McPherson are more than just
sympathisers to the cause.’
‘What we want from you is information.’ Smith looked Alisdair straight
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in the face. ‘Green we know is still at Strathclyde. McPherson on the other
hand dropped out from Glasgow Uni after failing a couple of exams last year.
We don’t know where he is.’
‘I could always ask Frank Green.’
Smith smiled. ‘Would he expect such a question from you?’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘Not without asking why.’
Smith took it that Alisdair had got the point of his question. ‘How much
contact do you have with Green?’
‘Until yesterday, as little as possible.’
An inquiring frown formed on Smith’s brow. ‘What happened
yesterday?’
Alisdair explained to him about the alliance he and Frank Green had
formed to publicise Christopher’s campaign.
‘So you will be going to Green’s house?’
‘That’s where the printing presses are.’
Smith smiled to himself. He could see the possibilities of what Alisdair
had told him. He sat back in his chair, silent for a moment. What he was
about to ask was way beyond anything that was written in the rulebook, if
such a thing existed in his line of work? He had only requested this meeting
on the off chance that Alisdair knew where Ian McPherson was. Now a new
approach was called for.
‘When your father was in the army Alisdair, he was a sergeant in the
Military Police.’
Alisdair nodded. That much he knew but very little else, but he now
recognised the tie Mr. Smith was wearing. It was the same regiment his
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father had been in.
‘Smith is not my real name. It isn’t even very original, but it will do for
the time being. I was for a time your father’s commanding officer and I feel I
can trust you.’ Smith smiled at Alisdair. ‘I took the chance that you might be
able to help me because of your loose association with Green on the Students
Representative Council. Now it would appear that you could be of great help
to me.’
He fiddled with the blotter on the desk. He then spoke with a certain
amount of aggression in his voice.
‘I need to find McPherson. Green may know where he is. On the other
hand Green himself may be helping the IRA unit directly. Any information you
can give me on either Green or McPherson may help me to nail these other
two bastards before they kill someone.’
Smith was angry with himself for such a display of emotion.
‘Anything you can find out might just be the piece of the jigsaw I need.’
Alisdair’s head was buzzing. Both his hangover and his argument with
Elizabeth now assumed very minor proportions. This was far and away more
serious.
‘If I come across anything, I will get in touch.’ It sounded a daft thing to
say, but it was all he could think of at the time. Alisdair suddenly had a
thought. ‘How will I get in touch with you?’
‘Through Chief Inspector Stoddart.’ Smith produced a piece of paper
from under the blotter. ‘It will be less suspicious if you have a reason for
getting in touch with the Chief Inspector.’ He handed the paper over to
Alisdair.
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Alisdair read it in disbelief. It was a summons stating that as Editor of
Ygorra, Alisdair was to be charged with obscenity under one of the City
byelaws.
Smith looked at Alisdair’s shocked expression with amusement. ‘If
nothing else it will help sales.’ He smiled. ‘And, I can guarantee you won’t be
found guilty.’
Smith produced an expensive looking fountain pen from the inside
pocket of his jacket. As he did so Alisdair saw the butt of a revolver. He
suddenly felt cold.
Smith showed Alisdair where to sign to accept the summons. After that
had been signed he produced another piece of paper from under the blotter.
Alisdair signed the Official Secrets Act.
§§A§§
When Alisdair had left the office, Commander James Ingle took stock
of their conversation. He hadn’t learned anything about McPherson’s
whereabouts, but he now felt he had someone on the fringes of the local
network.
For the last two years he had been in charge of containing the IRA’s
activities on the mainland. With limited success as it turned out. He was in a
politically sensitive position. Commanding army intelligence was no problem,
he had been trained to do that, but having to oversee the MI5 part of the
operation as well had rekindled the rivalry that had existed between the two
organisations for years.
Maybe Alisdair was the pawn he needed for his end game. If he had
any of his father’s qualities he would do well.
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§§A§§
‘You have been what?’ Andrew Todd could hardly believe what
Alisdair had just told him.
Andrew had primarily called the meeting to discuss Ygorra sales. The
five students grouped around the conference table in the Commander
Convenor’s office included, Rab, Alisdair, the Appeals Treasurer, and the
Distribution Convenor. Coffee cups, newspapers and overfull ashtrays littered
the table. Andrew was the first to see the opportunity the obscenity charge
presented and immediately phoned through to the secretary to first call the
Appeal’s solicitors, then the Glasgow papers, the Scottish papers and as
many of the Nationals as she had telephone numbers for.
This was big news. To Andrew’s knowledge no Rag Mag editor
anywhere in the country had been charged with obscenity. The potential
publicity for the Appeal was now at a level they could only normally dream of.
‘Did the police give you any indication of who it was that complained?’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Inspector just gave me the
summons, read me my rights, and then asked if I had anything to say.’
‘And did you?’ Asked Rab.
Alisdair playfully punched Rab on the arm. ‘Well I could hardly recite
the Mary Skinner poem to him could I?’
Rab gave Alisdair a funny look. He was amazed at how casually
Alisdair was taking the whole thing. If his name had been on the charge he
would have been a quivering wreck. His father was an elder in the Wee Frees
and once he heard that his son was to appear in court he would have been on
the first ferry out of Skye on his way to Glasgow to belt the living daylights out
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of his son.
The Treasurer, Russell Davies, brought the meeting back to the point.
‘It would seem that a reprint would certainly be needed now.’
The telephone rang. Andrew answered it.
Rab, who had handled the publishing side of the Rag Mag, was in
quickly with his facts and figures.
‘We have eight hundred pounds left over after the first batch of
magazines was printed. As usual advertising covered the printing costs plus
a small profit. The balance is normally deposited in the Appeal’s account.’
Although Alisdair was listening to Rab his thoughts were elsewhere,
with Elizabeth. He had looked for her as soon as he had reached the offices,
but she also had a meeting with the police. There was a possible conflict
between the Charities Procession and an anti-Vietnam demonstration. No
one knew when she would be back in the offices.
He was again even more in a quandary about the United Left option.
He knew that if he put Elizabeth’s views to Tom, Tom would ditch the United
Left, even although Frank Green had signed as seconder, but after his visit to
Craigie Street Alisdair was more or less obliged to stick with the deal. Even if
Tom changed his mind on his own, Alisdair would then have to convince him
otherwise.
It was Elizabeth he was really worried about. She had certainly blown
up at him last night, but with just cause. He had acted like a complete moron.
The sound of the telephone ringing again brought him quickly back to
the conversation.
‘So we are agreed then. We order another thirty thousand. Are you
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sure you can get the printers to do it?’
Rab looked up from the piece of paper that Russell had done the cost
calculations on.
‘Thirty thousand will only cost five hundred pounds, but I will only offer
to pay four hundred. The typeset is still there, I checked on that earlier with
the printers. Also, their contract with us is due for renewal this year. I can
use that as leverage.’ Rab laughed. ‘I can but try anyway.’
‘Can we get them on time though?’ Andrew had put the telephone on
hold.
‘Friday at the latest, but if we send our own transport, we can pick them
up on Thursday lunchtime.’
Alisdair was pleasantly surprised at the preparation Rab had put into
the meeting. More than he had.
‘One final thing gentlemen, for Alisdair mainly.’ Andrew put the
receiver back on the cradle. The telephone rang again. He ignored it. ‘The
reporters are on their way, as is Ross Michie from our solicitors, so I suggest
we have the news conference after we have spoken to him.’
He picked up the ringing telephone yet again. ‘By the way you are on
Reporting Scotland tonight at six o’clock Alisdair.’
§§A§§
On the first Wednesday of every month Elizabeth chaired the Muirhead
committee meeting. The Muirhead was the female organisation within the
Strathclyde Students Union and was physically based in one room on the third
floor of the Union building in John Street and offered a quiet haven for the
ladies of the Union. The state of decoration was the best of all in any of the
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rooms in the Union. There was even a carpeted area and comfortable
armchairs.
Elizabeth certainly felt the need for peace and quiet after her meeting
with the police that morning. The middle part of her Procession had been re-
routed because of the anti-Vietnam demonstration. What made it all the more
annoying to her was the fact that the demonstration was being organised by
Frank Green.
Glasgow University had two separate Unions, Gibson Street for men,
and the Queen Margaret for women, Strathclyde being a recently chartered
university did not have that tradition. Neither did it have the building space
available for such an arrangement.
The Muirhead Lounge was also often used for general Union functions.
Just such a function was the final item on Elizabeth’s agenda.
The Charities Committee had requested that they hold their reception
there on the night of Charities Day. It was a traditional event and was
unanimously passed by the three girls present at the meeting.
Annabelle had one other item she wanted discussed.
‘The Presidential Election starts on Monday and we should be thinking
about which candidate to endorse. Obviously the one who is most
sympathetic to us in the Muirhead.’
The Muirhead had not been set up to act as a female lib lobby within
the Union, but the President, the post held by Elizabeth for the last two years,
did have a seat on the Union Executive and was also represented on the
University Senate. The Association President however was the student’s only
representative on the University Court where the financial decisions were
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taken.
‘So far there are only two people who have intimated that they will
stand, Bill Cowie and Christopher Moore.’
Christine Arnott, the Muirhead Treasurer, interrupted. ‘I thought that
David Thompson was also a candidate?’
‘He hasn’t actually declared.’ Annabelle quickly dismissed the
suggestion; it seemed to be common knowledge that David would stand. She
continued by posing a question to the other two girls.
‘Which of the two declared candidates even know that the Muirhead
exists as a serious part of this Union? Bill Cowie is Bill Cowie and will never
change. Christopher Moore is the most chauvinistic guy I have ever met.’
‘Yes, but he is good looking.’ Christine had a soft spot for Christopher,
as had a lot of the females in the Union.
‘Maybe we should put up a female candidate then?’ Elizabeth was
joking, but then she saw the look on Annabelle’s face. It suddenly dawned on
her that Annabelle had been setting her up for this for the last two days. But
was the idea so ridiculous?
As if reading Elizabeth’s thoughts, Annabelle spelt out Elizabeth’s
qualifications for the job of President.
‘You have more experience on the Executive than either of the other
two candidates. You are an Engineer. You are in the Tory Club. Most
importantly though, you are a female.’
‘I am glad that you noticed.’ Elizabeth laughed somewhat nervously.
She had never thought of her time on the Exec in that way.
Annabelle continued to force her point. ‘Strathclyde has seventy
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percent of the students studying Sciences and Engineering, thirty percent of
the students are female, and over half of the students are more conservative
than they would openly admit.’
Both the other girls looked at Elizabeth. The way Annabelle had put it,
she was already elected. She potentially had a wide spectrum of support.
Elizabeth really was in a quandary. If she stood for President Alisdair
would go mad. Maybe he would think she was only doing it to get back at him
over the United Left. He wouldn’t surely think that? They loved each other.
She considered the two of them as being a lifelong team. But could she so
publicly go against him, now that he was out in the open with regard to
Presidential Elections?
The silence in the room was heavy. It was now up to her. If she
couldn’t make this simple decision how could she make decisions as
President? What had she said to herself? Could she possible stand? Was it
such a preposterous idea?
‘Obviously we can’t expect an instant answer Elizabeth.’ Annabelle
hoped from Elizabeth’s silent reflection that she was after all interested in her
proposition. ‘But I think that I can speak for the whole Muirhead when I say
that you could well win, and you have all the qualifications and personality to
be an excellent President.’
‘Don’t lay it on so thick Annabelle.’ Elizabeth had already made up her
mind. ‘Give me until tomorrow morning. I need to look at my academic
workload over the next couple of weeks. As you can appreciate I have
already taken a week off because of Charities.’
She also wanted to gauge Alisdair’s reaction. It wouldn’t sway her
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either way but she just wanted his moral support.
§§A§§
An hour later than originally planned Tom, Alisdair and Ron Flowers
started their meeting in Alisdair’s flat. A fresh pot of coffee lay on the low
table in front of the settee. They had serious work to do. The beer would
come later.
The first topic of conversation was the obscenity charge. Both Tom
and Ron were convinced it was yet another stunt to get publicity, and it took
Alisdair some time to convince them otherwise.
‘Rab McDonald wasn’t mentioned in the charge I take it then? Only
you.’ Ron had already asked if it was safe to meet in Alisdair’s flat knowing
how involved Rab was in Bill’s campaign.
Alisdair had assured him that Rab would be very busy in the Charities
Office for the rest of the day, and yes Rab was involved in Bill’s campaign, but
not through personal choice.
‘The editorial content of Ygorra was entirely my responsibility.’ Alisdair
explained. ‘I seconded Rab to do the administrative work and the features.
Obviously I asked his opinion on what jokes to leave out.’
Ron laughed in surprise. ‘You mean you actually censored it
yourselves?’
Alisdair nodded. ‘You should see the jokes, the poems, and especially
the cartoons we took out. Maybe after the meeting I can show you the some
of the ones we ditched.’
‘Just don’t let any of them end up in Christopher’s handouts!’ Tom
helped himself to coffee. The atmosphere between the three students was
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better than Tom expected it would be.
He pulled a folder of papers out of his briefcase and gave them to Ron.
‘These are our boy’s policies.’ Ron began to read through them. ‘They
are not in any particular order, but they do lend themselves easily for splitting
into daily handouts. A page a day is enough.’ Tom cleaned out the bowl of
his pipe. I look on a handout as being something a student can pick up at the
front door of the Union and have read by the time they have waited in the
queue in the Beer Bar or the Refectory.’
Alisdair nodded in agreement as he watched Ron quickly absorb the
contents of the handouts.
When he had finished, Ron gave his opinion. ‘There is some good
stuff here. Essentially they contain the same subjects we would have picked,
but Christopher has given them a new slant. He has obviously put a lot of
thought into them.’
Tom filled his pipe with tobacco. ‘You know fine well Ron that topics
are limited. We all have the same ones coming up year after year.’ Tom
counted off the points on one hand. ‘Staff student relations; Union facilities; a
new Union building; and our relationship with NUS. Outside politics very
rarely enters into it.’
Ron smiled. ‘That depends on your viewpoint.’
‘That’s why you are here instead of Frank.’ Alisdair said pointedly.
Ron gave the papers back to Tom. ‘For once we agree.’
His answer rather surprised Alisdair and Tom, though neither of them
let it show. Did the comment hint at a crack in the unity of the United Left?
Alisdair helped himself to coffee. ‘Right Boss. What shall we deal with
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first?’
Tom sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘We may as well start with
handouts. I would like, but it really depends on Ron, to put a different handout
around the campus every day, based on the topics I mentioned earlier.’
He counted out the topics as he carried on speaking. ‘For Monday, I
thought a general bio-data on Chris. I don’t want to give anything away
before the Heckling Meeting at lunchtime. Tuesday, I reckon on
University/Union relations and the NUS connection. Wednesday we go for
Union facilities and services. Finally we use a combination of all three for
election day on Thursday.’
‘Double sided foolscap, folded in two? Picture on the front, text on the
two inside pages, and the slogan on the back?’ Ron had just described the
standard election handout format.
Tom nodded in agreement.
‘Have you any objections Alisdair? Or have you something else in
mind for this year?’
‘Not for the handouts.’ Alisdair smiled.
Tom gave Alisdair a funny look. It looked as if he was going to drop
one of his designer bombshells before long. He poured some more coffee for
himself and Ron.
‘Now we come to the difficult bit.’ Tom passed the milk bottle to Ron.
‘The slogan!’
Alisdair was the first in with a suggestion. ‘The Man Behind the
Wheel?’ He picked up the empty coffee jug. ‘Think about it whilst I make a
fresh brew.’
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Both Ron and Tom settled back in their chairs. All that could be heard
in the room was the ticking of the old fashioned clock on the sideboard and
the sound of water running in the kitchen as Alisdair washed out the coffee
jug.
Ron was first to speak. ‘I rather like the idea. It has a lot of undertones
to it. The President is the driver, but he needs the parts, the students, the
Council, the Executive, to make the whole thing go.’
Tom nodded. He also liked it, but for a different reason. It was not
political in any way.
He was also pleasantly surprised at Ron’s attitude to the meeting.
There were no sarcastic remarks. He hadn’t tried to force his left wing views.
He was either genuinely prepared to help, or he was very good at just
stringing them along finding out as much as he could. Tom hoped for his
sake, it was the former.
Alisdair had by this time returned from the kitchen. ‘What do you
reckon then?’
Ron gave his comments as he had done to Tom earlier.
‘I had thought about, the man at the helm, but then I realised that some
smart arse would suggest at a Heckling Meeting that Chris was all at sea. So
I gave up on that one.’
Ron suddenly asked. ‘Christopher doesn’t have any driving offences
does he?’
Alisdair laughed. ‘I didn’t realise he had to have a criminal record to
stand for President.’
Tom shot Alisdair a withering look. ‘Good point Ron. I’ll give him a
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call.’
It was just after twelve thirty so Tom hoped Christopher was still in the
Union.
Whilst Tom was on the phone, Ron showed Alisdair a rough sketch he
had made of the slogan.
‘Try it with diagonal corners instead of rounded letters.’ Alisdair
suggested.
‘Any particular reason?’ Ron tried the suggested style. It looked
better.
‘It’s easier to cut the stencils in straight lines. They also lie better on
the paper when you run the squeegee over the muslin.’
Alisdair noticed that Ron had drawn a steering wheel, more as a
doodle as anything else. It gave him an idea. He went into the kitchen for the
coffee.
Tom had finished talking to Christopher when he returned. Christopher
hadn’t even had as much as a parking ticket.
‘So we go with Alisdair’s suggestion then.’ Tom had assumed
command of the meeting again. ‘Paper colours Alisdair?’
Alisdair smiled. ‘Fluorescent green Tam.’
Tom dropped his pipe. Ron looked aghast. No one had ever used
fluorescent green paper in an election!
Alisdair explained his choice. ‘No disrespect to Ron, but everyone will
expect us to use red. Secondly, the punters will definitely see them amongst
all the other posters in the Union.
‘Even when the lights are out.’ Tom laughed. ‘But I follow Alisdair’s
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reasoning. Bill will probably get his posters from the SNP and they will be
yellow. David will get his printed by the Tories, and they will be blue. But
green? No political party uses green!’
‘It seems to me that you two are deliberately playing down
Christopher’s association with the United Left.’ From his body language,
Ron’s statement was more an observation than a criticism. ‘But I am
beginning to see why you always win. You think first and foremost of your
candidate’s image and try to make him as non-stick as possible. It also
seems to me that if there is a conflict of interest you don’t mind stepping on a
few toes. Even if the toes are on your side of the fence.’
Tom sat forward in his chair and looked Ron straight in the face. ‘It is
the same in rugby Ron. To get to a ball in a lineout you sometimes have to
physically move one of your own players out of the way. In this particular
game, I am the jumper and the President’s Office is the ball. For three years
now it has been ‘Shearer’s ball’, I don’t intend to let it go over the back of the
lineout this year. I play front-five rugby and I play for keeps!’
The tension lifted with Ron’s reply. ‘We are agreed on one thing then.
The end justifies the means.’ He poured coffee for all three of them. ‘But I
don’t agree that green will never catch on and I think it is a piece of pure
brilliance to use it now.’
Alisdair had watched Tom as he laid it on the line for Ron with
amusement. It had to come sooner or later and it was odds on that the United
Left would have to be severely bottom-lined again before the election was
over.
He picked up one of the pieces of paper Ron had been doodling on.
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‘If we had, say, five hundred lapel badge size stickers with just little
white steering wheels on them, we could flood the Union with them between
now and Monday. Not on the walls of course. We put them on trays in the
Refectory, the backs of seats in the Mezzanine, on the daily newspapers, and
even on people.’
Ron immediately saw where Alisdair was heading. ‘Subliminal
advertising. The students notice these little steering wheels all over the place.
Then on Monday morning they see Christopher’s posters and handouts, and,
bang, the connection is made.’
‘We must make sure though that they are all removed by Monday
morning. We are only allowed ten posters in the John Street Union.’ Tom
was thinking like a Returning Officer now. His Devils Advocate hat was on.
‘They are not posters though Tom.’ Alisdair explained.
‘The election rules state that posters are to be no bigger than thirty
inches by twenty, but there is no mention of a minimum size.’
Alisdair waved aside Tom’s argument. ‘Think of the definition of a
poster as contained in the House Rules. They refer to notices on permanent
surfaces.’ Ron nodded in agreement. ‘So by putting them on objects that are
movable we are not contravening the election rules even if the stickers are still
there on Election Day.’
Tom tapped the dead embers from his pipe into the ashtray. He gave
in gracefully. Alisdair was right again. After all, lapel badges with the
candidate’s name on them were allowed during election week.
Ron glanced at his notes. It seemed to Alisdair that he had his own
agenda. Neither Alisdair nor Tom had any notes, apart from Christopher’s
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policy statements. They relied on memory and experience. Apart from that,
bits of paper could get lost or fall into the wrong hands. No doubt Ron’s notes
would be in Frank Green’s hands by the end of the day.
Tom inspected the bowl of his pipe. ‘We have already carried out our
market research on poster positions, two years ago.’ Tom decided his pipe
was due for a new fill of tobacco. ‘Christopher has already ‘booked’ the spots
with Sunday’s Folk Club posters.’
Ron looked suitably impressed. Tom and Alisdair certainly had
campaigning down to a scientific art.
‘We also have arranged that Alisdair is on Heavy Duty next week.’
Tom struck a match. ‘That way we can put up our first day posters at one
minute past twelve on Sunday night after the Folk Club ends.’
Ron put his bundle of papers on the coffee table as if admitting they
were no good to him. ‘You two certainly have elections sewn up. No wonder
you always win.’
The atmosphere in the room relaxed still further. A bond of respect
seemed to have been formed between the three students.
‘It helps if you have the right candidate as well Ron.’ Tom made smoke
from his pipe. ‘I like to get everything in place before the election starts. That
way our campaign more or less runs itself leaving the three of us to make
adjustments as the opposition campaigns dictate.’
Tom had more or less confirmed by what he said that he now regarded
Ron as being on the team.
‘However we do not actually print anything until just before we need
them.’ Alisdair explained further. ‘We have the type set, the paper for the
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posters cut to size, and the stencils cut. If we have to change anything we
won’t have too much wasted time or precious resources.’
Tom spent what remained of the meeting summarising the points
discussed. Deadlines and logistics were set for each facet of the publicity
material.
Just before two o’clock Tom sat back in his armchair reasonably
satisfied with the progress that had been made. He had still only to phone his
contact in the Labour Party for the fluorescent green poster paper and for
them to print out the little steering wheel, as soon as possible, and the
election week lapel badges. Alisdair produced a six-pack of McEwans Export
and a six-pack of Tennants lager.
Tom opened his can. ‘We have the candidate and now we have the
machine to drive him into office.’ He took a pull from the can and laughed at
his analogy to Christopher’s slogan. Froth covered his top lip. ‘So I suggest
we start the pre-conditioning in earnest.’
Ron looked rather puzzled.
‘Name dropping.’ Alisdair explained. ‘For example, whenever you go
into the Union get the porter to put out a tannoy call for Chris. Use
‘Christopher Moore’ rather than Chris. That way the poor bugger will not be
up and down stairs to the foyer like a yo-yo. It will also be the name on the
ballot paper.’
‘That, and Ron’s little steering wheels, will do nicely for starters.’ Tom
was feeling good. A hard earned pint after a hard days graft. He looked at
Alisdair as if suddenly remembering something.
‘You are on TV tonight aren’t you?’
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Alisdair laughed. He knew what was coming. Instead it came from
Ron.
‘You want Alisdair to give Christopher a mention?’
Tom nodded. ‘The boy is learning Alisdair. Pity we didn’t have him
around a few years ago.’
Ron took one last look at his agenda. ‘Headerboard?’
Tom puffed at his pipe and then replied. ‘Fun-Fun Club.’
§§A§§
Sergeant Brian Fisher knocked on the door to Inspector Stoddart’s
office and without waiting for a reply, entered.
The Commander looked up. A few papers, mainly reports, lay on the
desk in front of him. Reports were the bain of his life, but the parts eventually
made up the whole. He had never liked the idea of subordinates making
summaries of reports for him. Reading the actual reports gave him the
emotion of the writer as well as the factual information contained in them.
‘Frank Green’s flat mate, Ron Flowers, has just been seen coming out
of Alisdair Graham’s flat, sir.’
The Sergeant’s report was brief and to the point. Even although he
was dressed in civilian clothes his natural bearing gave the impression he was
standing to attention.
Commander Ingle motioned for the Sergeant to sit down. He explained
the connection to him.
Brian Fisher listened intently. His deep brown eyes lit up when he
heard what the Commander had to say. Was it a break through at last? He
had just finished a tour in Belfast and had experienced the IRA violence for
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himself. He could also see the possibility of sectarian violence spreading to
the West Coast of Scotland.
People who were not from the area often joked about the Rangers and
Celtic rivalry, but it was deep rooted and steeped in religious bigotry. He
knew. He himself had been born and brought up in Paisley.
Commander Ingle sat back in his chair. ‘What stage are we at in
second-guessing the next target Brian?’
He often talked unofficially with his Sergeant. Protocol dictated that his
aide is at least a Captain, but protocol was for diplomats. Commander Ingle
was no diplomat!
‘Monday’s bombing has made property owners themselves more wary
and security conscious, sir, but we have our own men out in the street in
addition to the extra police. Captain James is getting together the
appointment schedules of the people you listed and is working his way
through them. The emphasis is on people either in or closely connected to
the Conservative Party. We have a possible situation with the Under
Secretary of State for Scotland in the area next week’
The Commander nodded. The Under Secretary of State was high on
the IRA’s hit list. ‘Follow that one up personally Brian.’
§§A§§
Tom Shearer sat patiently waiting for Christopher Moore in the coffee
lounge of the Pitt Street Union to brief him on their earlier meeting. He was
alone apart from the cafeteria staff, most of whom he knew and was on first
name terms with. Wednesday afternoons were free of formal classes
throughout the University. Pitt Street, which housed the Business and Law
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departments of the University, was Christopher’s home ground. He was
missing out on rugby training but as there was not a game on Saturday as it
was Charities Day he did not feel so bad. He would however make up for it in
the gym later on that day.
The Pitt Street coffee lounge was very much smaller than the
Mezzanine in the John Street Union, and didn’t offer as wide a selection of
food, but the quality was just as good and the service was much more
personal.
The room was also much darker, lacking the large full height windows
of the Mezzanine.
He fingered his little black book. After leaving Alisdair’s flat he had
heard a rumour the Bill Cowie was having an open campaign meeting
tomorrow afternoon. The idea of such a meeting before election week
intrigued Tom and he had debated with himself whether to attend it
personally. He had decided to send someone else. That was why the little
black book was out.
Ronnie Henderson would do nicely. Even Alisdair didn’t know about
Ronnie.
§§A§§
It was the first time that Alisdair had been in a television studio, let
alone appeared live on television.
The organised chaos amazed him. Cables snaked all over the floor
and people were wandering about with headphones, clipboards and
stopwatches. Many of them didn’t even look as if they were watching what
was going on.
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Rab would have enjoyed it. He was into the theatre, particularly the
production side, staging, lighting and sound.
Alisdair counted one hundred and twelve stage lights hung above
where he sat with Elizabeth and the Senior Magistrate. Baillie James
Anderson had been one of the prominent figures quoted in the advanced
Ygorra publicity.
The three of them were off-camera, with Bill Tennant, the host of the
show, a few feet away at a desk introducing the show.
Elizabeth looked absolutely gorgeous. Usually she wore minimal
makeup but the studio makeup department had given her the star treatment.
Alisdair on the other hand felt very uncomfortable with his greasepaint. He
also felt very nervous.
The floor manager came over and quietly told them he would give them
a five countdown in the next minute. After that they would be on camera until
the end of the interview. Alisdair felt the heat on his face as more lights were
switched on. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He looked at
Elizabeth. She smiled.
Bill Tennant looked directly at Alisdair as he posed the first question,
about Ygorra.
‘Obviously the thing most people are talking about just now Alisdair is
Ygorra. Is it really obscene?’
‘It certainly isn’t lewd or pornographic.’ Alisdair replied. ‘Most of the
punch lines can be taken two ways.’ He laughed. ‘Admittedly only one of
them is funny.’
‘But has the charge of obscenity helped sales?’
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‘No doubt about that.’ Alisdair was feeling less nervous but he still
remembered Bill Tennant’s advice not to get carried away with irrelevancies.
‘We have even ordered a reprint. The more Rag Mags we sell, the more
money goes into the pot for local charities.’
Bill Tennant nodded to Alisdair as he finished speaking letting him
know that he was about to move on.
‘Glasgow is especially unique Elizabeth in that all the students from
both Universities and the many Colleges combine for a single Rag Week.
What problems does that cause you?’
Elizabeth was very confident in her reply. She smiled. ‘Very little Bill.
Each University and College has its own committee and each of those
committees has a representative on the general committee so decisions are
reached jointly and everyone is aware of them. Inter college rivalry rarely
enters into it. After all, we are all working towards the same goal. Making
money for charity and having a good time doing it.’
‘Saturday is obviously the main thing the public get involved in. What
have you got planned?’
‘We have the procession of floats from Kelvin Way near Glasgow
University to George Square near Strathclyde University starting at ten in the
morning. As usual the Glasgow Police Pipe Band will be leading it. Then we
have jazz bands and orchestras playing in Central Station and Queen Street
Station.’ She paused to wipe a stray lock of blonde hair off her face.
‘There will be various attractions, most of them female, at the Old Firm
game at Parkhead in the afternoon. The day ends with the Torchlight
Procession, fireworks and the Rag Balls at the Queen Margaret Union and at
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Strathclyde University.’
Bill Tennant turned his attention to the Senior Magistrate. ‘Baillie
Anderson. How involved are the police in all this?’
‘Right from the word go. Elizabeth has been in touch with us for the
last six months and we have worked very well together. It is a pity Alisdair
didn’t ask for our guidance!’ He laughed at his own joke, as did the rest of
them.
‘Even when Glasgow University attacks Strathclyde’s Union on Friday
afternoon, the police are just as likely to return any rotten tomatoes and flour
bombs which land near them. It’s expected, it’s been going on for years, and
it’s never got out of hand yet. I personally take my family to see the
processions.’
‘A final word Alisdair, as you is the man in the headlines just now.’
‘Take plenty of coins with you wherever you go in the city on Saturday.
It is no use trying to hide in the suburbs. There will be flying squads of
students raiding each and every shopping centre.’ He noticed the floor
manager starting a five-second countdown.
‘One final piece of news is that Christopher Moore the Entertainment’s
Convenor at Strathclyde has now confirmed that Elton John will be playing at
their Rag Ball.’
The look that Elizabeth gave him said far more than words.
§§A§§
‘You always have to do it, don’t you?’ Elizabeth launched into Alisdair
the moment they reached the hospitality suite on the third floor. ‘You may as
well have carried a poster with you with - VOTE CHRIS MOORE - on it. How
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much is it going to cost anyway? The Rag Balls are supposed to make a
profit to finance the Appeals expenses for next year.’
‘Chris is only paying three hundred pounds. Apparently Elton was
supposed to play last year but had to cancel for a tour to the States. This is
one of the alternative dates he gave, and he has honoured his original price.’
Elizabeth calmed down. With the success of Your Song, Elton John
was now a big star. ‘That is all very well, but do you always have to think of
the election? I bet you Tom put you up to mentioning Chris’s name?’
Alisdair put his arm around her waist. ‘You should know me by now.’
‘Not as well as I thought I did. This thing with the United Left is a big
mistake. I do not like it one bit.’
She noticed the protest forming on his lips. ‘I know that you and Tom
have your reasons. I have tried to look at it from your point of view, but it still
doesn’t make sense to me.’ She paused to sip her white wine. ‘Also, I have
been asked to stand as a candidate myself.’
The door to the hospitality suite burst open and six balaclava clad
people rushed into the room. Two of them grabbed Baillie Anderson who was
standing at the bar with Bill Tennant. The others, two of who were female,
made a grab for Alisdair. He began to struggle until he heard Rab’s voice in
his ear.
‘It’s a stunt son. Give in gracefully or we will give you a hard time in the
QM Union later.’
It suddenly dawned on Alisdair when he saw the mobile television
camera as he was carried out of the bar. He had forgotten that the Senior
Magistrate had agreed to be kidnapped so that he could retract his original
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statements about Ygorra. It hadn’t however been in the original plan to take
Alisdair as well.
§§A§§
Even although the Strathclyde rugby team had not had a game last
Saturday or one arranged for the following Saturday Tom personally had a
Scottish Universities training session in two weeks time. This was to choose
the team for the match in Dublin against their Irish counterparts, a match that
was always fiercely contested both on the pitch and in the bar afterwards.
Tom had already run for forty minutes on the treadmill, varying the
speed and the incline to replicate the work he would have to do during a rugby
game. He was now on the free weights room. Upper body strength was
important to a second row forward, the ability to shoulder your way and to rip
the ball out of a ruck or a maul was important. More than once the ball was
taken after bending fingers of the player holding it as far back as their wrist. It
had even happened to Tom in his early playing days but not so much now
thanks to the training he did.
He was finishing his circuit with a simple but high repetition fifty-pound
bench press when he heard the door to the weight room open. He placed the
bar on the stand and leant on his elbows on the bench. Annabelle looked
incredible. Her purple leotard and matching footless tights fitted her like a
second skin, as it should, as she seemed not to be wearing anything under
them. She had obviously also been on the treadmill as her hair at her neck
was damp with perspiration.
Compared to her Tom looked a mess. His shorts were old, worn, and
washed out but comfortable, he was wearing his old Alan Glens rugby jersey
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that was ripped, full of holes and soaked with sweat, and his trainers were
absolutely rotten.
Annabelle was not as surprised to see Tom, as he was to see her, but
she managed to sound taken aback. She said. ‘Tom, I didn’t expect to find
you here.’
Tom smiled at her. ‘You realise of course that it is against all gym
etiquette for a lady to use free weights without anyone else being present.’
Annabelle hung her towel on one of the weights stands. ‘But I am not
alone, you are here.’
‘A personal trainer eh? Come on; let’s see what you can do. I
personally don’t think you need to train. You have got a gorgeous body.’
Annabelle was slightly taken aback by Tom’s forward remark. She
blushed, but accepted the compliment.
For the next half an hour Tom helped her through her routine,
occasionally changing her stance for certain of the exercises. To do that he
sometimes had to stand very close to her. He smelt so manly, with such a
firm body.
After the session Annabelle was just as wet with perspiration as Tom
was. He handed her towel to her. She suddenly felt like saying something
very reckless.
‘Does this personal training also include the shower room?’
It was Tom’s turn to blush, but he slipped his strong arms around her
waist and pulled her into him. They kissed, gently at first but then more
passionately.
‘The porters will be waiting to lock up.’ It was said with very little
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conviction.
Annabelle did not answer. She slipped her hands under his jersey and
gently racked her nails across his back, Tom gasped. Her nipples threatened
to burst through her leotard. If he were to touch them now she was sure she
would orgasm there and then. From the hardness in his shorts he obviously
felt the same. She thrust her tongue deep into his mouth.
§§A§§
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Chapter 4 - Thursday 3rd February
The bitterly cold wind, mixed with sleety rain, whistling in from the Irish
Sea cut through John McCluskey’s donkey jacket like a knife. Even with the
heavy-duty work gloves he wore to protect his hands against the sharp claws
of the barbed wire he was stringing along the top of the fence, his fingers still
felt like a packet of frozen fish fingers. He had not felt so cold since he had
visited an explosives factory in the Brasov area of Romania, high up in the
Carpathian Alps, a few years ago. Temperatures had plummeted as low as
minus twenty eight degrees centigrade, and had rarely risen to above minus
ten degrees in the three weeks he had lived there.
He took off his gloves and blew into his cupped hands to warm them up
as he looked over Paddy Wren’s shoulder at the Sporting Life. The watery
sun had just crept over the horizon casting a pale insignificant glow over the
beach. Two winners yesterday had boosted their beer money fund
considerably.
John McCluskey had known Paddy Wren since they were in primary
school. Neither of them had been particularly good at anything except
arithmetic, and both knew exactly what the bookmakers owed them, even with
the tax taken off.
He poured a coffee out of the Thermos for both of them. It was weak,
but it was piping hot. They certainly looked after them well here. Three great
meals a day plus a Thermos in the morning and the afternoon. The staff bar
was also cheery with a large screen coloured television and the drinks were
very cheap.
‘Any word about us moving on? John McCluskey asked. ‘Unlike you
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Paddy, I have a family I haven’t seen in weeks.’
Paddy Wren shook his head. ‘Not for the time being John. We may
have another job to do if our little student friend comes up with the
information.’
John McCluskey simply shrugged his shoulders, put on his gloves, and
climbed back up the ladder. He was just a foot soldier, others further up than
him and Paddy in the IRA hierarchy would decide what they would do next for
the cause, as had been the case for him ever since he joined the organisation
at the age of fourteen, when he had carried guns between various groups
based in Belfast.
Although he never said as much, Paddy Wren was also homesick.
What had started out at the age of fifteen as a glorious cause had now
become a bit of a chore. He was pushing thirty five and had not led a normal
life for the past twenty years. He was hoping that the next target would be his
last. It was the biggest thing he had been involved in and would require the
help of another unit. Mobilising the second unit from the south of England
was really what was holding things up, and getting the equipment they
needed, as well as the intelligence. Either this job would make him too
notorious to be useful to the IRA, or, God forbid, he might not come out of it
alive.
§§A§§
‘You were certainly in good form last night Rab.’ Alisdair searched
through the dirty crockery in the sink for his favourite mug. It was still only
Thursday and flat cleaning day wasn’t until Saturday, but with Charities Day
being on Saturday, that would have to wait even longer.
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94
Rab laughed. ‘It was handy having that hired van. The television set
from the Queen Margaret fitted in nicely.’ Rab spooned three sugars over his
corn flakes. ‘I must give them a ring soon and see how much they are willing
to pay to the Appeal to get it back.’
Alisdair picked up the Glasgow Herald from the kitchen table. ‘I see
our honourable Senior Magistrate managed to get the retraction in the
newspapers after all.’ There was a photograph of the kidnapping stunt on the
front page.
‘With six females sitting on him in the back of the van he could hardly
do anything else.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘Depends on whether he was lying face down or face
up!’
There was no hangover this morning. What Elizabeth had said to him
just before he had been taken hostage in the TV Studios had turned him into
a real misery, despite the attractions of the all female Queen Margaret Union.
He had given a lot of serious thought on the pros and cons of including
the United Left in Christopher’s campaign. Elizabeth had been entirely correct
in her opinion of letting Frank Green second Christopher’s nomination. The
damage had, however, been done, but Alisdair did not believe it was not such
a big problem as Elizabeth believed it was. Bill Cowie would obviously
mention it at length in his Heckling Meeting speech, but most people looked
on Bill as a bit of a shit stirrer anyway. It would be different if Elizabeth
mentioned it in her speech. Then the mud would stick.
Alisdair had agonised all night on whether she was really going to
stand, or was it a ploy to get him and Tom to dump the United Left?
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95
If she was serious about standing she had a more than reasonable
chance of winning. She would have the backing of the right wing, she was in
Engineering, and she was female. She also had the support of two of the
most influential people in the Union, David Thompson, the Treasurer, and
Annabelle Jones, the Director of Publicity.
It put Alisdair in a most awkward position. Could he run a dirty
campaign against her? For that matter, could Tom? With Bill Cowie and
David Thompson as candidates they would have had no hesitation and would
have gone for the jugular from the word go. Elizabeth was his lover, his mate,
and the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and also Tom’s close
friend. Could she really be serious? Alisdair realised that she was, Elizabeth
was not the type of person to blackmail him or Tom into dropping the United
Left. She would have her say, as she had done, and then leave it up to them
to make the right decision. Who had asked her to stand anyway? It must
have been Annabelle. And where the hell was Elizabeth? He had tried to
phone her first thing but had got the busy tone.
‘I was saying.’ Rab rattled a spoon in Alisdair’s empty coffee mug. ‘We
have the reprint of Ygorra arriving early this afternoon. The printers finished
them earlier than expected.’
‘Do you want to sign for them them, or do you want me to?’
Rab pointed his finger at his flat mate. ‘If you could do it, I have to
attend Bill’s campaign meeting at Frederick Street Annex at twelve and God
knows how long that will take!’
Alisdair poured some more coffee for both of them. ‘I can’t see why
you support that gobshite. Correction, I know why you think you should help
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him, but I can’t for the life see why you should actively support him.’
Alisdair stirred his coffee. ‘You helped out on our campaign last year.
If I remember correctly you went on at me for days to wear one of Terry
Pritchard’s lapel badges.’
Rab laughed. ‘Little did I know then that you had designed the bloody
things?’ He took a drink of milk from the bottle on the table. ‘You are right
though. Bill is a gobshite. From what I have seen so far of his campaign, I
could do a better job myself.’
‘Then why didn’t you stand instead of him?’
Rab dismissed the suggestion. ‘It wouldn’t look very good for you if I
were to stand.’
‘Not half as bad as it is going to look if Elizabeth stands!’
Rab stopped what he was doing and looked at Alisdair, his eyes wide
with amazement. ‘Now you are taking the piss Alisdair?’
Alisdair in turn shook his head. ‘I wish I was Rab, I really wish I was.’
He half laughed, not very convincingly.
§§A§§
The sound of the telephone ringing in an adjacent office brought
Alisdair back to reality, and to the rather messy draft that lay in front of him on
his desk in the Charities Office. A lukewarm cup of coffee lay on the desk.
With little to do either for Charities or for Christopher’s campaign, he had
decided to make a start on the Ygorra final report, or kill time until the reprint
arrived.
There was still no sign of Elizabeth either at the Charities Office or at
her flat.
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Alisdair felt as messed up as the report in front of him. Dressed only in
a sweatshirt and jeans, he was unshaven, and his hair was starting to curl at
the back of his neck, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the report.
He knew what his reasoning had been in attempting to produce a very
‘blue’ Rag Mag, but to put it into words was difficult. He had wanted this one
to be the last of its kind. He felt it was time to move on from the ‘dirty
students’ book’ that Ygorra had become. He would like to see future Rag
Mags highlight the student’s involvement in the local community, not just a
page simply listing the charities last years’ money went to.
He started on a new sheet of paper as the door to his office opened.
Andrew Todd appeared around the door. He came into the office and
shut the door deadening the clatter of the secretary’s typewriter.
‘Had a good night in the QM?’ He sat down in the chair in front of
Alisdair’s desk and stretched out his legs in front of him. He lit a cigarette. ‘I
thought the STV interview went exceptionally well. Good publicity and all
that.’
Alisdair passed Andrew the metal wastepaper bin. There was no
ashtray in his office.
Alisdair liked Andrew. He was never pushy. As General Convenor he
just seemed to float through life, but the jobs got done. He had a nice manner
with people and this was reflected in the happy atmosphere in the office and
throughout the Appeal as a whole.
Andrew did sometimes get agitated, and the nicotine-stained fingers on
his right hand and his nervous habit of flicking the hair out of his eyes
contradicted the seemingly cool laid back manner he put out.
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‘I just popped in to discuss the Rag Conference in Lancaster at Easter.’
Andrew smiled. ‘They want you to give a speech. Andy Warhol said that
everyone is famous for at least fifteen minutes of their life, but they want you
to do twenty.’
‘On Ygorra I take it?’
Andrew nodded.
‘Not so much famous, as infamous.’
‘It is a first after all Alisdair. This is the test case for all Rag Mags.’
Alisdair smiled to himself. Andrew hadn’t looked so excited in ages.
‘It might not be a bad weekend. Lancaster is near the English Lake
District. Cheap student rail fares from Glasgow Central to Oxenholme, just
outside Kendal, then the local train to Windermere and a couple of nights in
the Youth Hostel in Ambleside. It would be a nice weekend break for both
him and Elizabeth.’
‘The only problem I have is who is going to go this year?’ Andrew grew
more pensive. ‘As you know it is customary to send the current Convenor and
next year’s Executive.’ He paused to light another Park Drive. ‘But who do
we have to fill next year’s Exec positions, especially General Convenor?’
The telephone rang. Alisdair pounced on it hoping it was Elizabeth, but
it was a call for Andrew.
Alisdair pondered the problem of next year’s committee as he watched
Andrew nervously smoking his cigarette as he listened to the caller.
It was true. Most of the current committee and all of the Exec were
final year students. There were no obvious successors. There was also an
uncharacteristic shortage of Glasgow University students who traditionally
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dominated the committee.
‘It could well be the end of an era Andrew.’
Andrew replaced the receiver. ‘It may not be a bad thing Alisdair.
Times are changing. People are changing. After all, the Appeal has been
more or less following the same format since the 1920’s. The Appeal’s base
has broadened with the new red-brick colleges opening up in the Glasgow
area over the last few years.’
‘Have you heard anything yet from the solicitors?’ Alisdair was anxious
to finish his report and head off to look for Elizabeth as soon as the reprint of
Ygorra arrived.
Andrew crushed his cigarette out in the wastepaper bin. ‘There is one
loophole they are working on which looks quite promising.’
‘What’s that?’
Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘They haven’t said yet. Lawyers can
be bloody mysterious fellows, and I should know, I will be one next year.
Stretch the case out and the fees with it.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘At least you learned one thing about the Law in your
five years at Glasgow.’
Andrew stood up and stretched. He looked at his watch. It was just
before twelve.
‘Fancy a pie and a pint in the ‘Elgin’?’
Alisdair declined. ‘I had a wee bit of an argument with Liz last night
and I really must find her to apologise to her.’
‘If you take my advice.’ Andrew opened the door. ‘Offer to pay for the
shoes she has just gone off to buy.’
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‘What do you mean?’
‘She was just leaving her office as I came up the corridor to see you.
She was off to meet a friend to go off and buy some shoes to match a dress
she bought for the Patron’s Dinner.’
Alisdair slammed his hand down on the desk when Andrew had left.
What was she playing at? Why had she not come in to see him? She must
have known he was in!
§§A§§
No matter how many times Rab McDonald visited the Frederick Street
Annex to the John Street Union; it still reminded him of a waiting room in a
doctor’s surgery.
It was an old fashioned room with a very high ceiling, with the original
plaster ceiling roses and dado rails. The windows went from floor to ceiling
and were draped in faded, threadbare floral curtains.
Whereas the doctor’s surgery at home in Skye looked out over the
mountains, the Frederick Street Annex looked out over the College of
Building. Neither did the doctor’s surgery have a full size snooker table and
two table football machines or a coffee machine.
Bill Cowie’s supporters already occupied most of the seats, a mixture
of well-worn armchairs and black vinyl stacking chairs. Bill’s timekeeping was
usually as untidy as his appearance. It was already half past twelve. Rab
found an armchair at the back of the room next to one of the table football
machines.
In the middle of the long wall opposite the door was a table covered in
Bill’s campaign posters:
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PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION
VOTE BILL COWIE
STUDENTS NOT POLITICS
The fact that they had been professionally printed in SNP yellow and
black was not lost on Rab.
He fiddled with the handles on the table football machine as he thought
what Tom would do, or more importantly, not do when it came to running a
campaign.
All Bill’s publicity material, posters, handouts and lapel stickers had
already been printed. Bill had already told Rab that at the meeting he had
held with the SNP Club. Bill had also told them how he was going to run his
campaign rather than asking for their views.
His policies all sounded good in theory and Bill’s ability at making
speeches on ordinary issues great would be a big plus to his campaign, but
his policies seemed to lack anything new or controversial. It was if Bill was
just going through the motions.
Bill’s main attack was to discredit Frank Green and the United Left and
thereafter Chris Moore by association. In Rab’s opinion it was a very negative
way to campaign, but Bill would be good at it and Chris would suffer, if Tom
and Alisdair allowed it to go too far, which they definitely wouldn’t.
The room seemed to come to life as Bill strode over to the table. He
paused occasionally on his way to talk to a few students. Even Rab sat up.
Bill had had a haircut and trimmed his beard. He wore a suit and a tie and it
even looked as if he had actually cleaned his glasses as well as his image.
The customary No 6 was still in his mouth though.
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‘Maybe he was serious in his quest for the Presidency?’ Thought Rab
as Bill called the meeting to order.
How different the meeting was from the one Tom had addressed for
Terry Pritchard last year. In this meeting, Bill was both candidate and
campaign manager. If he could have got away with it he would have
proposed his own nomination. As it was he had asked Rab to do that for him.
‘Welcome fellow Scots!’ Bill was rolling already. Students Not Politics
is my slogan. For the past two years we have been ruled, and I make no
apologies for the use of the word ‘ruled’, by Lefties, firstly Harrison, then
Pritchard, and now the young pretender, Christopher Moore. It has gone from
a member of the Labour Party to a full-blown Communist.’
‘We have a Student Representative Council that is anything but
representative. The Constitution lays down two SRC members for each
faculty per year. Third year Business Administration has forty-two students;
third year Chemistry has two hundred and sixty five. I hardly call that
representative! We need what they have in certain European countries,
proportional representation - Strathclyde style.’
Bill was third year Chemistry. Most of the students in the room were
Science based. Bill knew exactly how to pitch his argument, to the converted.
‘I have nothing to hide, unlike Moore. What you see is what you get.
Alisdair Graham, one of Moore’s campaign team, it turns out has been a red
under the bed for years. He is now being used by Tom Shearer to boost and
popularise Moore’s campaign through his position as Editor of Ygorra. I am a
student of and for the students!’
Loud cheers greeted the last remark.
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‘I apologise for the left wing analogy, but at least I am honest.’
Bill’s tie was by now askew and despite his recent haircut; his hair was
as wild as ever. Bill was certainly a firebrand speaker with no truck with
ceremony or decorum.
‘My policy statements are available now for you all to read. I don’t
need to hide things from the opposition. I would like you all to take a few and
spend the next few days convincing your peers of the danger they are in if
they elect a Communist as President.’
The enthusiastic applause, which greeted the end of Bill’s speech, did
prove that he had been preaching to the converted.
It puzzled Rab slightly that Bill had not mentioned any other
candidates, David Thompson for example.
It also intrigued Rab that the business part of the meeting had been so
short. It was not like Bill to waste a speaking opportunity.
As the students milled around the room, Rab noticed a tall bearded
student stop and talk to Bill as he picked up a copy of Bill’s handouts. Rab
vaguely recognised him. It was only when the student lit up his pipe that Rab
remembered where he had seen him before. Talking to Tom Shearer at last
year’s post-election party.
Rab laughed to himself. Strike one to Tom!
§§A§§
Annabelle’s flat was the complete opposite of a normal student’s flat.
Firstly, she actually owned it or at least her father did, and secondly, it was
clean and tidy. Not the usual ‘Saturday morning tidy’ that Elizabeth had every
week. Annabelle had a cleaning lady who came in three days a week,
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Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Elizabeth had caught the underground from St. Enoch’s Square after
finding the shoes she was looking for in Saxones in Argyle Street.
Annabelle’s flat, which was in a very desirable area, was only a few minutes
walk from Kelvinside Station.
Not having been to Annabelle’s flat since before the Christmas holidays
Elizabeth was anxious to see any improvements she had made to it.
Annabelle was always redecorating, and was happy to give her the grand
tour. The kitchen had new units fitted and they still gleamed. Elizabeth knew
that the only cooking that went on in it was making coffee and opening take-
away containers. The bedroom wallpaper was new, more feminine than it had
been last year, cuddly toys and floral prints on the pillows and duvet cover.
One wall was taken up with floor to ceiling built-in wardrobes. That was one
thing Annabelle needed, hanging space. The only masculine thing in the
room was a poster of a partially dressed hunk, but even that was framed.
The lounge was still bare, to Elizabeth’s way of thinking, but very
tastefully Habitat. Annabelle described it as ‘minimalist’. The spare bedroom,
which had been converted into a study, was full of books and papers and was
dominated by a large black desk with a leather swivel chair. Annabelle even
had her own photocopier now!
David Thompson was sitting with Elizabeth at the large farmhouse style
table in the kitchen. He was reading her policy drafts. Annabelle was at the
front door paying the Pizza man.
Elizabeth’s had decided that her main attack on the Presidency was
the re-organisation of the Union’s finances in an effort to show the University
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authorities that that the students could at least efficiently use the money that
they currently got from the University, before asking for any more to build a
new Union.
She had arranged a meeting with the Union manager for later on in the
day to fine-tune her analysis of the current Union finances.
She had also leant heavily in the idea of better student - community
relations. There was need for more integration into the community. The
Charities Appeal was the only official event, which involved Glasgow’s
students with the Glasgow citizens. Annabelle had loved her idea of local
stores giving students discounts.
David looked up as Annabelle entered the kitchen with three huge
Pizzas.
‘You have obviously not been sleeping during my Finance Committee
meetings Elizabeth.’ He took a slice of the vegetarian Pizza. ‘You have very
few, dare I use the word, ‘feminist’ policies. If you can get Agnew Stores to
give discounts, you will get every student to vote for you. Even five percent
off half a dozen cans, would make it worthwhile going out to parties on a
Saturday night.’
Annabelle laughed. ‘Half a dozen cans David? That would last you a
fortnight.’
David blushed through his mouthful of Pizza. ‘You realise though
Elizabeth that as the Constitution stands, advertising outside commercial
companies within the Union is not on. It will take a lot of work to bring it into
being.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘But it is not out of the question is it?’
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David laughed. ‘Anything is possible Elizabeth. You have been
around long enough to know that about Strathclyde Students Association. I
love the freshness of your ideas though.’
Elizabeth beamed. It was praise indeed to hear David talk that way.
He had always thought of him as a bit of an ‘establishment-man’.
‘I have written out a provisional timetable for you David.’ She passed
him a list of when she wanted the various handouts to be distributed.
David studied the list.
‘You are assuming that Election Day will be on the Thursday as usual.’
Elizabeth looked at him. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
Annabelle answered instead of David. ‘David, being on the inner clique
as Treasurer, has obviously heard the same rumour I have.’
David nodded, somewhat hesitantly though. The decision to have an
Extraordinary Association Meeting next Tuesday had not yet been released
by the three senior office bearers of the Union. Obviously Annabelle’s
network of informers was wider than even he realised.
David explained the situation to Elizabeth. ‘The NUS Executive is
pushing for approval of a motion to begin discussions with the TUC with a
view to NUS affiliating with the TUC. They want to start discussions as soon
as possible, and we have pencilled in next Tuesday for the matter to be
discussed.’
Annabelle smiled. ‘As we are starting our campaign somewhat later
than the other candidates it would give us more time to get your message
across to the students if we ask for the election campaign to be extended by
one day.’
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David nodded his agreement.
‘My thoughts entirely. Both Chris and Bill will have geared their
campaigns and their publicity material for a four-day campaign. If we ask for
an extra day because of the Association Meeting we will be ready for a five
day campaign, but the others won’t.’
Elizabeth paused for a moment. ‘Bill’s campaign won’t really be
affected as he has probably only got one type of poster, and knowing him as
we all do, they are probably printed already. Alisdair and Tom on the other
hand don’t usually go into print until the night before the handouts and the
posters are due to go out. They will have their timetable set by now, but I
think a change in Election Day would cause them more confusion than it
would Bill.’
Elizabeth was beginning to realise the buzz that Tom got out of trying
to outwit the opposition.
Annabelle opened a bottle of wine for the three of them. Pizza needed
a good Italian wine to wash it down.
‘It is all good and well talking about how we can upset the opposition.
We should be making decisions on our own posters and handouts.’
‘You will be doing the handouts I take it Annabelle?’
‘As Director of Publicity I have the means at my disposal, and there are
plenty of helpers within the Strathclyde Telegraph staff. I will have to be
careful though as to when I do the posters, if you get my meaning?’
David sipped his wine. ‘The posters have been arranged with Smith
Square. As usual, they were more than willing to help. I should have told
you. They should be here by Saturday.’
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Elizabeth turned on David sharply. ‘Why have you taken it on yourself
to order the posters without giving me any input? I have my own ideas, and, I
am the candidate. I should have the right to approve any of my publicity
material.’ She calmed down slightly after having said her piece.
David was obviously taken aback by Elizabeth’s outburst. ‘I thought
that as I am campaign manager, it would be okay for me to decide that.’
Annabelle shook her head. ‘We are here to work as a team David. But
as the deed has been done, we will have to live with it. What slogan have you
used anyway?’
David looked rather pleased with himself as he said. In Your Heart,
You Know She‟s Right.
Both Annabelle and Elizabeth made a face.
‘Did you think that one up all by yourself David?’
‘No! It was the Deputy Head of Publicity in Smith Square.’
Elizabeth laughed. As Annabelle had already said, there was little they
could do about it now. ‘I can now see why he is only the deputy head.’
David interrupted her. ‘He is a ’she’ actually.’
Now it was Annabelle’s turn to get angry with David. ‘And being a ‘she’
makes it all right?’
David hurriedly drained his glass of wine.
Annabelle made no efforts to hide her amusement at David’s
embarrassment, but she brought the meeting back to the matters at hand.
‘If we can get the Election Day postponed to Friday, we can use
Elizabeth’s policies on better integration into the community on the Tuesday,
the day of the Association meeting.’
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‘Which in some peoples minds will make it look as if I have already
taken sides on the NUS / TUC issue?’
David again interrupted Elizabeth. ‘There is really no way, as a Tory,
that you can support affiliation to the TUC!’
‘Wrong, on two counts David. There are Tories in the TUC, as you well
know. Secondly I am not running for President as a Tory, I am running as a
student, albeit with right wing views. Saying that, I will obviously not give the
NUS a blank cheque by any means. It depends on the wording of the motion.’
David replied. ‘As I understand it, although it has still to be finalised,
the motion simply states that ‘This Association mandates the Executive of the
National Union of Students to hold discussions with the Trades Union
Congress with a view to affiliation’.’
Annabelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with
that Elizabeth.’
It was Elizabeth’s turn to shrug her shoulders. ‘It depends at which
point the discussions stop and the actions start.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe I am
giving the students more credit than they deserve though. Just because I
focus on local issues on the same day as the national issue is debated, does
not automatically mean I am against the national issue. Alisdair has always
maintained that the students in Strathclyde are more interested in the price of
pie and peas than anything else.’
It was Annabelle’s turn to laugh. ‘Obviously you don’t want that last
statement put in your manifesto.’ She helped herself to more wine. ‘I agree
though, and more so with Tom Shearer’s philosophy that it is students which
count in these elections, not outside politics.’
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‘Hey!’ laughed David. ‘What is this? The Graham / Shearer
Appreciation Society?’
Annabelle blushed but said simply. ‘Well Tom is rather dishy.’
Elizabeth looked at her friend. From the look on her face, something
had happened between her and Tom.
Annabelle saw Elizabeth’s look. She blushed again and added.
‘Alisdair is a bit of all right too.’
A huge flood of conscience welled up in Elizabeth. She had ignored
Alisdair all morning. She glanced at her watch. One o’clock. Alisdair would
probably be in the Beer Bar by now, or in Sloanes. But she had a meeting at
half past two. Regrettably it would have to be a phone call rather than the
kiss and a cuddle she really wanted off him.
Annabelle noticed Elizabeth looking at her watch. David was scoffing
the last piece of pizza. Then as she looked at the papers Elizabeth had given
David earlier, she said.’
‘On Monday we will open with finance, move on to student relations on
Tuesday, halls of residence on Wednesday, a personal bio-data on Thursday,
and a précis of everything for Friday.’
David nodded his agreement. ‘That sounds a nice balance.’ He
looked at Elizabeth. ‘Do you agree Madam Candidate?’
Elizabeth punched him playfully on the shoulder. ‘You sarcastic male
chauvinistic pig! Actually I do. It helps to make up for those stupid posters of
yours!’
‘And the lapel badges.’ David ducked, expecting another punch.
It was Annabelle who caught him this time, from the other side.
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‘I suggest we leave the Headerboard for later. Until we see what the
reactions are to the slogan. Also.’ She started to clear away the empty
glasses. ‘I will make sure that the election day issue of the Strathclyde
Telegraph is heavily biased in Elizabeth’s favour, especially the opinion poll.
That also applies to the Unit 65 interviews on election day.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Lord Beaverbrook would be proud of you
Annabelle. The way you are manipulating the press.’
‘Don’t mock dear. If I ask daddy nicely he would probably ask
Beaverbrook to do your Strathclyde Telegraph page for you!’ Annabelle
stuffed the plates and glasses into the dishwasher. ‘Which reminds me? We
need a good photograph of you for the handouts. Come to think of it, with the
facilities at our disposal we could use a different photo for each of the
handouts.’
David shook his head. ‘Not on Annabelle. The campaign expenses
only amount to twenty pounds.’
‘Whoever though up such a paltry figure must have been a lefty? If it
had been a Tory, it would have been fifty pounds at least.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘God, you are such a bloody snob Annabelle!’
‘Yes, but I am good at it Elizabeth.’
§§A§§
Commander James Ingle looked out of the window of the unmarked
police Rover. A light covering of snow covered the pavements of the Gorbals.
He had just finished a long involved meeting with the forensic teams.
They had verified that it was the IRA who had set off the bomb. It was a new
type of timer from Libya and the explosive materials used had been identified
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as coming from a known arms factory in Romania. A new trademark bomber
possibly, or maybe McCluskey had sourced a new timer?
The statement from the Menswear sales assistant in Frazers had given
vague descriptions of four men he had served before the bomb warning. One
of them had an Irish accent, and he had identified Patrick Wren from the
photographs he had been given to look at. They now had a witness; all he
needed was Patrick Wren and John McCluskey in custody.
The sales assistant’s statement had also narrowed the time frame
during which the bomb could have been planted because the pieces the
forensic boys had found indicated it was a twenty four-hour timer that had
been used.
A middle aged man, much the worse for drink, staggered out of a pub
doorway and began to cross the road in front of the car. Ingle’s driver
swerved the car to avoid him. Ingles felt the back end move more than the
driver had anticipated. It was a miserable, wet, dismal night.
‘Had he failed?’ James Ingle thought to himself. ‘Would the bombers
move to another area, or would they stay put until things quietened down, and
target something or someone else? His staff had pinpointed a possible next
target. Why had they not yet been caught? They obviously had a very safe
house.’
He was angry. He had never been so close. This was the first time
they had been given prior information on an active IRA cell.
There were more people on the streets now as the car turned into the
Tollcross area on its way to the Scottish Office in Edinburgh. He settled back
in the comfortable leather seats of the big Rover.
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There was as much religious bigotry on the streets of Glasgow as there
was in Northern Ireland. In theory, it was a potential powder keg. He had to
stop the city becoming another Belfast.
The motion of the car made him yawn. He had a long night ahead of
him. After the meeting in Edinburgh it would be back to St. Andrews Place to
begin reading the reports his team were at that moment preparing for him.
Known IRA sympathisers had already been rounded up and taken in
for questioning. They would find it a bit different from the way the local police
handled things, even in Glasgow with its reputation for tough policemen. His
men were experts.
He was confident the statements they would get would reveal the
information he wanted. It was just a question of knowing how to look for it.
As the car sped along the deserted A8 his thoughts turned to Alisdair.
It had been a long shot. Both Green and Flowers had been raided in the early
hours of the morning. Their house was obviously a base for the local left-
wingers, but his men had found nothing to implicate them. Just a lot of
fluorescent green posters partially printed with the name „Christopher Moore‟.
§§A§§
Alisdair hated the type of day he had just had. He liked to be in control
of what he did. Firstly, he had still not been able to talk to Elizabeth.
Secondly, his well-intentioned plans for the afternoon had been totally upset
by his professor. He had still not had a chance to discuss Elizabeth entering
the election race with Tom.
His planned ten-minute visit to the Colville Building to get his drawing
pens from his locker had stretched to a two and half-hour discussion with
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Professor Naylor.
The ‘Mad Professor’, as his students affectionately knew him because
of his involvement in the Manhattan Project, which produced the atomic
bombs that ended Japan’s involvement in the Second World War, tended to
waffle on, and on. He rarely finished a lecture on time, and even if he did, he
would come back two weeks later and change what he had said because of
some more recent research somewhere in the world.
What he had said to Alisdair about his thesis had been very relevant
and could get Alisdair at least a two-one if not a first but could quite easily
have been said in half an hour.
Still, Alisdair had spent another two hours changing certain aspects of
the conclusion to his thesis.
§§A§§
He guessed that Tom would be somewhere in the Union and he
eventually found him in the Refectory on the second floor.
‘Well, we really have our work cut out for us now son.’ Tom stated
simply as he looked up from his copy of the Evening Times as Alisdair sat
down beside him at one of the tables looking out into John Street.
He showed Alisdair the sports page. ‘Two nil for Scotland last night.
They will all be fucking Scottish Nationalists this week!’
Alisdair smiled. Tom was right though. Bill Cowie would be riding on a
wave of euphoria over the football result.
The Refectory was busier than usual. Charities fever was starting to
build up. There was a buzz about the place. A lot of students were waiting
for the buses to take them on that night’s House-to-House raids.
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Tom pushed away his empty plate. ‘So, what is all this I hear about
Elizabeth standing?’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not much gets passed you, as usual.’
Tom winked as he lit his pipe. ‘I have my ways.’
‘I know just about as much as you do Tom. I have not been able to get
in touch with her all day. She is mad as hell about the United Left option
though.’
‘I hate to say it Alisdair, I think she is being used by the right wing.
Annabelle can be a devious woman at times. He smiled to himself.
Annabelle was a girl who went after what she wanted and he had been the
target last night. Tonight though, he was taking her out.
Alisdair pushed away his empty plate. ‘It takes one to know one son.’
He picked up Tom’s Evening Times. The front page was full of the bombing
at Frazers.
Tom pointed out the headline. ‘Ron’s house was raided this morning. I
don’t suppose there was anything in it, just routine.’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘The United Left offer may yet backfire on us
Tom. The students are not daft.’
Tom nodded in agreement. ‘I will have a word with Chris tonight and
let him know of our reservations.’
Alisdair sat quietly pretending to read the newspaper. Tom made
smoke from his pipe.
‘By the look on your face, today has not been a good day. Let’s get a
pint in the Beer Bar, and you can tell your Old Uncle Tom about it.’
Alisdair smiled. They had been friends for so long, it seemed as if they
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could read each other’s minds.
‘Only one pint mind,’ added Tom. ‘I have to pick Annabelle up in an
hour.’
Alisdair’s finger missed the lift call button. ‘Annabelle?’
Tom pressed the button. He smiled through a haze of smoke. ‘I have
at last plucked up enough courage to ask her out.’ He hesitated. ‘Come to
think of it, she sort of manoeuvred me into a position to ask her out.’
Tom smiled to himself. Positions had been the name of the game last
night in the weight room.
The two students got into the lift.
‘Well at least one of us is in a position to fuck the opposition.’
‘Alisdair, please!’ Tom said lying. ‘It’s only our first date. She can at
least take me out to dinner first!’
The Beer Bar was just as busy as the Refectory had been.
Tom made room for the two of them at the bar where Alisdair ordered
their usual two pints. ‘I think you should give Liz a call. If she is determined
to stand, there is nothing we can do about it.’ He took a long pull from his
pint. ‘Tell her that we won’t use any questionable tactics against her.’ He
laughed. ‘Not that any one can trace back to us anyway.’
Alisdair drained half of his pint. ‘One date with Annabelle, and you
think you are fucking Marjory Proops.’ He laughed. ‘Cheers you bastard! I
suppose you want me to do your Heavy Duty?’
Tom just smiled, and nodded.
§§A§§
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Chapter – Friday 5th February
It was the first time in years that Alisdair had been up at six o’clock in
the morning. He had not realised how still and quiet the streets were at that
time in the morning. It was cold but dry.
He had already decided last night that the only way he could get hold
of Elizabeth was to catch her unawares. He was still not sure though if she
was avoiding him deliberately or it was just because she was busy. Rather
than use his key to her bed-sit he had rung the bell, continuously, until she
had eventually opened the door.
His fears that she was deliberately avoiding him were unfounded
because she had smiled when she saw him. Spontaneously they had flung
their arms around each other and kissed passionately. One thing led to
several others and an hour later they were lying in bed in each other’s arms,
exhausted.
Elizabeth gazed into Alisdair’s eyes. ‘So you don’t mind if I stand for
President?’
‘Only if you are doing it for the right reasons, and not just because of
the United Left.’
‘That was never my reason for standing, Alisdair. You should know me
better than that. After Annabelle asked me I thought about it long and hard
and I realised I am probably the best qualified person in the SRC at present to
be President. That’s how Annabelle originally put it to me when she
manoeuvred me into standing.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘At least you believe your own publicity anyway.’
Elizabeth stroked the inside of Alisdair’s thigh with her long fingernails.
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She gazed at him with puppy dog eyes and pouted. ‘If you weren’t involved
with Chris, would you vote for me?’
‘Given the present circumstances, I have no doubts about that. But
then again if you were ugly, flat-chested, and standing on the Assembly Hall
stage instead of stroking my cock, I might be more interested in your policies.’
He moaned as Elizabeth’s nails lightly scratched him. ‘That is if you have
any?’
Elizabeth moved herself so that her erect nipples were touching his
lips. ‘I have got both policies and big tits. So you better vote for me.’
Alisdair bit her left nipple gently. ‘I bet you also have blue posters as
well as the blue thought I am having.’
‘I have also got some pretty blue thoughts right at this moment.’
Elizabeth could feel him harden up again.
Alisdair rolled her over on her back and entered her before she
realised, or cared, that she had just given away the colour of her posters.
§§A§§
David Thompson opened the envelope he had just picked up from the
Porter’s Desk situated at the entrance door of the Union. Inside the envelope
was a copy of Bill Cowie’s handout
He smiled to himself when he saw the contents of the envelope. He
moved his coffee cup from the tray onto the table. There was another one of
those green stickers on the tray! He had noticed them stuck everywhere in
the Union. The Mezzanine Cafeteria, where he was sitting, seemed to have
them on every chair and on most of the trays.
He made a mental note to ask the Charities Convenor what they were
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for. The thought had occurred to him that maybe it was a bit of pre-
campaigning on Chris Moore’s part. But then he thought better of that idea.
Who would use green in an election?
There were more students than usual in the Mezzanine. Although it
was well after nine o’clock, the place was still half full. Traditionally most
lecturers cancelled classes on the day before Charities Day because of the
publicity stunts and the beer drinking competitions, which took place during
the day. These were traditionally followed by Glasgow University attempting
to raid the John Street Union.
The jukebox was blaring out Elton John’s latest hit Your Song.
Everyone was very excited that he was playing at the Rag Ball. David had to
give Chris Moore credit. Whatever his personal politics were, he did a superb
job as Entertainments Convenor. David only had to look at the Union’s
accounts to see that.
A group of students burst into the Mezzanine dressed in clown
costumes and started blowing party blowers. A lot of the students cheered.
David looked up. It was the Fun-Fun Club. He shook his head.
David looked at Bill’s handout once again as he drank his coffee. Bill
certainly had a point about proportional representation on the SRC, but there
appeared to be nothing radical in the rest of his policies, a fact that slightly
worried him because it was so unlike Bill Cowie not to be controversial.
He put the paper back in his jacket pocket with a sigh. On reflection,
he was a little sad that he was not the right wing’s candidate. He would have
liked the chance to stand but he was probably better suited to be their
campaign manager, a job he had held for the last two elections. At least he
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knew what was expected of him. He had overheard Tom talking to someone
at last years post election party where Tom had made it quite clear that it was
not the candidate who wielded the power during the campaign. How the
campaigns were run was entirely at the discretion of the campaign manager.
Annabelle and Elizabeth may well be strong willed young women, but it
was their first election. He knew exactly how to handle them and the election.
The first thing he had to do was to brief the two of them on what would
happen in the President’s Office at lunchtime. He had tried to get hold of
Annabelle several times last night. She had not been in the Union and there
had been no answer when he had phoned her flat. Elizabeth’s phone had
been engaged when he tried to get hold of her when he had come into the
Union.
§§A§§
At the same time as David Thompson was reading Bill’s handout; Tom
Shearer was reading another copy of it. He was in the SRC Offices on the
first floor. The room was little more than a mailroom. There was not even a
window in the room. Each Member of Council had their own lockable
mailbox. There was a table and four well-worn chairs at the back of the room
against one of the walls. It was different for the Union Office Bearers. They
each had offices, the President, the Deputy President, the Hon Secretary, the
Treasurer, and the Vice President. None of them were particularly spacious
but at least they had privacy. He had personally never occupied one of the
offices, but he had put plenty of students in them.
Tom sat down at the table and lit his pipe as he read through what Bill
had to offer the students. He puffed intently at his pipe as he read and re-
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read the policy statements.
‘Nothing short of boring.’ Tom thought to himself as he stuffed the
handout into his blazer pocket.
He made smoke from his pipe. The new tin of tobacco he had bought
on his way into the Union smelt somewhat sweeter than normal. Or maybe
he was still imagining Annabelle’s perfume from last night.
They had met on neutral ground, at The Rock, just off Byres Road. As
usual the pub was full of students and many of them were rugby players from
Glasgow High School FP’s and Jordanhill College who Tom knew well.
Neither he nor Annabelle mentioned the election and had mainly talked
about each other. Quite unashamedly they had both admitted to the other
that they had wanted what happened the previous night to happen a long time
ago. The crowded bar had thrown them together quite a few times as they
stood in the middle of the floor near the jukebox. It was Annabelle who had
kissed him first last night, just lightly, on the cheek, a world of difference from
how they had made love the previous night in the gym.
At closing time they had caught a taxi to Annabelle’s flat where their
lovemaking had been gentler, and not as frantic as it had been in the
gymnasium, but they had used the lounge settee, the shower and finally the
floor in Annabelle’s bedroom.
Tom was disturbed from his thoughts by another student walking into
the room. Tom nodded to him as he got up from the table. He looked at his
watch. He would have time to get to his lecture soon but he still had enough
to rush to the off-licence.
§§A§§
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Alisdair and Elizabeth drank coffee and ate freshly buttered toast as
they sat together on one of the armchairs looking out from the bed sit window
into Maxwell Park, Alisdair had now accepted the fact that she was standing.
‘I promise that as far as you are concerned Christopher’s campaign will
stick to the issues and not get personal. But…’ He paused, thinking of the
best way to phrase this. ‘If your team starts mucking about, we will come
down on them, not you darling though, like a ton of bricks.’
Elizabeth nodded; she was close to tears. The way that Alisdair had
said it, it was in no way a threat. It was said with love and concern for her.
After all, he and Tom had been campaigning for years. They had probably
pulled more election stunts than more candidates knew existed.
‘As the candidate you will be both vulnerable to the opposition and to
your own campaign team.’ Alisdair smiled and kissed her on the tip of her
nose. ‘But you know more than any other person in the Union how Tom can
manipulate the candidate, the opposition, and the electorate.’
Elizabeth poured Alisdair another coffee. ‘I have already had a run in
with David about my posters.’
Alisdair sipped his coffee. ‘Which are, as we speak, being printed on
blue paper in Smith Square?’
Elizabeth blushed. ‘Now that was unfair. You took advantage of me.’
Alisdair kissed her again.
‘It isn’t David you should be concerned about. He knows the ropes.
He knows how far any of us can go because after all he is a member of the
Exec and he has run campaigns before. It is Annabelle who you will have to
watch.’
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‘I take your point darling.’ Elizabeth though on how Annabelle had
manipulated her into standing.
‘One other thing.’ Alisdair lifted her so that she was sitting astride him
on the armchair. He opened her dressing gown and pushed it down over her
shoulders so her arms could not move. ‘Did you know that she and Tom are
now an item?’
‘I guessed as much.’ Elizabeth moaned as Alisdair licked her ear.
§§A§§
Despite there being three candidates standing in the Presidential
Election, the President’s Office was unusually empty for the meeting with the
Returning Officer, Sam Boag, and the President. The only candidate present
was Bill Cowie. Christopher was at Glasgow Airport to pick up Elton John and
make sure he got to his hotel, and Elizabeth was, according to David
Thompson, tied up for the rest of the morning.
David Thompson and Annabelle represented Elizabeth’s campaign as
her proposer and seconder. Tom, alone, represented Christopher Moore’s
campaign.
Just as the Returning Officer called the meeting to order, Frank Green
swaggered into the room. For one awful moment Tom though the United Left
had pulled a fast one on him, but it turned out Frank was only going for
maximum exposure as Christopher’s seconder.
The Returning Officer began the formalities by asking for the
nominations. He scrutinised all three papers, carefully checking the
candidates’ Union membership numbers, those of the proposers, the
seconders, and the five students who were also required to sign the
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nomination forms against the current Student Association membership. He
then verified the forms by signing them. They would be posted on the SRC
Notice Board later on in the day.
‘Most of you have been involved in elections before, but for those of
you who have not; I will explain the purpose of this meeting.’
Tom poured himself a coffee from the jug on the conference table. He
looked at Annabelle. She mouthed, ‘Yes please darling.’ Tom felt himself
redden as he poured her a cup.
‘The rules of the election are laid out in the Constitution and in the
House Rules. They really need no further clarification.’
‘Except when they are bent.’ Bill looked directly at Tom when he said
it.
Tom smiled to himself as he puffed at his pipe. He did not rise to Bill’s
bait; he alone knew that by the end of the day he would make Bill pay for the
unnecessary snide remark.
The Returning Officer ignored the interruption and continued with his
prepared speech. ‘There is however one addition. The Ad-hoc Constitutional
Committee have recommended that all ‘donations’, in inverted commas, be
listed separately to normal campaign expenses.’
Bill was in ahead of David with his objection. ‘Surely they are not going
to include these in the expenses?’
Tom laughed. ‘Has the cost of yellow paper gone up Bill? Especially if
it is pre-printed.’
Bill gave Tom a look that would have struck any other man down at a
hundred yards. His reply was just as cutting. ‘As far as I know Mr Shearer it
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costs the same as red paper.’
The President calmed the situation. ‘It was recommended for the
simple reason that in last year’s Presidential and Executive elections there
were a lot of commercially printed posters around. The current campaign
expenses were decided upon in the late sixties and the Committee just want
to have an idea if the expenses should be increased or whatever.’
That answer seemed to suit both Bill and David. Tom however knew
differently.
The draw for the Headerboard positions, the order of speaking at the
Heckling Meetings, and the allocation of campaign rooms came next. Tom
was pleased with all three draws. Their campaign rooms were on the first
floor of the Frederick Street Annex, well away from the main Union. He had
prime position for the Headerboard though, the Mezzanine floor railing. The
speaking order pleased him immensely. Elizabeth first, Bill second and
Christopher last. It was the perfect position in which to counter any of the
opposition policies, arguments and mud slinging.
Most of the others in the room took the chance to get some coffee
whilst the Returning Officer wrote down the results of the draws, before he
continued with the arrangements for the election. Tom felt Annabelle’s hand
in his as she passed him at the table. She passed him a piece of paper. The
President saw it and gave Tom a funny look. Tom coughed to cover himself.
The Returning Officer continued. ‘Election Day will be on Thursday the
tenth of February. Ballot stations will be in the usual locations and will be
open from nine in the morning until five in the evening. The count will start as
soon as all the ballot boxes have been delivered to the Assembly hall and I
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have checked that the seals are intact. There will be Heckling Meetings on
Monday the seventh and Wednesday the ninth, both at twelve noon in the
Assembly Hall. The Presidential Debate will be on Tuesday the eighth at
seven thirty in the Mezzanine.’
David interrupted. ‘Surely with the Association Meeting on Tuesday we
should postpone the voting until Friday. After all it is taking a day away from
campaigning.’
Tom managed to catch the President’s eye and shook his head,
unseen by any of the others. Terry Pritchard leant over and said something to
the Returning Officer.
‘As Terry has just pointed out arrangements have already been made
as it is a standing date in the University Calendar. The Vice Chancellor would
have to be consulted, and the people from the City Chambers who man the
ballot boxes and carry out the count, have already been arranged.’
Tom confirmed his agreement with the decision. ‘It is after all a hands-
on situation for all the candidates. Theoretical policies are all right, but it is
their ability to think on their feet that will make or break them with the
electorate.’
The Returning Officer turned to Bill. ‘Any comments Bill?’
‘For once I totally agree with my learned colleague.’
Tom made smoke from his pipe. ‘Praise indeed young William. I must
be doing something right for a change.’
Annabelle spoke for the first time. ‘Has there been a decision made
yet on the motion for the Presidential Debate?’
Bill shook his head. ‘There is a meeting of Debates on Sunday
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afternoon.’
‘Is it not rather a case of vested interests with you chairing the meeting
that decides the motion for a debate in which you yourself are taking part?’
‘It is the same with any debate Annabelle. As Tom so rightly said, it is
the ability to think on your feet that makes a great President.’
Tom laughed out loud. ‘Fuck me Bill. This is Strathclyde University not
the United States Senate.’
Everyone in the room laughed, with the exception of Frank Green. His
next statement was one that was also on Tom’s personal agenda for the
meeting.
‘On the question of vested interests Mr President, I don’t think it a good
idea that a seconder of one of the candidates should stay on as Director of
Publications.’
Terry nodded and turned to Annabelle.
Annabelle looked a little stunned and she blushed furiously. ‘You will
have my resignation before the day is out, Mr President.’
Frank Green looked pleased with himself. Tom mentally breathed a
sigh of relief that he had not been the one to broach that subject. He knew
though that it made not a blind bit of difference if Annabelle continued as
Director or not, the contacts she had and her personal influence were still
there.
‘Thank you all for attending the meeting.’ The Returning Officer
brought the meeting to a close. ‘May the best man win.’ He saw Annabelle
about to interrupt him and quickly added. ‘Or woman.’
§§A§§
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Tom felt rather pleased with himself at how the meeting had turned out.
The subject of campaign expenses had always been a bone of contention
over the years he had been involved in elections.
He and Alisdair had progressed from the felt tipped pen hand printed
posters to a simple type of screen-printing over the years. Other campaigns
were now coming out with professionally printed posters, usually ‘donated’ by
the various political parties. To Tom’s way of thinking it took the fun out of
electioneering.
He paused at the door of the band room at the back of the Assembly
Hall to light his pipe and read the note from Annabelle. It simply read, Beer
Bar tonight? She certainly was some lady. His type entirely, big, sporty and
she drank pints. Just as important was that she paid her rounds. Tom had
never really been associated with any particular female throughout his time at
Strathclyde, but had always managed to get a date for formal balls. He was
more interested in getting a good degree and his beloved rugby and Union
politics, in that order. Annabelle was his first real girlfriend and she was
something else! She was vivacious, fun, very bright and extremely sensual.
He felt all was well with the world today.
The Assembly Hall itself was a hive of activity. Most of the porters and
a few of the Charities Committee were setting out chairs and putting the
finishing touches to the stage extension. Other members of the Charities
Committee were setting up the various stunts, the jelly eating competition, the
pipe smoking competition, and the traditional beer drinking races.
The band room, or Green Room, as some people called it, was where
the groups prepared before they went on stage. Leading off from the room
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was the service elevator that was used to move sound and stage lighting
equipment up to the Assembly Hall from the drive-in maintenance area under
the Union building.
There were three people in the band room, Fred, the Head Barman
and two students, both of whom were dressed in clown costumes. Sid
McDonald and Hugh Wilson were two of the leading lights of the Fun-Fun
Club. The two students were in charge of serving the beer for the beer
drinking competitions.
The barman drew a pint from one of the kegs he had just opened.
‘Fancy a pint Tom?’
Tom nodded as he pulled out a half bottle of vodka from the inside
pocket of his blazer.
‘Bill Cowie usually has a lot of complaints about the weak beer in the
Union. Has he not Fred?’
The barman nodded his agreement. ‘He is beginning to get to be a bit
of a pain in the arse about it.’
Sid latched on first to what Tom had in mind as he took the vodka. ‘So
you want to make it stronger for him?’
‘Precisely Sid.’
The barman laughed. It was a usual Saturday night prank with
students in the Beer Bar, spiking other people’s drinks.
Tom drank half his pint in one swallow.
‘How are you getting on with Christopher’s Headerboard Sid? We
have, by the way, got the Mezzanine floor position.’
Sid looked at Hugh and they both went into fits of laughter.
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Tom shook his head. ‘You lot are fucking nutters. You know that, don’t
you?’
The two students nodded and carried on laughing.
Tom drained his pint. ‘Monday morning, nine o’clock, I want it finished
and in position. Okay?’
Tom left the band room to the noise of party blowers. The Fun-Fun
Club was indeed quite mad. Luckily they were on his side. They could, and
under Tom’s instructions, would, destroy a candidate at a Heckling Meeting.
§§A§§
The Beer Bar was packed out into the corridor when Alisdair arrived
just after one o’clock. The barmen were serving buckets of beer, usually
reserved for Saturday nights. The noise was deafening, students were
singing, laughing, shouting, and the Fun-Fun Club was blowing part blowers
and standing on the tables, a few of them doing ‘moonies’.
Alisdair fought his way to one of the bench seats at the back of the bar
where Tom was sitting with Terry Pritchard and Dave Harrison, last years
President and the current Chairman of NUS Region 10. Both Tom and Dave
were puffing away at their pipes. It was hard to see either of their faces for
the smoke.
Terry Pritchard produced a clean empty pint glass from under the seat
and handed it to Alisdair. Alisdair helped himself to a beer from the bucket. It
tasted like Export.
All three students were in fine spirits, as was Alisdair. Tom had noticed
Alisdair’s change in mood from last night.
‘Made it up with Liz, have we?’ Tom helped himself from the bucket of
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beer.
Alisdair smiled as he squeezed himself in between Terry and Tom. ‘Is
it that obvious?’
Smoke belched from Tom’s pipe. ‘You might say that.’
Alisdair’s next dig cause both Terry and Dave to raise their eyebrows.
‘How did your date go with Annabelle then Tom?’
Terry spoke first. ‘Fraternising with the enemy Shearer?’
Dave Harrison emptied the dying embers from his pipe into the
overflowing ashtray. ‘Typical bloody Labour Party. Full of high ideals until a
piece of skirt with a bit of money comes along.’
‘More than a bit from what I hear.’ Alisdair helped himself to another
beer. The bucket was almost empty.
Tom reddened, stood up suddenly, grabbed the bucket, and
announced he was going for another round.
‘You certainly hit a sore point their Alisdair,’ said Terry.
Dave filled his pipe. ‘You can say that again Terry. Tom got the last
round in!’ He turned to Alisdair. ‘How are things going with Chris’s
campaign? Have you two stabbed anyone in the back yet?’
‘Shot ourselves in the foot more likely.’ Replied Alisdair. ‘The alliance
with the United Left has caused us nothing but problems so far.’
Terry interrupted. ‘But that is what Tom thrives on. If there were no
problems and the campaign ran smoothly according to the rules, he would be
bored out of his brains. Or he would create problems just for the sheer hell of
it.’
‘What do you mean I cause problems?’ Tom returned with the beer,
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which he placed none too gently on the table, spilling about half a pint’s worth.
Alisdair sat back quickly on the bench seat to avoid getting Export on his
jeans.
Dave leant forward quickly to rescue his tobacco pouch.
‘Alisdair was just saying that the United Left are causing problems
already.’
Tom dismissed that with a wave of his hand and laughed. ‘Listen, Mr
Chairman, we buried the United Left as a political force in the Union last year.
This year I am going to bury them emotionally, and if they step out of line too
far, probably physically as well!’
Dave Harrison raised his glass to Tom and Alisdair. ‘Long may it
continue? I could do with you two in Edinburgh.’
Tom got himself another pint. ‘Having problems there are we Dave?’
‘Not in Region 10 itself. It’s the wankers in London that are getting on
my nerves. Considering they are always being accused of being left wing hot
heads in the Press, they are the most pedantic shower I have come across.
There are so many committees, sub-committees, sub-sub-committees, that it
is a wonder any decisions are made at all.’
‘So you want to become Chairman of NUS?’ stated Tom simply.
‘Dave turned to Terry. ‘See, that’s what I like about coming back to this
place Terry. No one here messes about trying to gain Brownie points.
People are straight to the point.’ He turned to Tom and Alisdair. ‘So you will
handle my campaign then?’
Alisdair looked at Tom. ‘That means we won’t be able to help the
United Left candidate in the Exec elections!’
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Tom pulled a face and then laughed. ‘Oh, what a shame!’
Tom took out his little black book and flicked through the pages. ‘We
will be through to see you three weeks on Friday. A three star hotel just off
Rose Street will do nicely. Two double rooms. On NUS expenses of course.’
Alisdair laughed at Tom’s cheek. ‘That doesn’t happen to coincide with
the Calcutta Cup game does it Tom?’
Tom looked at his book again. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ He smiled. ‘Now
that is what I call a coincidence.’
All four students laughed hysterically. A few students at adjacent
tables looked at the President and the Chairman of Region 10 in amazement.
Terry was the first to recover from the schoolgirl giggle session. He
was maintaining a modicum of sobriety, as he was the Master of Ceremonies
at the afternoon’s Charity stunts in the Assembly Hall.
‘So what are we going to do about Tuesday Tom?’
‘Review it tomorrow Terry.’ Tom re-lit his pipe. ‘Don’t worry about it.
Have we ever let our boys down in the past?’ Tom was beginning to feel
rather merry now. Five pints had that affect on him. ‘It will, I think, give me
the ideal chance to bottom line the United Left.’ He turned to Alisdair and put
his arm around his neck. ‘I think you will have to develop a campaign within a
campaign on this one. We should be able to use it to Christopher’s
advantage.’
Alisdair could do little in Tom’s vice like grip but nod his head and at
that not very far.
Tom released Alisdair. ‘Obviously the biggest threat to Chris comes
from Elizabeth Livingstone.’ He put his hand in his inside blazer pocket and
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retrieved Bill Cowie’s handout. ‘Bill Cowie is Bill Cowie, so we have very little
to worry about there.’
He gave Alisdair the handout. ‘Saying that though, his advanced
publicity intrigues me. He has said nothing at all. It is absolutely boring.’
Tom paused to light his pipe and turned to Alisdair. ‘I think you should get
your thinking cap on Alisdair and come up with that he hasn’t said in his
handout and what his real platform is.’
Alisdair nodded. He agreed with Tom. Bill Cowie was never boring.
He stuffed the handout into the back pocket of his jeans.
Terry poured the last of the beer into his glass and Dave’s. ‘What
complaints am I going to get from the opposition this year Tom?’
Tom feigned surprise and put his hand on his heart. ‘Terry! How could
you?’
Terry pointed to the little steering wheel sticker on the empty bucket.
Tom looked at Alisdair and shrugged his shoulders. The two students
laughed.
‘It is probably something to do with the Fun-Fun Club,’ said Alisdair.
‘You know what they are like.’
Tom winked at Dave. ‘That’s nothing to what they will get up to this
afternoon.’ He handed the empty bucket to Terry. ‘Your pail I think Mr.
President.’
§§A§§
The Assembly Hall, like the Beer Bar, was full to capacity when Alisdair
arrived just after three o’clock. He had left the other three in the bar earlier as
he had to collect his dinner jacket for the Patrons Dinner from Moss Bros and
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to have a haircut.
The first event, jelly eating, had already started. Terry was in the
middle of his announcement on the rules of engagement for the annual attack
by Glasgow University students on the Strathclyde Union.
‘In conclusion, the fire hoses have not to be used. Anyone found using
the hoses or indeed, throwing anything from the windows of the Union, will be
immediately suspended and sent up in front of the Disciplinary Committee.
That means, no Rag Ball tomorrow night. No matter how many cans you fill.’
The last statement was greeted with loud boos from the audience. The
Fun-Fun Club was in full cry with kazoos, a base drum and a brass school
bell. The noise was deafening. A few students threw paper aeroplanes at
Terry, some of which were lit and on fire.
Terry walked over to the students eating jelly, of which Bill Cowie was
one.
‘It looks like Bill is in the lead, ladies and gentlemen. He is into his third
bowl.’
‘With the size of his mouth it is a wonder he hasn’t eaten to bowls as
well.’
Alisdair noted that the comment had come from one of the Fun-Fun
Club. He looked at the smile on Tom’s face. The campaign had started early!
Bill Cowie did look a mess at the end of the competition, which he won
easily. Eating five bowls of jelly without using cutlery or your hands was not
easy to do without making a mess of yourself. Bill was jubilant. He was
dancing about on the stage taking his bows.
Terry announced the next competition. ‘Each competitor will be given
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a clay pipe, tobacco, and only two matches. The winner is the person who
makes smoke the longest.’
There were seven entrants who included Tom, Dave Harrison, and Bill
Cowie. Bill, it seemed, was determined to enter every competition.
Smoke billowed from the stage as the competitors lit up. Both Tom
and Dave lit theirs with one match and were soon in deep conversation.
Terry pointed this out to the audience. ‘I wish I was a fly on Dave
Harrison’s pipe. I wonder what plots are being hatched between those two
old puffers?’
The reply soon came from the Fun-Fun Club. ‘If you were perched on
the end of one of those pipes Terry, you would have had your arse burned by
now!’
Terry dodged a few more paper aeroplanes as he tried to introduce the
Drag Queen competitors, before they ran the gauntlet of walking the catwalk
into the middle of the audience. The ribald comments came thick and fast
from the audience.
Just as Terry had lined up all the ‘beauties’ for the audience to judge by
popular consent, there was a loud commotion from the back of the hall.
It was Rab, dressed up as a charlady, complete with mop, bucket and
the industrial Hoover used by the cleaning staff. As he made his way onto the
stage, students had to duck out of the way of the Hoover tube, which he was
swinging about.
‘Miss Ivor Hardon, ladies and gentlemen.’ Terry managed to make
himself heard over the noise in the hall.
Rab looked the part, curlers, headscarf, stocking rolled down over his
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socks, a large dirty floral apron over an equally loud floral dress, plastered
makeup, and blacked out teeth, which showed up as he leered at Terry.
There was no doubt about it. Rab won easily over the others.
By this time only Tom and Dave were left in the pipe smoking
competition. Bill had been the first person to be eliminated. He looked a bit
green around the gills.
The beer barrels were brought onto the stage for the beer drinking
races. For the next half an hour the beer flowed, mostly down people’s
throats. Alisdair noted, whether by design or coincidence, that Bill was always
handed his beer by one of the members of the Fun-Fun Club.
A member of the Rugby Club won the six-pint individual race. Bill’s
Tartan Terrors team won the six-pint boat race. A female won the individual
fastest pint race, to everyone’s surprise. This caused lots of comments from
the audience, ranging from ‘deep throat’ to ‘I’m not taking her out for a pint on
Saturday night’.
By the time it came for Bill to attempt the yard of ale, he looked
decidedly unsteady on his feet.
Tom made his way to sit beside Alisdair after coming second to Dave
in the pipe smoking, much to his disgust.
Bill lifted the yard of ale to his lips and began to drink furiously. All of a
sudden, the beer reached the bubble and rushed out, nearly drowning Bill.
He should have known with his experience of beer drinking races that the
yard had to be rotated to ease the flow.
The afternoon’s activities seemed to catch up on Bill all of a sudden
and he rushed to one of the plastic dustbins on stage and was violently sick.
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The Fun-Fun Club showed him no mercy. ‘Vomit’ rang round the
Assembly Hall. Soon everyone joined in. Bill had to be helped from the
stage.
Tom turned to Alisdair and smiled cheekily. ‘Well Alisdair. Would you
vote for that man for President?’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘When the voters see
him on that same stage at the first Heckling Meeting on Monday, they will
remember the state he was in when he left it today.’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘You are a bastard Tom Shearer.’
Tom winked at Alisdair. ‘And you should know!’
§§A§§
Alisdair closed the lounge curtains on a clear night sky. The stars
twinkled as if they were sending down the frost that covered the cars in the
street outside his flat.
The Strathclyde students had easily repulsed the attack on the Union.
He had helped Tom hose down John Street with the fire hoses after the battle.
No one had been arrested and no one had been hurt. One unfortunate
student from Glasgow had been captured, debagged, and tied to the railings
in front of the Union. After about an hour his captors took him to the Beer Bar
for a pint.
Rab was in the kitchen bottling a new brew of white wine, and Alisdair
was aimlessly flicking through the Evening Times. Elizabeth was tied up at
the Charities office and wouldn’t be back till much later.
Alisdair read through the TV pages to see what was on. He put the
paper down when Rab came into the lounge carrying a bottle of red wine.
Alisdair looked at it. It looked reasonably clear at least despite being less
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than a month old.
Rab carefully poured two glasses of wine without disturbing the
sediment at the bottom of the bottle and gave one to Alisdair. ‘You really
made Bill look a fool today.’
Alisdair tried the wine. It was sweet but drinkable. ‘What do you
mean?’
Rab laughed. ‘You know exactly what I mean. I saw Sid McDonald
with half a bottle of vodka when I was getting changed in the Green Room.’
‘I can honestly say that I had nothing to do with whatever you think you
are talking about?.’ Alisdair drained his glass but declined the offered refill.
‘But as Tom so rightly put it. People will remember the state Bill was in when
he left the stage when he gets up to speak at the Heckling Meeting on
Monday.’
Rab laughed again. ‘It was brilliant though! Fancy a pint later?’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘I have had more than enough beer in the last
week son. I think I will just curl up in front of the fire and fall asleep watching
television while I wait for Liz. We both have an early start tomorrow. Unlike
you farmers, we city slickers find it difficult to get up in the middle of the night.’
Rab made a face and gave Alisdair the two fingers. ‘So you have
made up with her then?’
Alisdair nodded.
‘What do you think of her standing for President?’
‘She might win!’
‘Seriously?’
Alisdair sat forward in his chair. ‘She has a wide spectrum of possible
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support, the females, the engineers, and the Tories. That is a good basis for
any campaign.’
‘It looks then as if you two have your work cut out to win this election.’
Alisdair suddenly remembered that Tom had asked him to look at Bill’s
handout carefully. He pulled it out of his back pocket.
Rab noticed it. ‘I know how you got that.’
‘Well that is more than I do son. Tom has people that even I don’t
know about!’
Rab told Alisdair who he had seen at Bill’s meeting. Alisdair was still
none the wiser as to who the student was.
An hour after Rab had left for the Fotheringay pub Alisdair found what
he was looking for in the pile of Council minutes that lay beside him on the
settee. He picked up the phone and dialled the John Street Union number
where he knew Tom was on duty.
§§A§§
When Tom heard the tannoy call for him to go to the Council Offices to
take a phone call, he was sitting with Annabelle in the deserted Beer Bar.
Both of them were rather merry.
After only a few seconds of hearing what Alisdair had to say, Tom’s
face took on an anxious expression.
‘If what you say is true Alisdair, we certainly need a campaign within a
campaign. Tuesday’s Association meeting takes on a more serious
dimension now. We cannot, for both Terry’s and Christopher’s sake, lose that
vote.’
He nodded as he listened to what else Alisdair had to say. He looked
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at his watch; it was only just after nine o’clock.
‘I’ll give Chris a call right away. He will have to work all day tomorrow
on this one, and he will need input from both Terry and Dave Harrison. We
need this for Sunday afternoon at the latest.’
‘Problems already Thomas?’ Annabelle had got another round in
whilst he was taking the call.
Tom flashed a smile at her. ‘Not at all Annabelle. It was only Alisdair
with news of what he thinks Bill Cowie is up to.’
Annabelle moved closer to him. ‘And what would that be?’
Tom patted her on her backside. ‘Now if I told you that Annabelle it
would spoil Bill’s big surprise for us all at Monday’s Heckling Meeting.’
Annabelle pouted. ‘Oh come on darling! Is there nothing I can do that
will make you tell me?’
Tom took a sip of his pint. ‘There might well be something you can do
that will make me talk. Why don’t we try out a few things later on and see if
any of them work!’
§§A§§
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Chapter 6 - Charities Day
The Charities Offices in Buccleuch Street were very nearly deserted
when Alisdair arrived just after seven o’clock in the morning. It was deathly
quiet compared to how busy it had been all week. Most of the General
Committee were already in position at the Can Shops throughout the City
centre, and the major suburbs which had shopping centres, leaving only
Sheilagh the secretary and Andrew Todd to answer the phones in the front
office.
Two well endowed female students dressed as belly dancers had
already pounced on Alisdair with their collecting cans when he had taken the
short ten-minute ride from Pollockshaws East into Central Station on the Inner
Circle train. He had taken his own advice and had managed to get a
pocketful of one pence coins from the newsagent when he had bought his
paper on the way to the station. He could have refused to donate as he had
an immunity badge that all members of the Charities Appeal were issued with,
but he felt the two girls deserved the money because they were up so early
and were desperate to fill their two cans so they could get to see Elton John.
They were both first year students at Jordanhill College of Education. Alisdair
advised them to keep working the trains until nine o’clock, move into the
George Square area, and then head for the pubs near Parkhead after the
Procession had finished. That way they would at least be warm.
Elizabeth was also busy on the telephone in her office. She still had
her coat on even although she had left the flat half an hour earlier than
Alisdair. She looked somewhat harassed.
Alisdair sidled up to her and gave her a kiss. He mouthed the word
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‘coffee?’ to her; she smiled and nodded her head.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth came into the kitchen. Alisdair handed
her a coffee. ‘The art of management darling is to delegate. If you run your
campaign like this, you won’t make it to the second Heckling Meeting.’
Alisdair instantly bit his tongue when he realised what he had said.
‘Are you going to delegate the back stabbing to the United Left?’ She
asked. ‘I think they have done a good job so far. The trouble is, they have
stabbed your own candidate in the back!’
Alisdair put up his hands in surrender.
Elizabeth picked up her coffee, and taking him by the hand led Alisdair
to her office. She took off her coat, sat him down in her chair, sat on his knee,
and then kissed him passionately.
‘Good morning, sexy.’ She said when they eventually broke apart.
‘There is a list of Can Shops on a piece of paper somewhere on this desk.
Find it, go to your own office, phone them all, ask if there is anything they
need, and get it for them. Then you will go to George Square for nine o’clock
on the dot to sign Ygorras. Is that enough ‘delegation’ for you?’
Alisdair laughed. ‘I love it when you are on top. Have you still got the
handcuffs in your desk?’
Elizabeth blushed. ‘Now sod off, I have work to do, and so have you.’
§§A§§
It was a bright sunny morning but still fresh and crisp in spite of the
sunshine and the good weather had helped to bring out the Glasgow public in
their thousands. It was standing room only in George Square. From the
smiles on the faces it would appear that the public, especially the children,
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were enjoying themselves as much as the students.
Alisdair glanced up from signing the Ygorras. There were three
students on the pavement outside the Can Shop which had been set up in the
now empty Dobies garden seed shop on the south side of the Square
entertaining the queue who were waiting to get signed copies of the Rag Mag.
One was juggling four tennis balls very professionally; one was riding a
unicycle up and down the queue and playing a trumpet, and the other student
was collecting from the captive audience whilst cracking jokes. All of them
were in fancy dress. This was something Alisdair had never ever done
himself. From his first year onwards he had been a member of the Charities
Committee and had always been working on Charities Day. Maybe he had
missed out a bit?
He had been inundated with requests for signed copies of Ygorra.
Even with an extra ten pence for a signed copy, hundreds were being sold.
The reprint was well on its way to be sold out as well. The Distribution
Convenor had kept back one hundred copies to sell at a higher price later on
as collectors’ items. Alisdair himself had five copies at home.
The main complaint he was hearing from the students, and from people
working in the Can Shops, was that it was taking longer than usual to fill cans.
The new decimal coins, introduced the previous month, were smaller than the
old coins. This was something that had only fleetingly been addressed at one
of the Appeals monthly meetings. On the other hand, one new ‘pence’ was
worth more than an old ‘penny’. The Committee had agreed that the ‘dipping
stick’ used to check if a can was full would be lengthened.
The Can Shop also hosted a place for lost children, manned by
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students and two policewomen. The public address system set up nearby
was doing a roaring trade with announcements for ‘lost parents’. The amount
of work that Elizabeth must have put into even this small part of Charities Day
was so immense it made Alisdair realise how easy his job as Ygorra Editor
had been.
The skirl of the Glasgow City Police Pipe Band could be heard as it
swung into the Square at the head of the Procession. It was Alisdair’s cue to
leave the Can Shop, his job done for the morning at least. He signed enough
copies of Ygorra as he could as the crowds drifted away to the far side of the
Square to watch the pipers and the floats.
The City Chambers at the east end of the Square was bathed in
sunshine. The St. Andrews flag flew proudly from the top of the building and
the window boxes now in full bloom gave it more of a springtime splash of
colour than they had at the beginning of the week. With the St. Andrews flag
and the sound of the pipes, Alisdair felt decidedly Scottish.
He could make out Elizabeth standing between Andrew Todd and the
Lord Provost on the platform erected outside the front doors of the City
Chambers, the three of them being the judges for the best float in various
categories. The pipe band wheeled into the cordoned off position in front of
the south wing of the City Chambers and marking time played Flower of
Scotland as the first float from Glasgow University Medical Faculty entered
the Square.
By now everyone was rushing to the edges of the Square to see the
floats as they drove past. As usual a lot of work had gone into making them
as rivalry was intense, firstly amongst the various colleges and the two
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universities, and secondly between the different faculties. Alisdair did not
envy the judges job in having to pick three main winners.
It took the floats about three quarters of an hour to pass the Lord
Provost’s party before they split away from the Procession to make their
separate ways to the outlying districts, picking up students for the customary
lunchtime pub raids.
Alisdair decided that it was time for him to adjourn to the Beer Bar for
lunch. Despite the sunshine, there was a bitterly cold east wind blowing and
he was glad of the two sweaters he was wearing. He had been sitting out in
the open for over an hour and a half. A pint and a plate of hot pie and peas
would soon thaw him out.
§§A§§
Rab was already in the Beer Bar tucking into two Scotch pies with
beans, when Alisdair arrived. It was definitely a lot warmer inside than it was
outside, and despite what he had heard earlier about filling the cans, there
was a fair crowd waiting in the Beer Bar for the Charities Ball tickets to go on
sale. Even if they had doubled the ticket prices to one pound fifty pence there
would still have been a demand.
Alisdair ordered a Tennants for himself, a pint of Heavy for Rab and
two Scotch pies with mashed potatoes and peas. He really was at a loose
end this year. In past years he had been on the Strathclyde Charities
Committee with lots of work to do in the Union on Charities Day, but as Rag
Mag Editor, he had nothing now to do.
He sat down beside Rab.
‘Just the man I wanted to see.’ Rab accepted the pint of Heavy with a
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nod. ‘I need some help in setting up the Muirhead Lounge for tonight.’
‘Count me in son.’ Alisdair started on his pies.
‘I hear that the extra copies of Ygorra have nearly all gone.’
Alisdair held up his right hand and flopped it downward at the wrist.
‘That is what writers cramp looks like.’
The two students sat silently for a moment.
Rab was first to speak. ‘Are you still on track with Christopher’s
campaign?’
Alisdair raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We have had more problems
this year so far than we had with all the other campaigns put together.’
Alisdair started on his pint. ‘The United Left problems are our own making.
No doubt we will sort them out easily enough. But with Elizabeth standing as
well, it looks as if Tom and I will have to earn our free beer at the post-election
party for once.’
Rab laughed. ‘Well at least it will be your last election. Unless of
course, you would like to run my campaign for the Exec?’
Alisdair looked quizzically at Rab without saying anything.
Rab continued. ‘I have learned what it is all about by putting two and
two together over the last two years. You obviously get your man elected
onto the Exec, where he learns all about the Union from the inside out, and
then you run him for President the following year.’
Alisdair quickly recovered. ‘Not this year son. We rather thought you
would be better suited as Commander Convenor of the Charities Appeal, and
sit on the Ad-hoc Constitution and the Finance committees here. That way
the others, namely the United Left, who will be looking for next year’s
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candidate on the Exec, would be barking up the wrong tree.’
It was Rab’s turn to look blankly at Alisdair. ‘You mean, you were
already thinking about me for President next year?’
Alisdair smiled and patted Rab on the head. ‘Just because Tom and I
are graduating doesn’t mean we are leaving this place to its own devices. We
will, after all, still be graduate members of the Union, and we still want to be
able to afford our pie and peas when we are on the dole.’
‘You never even thought of consulting me?’
Alisdair shook his head and handed over his empty glass for Rab to fill
up. He tucked into the rest of his pies and peas. There was a smile on his
lips as he watched Rab go to the bar. There was a little more confidence in
his stride.
§§A§§
Tom entered the Beer Bar about ten minutes after Rab had left to take
over for his turn in the Can Shop on the Mezzanine floor. He saw that
Alisdair’s glass was nearly empty and ordered two more pints.
The Beer Bar had suddenly emptied a few minutes after Rab had left
when a tannoy call went out that tickets for the Ball were to go on sale in an
hour and that those wishing tickets should form an orderly queue outside in
John Street.
Tom sat down in the seat Rab had just vacated. ‘Well Alisdair, now
that this stupid Charities Appeal is nearly over, can we get on with this bloody
election?’
Alisdair guessed that Tom had been getting his duty members to
organise the queue for tickets. Apart from the May Ball, the Charities Ball was
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the biggest headache for a Heavy Duty Member, especially as non-
Strathclyde students were allowed into the Union.
Tom pensively puffed at his pipe.
‘What are we going to do about Elizabeth?’ He said suddenly.
Alisdair could see that Tom was troubled. ‘Look at it logically son. No
matter how well qualified she is for the job; she is standing for the wrong
reasons. She is being used. Chris on the other hand asked us if he should
stand.’
Tom smiled. ‘Aye, only after I dropped enough hints to sink a
submarine.’
‘But he is doing it for the right reasons.’
Tom nodded and drank pensively from his pint.
Alisdair continued. ‘We look at Elizabeth’s pedigree first. She has
served on the SRC for four years. She has served on the Charities
Committee, the Finance Committee, and the Muirhead Committee. I bet you
a pound to a penny she will base her campaign on Union finances. After all,
her campaign manager is the Union Treasurer.’
Tom agreed. ‘Chris had intended leading with finance at Monday’s
Heckling Meeting. The draw for speaking order helps us with that one.’
Alisdair nodded, and then took a pull of his pint.
‘Then we have the TUC motion to contend with.’ Tom relit his pipe.
Alisdair laughed. ‘Oh! We are having a bad hair day, aren’t we Tam?’
Tom laughed. It was true. They could read each other like an open
book.
‘Get Chris to propose an ‘in principle’ amendment to the motion.’
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Alisdair suggested.
Tom took a piece of paper out of his inside blazer pocket and showed it
to Alisdair. ‘I already have.’
Alisdair read the amendment. It was worded just as he had suggested.
‘We need to include a pro-NUS element into Christopher’s opening speech.’
Tom nodded. ‘It is already half written. Chris is having lunch with Terry
and Dave Harrison as we speak.’
Alisdair sat back in his seat and emptied his pint. ‘So what is your
problem?’
Tom laughed, and glanced up as the door to the Beer Bar opened. His
face changed. ‘It has just fucking arrived.’
Frank Green, Ron Flowers, and the student he had been shown the
photograph of in Craigie Street police station. None of them looked as if they
had been helping collect money for charity.
Frank Green, who was carrying a rolled up red banner, which he had
carried proudly at the Vietnam demonstration they had all just come from,
came over to their table. Ron and the other student went to the bar. They
came back with three half pints of lager. Both Tom and Alisdair were a bit put
out that they hadn’t offered them a drink.
Frank Green introduced the third student. ‘This is Ian McPherson.’
Neither Tom nor Alisdair offered to shake hands. ‘Ian was at Glasgow last
year, but he flunked a couple of exams and is spending a year out to resit.’
Alisdair was in with the quick comment. ‘It is all right for some, a year
off at the tax payers’ expense!’
‘Not really, I’m working at Butlins Holiday Camp in Ayr.’ McPherson
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explained. ‘I did a summer season as a kitchen porter and they kept me on to
help with the camp maintenance over the winter.’
Alisdair’s mind was working overtime, although he managed not to
show it.
Tom assumed control of the conversation. Thankfully the Beer Bar
was empty apart from them. ‘We will have to slightly modify Christopher’s
handout for Monday because of the TUC motion.’
Ron did not look pleased. Alisdair could sympathise with the poor lad,
but he added. ‘That is the beauty of having access to your printing press. We
can change things as we see fit.’
Ron still did not look very pleased that he would have to change the
print blocks he had already spent a lot of time on. ‘When will I get the
changes?’
Alisdair looked at Tom as he answered. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Chris is
re-drafting the handout.’
Frank Green changed the subject away from what to him was the
mundane part of campaigns.
‘It looks as if the Tories have outflanked you this time.’ He looked
almost pleased with himself. ‘It certainly puts a new slant on screwing the
opposition.’
Tom was out of his chair before Alisdair could get to Frank. He pulled
himself up to his full height and positioned himself between the two students.
He was holding Alisdair back with his massive right arm. He looked Frank
directly in the eye and suggested he leave, now!
Ron looked very embarrassed by the whole incident and tried to
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apologise to Alisdair. Alisdair waved him away. He was really mad. The
three students left the bar without finishing their lagers.
‘I promise you Tom. I will swing for that bastard before this election is
over.’
Tom did not attempt to calm Alisdair down. He was just as mad as
Alisdair. ‘Form a queue behind me Alisdair.’
Alisdair kicked the bench seat; he had one sure way to sort out Frank
Green and his sort. A simple telephone call would do it.
‘Elizabeth was right. We thought we had buried the United Left, but we
still have to waste our time dealing with the bastards.
Tom motioned to the barman for two more pints. He put his hand on
Alisdair’s shoulder.
‘As they say in darts son, ‘Game On’.’ Tom laughed. ‘This campaign
was getting to be a bit boring after all.’
Alisdair sat down. Tom looked at his watch. ‘Come on, the rugby is
about to start on Grandstand. Let’s do something illegal and take two pints
into the TV Lounge.’
Alisdair looked at Tom and laughed. ‘Only for the first half. I have to
help Rab set up the Muirhead for later on tonight’
§§A§§
Elizabeth gazed wistfully out of her bed-sit window into a deserted
Maxwell Park. The park would have been locked at sunset as usual. The
only movement in the park was the branches of the trees as they blew in the
breeze.
It had been an eventful day. For her it had been long and tiring, but
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with a satisfactory result as Alisdair had said to her as they watched the day’s
final event together, the fireworks display, at the end of the Torchlight
Procession from George Square to Kelvin Way near Glasgow University.
Elizabeth had popped into the John Street Union around four o’clock in
the afternoon to look for Alisdair and had found him with Tom in her Muirhead
Lounge helping Rab to set up the bar. The three of them were laughing
hysterically like a trio of school kids. It was evident that they had been helping
themselves to the free beer, as there was a table full of empty beer glasses in
front of them.
‘We were just checking that it has not gone off.’ Rab had said as he
offered her a pint of Export. Elizabeth refused.
Alisdair was very attentive to her, made her sit down until she had
warmed up, going to the Mezzanine for a coffee and a BLT sandwich for her,
and then surprisingly, considering the company he was in, was only too willing
to go with her on the Torchlight Procession.
The long walk to Glasgow University seemed to have sobered him up
and he was now in the bathroom down the hall getting showered and shaved.
His evening suit hung next to her dress on the back of the door.
Elizabeth turned on the record player and chose their favourite
Fleetwood Mac album. It was the third one they had bought; both of the
others had all but worn out. She sat in the huge armchair in front of the fire
watching the flickering gas flames. Tears welled up in her eyes. Tonight was
the end of another chapter in her life, but she knew that as one door closed,
another opened, just like the buds on the trees in the park in the spring. She
wiped her tears with her dressing gown sleeve.
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There was her graduation to look forward to, and the Presidential. She
was assured of an upper second class honours but would she come second
to Christopher in the election?
Now that Charities was over, she was beginning to get excited about
the election. She now really knew the buzz Alisdair got at this time of year.
He seemed to have got over his opposition to her standing.
Elizabeth had never thought of herself as being ambitious, but she was
an achiever, and usually got what she worked for. This time, though she was
part of a team. It was not up to her alone. A recent lecture about engineers
being managers came to mind. She had never yet had to work for a living
and hadn’t really appreciated the implications of the theory described in the
lecture. Now that she was spearheading a team, she realised that most real
life situations demanded management skills.
It put Alisdair in a new light. For the past four years he had been at
Strathclyde, and like everyone else, working towards his degree. At the same
time, he had been a member of the SRC. Not just an ordinary sitting member.
He had planned the demise of the SUS, had worked tirelessly for the Charities
Committee and had manipulated both people and situations all that time, and
she had never ever heard anyone say a bad word about him. It was the same
with the football team. Now that was man management at work!
She looked up as the door opened. Alisdair did look a sight in her old
dressing gown! ‘Take that bloody thing off! You look stupid.’ Alisdair smiled
at her as he dropped the dressing gown to the floor. He was naked
underneath. As he walked over to where she was sitting Black Magic Woman
began to play on the record player.
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§§A§§
Commander Ingle’s office in Craigie Street was filled with men dressed
in black combat fatigues and a few of them wore tight fitting balaclava style
headgear. None of the uniforms showed any regimental markings or badges
of rank, and none of his men were armed, yet. He listened as his Sergeant
briefed the team. A map of the layout of Butlins Holiday Camp and an
Ordnance Survey map of the surrounding area were pinned to the wall. The
atmosphere in the room was tense but professional.
Alisdair’s telephone call about Ian McPherson had paid off. The
moment Ingle had heard from him, he had sent Sergeant Fisher down to Ayr
and with the assistance of the local police, had brought the camp manager
back to Craigie Street as unobtrusively as possible. The manager had
identified both Wren and McCluskey, along with McPherson. He had seen
both the Irishmen at lunch in the staff canteen.
It had taken only half an hour to assemble and brief his men once the
manager had confirmed the two IRA were working at the camp. Ingle’s team
now dispersed quickly on their way to Ayr. Three fully equipped unmarked
dark blue Ford Transit vans waited in the police station car park downstairs,
under heavy guard.
Commander Ingle took his revolver from the desk drawer, checked it,
and put it in his shoulder holster. Like the rest of his men he was wearing
combat fatigues.
He turned to his Sergeant. ‘What is the weather report for the area?’
‘Half moon, no rain expected, and minimal cloud cover, sir.’
Ingle nodded as he opened the door for his Sergeant. ‘Get the local
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Chief Constable to meet me on the main road at the turnoff to the camp.’ He
put his hand on his Sergeant’s shoulder as he passed him in the doorway.
‘Get Stoddart to make the camp manager comfortable here until we are
finished. No phone calls at all. He is also Irish himself after all.’
When Sergeant Fisher had left, Ingle picked up the telephone and
dialled an unlisted number in Whitehall.
§§A§§
Alisdair had only used the Refectory in the Royal College Building in
his first term of his first year. He had been a keen model student then. Then
he had discovered Tom Shearer, Union politics and the Beer Bar. Lecturers
and other members of staff mainly used the Refectory and he had always had
a good meal when he had used it. Tonight however the catering had been
organised by the Central Hotel, and was, in Alisdair’s limited experience of
haut cuisine, exquisite.
The Charities Appeal Patrons Dinner was an annual event and was
alternatively hosted by the Glasgow and Strathclyde University Vice
Chancellors. This year Strathclyde had the honour and the expense.
The Patrons of the Appeal ranged from a prominent Glasgow
businessman to a Conservative Member of the Parliament. There was
certainly ‘money’ around the room. None of the Patron’s dinner suits came
from Moss Bros. Elizabeth, though, looked better than most of the wives in
their designer gowns. Alisdair of courses was biased.
Alisdair and Elizabeth had been seated next to each other, and on
Alisdair’s right, was Strathclyde’s Vice Chancellor, Dr. Curran. Alisdair had
never really met Dr. Curran before, except for when he first joined Strathclyde,
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and that had only been a passing handshake. Alisdair found it surprisingly
easy to talk to him, and was amazed at his knowledge of Union affairs.
It was when they were passing the port that Dr. Curran asked when
Alisdair thought it would be that a Strathclyde student became General
Convenor.
‘I am getting rather cheesed off with Gilmourhill always ruling the roost.’
Alisdair laughed. It was rather a surprise to learn that the inter-
university rivalry extended to such a high level.
‘I think we may well have one in place for next year.’ Alisdair explained
about his ideas for Rab. The Vice Chancellor seemed pleased to hear that.
Dr. Curran offered Alisdair a cigar, which he refused. ‘You are yourself
causing comment in the University Court.’
Alisdair looked at him quizzically.
‘The member of my staff, who looks after the affairs in the Union for
me, was rather excited to read about you in the Strathclyde Telegraph. Dr.
Curran passed Alisdair the port again. ‘Now, who is going to win this one?’
Alisdair felt Elizabeth’s hand stroke his thigh under the table. Although
she was talking to Andrew Todd who was sitting opposite her waiting for his
turn with the port decanter, she was still listening to the conversation to her
right.
‘You must be aware through your ‘little man in the Union’ that the
United Left has not put up a candidate.’ Alisdair helped himself to coffee and
then poured one for the Vice Chancellor and the Elizabeth.
Dr. Curran smiled. ‘We have had an excellent working relationship with
the Students Association over the past few years. It would be hard to go back
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to the old days when every meeting we had with a President resulted in
tantrums, Marxist dogma, and threats of sit-ins and strikes.’
‘Obviously, as I am working for Christopher Moore, I want him to win.
He is from the same mould as Terry Pritchard and Dave Harrison. In that, he
is first and foremost a Strathclyde Union man.’
Dr. Curran relit his cigar. ‘You expect Moore to win then?’
Alisdair nodded. ‘Oh yes, I expect he will win, but not without a fight.
He has a worthy opponent in the beautiful young lady to my left. Her policies
are probably rubbish but her support base will take a lot of convincing
otherwise.’
Elizabeth smiled sweetly at Alisdair. ‘Don’t worry darling, I will do it. I
can be very persuasive, as you well know.’
Alisdair felt himself blush, and blew his nose to cover his
embarrassment.
The Vice Chancellor held out his hand to shake Elizabeth’s. ‘You
realise Miss Livingstone that we have no money for a new Union.’
‘Not under the present allocation of finances, I agree.’ Elizabeth put
her arm on Alisdair’s shoulder. ‘We need to carry out an audit of our actual
policies with regard to Union finances in addition to the annual financial audit
the University carries out.’
Dr. Curran pondered Elizabeth’s last statement for a moment or two.
Alisdair just sat open mouthed.
‘What you propose Miss Livingstone is rather unique. But will the
students go for it?’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘If they don’t, they can always vote for Christopher
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Moore and maintain the status quo of the price of pie and peas being the
yardstick of Union finances.’
Alisdair interrupted. ‘Now that’s unfair Elizabeth. I like the price of pie
and peas at Strathclyde.’
Elizabeth winked at Dr. Curran behind Alisdair’s back. She was
winding Alisdair up. ‘So that is why we cannot get a quiche and salad in the
Beer Bar.’
‘Now you are being ridiculous. The next thing you would be after is for
the Beer Bar to serve sherry and Martinis.’
Dr. Curran could see that Elizabeth was making fun at Alisdair’s
expense. ‘Hey, young man! There is nothing wrong with a half pint of sherry
now and again.’
Alisdair looked at the both of them and soon realised that what the two
of them were playing at. ‘Pass the port Andrew. It is going to be a long night!’
§§A§§
Alisdair and Elizabeth arrived at the Muirhead Lounge just before ten
o’clock. Tom was on duty at the door. He had seven other Duty Members
patrolling the rest of the Union. There was usually never any trouble of any
consequence in the Union even when non-Strathclyde students were allowed
into functions. He was only a tannoy call away if there was any trouble the
other Duty Members felt they couldn’t handle.
‘Wow Elizabeth! Now that is what I call a frock!’ Tom hugged her and
gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘And only I know what she isn’t wearing under it.’ Alisdair winked at
Tom.
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Elizabeth blushed and playfully elbowed Alisdair in the ribs. Alisdair
winced with pain. Elizabeth realised that she had hit the exact spot where his
ribs had been cracked and protectively put her arm around him, kissed him on
the cheek, and apologised profusely.
‘It is probably just as well that I stopped you belting Frank Green
today,’ said Tom. One punch in return might have hurt you badly.’
Elizabeth looked at Tom. ‘Alisdair was going to punch Frank Green?
Why?’
Alisdair made light of the situation. ‘It was just something he said
about the two of us.’
Elizabeth immediately realised why Alisdair had been so attentive to
her. She kissed him again. ‘Come and sit down inside, my knight in shining
armour. I will get you a drink.’
The students in the Muirhead were a mixture of dinner suits, casual,
and fancy dress. Rab was serving behind the bar, a position he had occupied
all night, and as he was operating on the ‘one for you, one for me’ principle,
he was in very good spirits. He was wearing a pink ballet dancer’s tutu and
climbing boots. He served Elizabeth with a pint of Tennants for Alisdair and a
white wine for herself.
Alisdair sat within earshot of where Bill Cowie was holding court with a
few of his cronies on the merits of electing him as President. Bill was wearing
his full dress kilt. Alisdair heard him say.
‘The Lefties have been feathering their own nests ego wise for years in
this place. We need change in this Union, and I am just the man to do it.’
‘Yes Bill,’ interrupted Alisdair. ‘Change can be the way forward, but it
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should not be based on the past.’
Alisdair knew instantly that he had hit the right spot from the look that
Bill gave him. He was right after all.
Alisdair raised his pint to Bill. ‘Hang loose son.’ He laughed to himself.
‘In that outfit, you would have little other option. Unless of course you aren’t a
true Scot!’
Bill blushed and moved to the bar with his entourage.
Elizabeth put her head on Alisdair’s shoulder. ‘What did Frank Green
say to upset you then?’
‘He mentioned something about ‘screwing the opposition’ really
meaning just that in this election.’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘That guy really gets up my nose. When I
become President, I will ban him from this Union.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘When I become President?’ He kissed her on the
cheek. ‘If you become President, Miss Livingstone, I will take you to the
Argyle Arcade and you can choose your own engagement ring, and to hell
with the cost.’
Elizabeth kissed him again. ‘And if I don’t win?’
‘I will choose one for you.’
Elizabeth looked at him seriously. ‘Have I just been proposed to?’
Alisdair nodded. ‘You could put it like that.’
‘Then, I accept.’ She took hold of his hand. ‘Come on, finish your pint.’
Alisdair emptied the remains of his Export in one and looked at his
watch. ‘It is a bit early to be going up to the Hall. Elton John doesn’t start his
set for another hour.’
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‘I was thinking of making a detour via the snooker room.’ Elizabeth
dragged him off the seat.
§§A§§
The Charities Café, which had been set up in an empty shop in
Sauchihall Street, had been officially closed to the public at midnight. Now
only the members of the main Charities Committee and invited guests were
inside for a private party. Elton John, his band and the local Glasgow band,
the Chris McClure Section, who had played at the other Charity Ball in the
Queen Margaret Union, were giving an impromptu acoustic concert.
Elton John had been brilliant at the Ball. His forty five minute set had
gone on for just short of two hours. He had enjoyed it almost as much as the
students and it showed in his performance.
The empty shop had been transformed by the students with the help of
the Glasgow Parks Department. Wrought iron tables and park bench seats
lined the edge of the small dance floor and stage. Potted trees and plants
gave the venue a very springtime feel.
The beer and spirits were at cost, the students themselves had
arranged the cold buffet, and the people present were in high spirits but tired
after a long week, but their adrenalin kept them going.
Andrew Todd came over and sat next to Alisdair and Elizabeth. ‘Well,
we made in excess of thirty thousand pounds. Half of that came from Ygorra.
The rest is probably as a result of decimalisation, something we hadn’t taken
really into account.’
Alisdair raised his glass in a toast. ‘I personally put it down to good
leadership Andrew.’
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Andrew laughed. ‘Bollocks! We were just lucky.’
‘No, you must get credit Andrew.’ Elizabeth said. ‘This has been the
best committee I have worked on over the years. You have kept everyone
together this year, and it has been a nice atmosphere to work in.’
Andrew brushed his hair off his forehead. ‘I had a lot of help, from
people like you two. I should raise my glass to you two and thank you for all
your efforts.’
The three students turned round as the sound of loud laughter came
from the bar. Alisdair understood why instantly. Rab had assumed the role of
barman again, and was keeping everyone amused with his jokes.
Elizabeth refilled their glasses with wine from the bottle Andrew had
brought over to the table. ‘Have you decided who is taking over from you next
year Andrew?’
‘It is funny you should mention that Elizabeth, Alisdair and I were
discussing that very same subject a couple of days ago. I have really no
idea.’
‘You could do worse than ask Rab,’ said Alisdair.
Both Andrew and Elizabeth looked at each other, thought about it for a
few seconds, and nodded their agreement.
‘Why not?’ said Andrew. ‘Rab sometimes gives people the impression
that he is a bit daft, but he is not. The way that he has handled the publicity
for Ygorra and the printers has been quite impressive.’
‘He has also been involved with both the Appeal and the Strathclyde
committee for the last three years.’ Alisdair reminded the two students.
Elizabeth slapped her hand on the table. She was by now a bit drunk.
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‘Well that settles it. I will propose Rab at next Wednesday’s meeting, and
Alisdair can second him.’
Alisdair interrupted her. ‘It might be better if Andrew proposes him.
That way it won’t look like a Strathclyde take-over bid.’
Andrew drained his glass. ‘I’ll go along with that suggestion.’ He stood
up, none too steadily. ‘Now I must love you and leave you. I have a lot of
other people to thank.’
Elizabeth put her head on Alisdair’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.
A scheming smile came to his lips.
She laughed. ‘You are a devious bastard Alisdair Graham! I see what
you are up to. Now that the United Left have twigged that you hide the next
year’s Presidential candidate in the Exec, you are changing your tactics. Rab
gets maximum publicity as Commander Convenor, and then one or two
weeks later he declares himself as a Presidential candidate.’
Alisdair ran his fingernail over her left nipple through her dress.
Elizabeth shivered.
‘If you say so. Madam President.’
§§A§§
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Chapter 7 - Sunday 6th February
Butlins Holiday Camp in Ayr was deathly quiet, unlike in the height of
the season when it hosted over eight thousand happy holiday makers,
punters, as the camp staff called them. Frost glistened on the uncut grass
highlighted by the light of the moon. There was not even a wind to rustle the
few bare trees.
Commander Ingle walked along the main thoroughfare of the camp
with the Chief Constable of Ayrshire and Sergeant Fisher. It was three thirty
in the morning. As they walked past the kitchens towards chalet line AH,
Sergeant Fisher briefed the two men on the current situation.
‘The Chief Constable’s men are watching the perimeter of the camp
and our men have sealed off two chalet lines either side of line AH. Wren and
McCluskey are in chalet 9 and McPherson is in chalet 10. We are ready to go
when you give the word sir.’
As they passed the Reception Building Ingle saw the first of his men on
the roof of the building. It was the tallest building in the vicinity. Ingle looked
down the chalet line AH. The rest of his men were in position. The formation
they took up was one they had practised many times in routine training. Each
of his men would know exactly what he had to do when his order came.
The only lights on in the line were in the toilet block opposite the
chalets AH9 and 10, a meagre 100 watt bulb. Leaving the Chief Constable at
the end of the chalet line under the protection of one of his men, Ingle and
Fisher walked towards the toilet block. Three of his men appeared out of the
shadows and fell in beside them. All three wore gas masks and carried light
automatics. Eight more, also armed and wearing gas masks, moved into
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position hard up against the outside walls of chalets 8 and 11, the two nearest
the doors of the chalets had sledgehammers. The chalet doors were so
flimsy that they would not offer any real resistance.
At Commander Ingle’s silent command, two chalet doors parted
company with their frames and stun grenades were fired into the interiors.
After the initial flash his men entered the chalets. There was a lot of shouting
and noise, which, along with the stun grenades, was intended to disorientate
the occupants of the chalets.
Moments later Hamish McPherson was dragged out wearing only
pyjamas and placed face down on the grass. His hands were tied behind his
back. Chalet 9, much to Commander Ingle’s annoyance, was found to be
empty.
The order went out to search the rest of the camp. Commander Ingle
was annoyed at not only having failed to get Wren and McCluskey at the first
attempt; he was also annoyed at not having men in place to seal of the camp
himself. There had not been time to mobilise sufficient men for that, and
maintain the element of surprise he had hoped for. The wrong call had been
his and his alone.
Ingle pointed to Hamish McPherson who was lying shivering on the
grass. ‘Take him away as he is for questioning.’ He turned to his Sergeant.
‘Search these two chalets yourself Brian.’ He shook his head. ‘And for God’s
sake, find me something I can use to catch these bastards!’ He kicked the
door of one of the chalets in frustration. ‘And have that Frank Green fellow
brought in again for questioning, and don’t even be nice about it this time!’
Commander Ingle noticed that other chalet doors were opening as
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other members of the maintenance staff came out in response to the
commotion. ‘Get the local police to interview this lot on the off-chance they
might give us some information.’ He stormed away, angry at his failure.
§§A§§
Alisdair put the tray with coffee and French toast on the bedside table.
The Sunday newspapers had been delivered while he was in the kitchen. He
sat on the edge of the bed and opened the Sunday Mail at the sports pages.
It was just after ten o’clock in the morning. Rain pattered incessantly against
the windows. It was not a morning to be out. It was a day for breakfast in
bed, reading the newspapers, and making love, perming any two from three
as the morning wore on.
Elizabeth lay face down on the bed. Her hair fanned out across the
pillow. Alisdair leant back on the bed and lightly stroked her between her
shoulder blades. She turned over on her back and stretched lazily. The quilt
dropped down as she sat up. Alisdair gave a wolf whistle. Elizabeth shivered
and grabbed for one of Alisdair’s sweat shirt which was lying over the foot of
the bed, put it on, knelt behind Alisdair on the bed and cuddled into him.
‘Coffee and French toast are on the tray, gorgeous.’ Alisdair said,
trying to read the sports news as Elizabeth nibbled at his left ear lobe.
Elizabeth whispered in his ear. ‘If Rab isn’t in, we can make love in the
bath?’
Alisdair gave up with trying reading the paper. He laughed. ‘Breakfast
first. I hate lying on an empty stomach.’
The two of them sat on the bed munching French toast.
‘I suppose you will be having a meeting with Tom today?’ Elizabeth
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said.
Alisdair nodded. ‘Two o’clock at Ron Flower’s house. Tom is giving
me a lift at about quarter to. The usual agenda, first day posters and
handouts.’ He poured her another coffee. ‘And you?’
‘Same time, at Annabelle’s flat.’
‘Can I give you a word of advice?’
Elizabeth pouted at him. ‘You can give me anything any time.’
‘Don’t let Annabelle and David railroad you into anything you don’t want
to do. Maintain your own veto on everything. Most importantly of all, don’t
allow them to make deals on your behalf.’
‘Like the one you and Tom made with the United Left?’ Elizabeth
laughed as she kissed Alisdair. ‘Only kidding sexy, but you did leave yourself
wide open for that one.’
Alisdair lay back on the bed. ‘We would have had trouble with the
United Left if they were running their own candidate. This way, Tom and I can
handle them on our terms.’
Alisdair knew fine well that he was lying to Elizabeth. Neither of them
really wanted the United Left’s help, but the situation he had been put in by
Commander Ingle had forced his hand to ensure that Tam accepted the offer.
Maybe if they had caught the terrorists he and Tom could dump them now.
He sipped his coffee. Frank Green had seconded Christopher’s nomination,
so the damage had been done. They would just have to make the best of it.
‘What say does Christopher have in all this?’ Elizabeth asked.
Alisdair pulled a face. ‘He will obviously have a veto on anything Tam
and I decide.’
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Elizabeth laughed. ‘Only if he knows about it first!’
Alisdair grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him. ‘Exactly!’
Elizabeth twisted out from under him. ‘Did you see Tam and Annabelle
dancing last night? I have never seen him dance before.’
‘Who do you think will tame who?’ Alisdair asked.
‘Tam will come out on top for sure, but only if Annabelle lets him!’
‘Is she that serious about him then?’
Elizabeth nodded as she poured them another cup of coffee. ‘A classic
case of physics, the irresistible force meeting the immovable object.’
Alisdair suddenly burst out laughing. Elizabeth looked at him. ‘What
dirty thought has just crossed your mind?’
Alisdair kissed her. ‘Just thinking what any children they had would
turn out like.’
Elizabeth burst into laughter and rolled about the bed in absolute
hysterics.
§§A§§
The house Ron Flowers shared with seven other students was a large
detached house in High Shawlands. Despite the fact that it was being rented
by students, the house and the gardens were very well kept. The occupants
of the house had formed what Ron described as a ‘self-sufficient commune’,
and most of the garden area was taken up with vegetables. Knowing Frank
Green’s preference for a certain smoking material, Alisdair wondered if there
was any other ‘pot plants’ on the premises.
The one obvious exception to the good order of the house was the
back door, which was lying in pieces on top of smashed plant pots after being
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broken down when Commander Ingles’ troops came visiting in the early hours
of the morning, and had taken Frank away for questioning. Ron was not at all
happy about being very roughly bundled out of his bed at five o’clock in the
morning, but was relieved that he and the other occupants of the house had
not been taken in for questioning.
‘I really wonder sometimes how deep Frank’s involvement is with the
IRA.’ Ron said as he led Alisdair and Tom down into the basement where he
kept all the printing presses and the rest of the United Left’s publicity
machinery. ‘If the truth be told, most of the members of the United Left only
pay fashionable lip service to the, quote ‘revolutionaries’ unquote, of the
world. If it ever came to the crunch, most of them would run a mile.’
Tom lit his pipe and looked Ron straight in the eye. ‘Does that include
you Ron?’
‘I abhor violence of any sort Tom. I look on it as a very short-term
solution in the war against the Capitalism. Mao’s Long March was a classic
case of non-violent struggle, as was Ghandi’s pacifist philosophy. Frank, on
the other hand, is what you would have called in the old days, an anarchist.’
The three students sat around an old style rough cut wooden table.
Ron produced two bottles of home made elderflower wine and three large
tumblers. Alisdair was amazed at the clarity of it. It was certainly older that
Rab’s usual one month ‘vintage’.
Alisdair had a good look around the room. The first thing that caught
his eye was the printing press. It must have cost a bob or two to buy such a
professional machine. Then Alisdair noted that it was made in East Germany,
as was the photocopier. The poster screen printing press was also an
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industrial model. Rolls of Christopher’s green poster paper lay on another
table, along with tins of white and black poster paint.
There was some natural sunlight getting into the basement from three
small windows high up on the wall at the back of the house, but most of the
lighting came from three fluorescent strip lights. It was hard to tell what the
colour scheme of the walls was, as multitude of shelves containing paper,
books, paints, old newspapers, gardening tools, and seeds and flowerpots,
covered most of them. One shelf contained seed potatoes in egg boxes. The
floor was the original flagstone. A meagre two bar electric fire was the only
heating. Alisdair was glad he had worn his thickest sweatshirt.
Tom opened the meeting by producing Christopher’s real policy
statements for the handouts. Some of them had come about as a result of the
new developments with the TUC, and others more accurate versions of the
ones they had given Ron last week.
Ron quickly glanced through the papers Tom had given him, and
looked rather dismayed at the amount of changes he would have to make to
the print blocks he had already set up.
Tom also saw the look on Ron’s face. ‘Don’t worry Ron. If you
continue to ply us with this excellent wine I am sure the three of us can rattle
off the blocks before long.’
Alisdair studied Tom’s face as Tom read through the sample handout
Ron had prepared. He wondered what now came first on Tom’s list today, his
pipe, Annabelle, or the election campaign. Despite the fact that he had spent
the night with Annabelle, it was still the latter, from the look on Tom’s face.
His pipe lay in the ashtray.
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‘Excellent Ron, very professionally presented.’ Tom accepted another
glass of wine. ‘Frankly, it is better quality than the handouts the Union prints.’
Ron at last looked pleased with himself. ‘Come and see the basic
poster.’
Alisdair and Tom followed Ron to the far end of the basement where
there were several sheets of printed fluorescent green paper hanging up. The
posters were of the same high standard, professional, but not so much so as
to have been turned out by a commercial printer.
While Ron and Alisdair discussed the technicalities of the overlays,
Tom started on the type set for the modified second handout. When they had
finished their discussion, Alisdair and Ron joined him.
‘From what Alisdair told me in the car on the way over here, I think that
Elizabeth will base her speech at tomorrow’s Heckling Meeting on Union
finances.’ said Tom.
Alisdair told Ron the gist of what had been said to the Vice Chancellor
at Saturday night’s Patrons Dinner.
Ron had a nice titbit of gossip about Elizabeth’s campaign manager.
‘We have it on file that David Thompson once spoke in favour of a motion at a
Young Conservatives conference on external auditing of student union
accounts.’
Tom puffed his pipe. ‘Now that it what I call a ‘belter’. I hope you have
someone good lined up with that question Ron. It should show poor Elizabeth
just what she is up against within her own campaign. I bet Dave never
mentioned that to her.’
Ron nodded. ‘I intend to ask that one myself.’
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‘There are several questions I also want your people to ask Wild Bill
Cowie.’ Tom added. ‘Firstly, I want you to ask, very tongue in cheek
obviously, if he realises that the initials of his slogan could be construed as
meaning the Scottish Nationalist Party. Secondly I want a very pointed
closely connected question about where he got his publicity material. The
handouts at least, have been professionally printed. We haven’t yet seen the
posters. It might be prudent to ask if he has declared the cost of these in his
election expenses. I want his Students Not Politics slogan shown up for what
it is worth.’
Ron nodded as he took notes.
Tom chuckled to himself. ‘Apart from questions, I have arranged the
Fun-Fun Club to have a go at him. What we have agreed to do should really
crucify him in front of the students.’
Ron picked up Christopher’s handouts again and picked out one in
particular. ‘Why has Christopher included a new version of the NUS
handout?’
‘Two reasons Ron. Firstly, we have the Association meeting on
Tuesday. We have to spell it out to the students the benefit of the NUS to us
as a Union.’ Tom paused to re-light his pipe. ‘Secondly Alisdair here thinks
that Bill Cowie is standing on a ‘let’s fuck the NUS, and get back to a reformed
SUS policy.’
Ron laughed. ‘How on earth did you work that out?’
‘Bill as you know likes to shock.’ Alisdair answered Ron’s question.
‘But his handout was very bland to say the least. There is not one
controversial policy in it. It set Tom and me wondering what he might get up
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to. Putting two and two together after looking through old Council minutes, I
came up with this possibility. There is, as you are well aware, a groundswell
of opinion in Scotland in favour of nationalism at the present time.’
Ron shook his head in disbelief. ‘The man is insane. Doesn’t he know
that being a member of NUS entitles you to more benefits than we ever had
when we were members of SUS?’
‘Bill doesn’t look at it like that Ron.’ Tom explained. ‘He looks on it as
being controlled by London. That is what really rankles Bill. He is probably
also doing it to gain Brownie points with the SNP. Bill is just another one
feathering his own nest for the future at the expense of the students.’
That last remark triggered something Alisdair had been meaning to ask
Tom. ‘On the subject of expenses Tom, how are we doing with our campaign
receipts?’
Tom produced a piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to
Alisdair. Alisdair laughed as he read it. The receipt came from a company
called ‘Bashir Khan Enterprises’ and showed the item description to be ‘off
cuts’ and the cost of the poster paper to be three pounds and seventy-five
pence.
‘The paper for the handouts is courtesy of the Union, and the poster
paint came from Chris himself.’ Tom added. ‘The lapel badges, which I am
picking up tonight, will cost a couple of quid from Mr Khan.’
Tom winked at Alisdair.
Ron refilled their wine glasses. ‘Now that is what I call a low cost
campaign.’
Tom corrected Ron. ‘Not really Ron, both Elizabeth and Wild Bill will
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have campaign expenses of zero, because they will put down their posters
and handouts as ‘donations’.’ Tom turned to Alisdair. ‘We have always
maintained that we are really going to have to do something about that before
we leave. Who have we got on the ad-hoc Constitutional Committee?’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Alisdair laughed. ‘You are the one with the little
black book.’
Ron looked at the two of them strangely. ‘What is all this about?’
Tom tapped his nose with his finger. ‘The Arabs have a word for it
Ron. It is called ‘wasta’, in other words, influence. There are not many
committees in the Union in which we do not have a friend who is a member.’
Tom explained further. ‘When we started campaigns we used to use
cardboard cut out stencils and felt tipped pen posters. We later developed
simple screen-printing equipment. Other campaigns, of which our two
opponents this year are classic examples, caught on to using professionally
printed posters, under the guise of ‘donations’, which are allowed under the
present election rules. It takes away the amateur status of the Union
elections.’
It was Ron’s turn to laugh. ‘No-one could even begin to call you two
amateurs. I do agree with you though, and you are certainly doing us a
favour.’ Ron indicated the United Left publicity facilities.
Tom tapped the dead ash from his pipe. ‘Now, enough theory, let’s get
practical. We need the first set of posters tonight Ron.’
‘They are all set to go. If we make a start on them now, they can be
finished in an hour, which will give them plenty of time to dry. How many do
we want?’
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Alisdair made a note on the back of one of Christopher’s policy drafts.
‘We need ten for John Street, five for Pitt Street and two for each of the other
campus buildings. That is a total of thirty six, call it forty and we can do the
Halls of Residence as well this year.’
Tom took off his blazer. ‘Let’s get started then. Nice one about the
Halls Alisdair, we nearly forgot them last year. Keep the wine coming Ron
and we should be finished in a couple of hours.’
Alisdair nudged Tom. ‘Take it easy son. You have to drive remember.’
Tom laughed. ‘Point taken Alisdair. Just make it a half pint Ron. It
would not look good for the campaign manager of a candidate running on a
Man Behind the Wheel slogan to get done for being under the affluence of
incahol.’
§§A§§
Paddy Wren and John McCluskey scanned the Personal Columns of
the Sunday Times for the message there expected should be there. It was –
„Patricia, meet you up the East End tomorrow late pm, Del Boy.‟ Paddy Wren
smiled to himself, Declan O’Hara had a wicked sense of humour, especially
when he was holding a shotgun and aiming at some poor informant’s knee.
They had already searched through all of the Scottish Sunday
newspapers for any information on the raid on the Holiday Camp. There was
nothing at all about it in the newspapers, a fact they did not find surprising.
The British did not advertise their failures readily.
They had both realised that they had to move in a hurry when they
heard, from the manager’s wife when they had come back to the camp around
seven o’clock after spending the afternoon in Ayr in a couple of pubs and a
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nearby bookies, that the Camp manager had been taken away by the police.
Their escape route had been planned just two days after they had
arrived at the Camp. They had been working on the perimeter fence most of
the time they had been in Butlins and it gave them the opportunity to make
five concealed exit openings. This meant they could leave the Camp at any
time and be reasonably sure that no-one would see them leave, especially
during the hours of darkness. They then had several miles walk to where
their car was parked in a secure lockup near the railway station in the town of
Ayr itself.
A few hours later they were holed up in another safe house in the
Parkhead district of Glasgow, where they were waiting for Declan O’Hara and
the rest of his IRA unit to join them. Paddy had he information required for the
operation. Declan would have the arms and the transport sorted out.
§§A§§
Bill Cowie, as he did with most aspects of student life he was involved
in, dominated the Debates Committee Meeting. Uncharacteristically for him,
he opened the meeting with an apology.
‘Firstly, I must apologise for the delay in organising this debate.’ He
paused to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I have only just received word
that the Under Secretary of State will be available to speak on Tuesday
evening.’
The other three members of the committee muttered their approval. It
was a feather in their cap to have such a speaker as the celebrated local
Cathcart MP, Teddy Taylor, speak at one of their debates.
The four students were sitting in the Committee Room of the Baird Hall
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of Residence in Sauchihall Street. The small room was gloomy as there was
little natural light from the two small windows that looked onto the wall of the
building next door. The decoration of the room was similarly gloomy with
smoke aged peeling magnolia painted walls, a dusty stained brown carpet
and a single bulb cracked plastic light shade.
Bill, who had spent all his student life as a resident of the Hall, had
made constant representations to the management to brighten up the
building, but to no avail.
Bill lit another cigarette. ‘Do I have any suggestions with regards to the
motion for Tuesday night?’ He looked around the table. No suggestions were
readily forthcoming. ‘Can I suggest that we do not have a ‘political’ motion as
it would give our guest speakers an advantage? Both the Under Secretary of
State and Margot McDonald are MP’s, and Jimmy Reid can hardly be classed
as ‘apolitical’.’
‘Have you any suggestions Bill?’ asked Rob Jones, the Deputy
Convenor.
Bill smiled to himself at the spineless wonders sitting beside him. ‘As
we have just had Charities Week it might be topical to debate Charity Begins
at Home.’
Bill had already decided on this motion as it fitted neatly into his
personal Presidential manifesto. It also mirrored he beliefs of both Margot
McDonald and Jimmy Reid, although for different reasons.
Bill’s suggestion was carried unanimously as he knew it would. The
next item was the draw for speaking order. Although it was one aspect of the
meeting he could not really control, Bill was pleased with the draw. For the
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motion, were himself, the Secretary of State and Jimmy Reid. Against were
Elizabeth, Margot McDonald and Chris. This put Bill on the side he wanted to
be on and it meant that Chris had to reply to Jimmy Reid’s summing up and
put Christopher up against someone who was generally acknowledged as
being the finest speaker of his day.
Bill lit his third cigarette of the meeting. ‘Could you do me a service
Rob and phone the Returning Officer with the details of what we have just
decided so that he can let the other candidates know.’
‘Sure Bill.’ As he left the room Rob Jones looked for a piece of paper
in his jeans pocket. On it was Ron Flowers home telephone number. The call
to the Returning Officer would have to wait until after the one to Tom Shearer.
§§A§§
Elizabeth did not know if it was the excitement of yesterday or the
anticipation of the election, but her adrenalin was flowing. Annabelle seemed
just as excited. It was the first time that either of them had been actively
involved in an election campaign apart from their own when they stood, both
unopposed, for Council. David, on the other hand, was as cool as the chilled
Alsace wine that Annabelle was serving.
The posters, despite the slogan, looked good, as did the lapel stickers
that had a Tory blue background and Liz Livingstone in white italic lettering.
David had already given her half a roll of stickers and told her to change the
badge every hour or so to keep an uncreased image with the electorate.
‘As we lost the first battle to extend the election to Friday I have
rescheduled the handouts.’ Annabelle filled Elizabeth’s glass. ‘On Monday
we go with Union finances, on Wednesday, student relations, and on
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Thursday we will merely list the main points of the manifesto plus the personal
message from Elizabeth to the students. I rather liked that personal touch
Elizabeth.’
David finished writing down what Annabelle had outlined. ‘Why do we
not have handouts on Tuesday? We have a captive audience at the
Association Meeting.’
Annabelle leant forward and put her hand on David’s knee. ‘It a
question of simple economics David dear. We are only allowed a certain
amount of free paper from the Union for handouts. As we have made the
decision to heavily target Halls of Residence with handouts it would leave us
short.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘Anyway, we have an issue of Strathclyde
Telegraph on Tuesday. I may no longer be Director but I can guarantee that it
will favour Elizabeth.’ She smiled as she added. ‘I finished the editorial this
morning, my last one in this administration at least. I highlighted Frank
Green’s arrest and then posed a question about Chris Moore’s judgement in
having him as his seconder.’
Elizabeth gasped. ‘God Annabelle. Alisdair and Tom will go apeshit!’
Annabelle made a face, but before she could reply, the telephone rang.
It was the Returning Officer.
‘The motion for the Presidential Debate is Charity Begins at Home.’
Annabelle replaced the receiver. ‘You are speaking first in opposition to the
motion Elizabeth.’
Elizabeth clapped her hands with joy. ‘Brilliant! I don’t have to
research anything. The motion is right up my street.’
David also looked pleased. Things were looking good already, and the
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election hadn’t even started yet.
‘The only downside is that you follow Bill Cowie who is speaking first
for the motion.’ Annabelle added.
David interrupted. ‘That is irrelevant Annabelle. Traditionally the
opening speakers merely lay out the groundwork for their respective team
members. So Elizabeth does not have to reply to Bill.’ He smiled at
Elizabeth. ‘Not that you couldn’t give him a good run for his money Elizabeth.’
‘Who else is speaking Annabelle?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘The Teddy Taylor and Jimmy Reid are in Bill’s team, and Margot
McDonald and Chris are the other members of your team. Which means that
Chris has got to sum up against Jimmy Reid.’
‘Poor Chris.’ Elizabeth and David said at the same time. Elizabeth
genuinely meant it but David roared with laughter.
Elizabeth brought the meeting back to the agenda. ‘What have you
arranged for poster distribution David?’
‘The campaign team will meet the three of us in our campaign room at
eleven thirty tomorrow morning and you can give the troops a team talk as it
were. The posters will be distributed then.’ David paused to accept
Annabelle’s offer of another wine. ‘I myself will put up the John Street posters
first thing in the morning.’
Elizabeth nodded.
David continued. ‘Then I want to prepare a few of our campaign team
to ask you questions at the Heckling Meeting. Mainly to give you more time to
expand your own policies, because you will find that the time allotted for
speaking is actually quite limited.’
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Annabelle looked pleased. ‘Good tactic David. I would never have
thought of that.’
David in turn looked pleased at Annabelle’s compliment. ‘We will use
the second Heckling Meeting to have a go at the opposition because by that
time we will know exactly what they are running on.’
Annabelle sipped her wine. ‘It is a pity that we can’t get a hold of their
handouts in advance.’
David suddenly reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and found
the copy of Bill’s handout. He gave it to Elizabeth who read through it with
Annabelle looking over her shoulder.
Annabelle whistled when she read the policy on proportional
representation. ‘Nice one Bill. The guy is not a total gobshite after all.’
Elizabeth agreed. ‘Unfortunately there is no way we can get a hold of
Christopher’s handouts. Speaking from experience they will not be printed
until the night before they are due to go out. Even more so this year as they
have the United Left’s printing presses on the premises, so to speak.’
Annabelle interrupted her. ‘We also have that option Elizabeth darling.’
‘Only with the handouts Annabelle. Alisdair can change the posters as
he pleases as well.’
Elizabeth said her last remark in such a way that David was in no doubt
that she was still not happy with his unilateral decision on her posters. It had
suddenly occurred to her what Alisdair had said about maintaining her power
of veto. So far she had been given no say in the posters or on Annabelle’s
editorial for Telegraph. Tom was going to go mad at the link between
Christopher and Frank Green, but he had asked for it. She decided that it
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was time to come the heavy hand on anything that she did not like. She
started with Annabelle first.
‘I want you to take the reference to Frank Green out of your editorial
Annabelle please. I presume there is a news article on him helping the police
with their enquiries anyway?’
Annabelle looked at her strangely, but nodded anyway.
‘Bill Cowie will make a meal of the whole issue at tomorrow’s Heckling
Meeting. Let him face Tom’s wrath. If you, and Tom will know it was you,
bring it up in the editorial, he will look on it as unnecessary mudslinging, and
then look out!’
David Thompson nodded his agreement. Annabelle looked suitably
sheepish.
‘Now get on to the Strathclyde Telegraph office right now Annabelle
and tell them to change the editorial, and while you are there Annabelle, get
someone to bring over a copy of tomorrow’s handout so that I can see it and
approve it.
David tried to become peacemaker when Annabelle was on the phone
in the kitchen. ‘Now, now Elizabeth. Annabelle and I have both got your
interests at heart. Just because you think I screwed up on the slogan, there is
no need to take it out on Annabelle.
Elizabeth laughed and kissed David on the cheek. ‘Don’t you think it is
better that I have a go at Annabelle than let Tom loose on her? After all, they
have only just become an item; I want them to continue being one.’
§§A§§
Alisdair was in plenty of time to set up the Union for the Sunday night
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Folk Club but as he walked up the hill in John Street he noticed a black Rover
parked in the entrance ramp to the maintenance area of the Union a few feet
before the entrance steps up to the main door. The Rover was unusual in that
it had tinted windows. As he approached the car, the back passenger door
opened and he saw ‘Mr Smith’ beckon him into the car. The door shut quickly
behind him. There were two other men in the car, both sitting in front. Neither
of them spoke but Alisdair could feel the driver’s eyes on him through the rear
view mirror.
‘We raided the holiday camp this morning Alisdair, but unfortunately out
two birds had flown the coop. We did find this though.’ Commander Ingle
produced a photocopy of what appeared to be a drawing. From the creases
in the copy it looked as if the original had been crumpled up. ‘Is this a sketch
of part of the Union?’
Alisdair studied it carefully. As there was nothing written on it he
looked at it from all angles. Suddenly he made the connection.
‘I am nearly positive it is the SRC offices and the Exec offices.’ Alisdair
handed the paper back to Commander Ingle the correct way round.
A faint smile crossed Commander Ingle’s lips. It all tied in with the
Under Secretary of State’s visit to the Union on Tuesday night. What had
started out as a disastrous day as far as catching the two IRA terrorists was
concerned had turned into a brilliant stroke of luck in that he now knew where
and when they would probably strike next.
He knew for sure the two bombers had been in the camp early on
Saturday night as that was when they had learned from the camp manager’s
wife when she had opened up the staff bar that her husband had been asked
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to help the police with some enquiries they were making.
Traces of explosives and bomb making equipment had been found in
the Ghost Train in the fairground. Several carefully prepared and hidden
openings had also been found in the perimeter fence.
Ingles had been sure that as the terrorists had not disappeared after
the original bombing of Frazers that they were going for a second attack. His
sources had also pointed to the Under Secretary of State for Scotland as the
target. The drawing they had found confirmed everything.
Commander Ingles smiled at the alarm on Alisdair’s face. ‘I can assure
you that no bomb will go off in the Union. There is a chance that they may be
trying to create an incident with the Under Secretary of State for Scotland who
is scheduled to speak in your Union on Tuesday night.’
Alisdair looked even more shocked. ‘You mean they might try to kill
him?’
Commander Ingles answered Alisdair’s question, this time without the
smile. ‘The usual security precautions taken for a Cabinet Minister will be
upgraded, dare I say, to an alarming degree. But neither you, nor anyone
else in the building, will be aware that anything out of the ordinary is going on,
but it will be extremely thorough. We have already begun as you will find out
later tonight.’
Alisdair watched the Rover speed away as he opened the main doors
to the Union. The whole situation was totally unreal, like something out of an
Ian Fleming novel. Any moment now he expected to see Sean Connery
dressed in the Head Porter’s uniform!’
As he shut the doors he glanced at the clock above the lifts. It was
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seven fifteen. He looked closely at the Head Porter, just to see if it was Sean
Connery, who was on duty behind the desk and asked him politely to turn off
the lifts.
His next job was to set up the card checkpoint on the Mezzanine
landing before bounding up the four flights of stairs to the top floor.
The Assembly Hall was locked. The rooms on the third floor were all
locked with the exception of the Muirhead Lounge. Alisdair knocked on the
door and went in. The room was empty. The Refectory on the second floor
was also locked.
On the first floor Alisdair found the Council Offices empty, the Exec
Offices locked, the McIntyre Lounge empty, the Athletic Club Offices locked
and the TV Lounge and the Snooker Room both empty. There were two
students in the Beer Bar both of whom had tickets for the Folk Club.
Alisdair met a further three students on the stairway as he descended
to the Mezzanine floor. None of them were going to the Folk Club so Alisdair
relieved them of their Union cards.
As the Union was treated as licensed premises it was subject to the
local licensing laws and as such, the Beer Bar, if there was no late license in
place, had to close at ten o’clock, and Alisdair had to ensure that the students
who were not going to the Folk Club, which had a function license, were off
the premises just after ten. That was the reason behind collecting Union
cards.
His last port of call was the Mezzanine Lounge itself where the Folk
Club was taking place. A lone barman was behind the temporary bar set up
at the cafeteria counter. The Humblebums had arrived and were getting their
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equipment set up with Christopher’s help. When Christopher saw Alisdair he
came over.
‘How goes it Chris? Nervous about tomorrow?’
Christopher grinned. ‘As a matter of fact I bloody am Alisdair. I have
not had a lot of experience in speaking in public, except for Council meetings
and the odd debate or two. These Heckling Meetings are a bit worrying.’
‘No need to worry Chris. You know what you are talking about, you are
well prepared, and more importantly, you are well liked.’
Alisdair broke off to check that two students who had entered the
Mezzanine had tickets for the function.
‘Anyway, Tom will be on stage with you and I will be sitting on one of
the window seats where you can see me.’ Christopher looked at Alisdair
quizzically. ‘I can signal you to slow down if I think you are speaking too fast
or vice versa if I think you are running out of time.’
Christopher laughed. ‘Tom and you think of all the angles don’t you?’
The Head Porter interrupted their conversation with a tannoy call for
Alisdair and Christopher to go immediately to the Porters Desk.
‘I have just had a phone call from the Union Manager lads. The police
want to check the Union out tonight as we are having a visit from the Under
Secretary of State on Tuesday night. He asks that we shut everything by
twelve at the latest.’
Christopher nodded. ‘No problem Willie. The lads expect to finish just
after eleven anyway.’
Alisdair went back to the checkpoint. Students were arriving in large
numbers for the Folk Club so he was kept quite busy. The Humblebums were
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rapidly acquiring a reputation both for their music and for the chat from the big
bearded banjo player.
When the Folk Club started Alisdair took the box with the few Union
cards he had collected back to the Porters Desk. For the rest of the evening
the Head Porter would collect the Union Cards, but Alisdair didn’t expect
many more arrivals. As he was chatting to the Head Porter, Bill Cowie came
into the Union. He showed his Folk Club ticket to Alisdair.
‘You could have saved yourself the trouble and expense Bill.’ Alisdair
nodded to the roll of what, to him, were obviously Bill’s campaign posters
under his arm. ‘The Union has to be cleared before twelve.’
Bill Cowie did not look amused. He had gone to the trouble of visiting
the Returning Officer at his house to get the posters stamped and signed
knowing that he could put them up after the Folk Club which normally ended
around midnight.
Alisdair smiled at the expression on Bill’s face. ‘It is your own fault Bill.
If you hadn’t lined up the Under Secretary of State for your debate, you could
have put your posters up just after midnight and Willie here wouldn’t miss out
on a night’s sleep.’
Bill muttered something to himself as he walked slowly up the stairs to
the Mezzanine Lounge.
Tom suddenly burst through the Union doors. Like Bill, he too was
carrying a roll of posters. ‘Sorry I‘m late Alisdair, but I had to go to Terry
Pritchard’s flat to get him to sign these bloody things.’
Tom handed the roll to Alisdair who hid them under the counter. He
then pulled out his pipe and a set of keys. ‘I have Terry’s keys to get the
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Union stamp out of his office for the posters, but we can do that later. First I
will give you the pleasure of buying me a pint.’
Alisdair looked around the Beer Bar as he ordered two pints. How
quiet it was after the excesses of Charities Week.
‘You seem to be in a good mood Tom. Obviously we have everything
in place for tomorrow.’
Tom nodded as he made smoke from his pipe. ‘The handouts are in
my car outside, as are the rest of the posters, and the lapel badges.’ He took
a swig of his Export as he looked around the Beer Bar. ‘Ron will put up the
Pitt Street posters first thing in the morning.’
Tom pointed to one of the steering wheel stickers on the bar. ‘We
should get rid of these now, at least the ones on permanent surfaces. We
wouldn’t want to get done for election malpractice.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘Not on the first day at least!’
Tom changed the subject. ‘Ron has been giving me a bit of grief about
next month’s Exec elections. I said that our team would offer him any
assistance. He seemed quite pleased with that.’ Tom pressed down lightly
with his knife on the glowing tobacco in his pipe. ‘What I didn’t tell him was
that you and I are retiring from actively campaigning on Friday morning,
probably around one o’clock when they throw us out of the Presidential post
election party!’
‘I take it then that we are officially going to let the Fun-Fun Club take
over.’
Tom nodded. ‘They have worked well for us over the last few years, it
is now time to let them off the leash and cut their teeth on the Exec.’
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Alisdair emptied his pint. ‘Have you had any thoughts on who we
should put up for the Exec?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders and then broke into a broad grin as he
looked directly at Alisdair. ‘Are you setting me up again? You have already
lined someone up for next year’s President, haven’t you?’
Alisdair nodded and gave Tom his empty pint glass. ‘Same again son.’
‘Well?’ said Tom when he returned from the bar.
Alisdair prolonged the agony as he took a drink from his lager. ‘Rab
McDonald, but we don’t have to put him on the Exec. We let him sit on a few
minor but strategic Council committees to build up his knowledge of how the
Union works, but I think he would be better placed as Charities Convenor at
Buccleuch Street.’
Tom puffed at his pipe and then roared with laughter. ‘That is a fucking
brilliant idea Alisdair. The United Left, if they still exist after we are finished
with them, will be looking for next year’s Presidential candidate on the Exec,
and all the time he is sitting offshore. And then a week or two weeks before
the Presidential, he is up to his armpits in publicity berating the public to put
their hands in their pockets for charity.’ Tom laughed out loud. ‘As I said
before, you are fucking brilliant Alisdair!’
At ten minutes past ten Tom helped Alisdair clear the Beer Bar. They
then collected Christopher’s posters from the Porters Desk and stamped them
in the President’s Office. At eleven thirty the Folk Club ended and in the next
twenty minutes they had ushered everyone out of the building, keeping a
special eye on Bill Cowie to make sure he left before twelve.
Once the Union was cleared they quickly hung their posters in the
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positions occupied by those advertising the Folk Club. When they eventually
came back to the ground floor they found six men in blue overalls unloading
equipment from the back of an unmarked van parked directly on the double
yellow lines outside the Union.
Tom lit his pipe. ‘Come on Alisdair. Can I suggest that we both avail
ourselves of the Heavy Duty member’s late night taxi and I will leave my car
here. I have had rather a lot to drink today.’
§§A§§
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Chapter 8 – Monday 7th February
It was a miserable Monday morning. The sky was pitch dark and the
rain was falling in sheets. Elizabeth could not even see the trees in Maxwell
Park. She could hear the swish of car tyres on the rain sodden road outside
her bed-sit. She shivered as she wrapped her dressing gown around her
tightly. She had still not decided what to wear. A few choices of clothes lay
on the unmade bed.
The room was still chilly despite the meagre efforts of the one-element
gas fire that she had switched on ten minutes earlier before going into the
shared bathroom to shower.
Her speech lay on the dressing table in front of her. She had
memorised most of it and was trying to rework the closing sentences in her
mind to leave a more lasting impression with her audience. She smiled as
she made a note in the margin of page two of her speech. She would have to
raise the level of her voice following her most controversial policy or her voice
would be lost in the uproar she expected from the audience, especially the
Fun-Fun Club. It was a trick she had learned from Tom last year.
Elizabeth looked at her watch. It was twenty past seven. Alisdair
would be in the shower about now. How she wished she were with him.
Instead she picked up the phone and dialled his number. After eight rings it
was answered.
Elizabeth giggled as she said, ‘Has it shrivelled up in the shower
lover?’
‘No. I was giving it a really hard wash while I was thinking of you.’
Elizabeth blushed.
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‘Are you all set for today?’ Alisdair asked.
‘Except for a really punchy ending to my speech.’ Elizabeth paused.
‘And what I should wear.’
‘The speech part is easy. Just tell everyone to vote for Chris Moore.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘As for what you should wear. I suggest sexy underwear for
me and a tweed skirt, a twin set and a set of pearls for your Tory supporters.’
‘I bet you wouldn’t say that if I was your candidate.’
‘You are my candidate Liz, and always will be no matter what the
outcome of the election is.’
‘You are smoother than silk Alisdair Graham.’ There was a tremble in
Elizabeth’s voice. It had been a lovely thing to say to her. ‘I love you.’
§§A§§
‘Why are you listening to that awful pop music Christopher instead of
practising your speech?’ Christopher Moore’s mother placed a full breakfast
in front of her son, bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding and fried bread.
Radio One blared out from the stereo in Christopher’s room which was across
the hall from the kitchen.
Christopher dearly loved his mother but sometimes she drove him to
distraction with her fussing.
‘I don’t use written speeches mum.’ Christopher explained. ‘I know
what I am talking about on this one and as usual I will be using cue cards.’
‘Well. Why are you not checking through them?’ She poured her son
a cup of freshly brewed tea.
Christopher metaphorically raised his eyebrows to the ceiling as if
seeking divine intervention.
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‘Because Tom is looking over them.’
‘Such a nice boy that Tom Shearer. Always so well mannered and
polite.’ Mrs Moore wiped the top of her cooker for the third time in as many
minutes. ‘I don’t really agree with him smoking at his age, but the pipe does
give him an authoritative air.’
Christopher laughed as he finished his breakfast. ‘You should see him
on the rugby pitch mum. Even without his pipe he can stamp his authority.
Sometimes to the point of physically driving some poor sod’s face into the
mud.’
Mrs Moore looked hard at her son. ‘Language Christopher! You know
we didn’t bring you up to use bad language like that!’
§§A§§
It was eight thirty in the morning and Bill Cowie was as angry as the
Returning Officer had ever seen him. Not anger for effect, but real anger.
‘Those steering wheel stickers are the same colour as Christopher
Moore’s posters. You have to pull him in front of the Election Tribunal.’ Bill
was nearly foaming at the mouth. ‘It is a clear contravention of the House
Rules on posters.’
The Returning Officer stood up and leaned across the desk. During
the Presidential and the Executive Elections he used the Vice President’s
Office. His bulky six foot two frame temporarily blocked the light from the
window out. His bushy black beard bristled a few inches from Bill’s face.
‘Mr Cowie. There is no mention of Christopher Moore’s name on the
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stickers, there is no mention of the Presidential Election on the stickers, and
the stickers themselves do not constitute a poster. Read the House Rules
properly.’ He sat back down, his point clearly made. ‘That is my decision on
this matter Mr Cowie.’
His voice noticeably softened as he added. ‘It looks like you have been
gazumped Bill. Tom Shearer has drawn first blood again this year.’
A glint of triumph came to Bill’s eye. ‘So you agree that it was Chris’s
campaign that put them up?’
The Returning Officer gave Bill a withering look.
Bill knew that he was winning this discussion at last. ‘Another thing.
Chris Moore’s posters were up when I came in this morning, and I was the
first person in this Union, and they had been signed by the President and not
you.’ Bill looked smugly at the Returning Officer. ‘I think it is a case of vested
interest having Alisdair Graham on Heavy Duty during election week.’
The Returning Officer shook his head. ‘Bill, you are grasping at straws
now. It is perfectly legal for the President or any other member of the Exec to
sign posters in addition to myself.’ He paused as the door opened. It was
David Thompson.
The Returning Officer motioned for David to have a seat. ‘As for
claiming vested interest against Alisdair for being on Heavy Duty this week?
It is just a coincidence.’
David laughed. ‘How coincidental is it that Alisdair has been on Heavy
Duty for the last three Presidentials?’
Bill’s jaw dropped. ‘You have got to be kidding David!’
David shook his head. It was something that Elizabeth had mentioned
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in passing, but when he had checked the Union records he found it to be true.
‘I do agree with you Bill, about Alisdair and Tom manipulating the rules, but
does it really matter? Elections are changing. Campaign style is not so
important nowadays. As long as you have the policies to put to the students.’
Bill thought about what David had said as he watched him turn up the
corners of Elizabeth’s posters for the Returning Officer to sign and stamp. He
noticed that, like his own, they had been professionally printed.
‘I like your philosophy David. Very similar to my own actually.’
David Thompson smiled at Bill. ‘As I said bonny lad, if you have the
policies?’
§§A§§
With only an hour to go to the Heckling Meeting, Elizabeth was glad of
the get together with her campaign team. Nerves were starting to play up in
her stomach, and she felt slightly sick. She had never spoken in such a large
forum before. Christopher did it all the time when he introduced acts on stage
on a Saturday night, and it was second nature to Bill. Both would be in their
element in front of a crowded Assembly Hall.
David had already complimented her on her choice of outfit, smart,
sensible and in the colours of his home football team, Newcastle United. After
much deliberation, Elizabeth had chosen a white jumper and a mid-calf black
skirt with black suede boots. She had thought about tying her hair back off
her face but Annabelle had persuaded her to leave it in its natural state as it
gave her a softer, more feminine, look.
Annabelle had even managed to procure three real Tory blue rosettes
for herself, David and Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s lapel stickers fitted neatly in the
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middle of the rosettes and the effect had a professional look about it.
David called the meeting to order. None of the dozen or so students
present in the room used the plastic chairs that he had laid out. They were all
too eager to get started. David had already allocated each of the students a
particular building on the John Street or Pit Street campuses, as well as the
Halls of Residence. A pile of posters and the first day handouts for each
building lay on the table in front of David.
‘Thank you all for coming this morning. We really appreciate your
help.’ He indicated the piles of publicity material on the table. ‘These are the
posters for your particular building and today’s handouts. The posters will
stay up for the whole week. If you need anymore due to accidental damage
or vandalism just give me a call here in the Union and I will make them
available to you.’
David didn’t notice Elizabeth looking up at the ceiling and shaking her
head when he mentioned the posters.
‘We will issue a different handout every day, except tomorrow, and I
would be grateful if you could all pick them up from me in here between eight
and eight thirty each morning.’
David laughed as he noticed the stunned look on a few of the student’s
faces. ‘Yes, there are two eight o’clocks in the one day.’ He turned to
Elizabeth to introduce her. ‘I now give you your winning candidate, Elizabeth
Livingston, to say a few words.’
There was loud applause for Elizabeth as she took David’s place
behind the table. She smiled as the clapping died away.
Taking a deep breath she opened the first speech of the campaign.
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‘Like David, I’ll start off by thanking all of you all for helping me. David didn’t
introduce himself or the other person who has helped me set up this
campaign. David Thompson, as you may have guessed is the Campaign
Manager, and Annabelle Jones is in charge of preparing and printing the
handouts. So if any of you have your own ideas for improving my campaign
publicity, have a word with Annabelle or David.’
She paused to look around the room at the eager faces of her
supporters. ‘Essentially I have two main policies. I believe that it is financially
viable to build a new Union with the help of the University, despite what you
may hear to the contrary from the other two candidates. I have researched
the economics of this place in depth and have formulated a package that
should be acceptable to the University Court.’
There was a murmur of approval amongst the students. Previous
candidates had promised a new Union but had never delivered a financial
breakdown on how it could be achieved.
‘My other main policy concerns staff-student relations. For too long we
have lived in an ivory tower here in Strathclyde. We need to integrate with
society more, as we do during Charities Week. We have one of the most
technologically advanced universities in the area, so we should use this
expertise to benefit local industry. Research grants should focus on the
immediate needs of local companies and not just for the sake of research.’
The applause, which followed, was both spontaneous and warm.
Elizabeth felt much more relaxed. She had not got flustered or tongue-tied.
‘Once again, I thank you all for coming. David, I believe now wants to
speak to a few of you individually to coach you in several questions you will
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ask me at the Heckling Meeting.’
She then shook hands with every student in the room. After all, they
were her team.
After the students had departed, David asked Elizabeth. ‘How do you
feel now Elizabeth? Still nervous about the Heckling Meeting?’
‘Not now David. That little speech was just what I needed to calm me
down.’
David put his arm around her shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of
support. ‘Good. Now let’s grab a cup of coffee in the Mezzanine before we
go up to the Assembly Hall.’
§§A§§
At the same time, but across John Street in the Frederick Street Annex,
Christopher Moore was preparing to address his troops.
Tom sat with Christopher at the table. As usual Tom looked relaxed
and confident. His tie was still knotted and the top button of his shirt was still
buttoned. Christopher on the other hand looked a bundle of nerves as he
played with his cue cards for the Heckling Meeting.
Tom had insisted the Christopher chair the meeting and suggested that
he should start his speech off by introducing the members of the campaign
team. Tom could see that the thirty or so students in the room were eager for
the meeting to start. He lightly tapped Christopher on the elbow.
A loud cheer greeted Christopher as he stood up. He flashed his
trademark cheeky grin at the audience. He was a natural performer once he
got started.
‘Welcome to the world of winners ladies and gentlemen.’ Christopher
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began his speech. ‘As The Man Behind the Wheel I obviously need a set of
wheels to get this show on the road, and as with any Formula 1 team we have
a great team in the pits.’
The students laughed at Christopher’s analogy.
‘The head of the pits, or the chief mechanic as he would prefer to be
known, is Tom Shearer.’
Most of the students booed good-naturedly.
Christopher quickly adlibbed. ‘I see his reputation in past elections
precedes him. As with any car our machinery needs a supply of high-octane
fuel in the form of posters and handouts. Ron Flowers, at the back of the
room there, is the man who supplies these items.’
Christopher paused before continuing. ‘The other member of the team
is Alisdair Graham, but what he actually does quite escapes me for the
moment.’
As Christopher had intended, the moment was ripe for suggestions
from the audience. ‘Maybe he could write your speeches for you?’
‘It’s the University Court I want to be on, not the Magistrate’s Court!’
Applause and laughter greeted Christopher’s reply.
‘Now back to the matter in hand.’ Christopher adopted a more serious
tone. ‘I have been accused of wanting to maintain the status quo in our
Union. If it was up to me I would have them playing here every Saturday
night! But I truly believe that our Union is a place where students should be
able to relax, have some fun, and have freedom to engage in any legal
activity.’ Christopher could not resist a joke. ‘That includes what goes on in
the snooker room on a Saturday night.’
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The short speech which followed neatly summarised why Christopher
was standing, without giving anything away to any of his opposition’s
supporters who he knew may have infiltrated he meeting.
Tom took his cue as Christopher sat down to warm applause.
Tom’s contribution to the meeting was completely business-like. He
told the students where and when they could collect their daily ration of
posters and handouts. He had a few words of caution though on how they
should conduct themselves.
‘I do not want any of our posters to go anywhere else other than the
positions we have already earmarked. Any other hanging of posters will be
organised through Ron or me. I do not want to have to answer to the Election
Tribunal on something as trivial as fly posting.’
Tom finished by asking the students to arrange with their lecturers to
allow Christopher a few minutes to talk to their students and get back to him
as soon as possible so that he could timetable this very important
electioneering ploy. It was now a standard electioneering tool, and had been
thought up by Alisdair two years ago.
Ron quickly came over to Alisdair after Tom’s speech had finished. He
looked agitated. ‘I think that Elizabeth’s slogan has been used before in an
American election Alisdair.’
Alisdair nodded and shook Ron’s hand. ‘In which case, there is
probably a put-down answer to it. I will spend some time in the Library this
afternoon and see if I can find it.’
Before Ron could offer his help, Tom came over and asked him to
distribute the day’s handouts. Tom took a piece of paper out of his pocket
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and handed it to Alisdair.
‘This is a copy of the Strathclyde Telegraph‟s editorial which will hit the
news stands tomorrow Alisdair. It does not make pretty reading.’
Alisdair frowned as he read the article, especially the paragraph about
Frank Greene being arrested and his close links with Christopher’s campaign.
It was a classic stabbing the opposition in the back.
He gave the paper back to Tom. ‘Pretty heavy stuff son. Not one that
we can easily counter.’
Tom puffed at his pipe seriously. ‘We do not know for sure that Frank
Green has been arrested or is just helping with enquiries. I sincerely hope it
is the latter and then we should be able to salvage something from the
situation.’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders. ‘We will just have to sit on it until we
know something more definite. In the meantime, I suggest that we take
Christopher for a pint. Ron can finish up here.’
Tom nodded. He watched as Ron organised the group of students
who had volunteered to give out the handouts. ‘Ron is the only good thing to
have come out of this unholy alliance.’
§§A§§
The Assembly Hall was packed by the time Alisdair reached it and the
entrance doors were more or less blocked by students trying to get into the
Hall. The hold up was mainly due to two members of the United Left selling
copies of the Socialist Worker. Declining the offer to buy one, Alisdair made
his way across the hall to the middle window seat at the left hand side of the
stage. By chance Rab was sitting there and he squeezed in beside him.
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The lectern, from where the candidates would speak, had been
positioned up stage left directly in line with where Alisdair was sitting. The
three candidates, and the President whose duty it was to chair the meeting,
were already seated at the table in the middle of the stage. The candidate’s
posters were stuck on the back wall of the stage.
Tom and David Thompson were sitting behind their respective
candidates. Bill Cowie’s campaign manager’s seat was empty.
Alisdair managed to make eye contact with Tom. Tom leant forward
and pointed Alisdair out to Christopher. Christopher gave Alisdair the thumbs
up.
Rab nudged Alisdair. ‘Planning on doing a bit of prompting, are you?’
Alisdair laughed. ‘Now would I do that Rab?’
‘Probably.’ Was all that Rab said.
The body of the Hall was awash with fluorescent green balloons
courtesy of the Fun-Fun Club. Alisdair tried to estimate the support for each
of the candidates by the looking at the colours of the lapel badges the
members of the audience were wearing. It looked about evens between
Elizabeth and Christopher with Bill a poor third. Alisdair knew that
Christopher had the edge, as the United Left contingent wouldn’t think it cool
to wear lapel badges other than pictures of Mao, Lenin and Trotsky.
The noise level in the Hall fell slightly as Terry Pritchard rose to his feet
once all the students had made it into the Hall. The clock above the entrance
doors read ten minutes past one. Terry banged his gavel loudly on the block.
The loudspeakers hummed into life as the PA amp was switched on.
‘Members of the Association. Welcome to the first of two hustings
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meetings of this year’s Presidential Election.’
The volume level of the PA system decreased as the audience fell
silent.
‘Firstly, I would like to introduce you to this year’s candidates. On my
extreme right is Miss Elizabeth Livingstone.’
The political analogy was not lost on either Tom or Alisdair; by the wink
Tom gave Alisdair. The student’s initial reaction to Elizabeth was a chorus of
wolf whistles.
‘Miss Livingstone is a fourth year Civil Engineering student and
currently President of the Muirhead.’
‘What kind of head?’ The comment came from the Fun-Fun Club.
Terry ignored the comment and continued. ‘Next to Miss Livingstone is
Mr. Christopher Moore who is our Entertainments Convenor and is in his third
year at Pitt Street studying Law.’
Christopher smiled broadly as a chant of ‘Busby. Busby’ went up from
the Fun-Fun Club.
When Terry turned to Bill Cowie who was seated on his left, the Fun-
Fun Club went berserk with drums and kazoos. Bill rose to his feet and
acknowledged the reception with a low bow to the audience.
It was several minutes before Terry could regain control of the noisy
audience. The Fun-Fun Clubs enthusiastic welcome for Bill soon spread
throughout the rest of the students in the audience. Calm was eventually
restored with much gavel banging.
‘Mr. William Cowie is a third year Chemistry student and currently holds
the position of Debates Convenor.’
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Someone in the midst of the Fun-Fun Club shouted. ‘He is also a
gobshite!’
‘That may be the case sir, but he is a legitimate Presidential candidate.’
Terry’s reply was more tongue in cheek than serious. ‘If we have sufficient
time after the candidates’ speeches we will have questions from the floor. It
only remains for me to ask you all to give the candidates a fair crack of the
whip when they are making their speeches.’
Terry sat down and nodded to Elizabeth.
Despite her being the opposition, Alisdair smiled proudly as he
watched Elizabeth make her way to the lectern, which displayed the colourful
red, gold and blue Association crest on the front panel.
The initial reception from the audience was a mixture of applause, wolf
whistles, and a faint chorus of the ‘Engineer’s Song’. One of the students
shouted. ‘She can crack my whip any time.’
Elizabeth smiled nervously at the audience as she waited for them to
quieten down. She had not spoken a word yet knowing that the green light on
the lectern would not go on until she did so. She made a show of looking at
her watch. The Hall quietened enough for her to begin her speech.
‘There has been a certain philosophy held by several senior members
of the Students Representative Council that if there is no increase in the price
of pie and peas in the Beer Bar then all is well in the Union.’
Alisdair looked at Tom. His face was as grim as granite as he made
smoke from his pipe.
‘In the words of Ebenezer Scrooge, I say humbug to that philosophy.
Strathclyde University leads the way in Scotland in technical innovation and I
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say that it’s Union should follow suit and dump for ever such an archaic
yardstick for the quality of service we provide in the Union, and the
opportunities we on the Student Representative Council provide to you, the
members of the Association.’
Rab dug Alisdair in the ribs again as Elizabeth paused to turn the page.
‘Our wee lass is doing well. The audience are actually listening to her.’
Alisdair agreed but replied out of the side of his mouth. ‘No substance
yet son, and if you dunt in me in the ribs again, I’ll fucking slap you!’ Rab
laughed.
‘As students, we have a duty to integrate into the life of the city. Not
just during Charities Week, but for the whole of our stay in Strathclyde. We
are, as yet, an untapped market for the local City centre shops.’
Several of the audience laughed. ‘Typical bloody woman, only
interested in shopping.’
Elizabeth ignored the interruption. ‘One of my policies is for the
Association, as a body, to negotiate with local traders.’ She paused and
looked directly at the Fun-Fun Club. ‘Including Agnews Stores.’
She held up her hand to kill the cheering and quickly continued in a
louder voice.
‘We would negotiate a student discount on presentation of your Union
card. We would then advertise a register, updated regularly, throughout the
Union. This would both inform the students as to which shops are prepared to
give discounts, and it would create free advertising for the shops themselves.
This, as you all know, is a thing which current Council policy prohibits, but that
is for next year’s Executive and Council to change.’
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There was solid applause from all factions of the audience. Alisdair
noticed a faint smile appear on Elizabeth’s highly kissable lips as she glanced
at her notes before continuing.
‘Our Halls of Residence are an absolute disgrace. They have been
neglected by their management boards and, sadly to say, by our own SRC. I
propose that an ad-hoc committee be set up immediately to pressurise the
individual management boards to refurbish and brighten up their premises.
These buildings after all, are the first real contact overseas students have with
Strathclyde.’
Alisdair, to Rab’s amusement, found himself clapping with the rest of
the audience. Tom, however, did not clap. Alisdair noticed him lean forward
and say something to Christopher.
‘Many candidates in the past have promised you a new Union and
have failed, to a man, to even deliver an outline of how this can be achieved.’
Elizabeth held up a bound bundle of papers. ‘I have more than an
outline, I have a fully costed estimate package which will show the University
authorities that we can better manage the funds that they currently allocate to
us, and by simply adding one pence on every pint of beer we sell in the Union,
we can increase that amount of money by as much as thirty percent. With the
money the Union has in its Contingency Fund we could afford extra Union
premises in two years.’
The Fun-Fun Club began to boo and heckle Elizabeth. Tom looked
smug and again leant forward to whisper something to Christopher.
Alisdair looked at the faces of a few students near him who he knew to
be engineers. Despite their calls for the Fun-Fun Club to shut up and give
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Elizabeth a chance, they did not look pleased with what Elizabeth had just
proposed. In the last survey that had been conducted in the Union, the
engineering faculties came top of the list for frequenting the Beer Bar.
Elizabeth had expected this reaction and in a very much louder voice,
pressed on with her speech.
‘There is in my opinion a great deal of wastage in this Union. Indeed
the biggest wasters are Council itself.’
This statement brought loud cheers from most of the students who
often saw Council as being an elite club in the Union.
‘Is she getting at us Rab?’ Asked Alisdair.
Rab smiled. ‘Yes, and everyone else on that stage including herself.’
‘The Executive and Office Bearer’s perks, paid by you, over a year
could more or less pay the Union Manager’s salary.’
The audience were even more intent on what Elizabeth had to say.
The students loved a bit of Council bashing.
‘The cost of the late night taxis for duty Council members runs into
several thousands of pounds a term.’
Elizabeth paused both to let her last statement sink in and to turn the
page. She leant on the lectern and looked directly at the section of the
audience, which contained the Fun-Fun Club who formed the biggest part of
the Union’s Entertainment Committee.
‘The biggest single item of expenditure we have as a Union, apart from
staff salaries and catering, is for Entertainments. Do we really need a big
name group every Saturday night to pull people into the Union? It is not only
their fees we have to pay for, we also have to pay for equipment hire in most
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cases. The Queen Margaret Union is packed every single weekend and they
only have local bands.’
The Fun-Fun Club was in quickly with their reply. ‘That’s because it is
full of non-Glasgow students looking for a bit of totty.’
Elizabeth again ignored heir remarks and put both hands on the edge
of the lectern.
‘In conclusion, members of the Association, I think you will agree with
me that by voting for me on Thursday you will send the message that it is time
for Council to get it’s act into gear, get away from the pie and peas mentality,
and move our Union forward financially. I know that my policy on an extra
pence a pint will not be to everyone’s liking but the savings you personally will
make through the discount register will easily offset the meagre increase.’
Elizabeth relaxed visibly as she wound up her conclusion.
‘As a direct result of my policies we would, not could, end up with a
new Union we have asked for repeatedly for so long. Thank you for listening
to me ladies and gentlemen.’
Loud applause greeted the end of Elizabeth’s speech. A few hard line
members of the Tory Club even gave her a standing ovation. Alisdair was
impressed by the way she had delivered her speech and by the work she had
put into the content. He managed to catch her eye as she sat down and blew
her a kiss. Elizabeth blushed.
‘Well! What do you think Rab? Marks out of ten?’
Rab thought for a moment. ‘Eight. I would take one off for the
increase in beer price, and another one off for her comments on
Entertainments. It has given Christopher the opening to blow her away.’
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Alisdair nodded in agreement. It was a fair assessment, but he was
still not sure about the validity of the discount register. It would cause fierce
debate in the ad-hoc Constitutional Committee over the next few months if
she were to get elected.
Terry had just sat down after announcing Bill Cowie.
Alisdair smiled to himself as Bill strode purposefully up to the lectern
and held his arms over his head like a boxing champion and announced.
‘Hello. I am Bill Cowie.’
The green light on the lectern lit up and the students in the hall went
berserk. Balloons were let fly by the Fun-Fun Club and a full-blown kazoo
band played Flower of Scotland. Shouts of ‘Vomit Vomit’ were soon taken up
by most of the audience. One member of the Fun-Fun Club walked up to the
stage with a green dustbin and handed it to Bill who made a dramatic show of
accepting it. Bill even wasted more time by shaking hands with several
students in the front row of the audience.
Alisdair looked at Tom who was grinning from ear to ear. Bill’s
escapades on Friday had been orchestrated for just this to happen.
Bill waited patiently for the mayhem to subside. When it eventually did,
it had taken up a good three minutes of his allotted ten minutes.
The opening of his speech was warm but considered. Turning to look
at Elizabeth, he said. ‘I most wholeheartedly agree with my learned colleague
and her statement of graft and corruption in high places.’
Bill turned full on to the audience and carried on in a more sinister tone.
‘One aspect of Union finances that she failed to mention, probably as it
is dear to her boyfriend’s candidate’s heart, are the subsidies given to clubs
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and societies by the Union. The United Left, for example, is united only when
it comes to getting handouts. All of them are members of the five ultra-left
wing societies in the Union. That is five times the amount of subsidies for
each of them.’
Bill leaned on the lectern and announced casually. ‘One wonders how
much of this money has gone to the IRA, thanks to Frank Green.’
This remark brought a tirade of abuse from the United Left section of
the audience, which Bill totally ignored with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
‘Or, one wonders, how much of it has found its way into their
candidate’s election campaign expenses, now that he is a member of the
Communist Party?’ Bill turned round and looked hard at Christopher as if
challenging him to answer the allegation during his speech..
Tom casually laid his hand on Christopher’s shoulder as a sign for him
not to rise to the bait.
Alisdair this time nudged Rab in the ribs. ‘Your man is certainly not
taking any prisoners today son.’
Rab grinned at Alisdair. ‘Nope. You didn’t really expect anything else,
did you?’
Bill continued his tirade. ‘This is just another example of the
underhandedness of the United Left. Rather than come out in the open and
put up their own candidate, who thankfully would not stand a chance with
such a thinking upright electorate as you, they attach themselves like leeches
to a winning team, the Shearer / Graham dream team. Both of who, if you
read last week’s Strathclyde Telegraph, are the real rulers of this Union. Mr.
Moore, like Mr. Pritchard, is just another of their puppets. Shearer and
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Graham have their fingers in more pies, with or without peas, than Greggs the
bakers have.’
Alisdair had to give credit to Bill for his delivery. His last remark had
brought laughter from the audience. It lightened what, up to now, had been a
vitriolic attack on Christopher’s campaign.
‘I again commend Miss Livingstone for also highlighting the stagnation
in our Students Representative Council. Unfortunately, due to her lack of
experience, she has left herself wide open with her comments on the costs of
groups. Mr. Moore no doubt will counter her argument with facts and figures
of the NUS sponsored group circuit, and about how much profit it brings into
the Union.’
Bill turned his eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of despair.
‘The NUS! What do you think of the NUS?’ Bill paused for effect. ‘I’ll
tell you what I think. They have almost as much say in the day to day running
of this Union as Shearer and Graham, and a lot more say than you, the
members of the Association!’
Bill thumped the lectern theatrically. The audience quietened.
‘I for one have had enough of professional left wing agitators in London
telling me what I can do and what I cannot do in my own Union. We need
change. We need to put up two fingers to the English based NUS. We need
to reconstitute SUS, ladies and gentlemen.’
The reaction from the students in the body of the hall was just exactly
what Alisdair and Tom hoped it would be. Derisive laughter coupled with a
seemingly unstoppable chant of ‘Vomit Vomit’.
Bill tried hard to be heard over the noise.
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‘Tomorrow’s Association Meeting is a classic case in point. The NUS
wants us to join the TUC, which means we would be forced to go out on strike
any time the TUC want a show of solidarity with a group of miners in Barnsley
or wherever.’
The red light on the lectern flashed. Bill looked quickly at his watch.
He was out of time. Terry Pritchard asked the hall for quiet whilst Bill made
his closing remarks.
The audience quietened slightly for Bill to say. ‘A vote for me on
Thursday is a vote for common sense.’
The derisive boos and catcalls from the Fun-Fun Club continued non-
stop until Bill had sat down. Alisdair could see that Bill was mad with himself
for running out of time.
The boos and catcalls for Bill turned to cheers as Christopher
approached the lectern.
Christopher, like Elizabeth, did not utter one word until the audience
has quietened.
‘Seven out of ten.’ Alisdair said to Rab. ‘Two for his SUS thing and
one more for running out of time.’
Rab nodded. ‘I think you are being kind to him Alisdair. He never
mentioned any of the other things he has in his handouts.’
‘They are just red herrings Rab. The SUS idea is his main, and only,
policy.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Rab, ‘some of them are good.’
Christopher picked up the microphone from the fixed stand on the
lectern. Not only was he the tallest candidate, and hence would have had to
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bend over the lectern, he was also more used to using it free hand.
‘Mr. President, fellow candidates, members of the Association.’
Christopher as usual began his speech very formally. ‘There is one point I
agree with somewhere in Mr. Cowie’s speech. And that is. Outside politics
and political bodies should have no say in how we, and I emphasise the word
‘we’, go about running our own Union. It is just a pity that the same Mr. Cowie
does not practice what he preaches. I refer of course to his professionally
printed posters, obviously from the Scottish Nationalist Party.’
A loud cheer went up from the Fun-Fun Club.
‘You cannot however exclude politics, no matter what hue it is, from the
Union, any more than you can exclude beer from the Beer Bar.’ Christopher
half turned towards Elizabeth. ‘No matter what price you set it at!’
Elizabeth smiled back at Christopher, his point taken.
‘I would first of all like to get one thing straight. I have been accused of
being the tail being wagged by left wing dogma. I stand here before you all
and categorically deny that I am not, and never have been a member of the
Communist Party.’
Christopher paused to let his denial sink in as he turned his cue cards
on the lectern.
‘I would counter Miss Livingstone’s statement about the cost of groups
on a Saturday night but I will not waste your time with facts and figures which
are a matter of record. It will suffice to say that the profit we make on these
gigs, which is the reason for John Street being so full on a Saturday night,
heavily subsidises the meals you have available in the Refectory.’
‘I am a firm believer in NUS, not only from the Entertainments point of
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view, but as an organisation. Many of you may not know that it was
Strathclyde who instigated the demise of the SUS in favour of our
autonomous Region 10, but I also firmly believe that we should not rest on our
laurels. I propose to create a new Office Bearer on our SRC, that of NUS
Liaison Officer who would be answerable to the Executive to keep you, the
Association, fully informed of all aspects of what NUS provide.’
This was a new one to Alisdair. He noticed Elizabeth turn round to her
campaign manager. David shrugged. It was obviously news to him as well.
‘Each year we hear promises of a new Union. Let’s face it; we have as
much chance of getting a new Union as Scotland have of winning the World
Cup.’
Christopher let the laughter die down before continuing.
‘Seventy percent of the floor area of this building and the Frederick
Street Annex are unused during the week. Now that is the only wastage
Council is guilty of in my opinion. We have on campus a world renowned
School of Architecture. They would be more than glad to carry out a feasibility
study of our existing facilities. The Frederick Street Annex, if we bought the
two run-down buildings adjacent to it, would make a more than adequate
sports complex. The cloakroom on the third floor with a little expert
imagination could be turned into a tidy lounge bar. If we were to franchise it
off to a brewery it would not cost us a penny to refurbish it, never mind a
penny a pint.’
There was an obvious groundswell of support for Christopher from the
students. The Fun-Fun Club began a low key-rumbling chant of ‘Moore
Moore’.
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‘The possibilities are endless, members of the Association, if we put
our minds and our considerable resources to think our options through.’
Alisdair had been so carried away by Christopher’s handling of the
audience that he had not looked once at his watch to check on his time. The
policies he knew, it was the way he was delivering them, which impressed
Alisdair. Tom obviously thought the same as he lounged back in his chair, his
legs stretched out in front of him, puffing away contentedly on his pipe.
Christopher however knew exactly how much time he had left. He
could see a few of the audience were leaving the hall on their way to their
afternoon classes, so he collected his cue cards together.
‘If you feel that you can contribute to your own Union in a positive
manner as opposed to the negative manner which my learned, but highly
misguided colleague, Mr. Cowie proposes, I would be pleased to accept your
votes on Thursday. Thank you Mr. President.’
Had there not been a virtual stampede for the exits as more and more
students noticed the time, Alisdair was sure that Christopher would have
received a better ovation. As it was, he had run out of audience rather than
time.’
‘Nine out of ten Rab?’ Alisdair asked Rab.
Rab looked quizzically at Alisdair. ‘Not ten out of ten?’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘I know he had a lot more to say but the lack
of audience beat him. It is alright to use handouts to get over what you are
standing for but to be really convinced they like to hear it from the candidate’s
own mouth. He had one other brilliant idea, similar to Elizabeth’s on Halls of
Residence, which he did not get across, and it won’t be out in handout form till
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Wednesday. He wants the Union to provide a lease vetting service to
overseas students. Christopher is a Law student as you know and even he
has trouble with the legal jargon used. What chance does a student from
Africa, Scandinavia or Arabia have?’
Rab laughed, but he knew exactly what Alisdair meant. ‘Christopher
really is something, isn’t he?’
‘He has been a breath of fresh air to Tom and I over the last year with
the ideas he has come up with.’ Alisdair stood up. ‘You have a lot to live up
to next year son!’
§§A§§
David Thompson noticed Bill Cowie sitting by himself at one of the
tables next to the windows in the Mezzanine cafeteria. There were only a
handful of students in the room. After hearing the students’ reaction to Bill’s
speech it was obvious that Bill would finish a poor third in the election. It was
time to put his idea into action. He bought a coffee from the serving counter.
‘Mind if I join you Bill?’
Bill put down his copy of the Scotsman and motioned for David to sit
down.
‘You handled the heckling well today Bill. Most people would have
caved in under the Fun-Fun Club onslaught.’
Bill handed the sugar pourer to David. ‘They are just a bunch of kids
David. Elizabeth handled herself very well and her thoughts on Union
finances were well thought through.’
David looked at Bill thoughtfully. ‘You are really only standing on the
SUS thing. Aren’t you Bill?’
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Bill laughed. ‘Well you have to put something in the handouts.
Seriously though, did you like my plans to resurrect SUS?’ Bill was genuinely
interested in what David, who was on the Executive, had to say.
David considered his reply as he stirred his coffee. ‘As an Englishman
I would say that you were being both paranoid and parochial Bill, but….’ It
was the lead he had been hoping for. ‘We in the Tory Club have similar
thoughts about NUS in that they are too left wing to truly represent the
majority of students. Your move back to SUS would be one, but by no
means, the only solution.’
Bill was more than surprised with David’s answer; he was very pleased
with it.
‘What does Elizabeth have to say on the matter?’
‘I am sure that she would be interested in the concept Bill.’
Bill by now was really quite excited. ‘But would she positively endorse
such a move?’
‘What could she expect from you in return Bill?’ David knew that he
had caught Bill hook line and sinker, the way his father used to catch sea
bass off Tynemouth breakwater.
‘I am no mug when it comes to Union politics David. There is very little
chance of me winning this election. Tom Shearer will move heaven and earth
to make sure of that.’
Bill fiddled with his newspaper. David didn’t say anything.
‘It struck me that Elizabeth and I have the same voting base, the
engineers and the scientists. If I was to drop out, say for your support for
Deputy President in the Exec elections, it would leave her all the votes from
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the two faculties, which greatly outnumbers Moore’s arts and farts support.’
David sipped his coffee. He could tell by Bill’s face that he too was
fishing. Bill wanted something out of this election, anything in fact.
‘That is a very interesting proposal Bill. I am sure that I can get
Elizabeth to consider it.’
Bill suddenly smiled. ‘One other thing David. It would set the United
Left back five years in their quest to control this Union.
As he stood up to leave Bill offered his hand to David as if signifying
the deal had been done. Dave hesitated for an instant but then shook Bill’s
hand.
§§A§§
Tom was first to notice Alisdair come into the Refectory. ‘He looks
pleased with himself.’ He said to Christopher and Ron. The three of them
were eating dinner before the monthly Council Meeting started.
Alisdair had spent most of the afternoon in the Library searching for
Elizabeth’s slogan. He found reference to it in the American Politics section.
As he waited to pay for his Lancashire hotpot, mashed potatoes and
peas, he glanced round the room. Despite the fact that he, Tam and
Elizabeth usually ate together before Council Meetings she was nowhere to
be found in neither the Refectory, nor anywhere else in the Union either.
Neither had he found her in the McCance Building coffee lounge, her
usual afternoon haunt, despite his three visits there from the Library. He
wondered how she would react to the new poster Christopher’s campaign
team would no doubt be putting up later that night.
Before Alisdair had even started on his dinner, Tom asked the
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question.
‘Well! Do you have anything for us to use?’
Alisdair nodded as he sprinkled salt on his dinner.
‘In your guts, you know she’s nuts.’
Tom beamed, Christopher laughed and Ron simply said. ‘Yes. Barry
Goldwater’s campaign in the Primaries.’
Tom slapped Alisdair on the back. Alisdair’s fork-full of hotpot nearly
ended up in his eye. ‘That is fucking brilliant Alisdair. I bet a thousand
pounds that Elizabeth has only got the one poster. This will destroy that one
entirely.’ Smoke belched from his pipe, such was his excitement. ‘David
Thompson will be running around like a headless chicken for at least two days
to get another poster to replace it.’
Christopher was more tempered in his reaction. ‘Can we really use it
Tom? It is, after all, rather personal.’
Tom looked at his candidate in amazement. ‘Personal Chris? You
have seen Annabelle’s editorial in tomorrow’s Strathclyde Telegraph, and just
you wait till her cronies get you on Unit 65 on Thursday. Then you will know
what fucking ‘personal’ is!’
Tom leant forward across the table. ‘We have been given a golden
opportunity here lads. I am pretty sure that Elizabeth had very little say in the
choosing of her slogan. It is so bad, and obviously not thought through
properly, that it has to have been Whispering Geordie’s idea. I half suspect
that she will be expecting us to take it apart and I am not one to disappoint a
lady.’
Ron asked Alisdair. ‘Shall we go ahead then Boss?’
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They all knew, even Tom despite his eagerness, that because of his
involvement with Elizabeth, Alisdair would have the final decision.
Alisdair did not keep them waiting long. ‘We go with it for sure. My
only quandary is, do we use additional posters, or do we incorporate it into
Christopher’s official posters for tomorrow. David can tear down the fly-
posted ones but not the latter.’
Tom puffed pensively at his pipe. ‘Good point Alisdair. What do we
have for tomorrow anyway?’
Ron answered. ‘Staff student relations.’
Alisdair looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after six. ‘Are they
printed yet Ron?’
Ron nodded. He knew that he had taken a chance in printing them off
earlier, but he didn’t want to miss the Council Meeting.
Tom looked at Ron hard. ‘Well that settles it I think gentlemen. Get
your people to use felt-tipped pen on yellow paper Ron. Cut them half size
and try to match the yellow to Bill’s posters as closely as you can. Then start
fly posting them around the campus after midnight. Not inside the Union or
any of the other buildings.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘Are we trying to give someone else the hospital
intensive care pass Tom?’
Tom tapped his pipe embers into the ashtray. ‘Would I do that
Alisdair? I just like yellow on a Monday.’
Ron left the rest of them to go and organise his helpers.
Christopher took the opportunity to relate a bit of gossip he had heard
from the Union Secretary. ‘I have heard that the United Left are putting a
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motion up to tonight’s meeting to hold a demonstration against the Under
Secretary of State on the Government’s new student grants policy.’
As Heavy Duty member, Alisdair was not at all keen to have a demo
inside the Union. Tom agreed with them.
‘We will obviously have to compromise on this one Chris.’ Tom lit his
pipe. ‘I’ll leave it up to you to think something up for the meeting.’
Christopher nodded.
‘One final thing son.’ Alisdair pushed aside his empty plate. ‘I think we
need to push Chris onto the Science and Engineering students more,
Elizabeth and Bill’s home faculties. I suggest that you, Tom, arrange for him
to speak to the first years at the big Maths lecture tomorrow morning, and I
will do the same for the Physics lecture.’
Tom agreed. ‘I have arranged with the Fun-Fun Club to carry out an
unofficial opinion poll for our own use rather than wait for the official one on
Thursday morning.’
‘Agreed Tom. We need as much time as we can get if, God forbid, we
are behind.’ Alisdair said. ‘And talking about the Fun-Fun Club. Where is my
bloody Headerboard?’
Tom stood up from the table. ‘Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.
Apparently it is brilliant.’
§§A§§
Paddy Wren laid out the intelligence they had on the movements of the
Under Secretary of State for Scotland to the four other Irishmen in the room.
A map of Glasgow City centre was laid out on the coffee table.
‘He will arrive on the 5.45 train from London and then be driven from
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inside Central Station straight into the maintenance entrance under the
Students Union in John Street. There will be one motorcycle escort but at that
time of night the car will get snarled up in the rush hour traffic, so he will be
moving slowly.’
Declan O’Hara added. ‘The rush hour traffic would also hold up our
getaway if we were to try anything on is way to the Union. It is best that we
plan it for when he is leaving for Edinburgh later on in the evening.’
Paddy Wren nodded. ‘They won’t have the motorcycle escort then, just
the driver and his Protection Squad Officer. There is a radio in the car but if
we hit it fast enough they won’t have time to radio for help.’ He pointed on the
map to an area near Tollcross. ‘There are major roadworks being carried out
here which are traffic light controlled. Jimmy, Declan and I will go out now to
see if there is anyone on site at night or not and get the general lie of the land.
That is where we will hit the car, neutralise he driver and the copper, fatally if
need be, remember both of them will be armed, and then grab the Under
Secretary of State into the van and drive him to the caravan. John will have a
few small charges ready if we need them.’
All three of the others nodded. The plan seemed good. Paddy and
Declan would tail the Under Secretary of State’s car from John Street,
keeping in radio contact with John, Jimmy and Sean the driver who would be
waiting in the van near the roadworks. Jimmy would operate the traffic lights
to stop the car and Paddy, Declan and John would do the actual kidnapping.
Both vehicles would then make their escape to the caravan near Loch
Lomond which had been arranged by Declan.
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§§A§§
All the seats in the one hundred and fifty seat Lecture Theatre were
taken for the monthly Council Meeting. Most of the members of the SRC
were there to see how the three Presidential candidates performed. A certain
ambitious few were also actively lobbying for support for the forthcoming Exec
elections.
The early part of the meeting was business-like, almost to the point of
being dull.
The Executive reports were drawing to a close as Alisdair went over in
his mind the security arrangements for the visit of the Under Secretary of
State. He had spent twenty minutes in the President’s office before the
meeting, with Terry Pritchard and a plain-clothes security officer who had
introduced himself as Sergeant Brian Fisher.
The Union would be thoroughly searched again later on. Alisdair had
to arrange a full rota of Council Members to man a checkpoint at the front
door of the Union, assisted by the local police, all day tomorrow. There was
also to be a plain-clothes officer on duty in the Executive Offices. No one was
taking any chances, as Mr. Smith had intimated on Sunday night.
Christopher’s speech was the last of the Office Bearers reports. It was
a mixture of business and comedy. The profit from the Charity Ball had been
huge and, as arranged, would go directly to the Charities Appeal, and not, as
Christopher pointed out for Elizabeth’s information, back into the Union funds
as was usually the case.
Alisdair managed to get hold of Elizabeth at the recess. They kissed
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which brought a multitude of comments from the students who passed them
on their way to the Beer Bar.
Alisdair was first to break away from the embrace. ‘Where have you
been all afternoon?’
Elizabeth took his arm as they walked down the stairs. ‘Attending
classes, for a change.’ She laughed. ‘What did you think of my speech?’
‘Very good, gorgeous.’ Alisdair held open the door to the Beer Bar for
her. ‘I did notice something that you do that I had not noticed before.’
Elizabeth ordered a Tennants for Alisdair and a white wine for herself.
‘What do I do then?’
‘You have a habit of smoothing down your skirt when you are speaking,
especially when you are pausing to turn your pages.’
Elizabeth looked at Alisdair and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The
two of them were in their own little world despite the crowded, noisy Beer Bar.
Alisdair slipped his arm around her waist as he guided her to a seat at the
back of the bar.
‘I never ever realised that I did that. It must be subconscious. So I did
okay then?’
Alisdair nodded. ‘Put the shit up Tom, I can tell you, but not for long
though.’
Elizabeth looked at Alisdair suspiciously. ‘What do you mean by that?
What is he up to?’
Alisdair kissed her. ‘Nothing, honest.’
‘You are a big fibber Alisdair Graham. Just wait until I get you into bed
tonight. I will make you talk.’
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Alisdair shook his head. ‘Not tonight Josephine. I have to stay late
with the police. At least until the Head Porter comes in to relieve me. He was
up nearly all night last night.’
Elizabeth’s face showed obvious disappointment as the tannoy call
announced the end of the recess.
§§A§§
Under ‘Any Other Business’ the United Left, though Ron Flowers in
Frank Greene’s absence, proposed that the students be allowed to
demonstrate over the grants issue when the Under Secretary of State for
Scotland visited for the Presidential Debate.
Bill Cowie was instantly on his feet to oppose the motion. ‘I would like
to remind this chamber that Teddy Taylor is a guest in this Union and as such
should be afforded our hospitality and not our hostility.’
There was obviously a certain amount of support for Bill’s point of view,
but the United Left pressed on with their motion with another two speeches.
‘It takes you back, doesn’t it Alisdair.’ Tom and Alisdair were sitting in
their normal seats at the back of the Lecture Theatre. ‘This was where we
came in, four years ago.’
Alisdair laughed as he tried to make himself more comfortable. ‘We
really should have done something about these bloody seats years ago. Your
arse goes numb after a while.’
Christopher, who was sitting in front of them, turned round. ‘You two
are worse than the two old men in the Muppets and sometime about as funny.
Does it really matter now that you are about to graduate?’
Tom leaned forward and tweaked Christopher’s ear. ‘I hate cheeky
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kids. Anyway who says I am leaving this place after I graduate. Post-grads
also have seats on Council.’
Alisdair stared at Tom who tapped his finger on the side of his nose.
‘Alternatively I might have a change of perspective and move onto the stage
as Deputy President.’
It suddenly dawned on Alisdair what Tom was on about. Several
weeks ago he had been interviewed for a chemical engineering post-grad
position. He must have had some good news.
Before Tom could explain for Christopher’s benefit, Elizabeth was on
her feet.
‘Mr. President, Members of Council. We have a duty to the members
of this Union to protest on the Government’s latest moves on grants. On the
other hand, with the security operation in place because of the Under
Secretary of State’s visit, it would be near nigh impossible to have outsiders
inside the Union as my learned colleagues in the United Left would wish.’
A murmur of approval went round the Lecture Theatre.
‘I therefore propose, and this is not a compromise, it is a fact of reality,
that we charge the President to have a head to head with the Under Secretary
of State and put our views to him in the strongest possible terms. I believe
there will be ample time for this before the debate. Any demonstration will
have to take place outside in John Street. I agree with Mr. Cowie that Mr.
Taylor is our guest and should be afforded every courtesy.’
The applause that greeted Elizabeth’s speech was loud and sincere.
Even Bill Cowie was seen to be nodding his head in agreement. Her counter
motion was carried unanimously.
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Tom was not pleased. ‘Forgive my French Alisdair, but your girlfriend
is pissing be off big time.’ He turned to Christopher. ‘And what the fuck were
you doing? Combing your bloody hair?
Alisdair laughed as he saw the anger on Tom’s face. ‘Shall I give you
the pleasure of putting our other set of posters up tonight son?’
Tom calmed down. ‘Pass me the bloody paste. I’ll start right now!’
§§A§§
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Chapter 9 – Tuesday 8th February
Elizabeth was furious. She could not have been angrier if she had
walked into the snooker room two Saturdays ago and caught Alisdair with that
first year Sociology tart. She barged into her campaign rooms, a bundle of
crushed yellow posters in her hand. The first person she saw amongst the
half dozen or so students in the room was the object of her anger.
David Thompson did not know what hit him, both literally and verbally.
‘Why were these still up?’ Elizabeth threw the bundle of Alisdair’s put-
down posters at David.
She had noticed the first poster on the wall of the Registry Office
opposite the Union in John Street. Scouring the rest of the building around
the Union she had found a further seven posters which she had ripped down.
She had been so angry that it wasn’t until she wiped her hand on a tissue that
he noticed she had broken a nail.
David recovered his composure, nearly. He did not like being shown
up in public and he certainly had not expected it from Elizabeth. She had
always been polite and lady-like. He and the other students in the room were
seeing another side of her. One that Alisdair knew only two well, but not to
this extent. Elizabeth was livid with rage.
‘I left them up so that the Returning Officer could see them when he
comes in to validate our official complaint.’
He unfolded the bundle of posters and tried to smooth them out as best
he could.
‘In the meantime, another few hundred students will have seen them.’
Elizabeth was beginning to calm down. ‘I suggest that you send some of our
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people here to go and check the rest of the campus, including Pitt Street, right
now!’
David did as Elizabeth suggested. When they were alone he said.
‘If you will note Elizabeth, these posters have not been signed, so I can
get Christopher’s campaign on one of two counts of election malpractice.
Firstly he has been fly posting which is against the Rules of Election as laid
out in the Constitution, and secondly he has put posters up which have not
been approved, which is against he House Rules.’
Elizabeth pointed David to the posters again. ‘The posters are on
yellow paper David, Christopher is using green. They must have been put up
by Bill.’
David shook his head and smiled. ‘There is no way that Bill put these
up, not after my conversation with him after yesterdays Heckling Meeting.’
Elizabeth heard alarm bells ringing in her head. Her next question was
very tersely put. ‘What type of conversation did you have with Bill?’
David looked a bit hesitant. ‘I have planted the suggestion that if Bill
drops out of the election in your favour, we will support him for his bid as
Deputy President. After all, the two of you have more or less the same voting
base. But it was only a suggestion Elizabeth. I did not for one moment think
that you would go along with it.’
‘I would not have Bill Cowie as a member of my Exec if you paid me.’
Elizabeth was almost shaking with rage. ‘The guy is all for himself and then
his precious SNP. He is as much use to this Union, David, as a heater on a
motorbike. What possessed you to do this David?’
David was again completely taken aback by Elizabeth’s reaction. She
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looked close to tears.
‘In reality, if we were serious in the suggestion, it would be a very
simple matter Elizabeth. If you were to be instrumental in defeating today’s
motion, he would stand down and ask his supporters to vote for you.’
‘We have already discussed this NUS / TUC motion David. I want to
hear what the President has to say first before committing myself. There are
merits in NUS being affiliated to the TUC, just as there are drawbacks. I just
want to make sure that there are safeguards within the motion.’
David now saw that he was never going to influence Elizabeth, temper
or no temper. She was her own woman. He could see just how determined a
person she was. If he could have canned what had just happened, he could
have let the rest of the voters see what an excellent candidate she really was.
Elizabeth collected her briefcase from the floor. ‘Another thing David. I
want new posters up by the end of the day, and this time, I want to approve
the slogan before you go into print.’
‘But Elizabeth! It’s not possible to think up a slogan and have posters
printed by tonight.’
‘Make it possible David. You are the campaign manager.’
As Elizabeth opened the door she turned to add. ‘Alisdair and Tom did
it yesterday. I know it was them. I have seen them at work for the last three
years. They are masters of the put-down poster. The evidence is clearly in
front of you.’
§§A§§
The Colville Building at the east end of the campus housed the
Metallurgy Department. It was newly built with sponsorship from the iron and
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steel industry. Four floors high, and sitting on top of a hill, it looked out over
most of the City centre.
Rab McDonald was sitting in the first floor coffee lounge with Bill
Cowie. Like the rest of the candidates Bill was canvassing the coffee lounges
in the various campus buildings. Rab had introduced him to the students in
his year who were relaxing and reading the newspapers before the first
lecture started in about a quarter of an hour.
Bills’ speech had only taken a few minutes and he was now relating
yesterday’s conversation with David Thompson. The way that Bill was telling
it, he had already convinced Elizabeth to back his SUS policy.
‘I am sure Rab that I can get Elizabeth to back you for an Exec position
as well. It would look good from an SNP point of view to have two members
on the Exec. It could benefit the two of us politically in the long run.’
Rab had not uttered a word as he listened to what Bill had to say but
inside he was fuming. After all the work he and others had put into Bill’s
campaign. Alisdair and Tom had been right all along about Bill. He was a
fucking chancer! Rab just shook his head sadly and left for his lecture.
§§A§§
Alisdair had spent the last ten minutes with Sergeant Fisher and Terry
Pritchard in the President’s offices being briefed what the security measures
were for the Secretary of State’s visit. The checkpoint at the front door had
already been set up with one Duty Member and a uniformed policeman. The
student was checking Union cards and the policeman was searching bags
and briefcases
The Union building was to be cleared at four o’clock for one hour for a
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final search, including the use of sniffer dogs. The area around the Executive
and Council Offices was to be sealed off from then on until the Debate
Reception finished. The reception had been moved from the President’s
Office to the McIntyre Lounge as it was larger and the accesses were easier
to police. It was also outside of the area drawn on the sketch found in the
holiday camp. The Under Secretary of State would have his usual Protection
Squad Officer with him, but in addition two of Commander Ingle’s men would
be acting as waiters.
On his way out of the Council Offices Alisdair met Tom and Christopher
in the corridor.
With uncharacteristic excitement Tom unrolled the large poster he was
carrying. ‘What do you think? Fucking brilliant, I would say.’
The eight foot by four foot Headerboard was superb. It showed a
smiling Christopher, wearing a Guard’s uniform, signifying his Busby style
haircut, and driving a car. The two wheels that were showing had
‘Association Policy’ and ‘Council Policy’ printed on the tyres. Bill was shown
throwing up into a green dustbin and Elizabeth was depicted next to a cash
register with bubble thoughts of ‘money’ and ‘shopping’. The Fun-Fun Club,
despite the wait, had come up with a very funny addition to Christopher’s
campaign.
‘I see that the posters outside have been taken down.’ Tom remarked
as the three students hung the Headerboard over the Mezzanine banister.
‘Apparently it was Elizabeth herself who tore them down. The Porter said that
she was in a right temper this morning. At least a few people would have
seen them, and you know how word soon gets around this place. Have you
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seen any of Elizabeth’s campaign team this morning?’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘David Thompson is in though. The Office
Bearer’s ‘In and Out’ board at Reception shows that.’
Tom made his way to the Mezzanine counter for three coffees.
‘I have made a few notes for tonight’s debate.’ Christopher showed
Alisdair some cue cards. I would like some funny facts about the Charities
Appeal though in case I get involved in that side of the argument.’
Alisdair read through the cue cards. Christopher had based his speech
on the home, and looked to have steered clear of both Union and outside
politics.
‘If you give me a couple of hours Chris, I will scribble a few notes for
you.’ Alisdair accepted the coffee offered by Tom.
Tom lit his pipe. ‘Now lads, we need to talk about this Association
Meeting. I have had a call from the President asking that I meet him in his
office at twelve, but as I have to meet with the United Left to get them to toe
our party line on this issue, Alisdair will have to attend in my place. Can I also
suggest, Alisdair, that you have a few words before the meeting with your
contacts at NUS in London? Dave Harrison will agree to anything we say or
do. I have already checked with him.’
Alisdair nodded. ‘Talking about meetings Tom, is it true that Bill was
seen with David Thompson in here after the Heckling Meeting? By all
accounts they looked pretty friendly, even shook hands I believe.’
Tom smiled. ‘Your information is correct Alisdair. Unfortunately I have
no more information than you have, but can I put forward the theory that there
is a deal going down here? As we have said before both Bill and Elizabeth
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235
have the same voting base and it would be in both their interests to run only
one candidate.’
‘You mean that one of them will drop out in favour of the other?’
Christopher looked slightly worried.
Tom laid his hand on Christopher’s shoulder. ‘Don’t look so worried
Chris. If Bill has agreed to drop out in favour of Elizabeth, he has probably
put some impossible conditions to the offer. I doubt very much if Elizabeth
even knows about the deal, never mind instigating it or even agreeing to it
when she finds out.’
Alisdair interrupted. ‘I did warn Liz before the Election to watch out for
this happening. She won’t wear it at all.’ Alisdair paused for a moment. ‘It
might be to our advantage to let it slip that we know about a deal?’
Smoke belched from Tom’s pipe, a sure sign that he was weighing up
the pros and cons of what Alisdair had just suggested. ‘Yes, it would be to
our advantage.’
‘Leave it with me.’ Alisdair finished his coffee. It was ten to ten. ‘Isn’t
it about time you two went to talk to your next lecture?’
Christopher checked his watch and laughed. ‘This should be a good
one Alisdair. It is one of Bill’s lectures. That is, if he is there’
§§A§§
Alisdair opened the door to the Council Offices. Elizabeth was
checking the contents of her pigeonhole. She turned to see who had come
into the office.
‘You bastard Alisdair! How could you do this to me?’
Alisdair dodged out of the way of the slap aimed at his head.
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236
‘All the time you were making love to me on Sunday, you were plotting
that bloody poster, and it was a spiteful, underhand thing to do’.
Alisdair tried to laugh the situation off. ‘Elizabeth, it is part of the game
and anyway, I did not know what your slogan was until Monday, I was making
love to you, not your campaign! I warned you that this could happen.
Especially as your precious Annabelle has stuck the knife right in with her
editorial about Frank Green being Christopher’s seconder.’ He tried to hold
her hand. She pulled away and sat at the other end of the room. ‘It was a
pretty naff slogan you had in the first place anyway. Maybe now your
campaign manager will earn his keep’
‘Don’t you have any worries on that score Alisdair; David has already
felt the sharp edge of my tongue this morning. Your spy in the Publications
Department probably showed you the editorial before I told Annabelle to take
that bit out.’
Alisdair paused before speaking. ‘I don’t think so Liz, Tom had the
proof copy of the paper. Obviously Annabelle didn’t listen to you either.’
She knew in her heart that Alisdair and Tom would not pass up the
opportunity to make fun of her slogan, but she had got it off her chest. But for
Annabelle to ignore her request!
Alisdair opened the door to leave. He really wanted to put his arms
around her, but from her body language he was more likely to get grief rather
than a kiss. More out of concern for her than to wind her up further, he
added. ‘Maybe you should also have a word with David about his meeting
with Bill Cowie in the Mezz after the Heckling Meeting yesterday.’
Alisdair quietly closed the door behind him as he left.
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237
Elizabeth burst into floods of tears. She had never felt so alone. Not
only had Alisdair destroyed her poster but he also knew about David’s
meeting with Bill, a meeting she had only found out about this morning. She
nearly ran after him to get the cuddle he obviously wanted to give her. The
door opened again.
‘God, I love you Alisdair Graham.’ She said as she melted into his
arms. He had heard her sobs from outside the door. Alisdair kissed away her
tears. ‘Now go and fire a few fucks into your campaign team and get them to
commit to getting you elected, not just playing at it!’
Elizabeth nodded and started touching up her makeup. Leaving the
Council Offices together she kissed him full on the lips right in front of Terry
Pritchard and left to go in search of Annabelle.
Terry looked at Elizabeth’s departing figure and then at Alisdair. He
shook his head in disbelief and said. ‘My office, Alisdair, in half an hour.’
Alisdair smiled. ‘Yes Mr. President.’ With that, he headed towards the
Athletic Club Offices.
§§A§§
Elizabeth was not the only candidate having a bad day. Bill Cowie was
really annoyed. He had never been so humiliated. When Tom and
Christopher appeared at his last lecture he had thought it was his opportunity
to get in a one to one with him, but the lecturer, with an eye on the time, had
told him to shut up and afford Christopher the courtesy of listening to what he
had to say. Tom’s smirk had only fuelled Bill’s thoughts of vengeance.
By chance he had met David Thompson in the Royal College Building.
‘Bad luck about you posters David.’ Bill had said as they walked along
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the corridor together.
David had shrugged his shoulders as if the matter was of no
importance. ‘I mentioned our meeting to Elizabeth. She didn’t have any
violent objections to what you propose.’ David knew that he was being
conservative with the truth, but it pleased Bill.
‘Good.’ Bill smiled his earlier humiliation at Christopher’s hands now in
the past. ‘I have had it with Moore’s campaign team already in this election.
They think that the rules can be bent to please themselves. I have an idea
that will show them that we are not going to stand for their bully boy tactics!’
§§A§§
Terry Pritchard opened his meeting with Alisdair and Christopher by
slapping them both on the wrist.
‘That bloody put down poster of yours has caused me no amount of
hassle this morning. Just be thankful that the Returning Officer didn’t actually
see them up on the walls. David Thompson actually did himself no favours by
having them taken down. Now Chris, which member of your campaign put
them up?’
‘How do you know that they were put up by my campaign Terry?’
Christopher asked, feigning shock and horror that Terry should even ask such
a question of his campaign.
‘Because it is just the sort of thing that Tom and Alisdair here are
famous for.
Alisdair saved Christopher the embarrassment of having to confess to
Terry that he did not know. ‘Hand on my heart Terry, it was not I. Maybe it
was Special Branch?’
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239
Terry smiled. ‘For that comment Alisdair Graham, you can speak as
seconder to Christopher’s amendment. Then we will all see just how clever
you are with words.’
Alisdair looked at Terry in amazement, but his protests were waved
away by the President as he added.
‘Christopher’s amendment has also caused me some problems. It was
not put up until after the constitutional deadline had passed, but I have used
my Executive Powers to have it included in the meeting after clearing it with
the rest of the Exec. I used the argument that we have been held over a
barrel by NUS over this whole issue. NUS are meeting with the TUC on
Friday so they obviously want a firm decision from us and other student
associations before then.’
Alisdair had learned that much from his telephone conversation with
the person in NUS he had called earlier. ‘I have had a word with the two NUS
executive members I dealt with when we pulled out of SUS. They are both
reasonable blokes. I simply told them that if the amendment didn’t go
through, the motion probably wouldn’t go through and it would leave them with
egg on their chin as far as Strathclyde and Region 10 was concerned.’
Alisdair took the coffee offered to him by the President. ‘They agreed
to accept the amendment and that it what Tom is busy telling the United Left
in our election rooms.’ Alisdair added sugar to his coffee. ‘Both Tom and I
feel that we owe it to you, and Dave Harrison, to keep you in power, because
after all, we got both of you where you are today.’
The President laughed. ‘Stop arse licking Alisdair. You are still
speaking at the meeting.’ He closed his folder containing his papers for the
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meeting. ‘It will be the usual procedure. We will debate Christopher’s
amendment first and then, if it is carried, which I suspect it will be, we will
debate and vote on the substantive motion.’
‘It could be a very beneficial meeting.’ Christopher added. ‘Firstly, it
will earn me Brownie points for proposing the amendment, and secondly, it
will cause a split in the possible alliance Bill thinks he has made with
Elizabeth.’
Terry Pritchard looked at Alisdair. ‘What alliance?’
Alisdair explained. ‘We think that David Thompson has persuaded Bill
to drop out of the election if Elizabeth speaks out against the NUS motion.’
‘Do you think that she will?’ Terry was disturbed by the possibility. It
could make the amendment harder to get through if two of the Presidential
candidates were against it.
‘I don’t think so.’ Alisdair sounded as positive as he could. ‘Elizabeth
maybe a Tory but she, like Christopher, must be able to see the benefits of
such an affiliation, but the terms will have to be right.’
Terry glanced at his watch. It was time for him to attend another
meeting. ‘Well, you two had better be very convincing with your presentation,
because you will need all the Brownie points you can get when you read
today’s Strathclyde Telegraph. By all accounts it neither Christopher nor Bill
should even bother turning up for the rest of the election. Elizabeth has
already won it.’
Alisdair laughed. It was no more than he and Tom had expected. ‘As
biased as that then is it?’ He winked at Christopher. ‘I only hope that they
pushed Elizabeth’s old slogan in the article! In fact I am sure they did. I
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remember seeing it in the copy Tom had yesterday.’
Terry looked wide eyed at Alisdair. ‘How did you get a copy
yesterday?’ He paused and shook his head. ‘On second thoughts, don’t tell
me!’
§§A§§
Ron Flowers felt very uncomfortable about how the situation was developing
in the meeting between the United Left and Tom Shearer in Christopher’s
campaign rooms. Certain members of the United Left were vociferously
insisting that Christopher support the NUS motion to the letter rather than try
to water it down for his own ends. He suspected that some of his colleagues
thought he was not putting their case strongly enough in Frank Greene’s
absence.
Tom as usual looked totally unflustered, and seemingly oblivious to the
shouting of some of the students in the room. Ron suspected that he was
holding an ace up his sleeve. Tom suddenly slammed his hand down on the
table he was sitting on. A shocked silence fell on the meeting. Tom stood up
and approached two of the United Left who had been doing most of the
shouting and stuck his face right up against the bigger of the two.
‘I would be grateful sir, if you would refrain from shouting at me!’ Tom’s
voice was very low and very threatening.
Tom stepped back to the table. No one else in the room dared speak.
‘It seems that you have two options.’ Tom started to clean out his pipe.
‘Firstly you can insist that Christopher withdraws his amendment and supports
the NUS motion as it stands.’
There was a murmur of approval from the United Left. A few of them
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even smiled.
‘That, however, is not one of Christopher’s options. He knows that that
option is doomed to failure. The motion will, I repeat, will get thrown out;
Christopher will look like a loser to the whole Association, Bill Cowie will be
doing cartwheels up and down the Assembly Hall, and more importantly, lose
an important opportunity by having NUS affiliation, in time, and under our own
terms, with the TUC.’
Tom paused to let his words sink in.
‘Your second option is to take your heads out of your arses and
support the amendment. Firstly, for the good of the Union in the long run, and
secondly, for the good of Christopher’s campaign in the short term. The
choice is yours gentlemen.’
Tom quickly interrupted the expectant counter arguments. ‘By the way,
the NUS Executive has already agreed to Christopher’s amendment.’
With that, Tom walked out of the meeting. He smiled to himself as he
shut the door.
§§A§§
Despite his cheerful greeting to several students as he entered the
Assembly Hall, Alisdair was nervous. This was the largest meeting he had
ever had to speak in front of during his time on Council. He was happiest
speaking to groups of two or three, and even dreaded speaking at full Council
Meetings. His first thought was where to sit. He noticed that Tom and
Christopher were sitting in the last row of cordoned off seats. It was usual
practice for meetings where a quorum was required to put out the exact
number of seats required for the quorum at the front of the hall, and separate
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this area from the rest of the seats in the hall with a rope. He decided against
sitting next to them.
Alisdair felt a thump on his back.
‘You would be safer sitting with me. After all, Elizabeth’s probably not
talking to you, Bill Cowie would probably plant you one, and it doesn’t look
good if the proposer and a seconder sit together. ‘
Alisdair turned round to be greeted by Rab’s cheeky grin.
‘How did you know I was seconding Christopher’s amendment?’
Rab winked. ‘A little birdie told me.’
Alisdair caught on fast. ‘Does she have blonde hair, glasses, and
happens to be the President’s secretary?’
Rab nodded as the two of them found seats in the middle of the front
section.
‘I am no longer working on Bill’s campaign.’ Rob’s words exploded
around Alisdair like a bombshell.
‘Why?’
‘He has made a deal with Elizabeth to drop put of the election if she
supports him at this meeting.’
Alisdair shook his head.
‘He has.’ Rab was adamant. ‘He told me so himself.’
‘No son.’ Alisdair explained. ‘Bill has been conned into making a deal
with David Thompson. Elizabeth had no prior knowledge of any deal, and is
certainly against it.’
Rab looked at Alisdair. ‘You knew about the deal then?’
‘We had an idea something of the sort was going down, but you have
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now just confirmed it.’ Alisdair looked at Rab. ‘Do you want to help
Christopher’s campaign then?’
Rab stood up to let a student into the seat beside him. ‘I had better not
do it openly Alisdair, but if you want some help at the flat, you only have to
ask.’
The entrance of the President, the Deputy President and the Vice
President onto the stage interrupted Alisdair’s reply
Terry Pritchard wasted no time in bringing the meeting to order. The
students did not waste time either with their customary banter. Unlike a
Heckling Meeting this Association Meeting was an altogether more formal
affair and they had classes to attend at two o’clock.
The President opened the meeting by raising the motion to be debated.
‘The motion before the Association is – “The Students Association of the
University of Strathclyde supports the affiliation of NUS within the TUC”.’
There was a murmur of individual discussions throughout the hall.
Terry banged on the gavel once and continued. ‘As I have to propose the
motion, and as the Deputy President has to second it, I will now hand the
meeting over to the Vice President.’
Ron Flaherty, the Vice President, did not waste time either.
‘We have one amendment to the motion, and in line with Standing
Orders this must be debated first. I therefore call upon Mr. Christopher Moore
to formally propose his amendment.’
Christopher swiftly moved to the microphone nearest to him. There
were a few cheers from the Fun-Fun Club. Christopher waved at the good-
humouredly.
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‘Mr. Chairman, members of the Association. I stand before you today
not as a Presidential candidate, nor as a member of the Executive, but as a
member of the Association. Whilst it is well known that I am a supporter of
NUS I feel that we in Strathclyde should hold onto some autonomy. I simply
want to insert the words “in principle” after the word “supports”.’
There were a few shouts of agreement from several sections of the
hall, as well as a lot of heads being nodded when Christopher sat down.
The Vice President stood up and announced that Alisdair Graham
would second the amendment.
Alisdair felt strangely weak at the knees as he walked to the
microphone at the opposite side of the hall to the one Christopher had used.
Brevity was the keyword in this debate, in spite of the calls from several
students for Alisdair to tell them some jokes. The President’s tactics were to
push it through as quickly as possible.
‘Mr. Chairman, members of the Association. As Mr. Moore has already
said, Strathclyde has always been fiercely independent, and rightly so. We
have also been the prime mover in Region 10 of NUS, and I believe that by
supporting the amendment, we will send the right message to the other
members of Region 10 here in Scotland, and more importantly to the NUS
Executive in London.’
Alisdair returned to his seat to loud applause. For the first time since
their flare-up in the Council Offices earlier, he saw Elizabeth. She was sitting
right at the back of the hall. He was pleased to see her at least smile at him.
He was also quite pleased with his contribution to the meeting, as it had pre-
empted any Nationalistic slant Bill Cowie would certainly make in his speech.
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The Vice President called for speeches on the amendment. Alisdair
noted that Bill Cowie was on his feet instantly, but the Vice President, whilst
not obviously ignoring him, chose someone else first. The speaker basically
reiterated Alisdair’s comments on the amendment.
Bill was almost doing summersaults trying to get recognised by the
Vice President.
‘The Chair recognises Mr. Bill Cowie.’
Bill launched into his speech, and uncharacteristically missed the
formal opening.
‘I think that this motion is yet another attempt by the English based
NUS to stamp their authority on us here in Scotland…’
The Vice President loudly rapped his gavel on the block.
‘Mr. Cowie, I must insist that you address the amendment and not the
motion at this present time. Next speaker please!’
Bill looked aghast at the Vice President.
No one else made a move to speak which was the cue the Vice
President wanted.
‘I suggest then, members of the Association, that as there are no more
speakers on the amendment, we move to the vote. Tellers please.’
The outcome of the vote was a success for Christopher. A large
majority carried the amendment.
‘We now have a substantive motion, members of the Association –
“The Students Association of the University of Strathclyde supports, in
principle, the affiliation of NUS within the TUC.” I will now accept speeches
on the substantive motion.’
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Before Bill could get a chance to speak, the President of the Athletic
Club, without the use of a microphone, proposed a Motion for Closure.
Bill was beside himself as he shouted into the microphone.
‘Mr. Chairman. I must protest!’
‘I am sorry Mr. Cowie; a Motion of Closure has been tabled. We must
vote on that first. For those of you who have not heard of this before, a
Motion for Closure, if passed, means we move straight to the vote on the
substantive motion. Tellers please.’
The Motion for Closure was carried overwhelmingly.
The Vice President, ignoring Bill’s further protests, announced that the
tellers be called again for the vote on the substantive motion. The majority of
the people present at the meeting endorsed it.
Alisdair saw Tom turn round to look at him. Alisdair winked. Tom
laughed and said something to Christopher.
Rab turned to Alisdair as the two of them watched with amusement as
Bill stormed up to the stage and carried on protesting to the Vice President.
‘Which of the two of you arranged that little carve up?’
Alisdair shrugged his shoulders, but laughed. ‘Well I had to pop into
the Athletic Club offices earlier on this morning. It just happened to crop up.’
‘Crop up? My arse!’
Alisdair laughed as Tom made his way over to where he and Rab were
sitting.
Tom held out his hand for Alisdair to shake. ‘You have done it again
Alisdair. A sheer stoke a genius.’
‘The rules are there son. You just have to know which ones to use.’
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Tom nodded his head towards Bill Cowie who was now sounding off to
David Thompson and Elizabeth. Elizabeth did not look amused. ‘Not only
that Alisdair. You out-debated the Debates Convenor, and, used Scottish
Nationalism as well! You are not turning are you?’
Tom, Alisdair and Rab turned round as they heard Elizabeth say to Bill,
in a very loud voice. ‘Deal? I wouldn’t deal you into a game of snap Bill.’ She
then stormed out of the hall.
Tom smiled. ‘Now that’s what I like to hear. The opposition fighting
amongst themselves, and for once it was not our doing.’
Alisdair laughed, but felt he really should go after Elizabeth. He knew
though that she was made of stronger stuff than anyone gave her credit for.
Both Bill and David had underestimated her tenacity and her principles.
§§A§§
Sergeant Fisher walked into the office Commander Ingle had
commandeered in the Registry Office directly opposite the Union in John
Street. It was seven o’clock at night. He hadn’t even knocked something he
always did out of deference to his boss. ‘Paddy Wren and Declan O’Hara are
sitting in a dark blue Ford at the top of John Street!’
James Ingle looked at his Sergeant with amazement. ‘You are joking?’
He knew O’Hara’s record. He had a reputation for violence.
Brian Fisher smiled. ‘No Sir. And we have had a phone call from a
watchman at some roadworks in Tollcross that three men have been seen
sitting near there in a van for over an hour now.’ Fisher handed over a piece
of paper with the location of the roadworks. ‘One of the occupants has taken
a particular interest in the temporary traffic lights on two occasions.’
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Ingles looked at the map on his desk and pointed to the street. ‘That’s
must be where they are planning to hit the Under Secretary of State’s car.’
Ingles thought for a moment. ‘I want Gordon’s team to take out Wren and
O’Hara now, and Hillman’s team to take out the van at Tollcross as soon as
they can get there. No messing, maximum force if need be.’
§§A§§
Fifteen minutes later a dark blue Ford Transit van driven at speed
rounded the corner of John Street and drove straight into the back of the Ford.
Neither Paddy Wren of Declan O’Hara knew what hit them. They had been
too intent in watching the demonstration a few hundred yards away outside
the Union’s front entrance. Their car was pushed onto the pavement and
ended up against an adjacent building by the force of the impact of the
armoured Transit van. Before either of them could draw their guns they were
pulled out of the car by two of the soldiers, hit with over the head with
American style police night-sticks, and bundled unceremoniously onto the
road, handcuffed and left face down on the pavement. They lay there
surrounded by five soldiers with their guns trained on them as Commander
Ingle and Sergeant Fisher approached after walking the fifty yards from their
temporary office.
The local police who had been monitoring the demonstration outside
the Union rushed to the scene only to be stopped by Sergeant Fisher who
produced his warrant card and told to secure their perimeter from the
onlookers who were beginning to gather from the demonstration.
§§A§§
Twenty minutes after that the Tollcross team approached the Ford
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Transit van on foot but at speed. They used the cover of darkness as the
street lights were not operating because of the roadworks, but as they
approached the van from all four sides a car came through the temporary
lights and lit up the two soldiers at the front of the van in its headlight. Two
shots rang out from the inside of the van; both were hurried and missed the
soldiers. The hail of the return automatic fire did not however miss either of
the two IRA men who were sitting in the front seat. Both died instantly but
some of our shots must have hit some explosives they were carrying in the
van and the whole van exploded taking out the third occupant of the van, John
McCluskey.
§§A§§
Tom had just taken his first pull of his Export then Bill Cowie was in his
face complaining about the Association meeting carve up.
‘See him.’ Tom pointed Bill in the direction of Alisdair who was
standing at the door. ‘His idea. Now fuck off Bill, I am here to enjoy myself!’
He did not wait for a reply from Bill, and instead headed over to where Jimmy
Reid was deep in conversation with Margot McDonald and the Deputy
President. Tom’s father had worked with Jimmy Reid in the shipyards and he
had insisted that Tom remember him to him. Tom was more than pleased to
do so. Jimmy Reid was a legend.
As Heavy Duty Member, Alisdair had access to the pre-Debate Cocktail
Party in the McIntyre Lounge. No other students, except for those invited,
were even allowed in the corridor outside the lounge, which adjoined the
Council Offices. Two Protection Squad officers stood outside, both of them
were armed, albeit discretely.
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Instead of launching into Alisdair about the Association Meeting, Bill
joined Christopher who was helping himself to a Bacardi and coke from the
bar.
Christopher put his arm around Bill’s shoulders. ‘Billy boy! This is a
pleasure. I thought you would have been talking to your running mate instead
of me. Elizabeth is looking sensational, isn’t she? What do you want to
drink?’
Bill ignored the offer of a drink but moved away from Christopher.
‘What do you mean ‘running mate’?’
‘Well the word is, Billy boy that you have offered to drop put in her
favour. In fact most of the students in the Assembly Hall this afternoon heard
her decline your offer.’ Christopher could be quite cutting when he wanted to
be. Tonight, he wanted to be. He knew he had to put up a better show than
Elizabeth to keep pace with her in the opinion polls. It wouldn’t go amiss if he
could upset Bill a bit as well.
Bill laughed, but there was no mirth in it. He was intrigued as to how
Christopher had found out about him and Elizabeth.
‘Someone is pulling your leg Christopher. No way. Firstly she is a Tory
and secondly she is female. I would rather make a pact with an Englishman!’
Christopher sipped his Bacardi. ‘I rather thought that you had, Billy
boy! See you later.’
He left Bill looking rather bemused and walked over to the other side of
the room, where the President and Teddy Taylor were talking with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth hardly gave time for Christopher to be introduced to Teddy
Taylor. ‘Your team pulled off a bit of a coup today Christopher. Who had the
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idea for the Motion of Closure? Tom or Alisdair?’
‘Alisdair, I believe.’ Christopher noticed a metaphoric cloud descend
on her. His tone softened. ‘Look Liz, please stop getting at Alisdair. He is
only doing his job. Believe me, any of the decisions that have been taken to
have a go at your campaign have not been taken lightly by Alisdair, or Tom,
for that matter. If you must take it out on someone, take it out on me!’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Don’t worry Christopher, I intend to. Just after I get
even with Alisdair for those put-down posters!’
‘That sounds as acrimonious as the Prime Minister’s question time in
the House.’ Teddy Taylor shook hands with Christopher. ‘I believe that you
two are the front runners in this election.’
Christopher gave the Under Secretary of State his most disarming
smile. ‘If you believe the opinion polls.’
Teddy Taylor laughed. ‘I never had yet, even the ones in the Tory
newspapers.’
‘Sounds like very much the same story in this election.’ Christopher
winked at Elizabeth. ‘It helps having the former, by only four days, Director of
Publications as your seconder.’
Elizabeth glared at Christopher over the top of her glass of white wine.
She could tell that he was trying to goad her into making a comment that she
may well regret later.
Teddy Taylor turned to Terry Pritchard. ‘If this little exchange is
anything to go by Mr. President, we are in for an interesting debate!’
‘I guarantee it will certainly be interesting, Under Secretary. Bill Cowie
is renowned throughout the other Scottish universities as a fierce debater who
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takes no prisoners or leaves the marks of where they might have been either.
You yourself had some measure of success on the Debates Team during your
time in Glasgow University. Elizabeth here has always held her own when
speaking in public, not to mention looking absolutely sensational tonight.’
Terry Pritchard raised his pint to her.
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Be careful Mr. President, you could well find
yourself on the Muirhead hit-list for that sexist remark.’
‘Thank you for the information, Mr. President. Margot McDonald and
Jimmy Reid I of course know well. That just leaves Mr. Moore.’
Terry Pritchard laughed. ‘Chris will just as likely blow you a kiss over
the table. His debating style is rather unconventional to say the least.’
Teddy Taylor took the glass of water with lemon and ice offered by one
of the waiters. ‘It looks like a good night in prospect then.’
§§A§§
Alisdair was standing alone at the bar in the McIntyre Lounge with a
pint of Tennants. The Presidential Debate had just started in the Mezzanine.
The Head Barman was tallying up the drinks served at the Reception. The bill
would come out of Union funds.
‘Your Elizabeth looked great tonight Alisdair.’ He said, helping himself
to a malt whiskey. Malt whiskey was not usually stocked in any of the bars in
the Union, very few students could afford it, but the Talisker single malt had
come from the President’s drinks cabinet. No-one on Teddy Taylor’s team
who had made the arrangements mention he was tea-total.
Alisdair sighed. ‘Pity she is not talking to me Fred. This bloody
election is not helping our relationship in any way.’
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The Head Barman stopped tidying up the bar. Like all good barmen he
was a good listener. He liked both Alisdair and Elizabeth. Of all the couples
he had seen in the Union over the years he had worked there as a barman,
and latterly as Head Barman, there were very few who had stayed together as
long as Alisdair and Elizabeth had.
‘You will have a stronger partnership for the experience Alisdair.’ He
sipped at the Talisker. ‘Adversity does that for couples who are meant to be
together.’
Alisdair looked at the Head Barman and laughed.
‘Fucking hell Fred. It is true. Barmen are philosophers!’
‘Only if they come from Glasgow, Alisdair.’ The barman continued
tidying the bar, ‘And watch your language. This isn’t the Beer Bar you know!’
Fred looked up as someone came into the room.
‘I am sorry sir, but this bar is closed.’
‘Thank you barman. It was Mr. Graham I was looking for.’
Alisdair looked round. It was Mr. Smith.
‘It is all right Fred; this gentleman is with the Under Secretary of State’s
party.’
The Head Barman looked at Commander Ingle, and decided he had
‘policeman’ written all over him.
‘Would you like a drink sir?’
‘As you said, Fred, the bar is closed.’ Commander Ingle smiled. ‘I
think Mr. Graham and I will retire to the Beer Bar.’
The Head Barman instantly revised his opinion of the elderly
gentleman. He was clearly no ordinary ‘plod’. He had never met a policeman
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who had refused a free drink.
§§A§§
Commander Ingle and Alisdair settled at the back of the Beer Bar. The
bar was empty as there was a late licence bar in the Mezzanine for the
Presidential Debate. Both drank Tennants.
‘We got them Alisdair. About twenty minutes go. Two of them were
parked in a car at the top of John Street. They were both taken without any
fuss. The other part of their operation was grabbed near Tollcross after we
had a telephone call from the night watchman at some roadworks there. He
had seen one man get out of a van and open the traffic lights control box.
There were apparently some explosives in the van and when they noticed my
men approaching, they opened fire. Our return fire must have detonated he
explosives and all the three IRA bastards in the car were killed. A couple of
my lads were hit by shrapnel, but thankfully, not seriously.’
Commander Ingle put his hand on Alisdair's shoulder. ‘To have two
units working together is very unusual unless they really meant business.
This is a major arrest, and it would not have been possible without your help.
I personally, and I am sure the Government, are very grateful.’
Alisdair physically slumped in his seat. There was a lump in his throat.
Commander Ingle’s grip tightened on his shoulder. ‘That’s the adrenalin
draining away Alisdair. Drink up!’
‘Unfortunately, for your campaign, I have also pulled in Ron Flowers,
and the rest of the members of their commune as well to keep Frank Greene
company.’ Commander Ingle took a pull of his pint. ‘I hope it doesn’t upset
Christopher Moore’s campaign too much?’
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Alisdair shook his head in despair. ‘I knew it was too good to last. I
hope you realise Tom Shearer and I will be up all night tomorrow night,
printing the posters for Election Day by hand.’
Despite the setback Alisdair laughed. ‘Tam and I did it for the last two
Presidents, why should Christopher’s campaign be any different?’
Two students came into the bar. Commander Ingle watched as they
ordered two pints and sat at a table near the bar.
‘Why did you get involved in politics Alisdair, especially with such
unsavoury characters as Green and Flowers?’
‘Frank Green and Ron never were part of the original equation.’ Alisdair
explained. ‘Tam and I realised in our first year that the majority of students
were only interested in the Students Union as a place where they could watch
top bands, and get good quality food and a decent drink at cheap prices. The
often misquoted ‘pie and peas syndrome’ as it has become known.’
Commander Ingle laughed out loud. ‘Is that it? You have no
aspirations to make politics your career?’
‘For myself. No. I can’t speak for Tam. I am in line for a good degree
which will help me get a reasonable job.’ Alisdair paused to finish his pint.
‘The only other campaign we will possibly do is to get David Harrison, the
current Chairman of NUS Region 10, and our first Presidential candidate here,
elected as Chairman of NUS.’
Commander Ingle waited until Alisdair came back from the bar with
another two pints of Tennants.
‘If you want any dirt on Harrison’s opposition I will be able to help.’
‘I would be more interested in Dirt on Dave. Tam and I could get him to
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pay for the beer all night.’
Ingle’s smiled. ‘Seriously though Alisdair, if I can be of help. I owe you
one.’
Again the door to the Beer Bar opened. Alisdair saw Pigpen poke his
head around the door. Seeing Alisdair in the bar, Pigpen seemed to beat a
hasty retreat.
Alisdair thought nothing of it, until he went to the toilet a few minutes
later. As he passed the Union Shop he was shocked to see that Christopher’s
poster had been spray painted with the word RED.
Commander Ingle immediately noticed the concerned look on Alisdair’s
face when he came back into the Beer Bar. Alisdair inspected the door to the
bar closely. There were red marks on the door.
‘What’s up Alisdair?’
Alisdair showed the red marks to Commander Ingle.
‘Our posters have been defaced in red spray paint. I think it must have
been the guy who came into the Beer Bar last.’
Commander Ingle looked at the smudged handprints. ‘Good set of
prints there.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘No need for forensics, Mr. Smith. I have just
checked the Union Cards in the box. Pigpen’s is not there. It must have been
him who did it, there is no way he would ever miss out on a late licence bar.’
‘With logic like that Alisdair, I will be out of a job in a few years.’ He
looked at his watch. ‘I must go now; I have a few people to interview.’ He
shook Alisdair’s hand. ‘Once again, I am indebted for your help. As I said
when we first met, the big picture is made up of many pieces, like a jigsaw.
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You supplied a lot of the crucial pieces Alisdair. Your father would have been
proud of you. He was a good man.’
‘He still is sir.’ Alisdair said
Commander Ingle looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I am in Edinburgh
next week. I will go and see your parents, and tell your father about the part
you played in all of this.’
Alisdair smiled. ‘What name does dad know you as, sir?’
It was Commander Ingles turn to smile. ‘Major Ingle, now Commander
Ingle.’
§§A§§
Tom and Alisdair were inspecting one of Christopher’s posters outside
the Union Shop with the Returning Officer.
Tom was in a foul mood. He listened patiently as Alisdair told the
Returning Officer what he had seen of Pigpen in the Beer Bar.
‘Pigpen is part of Bill Cowie’s campaign team.’ Tom explained to the
Returning Officer who nodded in agreement. ‘I demand a full Election
Tribunal over this.’
The Returning Officer agreed without further comment and left Alisdair
and Tom to go and advise the President of the Tribunal which by the rules
would be held the following morning.
‘How did the debate go son?’ Alisdair asked as the two students
walked down the stairs to the Mezzanine where the bar had just closed.
‘The motion was defeated. Both Chris and Elizabeth spoke
excellently.’ Tom inspected his pipe. ‘All in all, not a good night for Bill, and if
I have my way, it will be an even worse morning for him tomorrow.’
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§§A§§
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Chapter 10 – Wednesday 9th February
Ross Michie, the Appeal’s solicitor did not think there was any chance
of Alisdair being found guilty on the obscenity charge. He had just spent the
last ten minutes outlining to Alisdair what form the hearing would take. Rab
had chosen to stay with Alisdair until the case was called, and then he would
run up to the public gallery.
‘The Procurator Fiscals office is not even saying who brought the
charge, which is very strange indeed.’
The solicitor smoothed out the wings of his bowtie. There was
something funny about the charge. In all his ten years in practice he had
always known the identity of the person or persons who had brought a
charge. He was up against a brick wall on this one. His Senior Partner had
never come across such a situation either in his thirty-eight years in the
business.
Ross Michie had come out and openly asked one of the Procurator’s
staff when they had played golf together at Whitecraigs Golf Club the previous
Tuesday afternoon. Despite having a better handicap than his opponent, he
had purposely lost the round by using fairway irons less than the distance
demanded, hitting his drive out of bounds on the ninth, and by missing a very
easy final putt on the eighteenth. A very smug junior prosecuting lawyer had
accepted the ten pounds wager, but had not even hinted as to who had
brought the charge, much to Ross Michie’s annoyance.
Both Alisdair and Rab listened carefully to what the solicitor was
saying. Even although Alisdair knew there was no substance to the charge
he was still intrigued at the whole occasion. It was the first time he had been
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in the Magistrate‘s Court. His only previous run in with the law had been a
cuff on the ear from a policeman who had found him coming out of an orchard
with his pockets full of crab apples. He had only been nine years old and the
’Bobbie’ looked very big indeed to him at that age.
There seemed to be no other cases waiting to be heard, which was a
bit disappointing, there was no one handcuffed to policemen, but he realised
that the really hard cases would have been tried in the Sheriff's Court.
There was really no reason for Rab to feel nervous, despite that, he did
feel nervous for Alisdair. He had even put on a suit, the one he had bought
for his sister’s wedding four years ago and looked as if it had not been
pressed since then. He kept fiddling with his tie, which he was quite
unaccustomed to wearing. Despite not having fastened the top button of his
shirt he still felt as if he was being choked.
As usual he still found time for a bit of humour. ‘See next time you
want my help with anything, Alisdair, don’t even think of asking!’
Alisdair laughed. ‘That’s a pity, because I was going to ask you to help
Tam and I with Christopher’s Election Day publicity tonight. Frank Green and
Ron Flowers have been pulled in again by the police, I hear, and anyway, you
did offer yesterday at the Association Meeting.’
Rab smiled. ‘Will it end me up in court?’
‘The year after next for sure son. When you are President you get to
go to the University Court and represent all of us.’
Rab’s smile quickly disappeared when the courtroom opened and a
young lawyer in wig and gown came out.
‘Mr. Graham I presume.’ He shook hands with Alisdair. ‘I am Mr. Sims
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and I will be representing you this morning. Ross here will have briefed you
on what will happen, but there is no need to worry about a thing. I have not
lost anyone to the hangman yet.’ He laughed at his joke as he turned to Ross
Michie. ‘We should go in now gentlemen’
‘That’s all you need Alisdair,’ whispered Rab as they patted Alisdair on
the back before making his way up the stairs. ‘Another bloody comedian.’
Alisdair stole a glance up into the public gallery as he took his seat
behind his lawyer. Ross Michie sat beside him. The benches were full of
members of the Charities Appeal. He noticed Andrew Todd giving him a
surreptitious thumbs-up. There was no sign of Elizabeth however.
The Clerk of the Court was on his feet the instant the Magistrate had
taken his seat behind the high bench.
‘Alisdair Graham you are charged that, as a member of the Glasgow
Students Charities Appeal, you did write, publish and distribute an obscene
publication, namely Ygorra.’
The Magistrate spoke for the first time. ‘How does your client plead Mr.
Sims?’
Alisdair’s lawyer replied. ‘Not guilty, your Honour.’
‘Mr. Jones. I will hear the Procurator’s case now.’ The Magistrate sat
back in his seat and took out a crisp white handkerchief from his top pocket
and cleaned his glasses.
The Procurator‘s lawyer approached the bench and handed a copy of
Ygorra to the Clerk of the Court. ‘Your Honour. I present a copy of the said
publication and offer it as Exhibit A.’
The Clerk handed the Ygorra to the Magistrate, who slowly flicked
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through it. Alisdair thought that he saw a flicker of a smile on his face as he
paused at one page in particular.
‘As you can clearly see your honour there is a picture of Mr. Graham
on page three, the Editorial page. This clearly proves that the accused is
responsible for the publication.’
The Magistrate looked up from the Ygorra.
‘Do you have any comments on this evidence Mr. Sims?’
Alisdair’s lawyer rose from his seat.
‘I offer a copy of the Glasgow Students Charities Appeal constitution,
your honour. In it, Clause 32.1 to be exact, it clearly states that the Editor of
the Rag Mag does not need to be a member of the Appeal. Can I ask if the
Procurator has any evidence that my client was in fact a member of the
Appeal?’
‘Mr. Jones?’ The Magistrate looked at the Procurator’s lawyer over the
top of his glasses.’
After much shuffling of papers, the lawyer replied. ‘No your Honour.’
The Magistrate straightened in his seat and issued his verdict.
‘The Procurator has failed to prove the charge against Alisdair Graham.
The case is therefore dismissed.’
A cheer that would have done Hampden Park proud burst forth from
the students in the public gallery.
As Alisdair contemplated how quickly and how suddenly the hearing
had ended he noticed that, as the Magistrate rose to leave, he took the copy
of Ygorra with him.
§§A§§
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It had been the first time in five Presidential Elections that something
as serious as an Election Tribunal had been held. Most ‘campaigning
misdemeanours' were just that, and in the past any complaints had been dealt
with by the Returning Officer in a face-to-face with the candidate’s campaign
manager and the outcome was usually a friendly, but, firm telling off.
Sam Boag, the Returning Officer, had spent till one o’clock in the
morning reading up on the format for such an event. There was no one within
the Union who had ever attended one, or even knew of anyone who had.
The Lecture Theatre had been acquired at short notice. There were
three members of the Tribunal according to the various sets of rules Sam had
read through, the Returning Officer, the Union’s Vice President, and a
representative from the University’s Vice Chancellor’s office. It had been easy
enough to get hold of Ron Flaherty, the Vice President, to advise him that the
Tribunal would be at ten o’clock. It had taken several telephone calls, both by
him and the President to get a hold of even the Vice Chancellor’s secretary.
The Bursar had been nominated to represent the Vice Chancellor.
The Tribunal was restricted to only two representatives from each
campaign, and Pigpen, with no other students allowed in, even as observers.
Tom, Christopher, Elizabeth and David Thompson were doing their best to
console Pigpen who feared the worst.
Despite the trouble his campaign could be in after the Tribunal, Bill was
full of beans and trying his best to make light of the situation as they waited
outside in the corridor, while the Returning Officer ran through, in quite some
detail, the procedure for the Tribunal with the other two members.
Tom would not have normally taken such drastic action as calling for a
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Tribunal, but the sheer vandalism of Christopher’s posters annoyed him. It
wasn’t even a clever put-down, something he could appreciate, get annoyed
with for a while, but still appreciate. He certainly would not let Pigpen carry
the can for it. If that were to happen, which he doubted, he would instantly
withdraw the complaint.
Ten minutes later, when they were called into the Lecture Theatre,
Pigpen was charged with wilful damage to an opponent’s publicity material.
‘I may add, Mr. Downie, Pigpen’s real name, that should the Tribunal
see fit, you could face the Unions Disciplinary Committee on a charge of
wilfully damaging Union property, an all together more serious charge.’
The Returning Officer offered Pigpen the chance to reply to the charge.
Bill Cowie saved poor Pigpen the trouble.
‘I am fully responsible for what Mr. Downie did gentlemen. I suggested
that he put on Mr. Moore’s posters just where his political affiliations lie. After
all gentlemen, Mr. Moore’s campaign did something similar to Miss
Livingstone’s posters.’
Tom shook his head, but refused to dignify the remark with a reply. Bill
was digging himself a bigger hole than the one he was already in, but he just
let his mouth run away with it, as usual.
Tom spoke next and asked the Tribunal not to carry the charge any
further. As he put it, ‘Pigpen has been rather foolish, we all know that, but his
over enthusiasm should not affect his good status as a member of the Union.
Pigpen has proved during his time on the Entertainments Committee, and on
Council, to be a tireless and enthusiastic worker.’
‘You are a big softie Tom. I have always said that about you to
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Alisdair.’ Elizabeth grasped Tom’s arm as they, along with the rest of the
students waited outside again in the corridor for the decision from the
Tribunal.
Tom ruffled her hair, an action that brought a few stares from David
Thompson and Christopher especially.
‘You, young lady, should be at Alisdair’s side at this particular moment
in time rather that being here. That’s why you have a campaign manager, to
look after your interests.’ He looked at David Thompson, frowned, and said.
‘On second thoughts, you are better looking after your own interests.’
Tears welled up in Elizabeth’s eyes. Tom turned her away from the
rest of the students and gently steered her to the landing where no one could
see them. Elizabeth sobbed sorely into Tom’s shoulder for what seemed
ages.
‘Will he ever forgive me? I felt I had to come here to see that Pigpen
didn’t take the full blame.’
Tom gave Elizabeth a clean tissue. ‘No problem, Alisdair is one of
life’s survivors, and anyway, what sort of an ogre do you think I am Liz? As
you heard me say, there is no way I would have allowed Pigpen to take the
fall for his rather juvenile actions. I just felt that by pulling Bill into line, even
with something as severe as an Election Tribunal, all this foolishness would
end and we could get back to the issues.’
Elizabeth looked Tom fully in the face. ‘What about Alisdair?’
‘Alisdair? He is as nuts about you as your posters say you are.’
Elizabeth laughed and kissed Tom on the cheek. ‘Your posters, you
mean.’
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‘Prove it.’
The decision of the Tribunal was that Bill’s campaign expenses should
be reduced by twenty five percent and that amount be credited to
Christopher’s campaign to offset the additional posters he would now have to
put up. Pigpen was severely reprimanded for his actions but the matter would
not be referred further.
Bill was incensed by the decision. To lose a quarter of his campaign
expenses was devastating enough, but then to give it to Tom Shearer was
adding insult to injury. It would throw his arrangements for Election Day into
total disarray. His earlier jokes in the corridor outside the Lecture Theatre
instantly dried up when he stamped out of the Tribunal.
§§A§§
Alisdair listened intently as Tom related the events at the Election
Tribunal. ‘Bill was well and truly pissed off by the decision of the Tribunal.
Before the case started he was laughing and joking as if it was just a big
prank.’ Tom paused to light his pipe. ‘I think he has just been dead and
buried as far as this election is concerned. After his escapades in the
Assembly Hall on Friday afternoon he was dead as a credible candidate,
today his campaign was buried with full military honours.’
Alisdair had joined Tom and Christopher straight from the Magistrates
Court in their campaign rooms in the Frederick Street Annex. It was a
meeting Tom had felt necessary to review the status of Christopher’s
campaign and possibly the team’s strategy for the last two days left to them to
get Christopher elected, in view of Ron Flower’s arrest and the damage to
Christopher’s posters. It had been arranged as he and Alisdair left the Union
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late last night, depending on if Alisdair would be able to attend it after his court
appearance.
‘Our first priority is to get tomorrow’s publicity material organised and
printed. Fortunately I managed to get hold of today’s posters and handouts
through a couple of the lads in the United Left. Again Ron had printed them
earlier than we would have done in other campaigns, but God bless his little
Mao enamel badges that he did.’
‘I will get some stencil card and poster paint straight after this meeting.’
Alisdair replied. ‘You, Tom, can get onto Mr. Bashir Khan to get copious
amounts of green paper. We need enough for the thirty six or so official
posters and probably the same amount again for fly posting.’
Tom nodded. ‘We will use your flat if that is okay Alisdair?’
‘Of course. We usually do, don’t we?’
Tom poked the innards of his pipe bowl with his knife. ‘Handouts are
our big problem. We do not have the plate with Christopher’s picture on it and
we do not have our own printing press.’ He tapped the ash from his pipe in
the ashtray. ‘I hate to do it, but we will have to use the Union’s Publicity unit
as any campaign is entitled to, with all the attendant leaks.’
Alisdair shook his head pensively. ‘Liz must be laughing her head off.’
Tom looked at Alisdair seriously. ‘She certainly was not doing that
about half an hour ago Alisdair. She got herself into a right state because she
felt it was her duty to be here and not with you in court.’
Alisdair was strangely quiet for a minute or two. Tom sensed that
Alisdair felt let down by Elizabeth. He put his bear like arm around Alisdair’s
shoulder.
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‘Take my advice Alisdair. Go and find her right now. I’ll find Rab after
this meeting and ask him to go and get the stencil card and paint.’
Christopher looked on at the two students. He had grown to look on
them as older brothers during the last year. He was an only child so it was
something new to him to see their feminine side, an expression he had read in
his girlfriend’s ‘Cosmopolitan’. Not that he would have dared to use the
expression to their faces.
‘Is there anything I can do tonight Tam?’
Tom puffed at his pipe. ‘No. You need your beauty sleep. The TV
cameras can make the bags under your eyes look like rucksacks. You will not
have a moment to yourself tomorrow.’
He pulled a piece of paper out of his blazer pocket. It was the result of
the Strathclyde Telegraph‟s opinion poll. ‘It puts Elizabeth ahead by 42%,
Christopher 40%, Bill 6% and 12% Don’t Knows. Our own opinion poll reads
slightly different with Chris 46%, Elizabeth 42%, and Bill 6% with 6% Don’t
Knows. Either way we will have to go to a second preference vote distribution
even with the customary three percent error in such things.’ Smoke belched
from his pipe as he puffed it strongly to keep it alight.’
‘I was rather hoping for the 50% plus one at the first count.’ Alisdair
admitted. ‘Seeing as it is our last year.’
‘Agreed entirely Alisdair, replied Tom. ‘It would be nice for Christopher
to go to next years Senate meetings knowing he has the undisputed backing
of the students. More importantly, the members of the Court and Senate
would know it as well.’
He pointed his pipe at Christopher. ‘That is why Mr. Candidate, I want
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you to move this campaign up a gear, on a more personal level. I want you to
shake hands with at least a thousand students tomorrow. The schedule we
will give you tomorrow morning will be geared for just that.’
Christopher nodded. ‘I have a problem though. The DJ I had booked
for the Overseas Student’s Disco has let me down.’
‘Start pressing flesh early then son. Do it yourself!’ Alisdair looked at
his watch. It was eleven o’clock. He knew that Elizabeth would be in the
McCance Building coffee bar about now.
Tom noticed this and quickly drew the meeting to a close.
‘That’s arranged then Christopher. Restrict the flesh pressing to hand
shakes. I have seen the cracking Norwegian birds we have studying here.’
Christopher laughed.
To drew on the last of the tobacco in his pipe. ‘The only good thing
about both the opinion polls was that the two of them showed that a higher
than usual proportion of the students intend to vote tomorrow. I think we have
wiped Strathapathy out over the years Alisdair. Now go and find Liz. Go and
compliment her on her new posters.’
Alisdair asked. ‘Are they good son?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head laughingly at
Elizabeth’s new slogan.
THE RIGHT CHOICE.
It would have been better not to use the word ‘Right’ a second time, but
what can you expect with amateurs?’
‘The amateurs are only a couple of percentage points behind us son.’
Alisdair observed.
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‘But we have one more Heckling Meeting to go, and from what I have
seen of Christopher’s speech this morning, and as he is speaking last again,
I’ll be damned if we don’t hit that 50% today.’ There was a more determined
look to Tom as he viciously scraped out the bowl of his pipe. ‘Now it is time
for Chris here to earn us our post-election party pints.’
He looked at Alisdair. ‘Now go and do what you have to do to Liz to
make it up to her. Then from the Heckling Meeting onwards till the polls close
your arse is mine. We have a fucking campaign to win!’
He looked at Christopher who was grinning broadly. ‘And you can wipe
that smile off your fucking face Mr. Candidate. You are due at the Metallurgy
building about now!’
§§A§§
Christopher made his way along Rotten Row towards the Colville
Building for an informal meeting with a few members of the Metallurgy Club,
which Alisdair had arranged to let Christopher hear first hand what one of
Elizabeth’s policies would do to their coffee lounge.
The Colville Building had been a recent addition to the ever-growing
Strathclyde campus. Partly financed from the private sector steel industry, as
the name implied, it both eased the congestion in the Royal College building
lecture and laboratory facilities and provided state of the art laboratory
apparatus for the new breed of Metallurgists. Christopher was hoping to see
the electron microscope housed on the first floor of the building. He had
never taken a lot of interest in science subjects at school, preferring English
and modern languages, hence his choice of a Law course. He just wanted to
see what one looked like out of sheer interest. Would there be electrons
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buzzing around the room? Rather them than me, he thought, as he walked
up the stairs to the Colville Building.
§§A§§
Elizabeth was indeed in the McCance coffee lounge, and all was not
well. Alisdair heard the tail end of her conversation with Bill Cowie.
‘We were never a team Bill. You live in cloud cookoo land sometime
Bill, just like the SNP!’
‘That’s not what David Thompson said.’ Bill was now grasping at
straws. He now knew it was official, he had no chance of winning after also
getting an advanced look at the Telegraph‟s opinion poll.
Elizabeth saw Alisdair. ‘Goodbye Bill. I will see you at the Heckling
Meeting.’
As the door closed behind Bill, Elizabeth was in Alisdair’s arms. ‘God.
I do love you. You did warn me on Saturday morning, about making deals.
How did the court case go? I am so sorry I wasn’t there. I should have been.
What do you think of my new posters? Will I see you tonight?’
Alisdair kissed her on the lips. ‘Slow down gorgeous.’
Elizabeth returned his kiss. How she had missed his arms around her
this past few days. Having him around her just made everything all right. To
touch him, to smell him, and to look at him, was enough for her.
‘The answers, in reverse order.’ Alisdair ordered two coffees. ‘No,
fucking awful, I understand, not proven, yes I did, and finally, I love you too.’
Elizabeth laughed. She could not even remember the questions now!
§§A§§
This was the candidates’ final chance to get their policies and their
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views over to the students. As a result the Assembly Hall was full to
overflowing for the second Heckling Meeting. There were even students
standing in the landing outside the room. There was still a carnival
atmosphere about the place with the Fun-Fun Club again leading the
revelries. Alisdair was amazed to see that Christopher had not yet taken his
seat on stage. Tom was there, looking frantically at his watch.
Terry Pritchard started his introductory remarks. Half way through
them Christopher took his seat having come up the back stairs and through
the Green Room. The President concluded his speech by asking that the
candidates also keep their speeches brief to allow time for questions. He
added that the customary time for speeches would be cut from ten to five
minutes.
There were very few catcalls this time as Elizabeth took to the lectern;
the students were starting to take her and her policies seriously now. Her
campaign was working from that point of view.
Again she had taken Annabelle’s advice with her hair loose, but this
time she wore black trousers and her favourite pink angora sweater. Her
makeup was intentionally heavier than it was last time, again at Annabelle’s
suggestion. Elizabeth’s meeting with Annabelle last night about the
Strathclyde Telegraph editorial had not been as acrimonious has her tirade
with David over the poster slogan. Annabelle had been simply overruled by
the new interim Director of Publications, who it turned out, had been one of
the students who had signed Bill’s nomination papers.
Elizabeth’s style was more relaxed than it had been at Monday’s
Heckling Meeting. She leant with her arms on the lectern. More in the style
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of a fireside chat than a full blown lecturing speech.
‘Mr. President, fellow candidates, members of the Association.
Yesterday’s Association Meeting was an absolute disgrace. Firstly, Mr.
Moore’s amendment was not tabled before the deadline, but the present
Executive, the President to be precise, ignored our Constitution and accepted
it. Secondly, Mr. Moore’s campaign team intentionally manipulated the rules
of debate for their own ends. The Motion for Closure idea did come from Mr.
Moore’s campaign. I have that on good authority. In a nutshell, ladies and
gentlemen, we were conned yesterday! The whole charade was a face
saving exercise on behalf of the present administration! This must stop.’
Elizabeth paused for the expected applause, which was loud, sincere
and came from all sections of the Hall.
‘It is time for honesty and openness from the Executive, and from the
other candidates.’ She half turned to look at Christopher and Tom. Elizabeth
smiled as she faced the audience once again. ‘Members of the Association
forgive the old, rather obvious cliché, but would you buy a second hand car
from Mr. Moore?’
Neither Christopher nor Tom moved as the Hall erupted with laughter.
Tom slowly puffing his pipe, his face was an absolute picture. He was
personally being verbally fucked here, there was no nicer way to put it, and
without the chance to reply! Alisdair had not gone unscathed either.
Elizabeth was out for blood, but it was expected.
‘My policies speak for themselves. My proposed increase in beer
prices I know is not popular, but it is at least honest, and it will get us a new
Union.’
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This time Tom did move. He tapped Christopher on the shoulder.
More than a few brief words were exchanged.
‘This whole election has been the dirtiest one I have witnessed in all
my years at Strathclyde. This is the first time in living memory that an Election
Tribunal has had to be held. Posters have been defaced; deals have been
done behind the scenes, and nefarious debating tactics have been employed.
I suggest that the shortening of today’s speeches is yet another example. All
of these facts are detrimental to this Union, to your Association, ladies and
gentlemen.’
Again loud applause shook the room. A few of the Engineers were
now again giving Elizabeth a standing ovation. The red light showed on the
lectern. Elizabeth unscrewed the bulb and placed it on the lectern. The
audience went wild, clapping and cheering her rebellious action.
‘It is time for a new deal. We must move forward with this Union, not
backwards as Mr. Cowie would like, members of the Association. We need to
have an Executive, which is accountable to the Association as a whole. In
short, we must get our own house in order both financially and, I suggest,
morally. Thank you Mr. President for giving me the chance to speak!’
Elizabeth’s last sarcastic remark brought howls of laughter from the
body of the Hall. She had, in most minds, stitched up the President, the
Executive and Christopher Moore’s campaign in one of the best speeches
ever heard at a Heckling Meeting.
Bill Cowie saved the Fun-Fun Club the trouble by bringing on his own
fluorescent green dustbin and placing it by the side of the lectern.
There were still calls for him to ‘Vomit’, again. This time, however he
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did not begin his speech until the heckling had died down. Neither did he
screw the light red bulb back into its socket.
‘Mr. President.’ Bill bowed low in the direction of Terry. This brought
loud laughter from the audience. ‘Member of the Association, if my learned
colleague took such an exception to yesterday’s Association meeting why did
she wait till this meeting to air her views? The correct and proper time would
have been at yesterday’s meeting. I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that Miss
Livingstone is not being one hundred percent honest with us, and is instead
trying to make political capital out of her own inaction.’
His remark brought loud boos from a lot of the audience, and not only
from Elizabeth’s supporters.
Bill carried on over the noise, his voice raised.
‘I, on the other hand, did try to speak, firstly because of the travesty of
justice that was being perpetrated by the Executive, and secondly, on your
behalf, members of the Association. As Miss Livingstone so rightly said, we
were being shafted right, left and centre at that meeting yesterday. It was
another clear cut example of the members of this Union being subjected to
bully boy tactics, and another example of power to run our own affairs being
taken out of our hands.’
The audience, unlike at the first Heckling Meeting, were giving Bill his
say, and his last remark was greeted with a smattering of applause.
‘Mr. Moore’s idea of having an NUS Liaison position on Council is
nothing short of ‘jobs for the boys’. I suggest that if this were to be
incorporated in our Constitution, it be a Vox Pop election, not another cut and
dried carve up at a Council Meeting.’
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‘I do not see that happening, members of the Association, because if
you elect me tomorrow the situation will not arise, because Strathclyde will no
longer be a member of NUS!’
The Fun-Fun Club raised the roof with a fanfare of boos, stamping their
feet and calls of ‘Vomit. Vomit’
Bill casually waved his hand at their direction.
‘I see Mr. Moore’s bully boys are in again ladies and gentlemen.’
Bill paused and looked round the Hall.
‘Not all of your bullies are here today are they Mr. Moore? Your
seconder and your publicity manager both appear to be absent!’
Tom put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder and whispered something
in his ear.
‘Frank Green and I believe Ron Flowers, ladies and gentlemen, are in
police custody as we speak, helping them with their enquiries over the recent
IRA bombing, and the attempted attack on the Under Secretary of State for
Scotland, inside this very Union.’
There was not a sound to be heard from the audience. Bill smiled.
‘One wonders what other skeletons are hiding in Mr. Moore’s cupboard. Vote
for me tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, and keep Strathclyde at the forefront
of Scottish universities.’
The reaction to Bill’s speech was mixed. His supporters, what there
were of them, clapped loudly, but the remainder of the audience were
deferentially quiet.
Christopher approached the lectern, made a show of putting his notes
for the meeting in his pocket, screwed the light bulb back in, and held out his
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hands in front of him, wrists together as if expected the handcuffs to be put
on. He then put his hands at either side of the lectern and smiled.
‘Mr. President, fellow members of the Association. That seems to
conclude the case for the prosecution!’
This opening remark seemed to lighten the whole meeting, but not for
long. Christopher had spent three years learning about Law, both the theory
and how to put it across in court, and now he was going to put it to good use.
This was a side of Christopher which he very rarely let people see. He was
now fighting for his political life.
‘If my campaign team hand-prints my posters and handouts instead of
having them professionally printed by outside political parties, then I am guilty!
If I do not wish to give the NUS Executive a blank cheque in their negotiations
with the TUC and propose an amendment that means anything agreed
between them has to be ratified by all of us, as members of the University of
Strathclyde Students Association, then I am guilty! If by supporting the NUS
policy on groups for our dances and keeping our catering costs in the black as
a result, then I am guilty! If my campaign team and I know the rules by which
this Association is governed sufficiently well to benefit the members of this
Association then I am again guilty on all counts!’
There was genuine anger in Christopher’s tone and the audience saw it
and sat up and took notice.
‘Miss Livingstone talks about defacing campaign posters in this
election. I would like to remind her, and the rest of the members of the
Association, that it was my posters, which were defaced. Her comments
about deals being made were from her own point of view, unfortunate. I wish
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again she had been honest enough to admit that it was her own campaign
team who were involved in a deal for Mr. Cowie to stand down from this
election in return for her support for him as Deputy President in next month’s
Exec Elections. I think therefore we can conclude that Mr. Cowie does not
really want the job of President and Miss Livingston’s campaign team are not
above using questionable tactics which she is so ready to accuse my
campaign of using!’
Elizabeth reddened furiously as the Fun-Fun Club started the applause
for Christopher interspersed with shouts of ‘Guilty! Guilty!’
‘I, like most of the students in Strathclyde, understand the benefits of
being an integral part of NUS, but yet maintaining autonomy within Region 10.
How many of you in this room have student rail cards, negotiated for them by
NUS? How many of you in this room gladly accepted the increase in grants
last year, negotiated by NUS? How many of you in this room come here on a
Saturday night to watch top line bands at a quarter of the price you would pay
in any city centre concert hall, again negotiated on your behalf by NUS?’
More members of the audience joined the Fun-Fun Club chant of
‘Guilty! Guilty!’
‘I have one final comment on Miss Livingstone’s financial policies. Has
she ever asked the committees responsible for the independent coffee
lounges what they think of her policies? Well I did. Firstly it would put most of
them out of business, secondly; as a result, the official Union coffee lounges
would not be able to cater fast enough for the increased trade. Lastly, would
a student from the Colville Building have enough time between lectures to
walk over here, get served, drink their coffee, and walk back to the Colville
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Building? I know the answer to that is no Miss Livingstone, because I have
just tried it. That was why I was late for this meeting!’
The red light lit up on the lectern.
‘In conclusion, Mr. President, fellow members of the Association. I am
guilty of having your interests at heart, having thought about them seriously
for the last three years in this University, and I am guilty of wanting to serve
you the students as your President, and not for personal political gain. I rest
my case. No further questions Mr. President!’
Tom was sitting on the edge of his seat; smoke was belching from his
pipe, as Christopher turned to take his seat once again. He then stood up
and applauded Christopher. Alisdair had never seen him do that in any of
their other campaigns. The rest of the audience followed suit. It was genuine
applause. There was no need for the Fun-Fun Club to chant this time.
As Christopher had so rightly put it at the end of his speech, there was
no need for questions at this meeting. Strangely enough, the weakest speech
had come from the Debates Convenor, both Elizabeth’s and Christopher’s
speeches had been electrifying. Elizabeth, although delivering a blistering
speech, had set out to backstab Christopher, his campaign team, and the
Executive, and Christopher had answered all of the charges with panache and
guile. If he was to have any chance in tomorrow’s election, he had to and in
Alisdair’s opinion, he had done it superbly well!
§§A§§
For the moment the Presidential Election took a back seat as Elizabeth
sat next to Alisdair in the Charities Office in Buccleuch Street. He had his arm
around her and she felt his strength and warmth. It had been an exhausting
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day for her. Her speech at the Heckling Meeting had taken a lot out of her.
She was not a nasty person by nature but the tactic of attacking Christopher
and his campaign, agreed by David and Annabelle as necessary, for her to
maintain the lead in the polls that Annabelle had manufactured. She had
even dragged Alisdair into the fray, but he had just laughed it off as being all
part and parcel of electioneering. ‘Let’s call it a draw so far.’ He had said.
‘You owed me one for the put-down posters!’
The final meeting of the Appeal was nearly over and they listening to
Andrew Todd thanking all of them for their boundless energy and sterling
efforts in raising an unbelievable sum of just over £34,000. Elizabeth made a
face when Andrew thanked the Strathclyde committee for the healthy cash
flow surplus from the Rag Ball, which alone would pay for next year’s
overheads. The secretary’s salary, stationery and the nominal rent they paid
on the premises provided by one of the Appeal’s Patrons.
Alisdair nodded towards the new committee, Rab had been elected
unopposed as General Convenor. Glasgow University were in the minority for
the first time either of them could remember.
‘It certainly takes you back doesn’t it Liz?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Young fresh keen faces, full of new ideas. Just like
we were four years ago.’ She leant her head on his shoulder. ‘Are we past it
now then?’
‘Never. We just have different priorities now.’
‘Your priorities never change Alisdair Graham. You have left your mark
with Rab. I know that he will be an excellent General Convenor but he is
merely waiting in the wings for his big entrance in about a year’s time.’ She
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nipped Alisdair playfully. ‘Anyway, Rab might not be my choice as my
successor.’
Alisdair kissed her. ‘That confident, are you?’
Her eyes softened. ‘Maybe!’
Alisdair kissed her again. ‘Rab may or may not be your choice if you
win tomorrow, which I doubt by the way, as we have had our own opinion poll
done, but it will fuck up the United Left.’
‘You never give up do you Alisdair? That’s one of the reasons I love
you. But I think it is time for you to let go, stop the grooming, let nature take
its course.’
‘It’s not in my nature Liz, and you know that. The game is not over until
the final whistle. I am a ninety minute plus man.’
There was a twinkle in Elizabeth’s eyes. She looked at her watch. It
was only half past six. ‘When do you have to meet your lord and master?’
‘In about ninety minutes!’
‘Me too.’
They both burst out laughing.
Alisdair was first to recover. ‘As we are in the business of old clichés
today, your place or mine?’
‘Mine. You can pay for the taxi.’
§§A§§
Wild Bill Cowie had never been known to be a quitter. He had taken
heart from his performance at the Heckling Meeting. He had obviously hit a
sore spot by his remarks about Frank Green and Ron Flowers, so much so
that Christopher had not referred to them in his speech. Christopher’s unholy
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alliance with the United Left must now surely lose him the election. He had
also shown Elizabeth up as being spineless. Things looked rosy all of a
sudden. The Heckling Meeting must have upset what the Strathclyde
Telegraph opinion poll predicted as the outcome of the election.
Even without Rab McDonald there were a dozen or so students sitting
with him in the Beer Bar planning their Election Day strategy. If not actually
getting the chance to contribute to the meeting, they were at least listening to
what Bill had to say. After all, he had paid for the beers.
‘We have got a new poster which we will put up in the Union here and
in Pitt Street.’
Bill unrolled the bundle of yellow coloured posters he had with him -
NUS NO! SUS YES!
‘We will also start fly posting on anything that doesn’t move, all the way
from Central Station and Queen Street Station to the Union. It should be
pretty quiet about two o’clock in the morning. Who would like to volunteer to
do that with me?’
A couple of the first year students held up their hands. To them it was
exciting. To the older hands it was better to be tucked up under the duvet at
two in the morning rather than fiddling with posters and paste in the pouring
rain, half expecting, a couple of Glasgow policemen to descend upon you at
any moment.
Bill motioned to three other members of the campaign team. ‘You have
the cars arranged for the Royal College campus cavalcade tomorrow between
eleven thirty and two?’
‘Once we hook up the loudspeaker system tomorrow morning we will
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be all set.’ One of the three students replied. ‘You have the tapes?’
Bill smiled. ‘Apart from getting the piper here in the Union at twelve,
that should do us nicely, but I have not given up on that just yet.’
§§A§§
Tom was helping Christopher to set up the Union’s disco equipment in
the Mezzanine having offered to do Alisdair’s Heavy Duty for him whilst he
was at the Charities Committee Meeting.
He leant on one of the loudspeakers whilst Christopher connected up
the pre-amp and the amp to the two turntables. Tom puffed contentedly on
his pipe.
‘I reckon that superb, perfectly pitched, speech of yours put you a clear
undisputed four or five points ahead of Elizabeth. You are going to win
tomorrow Christopher, and I am not just saying that.’
Christopher, for the first time since the election started, believed it as
well.
‘Thanks for the suggestion that I throw away my prepared speech
Tam.’
Tom laughed. ‘I just said lay off the humour, not go for the fucking
quietly controlled rage bit!’ Tom shrugged. ‘Still, all and all Chris, it worked a
treat. You countered all their allegations and then some.’ Tom moved away
from the speaker as he heard the base hum as Christopher switched on the
amps. ‘Without putting too fine a point on it, it was the best speech any of my
candidates have ever made and that includes Harrison.’
‘Praise indeed master’ replied Christopher as he put on a Santana LP.
‘There was one point I couldn’t answer though.’
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Tom looked at Christopher; he knew what he was feeling. ‘Tomorrow
is time enough for that. Let’s just see what transpires tonight.’
Christopher nodded.
Students were beginning to arrive for the Overseas Students Disco.
Strathclyde University had a very big Scandinavian contingent, mainly in Civil
and Electrical Engineering, as well as a similar number of Commonwealth
students. Christopher had spent a couple of hours in the University Library
swotting up on Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch, Arabic and Hindi expressions he
could work into the act.
Bill, having left his campaign team in the Beer Bar with a few more
pints, tried to gain entrance to the Mezzanine but he found Tom’s bulk in the
way.
‘Sorry Billy Boy no ticket, no go, and anyway, I know Aberdeen is the
back of beyond, but it can hardly be classed as overseas!’
§§A§§
‘You look flushed Elizabeth. Have you been running?’ Annabelle was
setting out nibbles and champagne flutes on the coffee table. David was
taking the foil off the Bollinger.
Elizabeth smiled to herself as she hung her coat over the back of the
white Habitat settee. She had certainly not been running as she had taken a
taxi to Annabelle’s flat. She and Alisdair had made love so ferociously that
she still felt quite breathless. If the taxi ride to her flat had been longer than
ten minutes she was sure they would have started off their love making on the
back seat.
She accepted a glass from David.
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‘By way of a celebration Elizabeth.’ Annabelle passed her a dish of
nibbles. ‘Both David and I think you have done enough to win. You are 42%
to 40% ahead of Christopher in the opinion polls, with 12% undecided and we
are sure you took the majority of them with your attacking speech today.’
Elizabeth raised her glass in a toast. ‘You two are the ones who have
done the donkey work. I have just fronted the team.’
‘You are too modest Elizabeth.’ David helped himself to some
peanuts. ‘You were the one who set the policies, you were the one who had
to make the speeches, and you were the one who kept me in line.’
Elizabeth stood up and kissed him softly on the cheek. ‘Thank you
David, but it was your logistics that won the day.’
Annabelle looked at Elizabeth strangely. What a difference a few days
made. This time last week Elizabeth had no intention of standing for
President and here they were a week later on the threshold of getting the first
female president elected in Strathclyde, and the first Tory for six years.
David pulled them back to reality and the purpose of the meeting,
Elizabeth’s timetable for tomorrow.
‘Eight o’clock sharp we hit the Mezzanine in John Street for coffee and
doughnuts. It is customary for all the candidates to be there then. It will
probably be canny fun. We stay there for an hour’
He held out his glass for a refill of champagne.
‘We go to Pitt Street Union for the ten o’clock lecture break.
Remember Pitt Street is Christopher’s stronghold and he may well be there as
well, so again that should be fun. It is also one of your good voting bases
Elizabeth because Pitt Street is predominately female. Then it is back to the
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Royal College buildings at eleven, because that is where most of the Don’t
Knows are, I am sure.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Now that is one thing you agree with Tom on. He
has always maintained that the Arts and Farts students who take sides early
on in elections, but it is the Science students who are the most apathetic.’
David nodded. ‘He is perfectly right Elizabeth. The voting statistics
show that clearly. This year however, we have cut the Strathapathy to 12%,
and I am sure it is entirely due to the high calibre of the candidates and the
‘freshness’ of their policies. All in all it has been a brilliant election so far.’
Annabelle handed David another Bollinger to open they were now
about to discuss the Unit 65 Interview, her strong point. As Director of
Publications she had boosted the internal TV facility to one of the major
vehicles of the Union publicity, with two broadcasts per week, Wednesday
and Friday lunchtime.
‘We then go to Frederick Street Annex Unit 65 studio for the last
opportunity to sway the uncommitted voters. Don’t wear strong colours Liz. I
suggest that you go for a fawn or pink top. The background will be light blue
so you will stand out well with your hair colouring. Keep your makeup to a
minimum; our lighting is not as good as the professional studios.’ She passed
Elizabeth a sheet of paper. ‘Here are the questions you will be asked. They
are fairly innocuous and are based on your main policy statements, so you will
have no problems.’
David poured some more Bollinger for all of them. ‘We will spend the
afternoon doing the coffee lounges in McCance, Colville and Architecture
buildings.’
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‘Do you think I will be welcome?’ Elizabeth laughed.
David shook his head. ‘Maybe not but it will give you the chance to
discuss your ideas first hand with the students they will most affect.’
David glanced at his notes. ‘We finish with a drink in the Beer Bar at
five, when the polling stations close and then on up to the Assembly Hall for
the count.’
Annabelle leant over and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. ‘Then we can
really celebrate at the post-Election Party.’
‘And you can commiserate with Tom over his defeat?’ Elizabeth
whispered.
Annabelle actually blushed. ‘Maybe he will be too tired to party having
to be up all tonight resurrecting Christopher’s publicity?’
Elizabeth drained her glass and held it towards David for a refill. He
went to the kitchen for another bottle of Bollinger.
‘Don’t kid yourself Annabelle. Tom thrives on pressure. It is when he
and Alisdair are at their most inventive and their most dangerous.’
Elizabeth looked towards the kitchen to make sure David couldn’t
overhear. ‘I have just spent the last hour and a bit making love to Alisdair.’
Annabelle’s eyes opened wide.
‘We love each other, but he was buzzing tonight. I have seen it in the
two of them on the night before Election Day for the past three years. They
love it. It is like a drug to them. They will put one hundred and ten percent
effort into what they do tonight, just like Alisdair did when we made love
earlier.’
‘I think I know what you mean Liz. Tom is intense; it is what attracted
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me to him, and apart from the fact that he is an absolute hulk!’ She looked
round to see if David was still in the kitchen. He was. ‘I took your advice
about being where Tom was. We made insane love in the weight room on
Wednesday night!’
Elizabeth looked totally amazed. ‘Annabelle! I only told you to meet
him, not take him to bed!’
‘Bed is the only place we have still to make love in, and we have made
love every night for the last week.’
Elizabeth laughed and kissed Annabelle. ‘He certainly is a catch
Annabelle, and he will go far both in rugby and in his career. You could do a
lot worse.’
Annabelle had already made her mind up about that many months ago.
Tom was, as she had said to Elizabeth, a hunk. She herself could never be
described as ‘petite’ and this sometimes put potential boyfriend off, but not
Tom. They were both larger than life, both in build and personality. They
both knew exactly what they wanted and it was obvious to her that by the way
they interacted with each other this was more than just a sexual relationship.
Of that she was sure. She had even told daddy about Tom on the phone last
night. He wanted to meet the guy who could sweep his daughter off her feet
and planned to go to the Ireland Scotland Varsity game.
David came back from the kitchen with the champagne
Annabelle held out her glass for David to replenish. She was feeling
rather merry, not to mention feeling rather jealous of Elizabeth, in a friendly
way. She suddenly had an impulse to rush around to Alisdair’s flat and make
mad passionate love to Tom. Instead she said quietly. ‘I know Liz, I know.’
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§§A§§
Fluorescent green posters littered Alisdair’s lounge. Rab had been
busy ever since he had left the Charities Meeting. All the members of the new
Charities Committee had wanted him to go with them to the Elgin Pub just off
Sauchihall Street, but Rab was just as committed as Alisdair and Tom were.
Despite having proposed Bill, he felt betrayed by Bill’s deal with David
Thompson, and now he was committed to Alisdair and Tom. Not particularly
because of Christopher, although he liked him and his speech today had been
an absolute revelation to Rab, but he had given his word.
Tom was standing, in his shirtsleeves at the dining room table which
was covered in an old sheet, squeegee in hand, printing out the basic
campaign poster. His pipe was firmly clenched between his teeth. Alisdair
and Rab were cutting the posters to size.
‘I reckon, after today’s Heckling Meeting we have made the 50%
Christopher needs, but we must maintain the momentum tomorrow. I want
this one on the first count.’ He took a swig of his can of Export. ‘Fuck second
preferences! The only opinion poll I am really interested in is the one when
they open the bloody ballot boxes.’
Alisdair laughed. ‘You love this don’t you? The late night session I
mean. It wouldn’t be an election without it, would it?’
Rab shook his head at the two of them. ‘What are you going to do with
these off-cuts Alisdair?’
Alisdair looked at the size of them, eighteen inches wide by six inches
high. He thought for a moment. ‘How’s about - MOORE – 1? ‘They would be
perfect for fly posting,’
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‘Love it!’ Tom had just finished printing out the required number of
basic posters. ‘You cut the stencil Alisdair, Rab can get some more beer, and
I can fill my pipe.’
Half an hour later, several beers each, and Alisdair had measured and
cut two stencils.
MOORE #1
Rab started to print them out while Alisdair and Tom sat thinking about
the Election Day slogan whilst they talked through Christopher’s timetable.
Christopher was an Arts student, which necessitated a change from
their usual timetable. All their other candidates had been Science or
Engineering students.
‘Pitt Street eight thirty till nine.’ Tom filled his pipe. ‘Engineering
Building for ten o’clock, there is a huge second year lecture on then. Library
and McCance until eleven thirty, Unit 65 Interview at twelve, the Refectory
and the Beer Bar till two. Coffee lounges and polling stations in the afternoon,
coffee and sandwiches in the Mezz at four thirty, a quick pint in the Beer Bar
then off to the count in the Assembly Hall.’
Alisdair nodded. They had done this so often it was almost second
nature. The timing of the various venues had been slightly changed. He
asked. ‘Slogan?’
Tom sucked at his pipe deep in thought. The TV and the radio were
on; Alisdair was flicking through a few magazines, including a copy of
‘Penthouse’, which Rab had produced; Tom was finishing off the crossword in
the Glasgow Herald, whilst glancing though the editorials at the same time
looking for inspiration for a slogan. Nothing obvious was coming.
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Meanwhile Rab has finished the fly posting posters. Tom phoned Sid
McDonald and Hugh Wilson of the Fun-Fun Club to pick them up as soon as
possible to start putting them up in the City centre.
Rab sat down with his two co-conspirators, beer in hand, both of which
were covered in black paint. He aimlessly flicked through the TV channels.
‘You know, sometimes you more you think about something the further
away it gets.’
Alisdair, who was sitting next to Rab on the settee suddenly jumped on
him, beer spilling everywhere.’
‘You are a fucking beauty son!
THE MOORE YOU THINK ABOUT IT THE MOORE IT MAKES SENSE’.
He looked at Tom.
Tom made a face and then gave the thumbs up. It was a pretty naff
slogan, almost as bad as Elizabeth’s original one, but it would bring a bit of
humour to an otherwise serious campaign, and it was midnight. ‘We run with
it boys. Start cutting the stencil. I’ll get some more beer.’
§§A§§
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Chapter 11 – Election Day
Alisdair switched on the light in the lounge the sudden brightness
wakening Tom who was asleep on the settee.
‘The shower is free son if you want it.’
Tom looked at his watch, six thirty, plenty of time to shower, shave and
shampoo before the ravages of the day ahead. Not that he expected any
surprises from the opposition. The campaigning was done and dusted. His
main job today was to look after Christopher. Talk him through the day. Most
of all, he had to keep his spirits up, keep him moving amongst the student,
talking to them, asking if they had voted, basically things which Christopher
did very well. He was a very personable guy. Any votes they grabbed today
counted double because it was one less for the opposition.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the kitchen. The aroma of freshly
perked coffee filled the room. All was well with the world. Alisdair had even
had the foresight to have the Daily Telegraph delivered with his own Glasgow
Herald. He helped himself to a coffee after washing one of the mugs in the
sink, sat down opposite Alisdair, who was reading his Herald, opened the
Telegraph at the cryptic crossword, and proceeded to fill his first pipe of the
day. All was well with the world.
The studious silence in the kitchen was broken by the telephone
ringing in the lounge. Tom looked at his watch.
‘That will probably be Christopher, I asked him last night to call me at
six forty five. Firstly to make sure he didn’t sleep in and secondly to give him
the timetable for today.’
Alisdair just nodded. He was engrossed in an article about his court
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case. The Glasgow Herald had been the only national newspaper to give the
Ygorra affair more than a few column inches when it was first known he was
to be charged with obscenity. They obviously had taken the trouble to have a
reporter in court. The article basically asked was it not time for student Rag
Mags to change from being mere smutty joke books? Alisdair’s thought
entirely.
Tom carried on with doing his crossword as he talked to Christopher on
the phone. He had already outlined Christopher’s movements for the day.
‘Just be yourself today Christopher. As for the Unit 65 Interview, treat it
very tongue in cheek. It should be obvious to most of the viewers that Unit 65
is just out to make you look bad.’
Tom stopped looking at the crossword as he listened to what
Christopher had to say next. He puffed intently at his pipe.
‘Unfortunately Christopher I agree with you entirely, and I am sure
Alisdair will as well when you explain it to him as you have just explained it to
me. But can I ask that we wait, at least till lunchtime, before a final decision is
made?’
‘Crossword finished?’ Alisdair asked when Tom came back into the
kitchen. ‘Is Christopher all set for his big day?’
‘Crossword is just about finished Alisdair and Christopher is running
true to form.’ Tom helped himself to more coffee.
He looked Alisdair straight in the eye; a sudden sadness seemed to
descend on him.
‘I can promise you that today is a day that neither of us will forget for a
long while.’
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§§A§§
Bill Cowie was up and running on all cylinders. He talked to every
single student in the Mezzanine asking him or her to vote for him because a
vote for Bill Cowie was a vote for Scotland. The fact that three of the students
he talked to were Norwegian made no difference to Bill.
The Fun-Fun Club were in full cry as well despite most of them being
up till the early hours fly posting MOORE #1 posters throughout the City
centre. The Mezzanine was awash with fluorescent green streamers and
balloons.
Outside in John Street every available inch of the railings outside the
Union building and those of the Royal College Building were festooned in the
three candidates posters. Lamp posts were also covered in posters. Several
of Elizabeth’s supporters had parked their cars directly outside the Union
building and they too were covered in her posters. Bill’s cavalcade had
already started with pipe music and electioneering slogans on their
loudspeaker, much to the enjoyment of the employees of the Martha Street
Registry Office who were making their way to work.
The Fun-Fun Club had persuaded the Porter to open the Assembly
Hall for them so that they could hang a thirty-foot long MOORE #1 poster
outside the Union building.
The entry into the Mezzanine of Elizabeth and Annabelle brought a
chorus of wolf whistles from the Fun-Fun Club.
Elizabeth smiled good-humouredly at the teasing. Annabelle however
grabbed the nearest member of the Fun-Fun Club and planted a soppy kiss
on his lips. That brought loud laughter from the rest of the Fun-Fun Club.
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The tone for the day had been well and truly set.
Bill paid for Elizabeth’s coffees.
‘All the best for today Elizabeth.’ He shook her hand. One of the
Strathclyde Telegraph photographers, who Annabelle had organised, asked
them to hold the pose whilst he ran off a couple of frames.
‘No hard feelings I hope Elizabeth? You can’t blame me for trying? I
think I have probably lost Christopher this election to your benefit and I will be
glad to serve you as your Deputy President.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘You never give up do you Bill? If you do manage to
get elected as Deputy, don’t you dare think you can manipulate me just
because I am female?’
Bill struck a pose. ‘Now would I do that Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth collected up the coffees from the counter. ‘Most certainly Bill.
I would expect nothing less of you.’
Elizabeth looked round the Mezzanine as she sat down with Annabelle
at a table near the jukebox.
‘No Christopher I see.’ It was Alisdair she really wanted to see, to hold,
and to have his support.
‘It is just like Tom to upset the norm. Everyone knows that it is tradition
for all the candidates to be in here before the nine o’clock lectures on Election
Day.’ Annabelle was slightly annoyed also that Christopher was not starting
off in the Mezzanine that was the main reason she had arranged for the
photographer, to catch all three candidates for next week’s Strathclyde
Telegraph front page, and, more importantly, to see Tom.
§§A§§
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‘Well who did you vote for Alisdair?’
Tom was needling Alisdair as the two of them walked up John Street
with Christopher towards the Union building. Alisdair had been the last of the
three of them to vote. He had voted in the Royal College Building,
Christopher had voted early on in Pitt Street, and Tom had voted in the
McCance Building.
The steps to the Union were packed with campaign members from all
three camps pushing Handouts on anyone who looked their way. Tom had
already assessed that students were wearing Christopher and Elizabeth’s
lapel badges in about equal amounts. There had been a majority of them in
Christopher’s favour in the Pitt Street Union though.
The one sight, which did please Tom immensely, was Ron Flowers at
the head of the team handing out Christopher’s handouts. Tom went straight
up to him and shook his hand.
‘Great to have you back on board Ron. I hate to say it, but we’ve
missed you. Is everything alright?’
‘As far as I am concerned, yes, no charges, just lots of questions.’
Tom patted Ron on the shoulder than looked at Christopher.
‘Was I was right to wait till lunchtime?’
Christopher smiled. ‘Half right so far.’
Seeing Ron seemed to put more of a bounce in Tom’s step. He
bounded up the stairs to the Mezzanine landing where Alisdair and
Christopher found him talking to the two retired ex-Corporation employees, a
husband and wife team, who were manning the polling station there. These
retired Corporation employees were used by the Union in all their elections to
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avoid any possibility of vote rigging. They supervised the polling stations and
more importantly they were involved in counting the votes.
Tom shook hands with the two pensioners and introduced them to
Alisdair and Christopher.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Clarke have been doing the elections here even longer
than we have Alisdair. The only trouble we have with them is getting Mr.
Clarke out of the Beer Bar in time for the count.’
Mrs. Clarke, a former bus conductress smiled at Christopher. ‘Is this,
this year’s winner Tom?’
Tom laughed. ‘You tell me. You have been sitting here all morning
watching the students vote.’
She looked around her to see if anyone could overhear what she said.
‘Looks about even here from where I am sitting.’
Tom kissed her on the hand. ‘That will do for me Mrs. Clarke. Your
usual gin and tonic will be waiting for you in the Beer Bar at ten past five.’
§§A§§
For the first time in this election Tom was glad that Bill was standing as
a candidate. Alisdair and he sat in the crowded Beer Bar watching the TV as
Bill managed to upset Annabelle’s carefully choreographed programme by
dragging in a fluorescent green dustbin and insisting that he sit on that instead
of the chair provided for him. He was also constantly interrupting the
interviewer, which worked to Christopher’s advantage as Bill answered most
of the pointed questions directed at Christopher.
‘At least Annabelle can’t blame this fiasco on you Tam.’ Alisdair said
after getting the two of them a second pint each.
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Tom downed a third of his pint in one. ‘I might have to console her
later on tonight.’
Alisdair raised his pint of Tennants. ‘Go for it son.’
The Unit 65 Interview was drawing to a close much to the relief of the
presenter. The candidates were asked to make a brief closing statement to
give the students who had not yet voted something to think about. Bill was
first.
‘The only way forward for this Union is to reform SUS, or at least give
more autonomy to NUS Region 10.’
Alisdair nudged Tom. ‘Looks like Bill is paving the way for standing for
Deputy President in the Exec Elections.’
Tom nodded. He watched the screen intently as Christopher spoke.
‘My policies have been well documented by my campaign team, but at
the risk of upsetting them too much I would like to see the SRC reinventing
the procedures for the Presidential Election. There is too much publicity
material being ‘donated’ by outside bodies.’
Tom laughed. ‘The little bastard. He beat me too it.’
Alisdair smiled to himself as the camera panned onto Elizabeth. She
looked gorgeous.
‘We simply have to get the University of Strathclyde Students
Association onto a more sound foundation both morally and financially. If you
vote for me I will insist on that.’
Tom finished his Export. ‘I hate to admit it Alisdair but both Christopher
and Elizabeth have hit the nail right on the head on what is wrong with this
Union.’
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Alisdair looked at Tom. ‘You are getting frighteningly philosophical
son. Are you saying our original yardstick of the price of pie and peas is no
longer valid?’
Tom laughed. ‘If anyone is holding on to that yardstick, it is Liz, if you
believe her financial thoughts on this Union.’
Alisdair emptied his pint and also picked up Tom’s empty glass.
‘Sometimes son, we are too close and we miss the obvious!’
Tom stopped Alisdair from going to the bar. He looked suddenly
serious.
‘We will take a rain check on that pint until after the polls close. You
and I have a meeting now with Christopher and Ron in the President’s Office.’
§§A§§
Alisdair paused at the double doors to the Assembly Hall. The trestle
tables were laid out in their usual positions for an election count. There were
the customary four low tables laid out with biscuits, cups and saucers, tea
bags and coffee. The hot water urn set on one of the kitchen trolleys gurgled
away to itself near the entrance to the Green Room.
He had seen it all before, but this was the last time he would participate
in what to him was a serious part of his education at Strathclyde. Many
students just stuck with their studies plus joining one or two of the University
clubs, usually ones connected with their course. Alisdair did not think he was
a particularly gifted student, he had worked damned hard on his studies with
many late nights either in the Library or at home reading and writing reports.
He had still found time to represent his constituency on the Student
Representative Council, and had served on all of its committees at one time
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or another during his four years. He was a member of the University Athletic
Club for whom he played football regularly in the first team and dabbled in
hockey in the third term. He had also been a member of the Metallurgy Club
and the Geology Club with their fun field trips to areas of Scotland of particular
geological interest. Many pleasant hours had been spent chipping away at
the granite of the Cairngorms followed by a night in a local pub.
Presidential Elections though were his first love. It was not just the
feeling of satisfaction of having your candidate elected; it was watching them
grow in confidence and stature as they realised the enormity of what was
expected of them in leading the Students Association in discussions with the
University Court and Senate, in liaising with the local authorities, and now with
NUS, presenting Strathclyde’s points of view at a national level. Strathclyde
University was also unique in Scotland in that they did not elect a ‘personality’
to be their ‘Rector’; the President was the sole spokesman for the Students
Association.
It was with mixed emotions that he eventually went into the Hall to be
immediately joined by Elizabeth, who after tonight would be his first and only
love.
The final ballot box arrived a few minutes later to join the others on the
stage. The Returning Officer checked that the seal was intact the and asked
that with the exception of the candidates and two only of their campaign team,
and the members of the Returning Officer’s committee, all other students
were to please leave. The double doors were then shut and locked and the
curtains drawn.
The first three ballot boxes were carried to the three rows of tables and
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opened. The count had begun.
§§A§§
Elizabeth sat with Alisdair at one of the low coffee tables on the raised
area of the Hall. Elizabeth was holding his hand.
‘I am sorry for my moodiness this week Alisdair. I rather took it out on
you, though I shouldn’t have.’
Alisdair squeezed her hand.
‘I bet you David Thompson got the rough end of your tongue as well?’
‘He did, several times, and he deserved it for that bloody stupid slogan
and for the deal he tried to do with Bill.’
Alisdair shook his head. ‘David never wanted to make a deal with Bill
he just wanted to make Bill think you wanted to do a deal with him. He did
both our campaigns a favour by slowing the momentum of his campaign for a
couple of days. When Bill eventually found out he was being set up he had
lost so much ground it was impossible to regain the momentum.’
‘Even with your last campaign over you are still wheeling and dealing
Alisdair Graham.’
‘The Presidential might be over lover, but there are still the Exec
Elections.’ Elizabeth poured milk in Alisdair’s coffee and stirred it for him. He
passed her a Bourbon Cream. ‘They are only of passing interest to us at
present. Tom and I do not intend running any candidates we are handing
those elections over to the Fun-Fun Club.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘But saying
that, things might change if you win tonight.’
‘Would you be proud of me if I do win?’
‘Most certainly. Do you know what the problem was with your
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campaign?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘The bloody awful slogans?’
Alisdair laughed. ‘You decided to run too late. If you had thought
about running a couple of months ago instead of less than two weeks ago the
logistics of your campaign would have been a dawdle and you would never
have had those slogans because you would have picked up on them well
before they were printed. I must give David Thompson his due, in the short
time he had he ran a bloody good campaign, and as for Annabelle! She is as
bad as Tom for pulling dirty tricks. They deserve each other.’
This was suddenly more interesting than dreary politics. ‘Do you
realise that they have spent every night together this last week?’
‘He said as much earlier on. But it is certainly not a partnership made
in heaven.’
‘What do you mean? Are we?’
‘We are there is no doubt about that. If we weren’t we wouldn’t have
lasted this long. Tom is the son of a Clydeside welder and Annabelle is an
Essex girl whose father is a merchant banker!’
‘I bet that thought never enters their heads when they are alone
together. You are so middle class Alisdair Graham.’
Elizabeth got back to the question she really wanted the answer to.
‘If I do win, will you run for Deputy President? It is now a salaried
position.’
Alisdair kissed her. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence lover, but I
will have to go out into the big bad world and earn enough money to keep you
in evening dresses and maintain a home. Your Presidential salary of £1200 a
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year will just about pay the rent and keep us in wine. Normally a President
can get away with one evening suit, but not you. Anyway I have an interview
lined up through Professor Naylor next week with Howdon Engineering. It
looks pretty hopeful. I bumped into him in the Colville Building this afternoon.’
Elizabeth didn’t really care if she won or not now, she just felt so
happy. She knew now for sure that their relationship would last forever.
Alisdair was still wheeling and dealing, but this time it was for the two of them.
§§A§§
Tom was strolling up the aisles of counters with Christopher making an
assessment of how the voting was doing from the height of the piles of votes
on each table. It looked like Elizabeth was ahead slightly.
Making smoke he turned to Christopher.
‘It is early days Chris. The first three boxes opened and in the process
of being counted are from the Union, the Royal College and Engineering.
With the exception of the Union, the other two are your weakest areas.’
‘First count?’ Christopher asked.
He looked rather glum. Whether it was the tension of the count or it
had been a long week of intense campaigning. Tom could see it in his face.
‘Hope so. It takes up valuable drinking time if we have to go to second
preferences!’
Christopher suddenly asked. ‘Have I let you down Tom?’
Tom dropped his head. There was a lump in his throat. He coughed; it
was time for the hype and the bullshit to end. He guided Christopher away
from everybody else towards the front doors of the Hall.
‘We have talked often over the past year about tonight Christopher.
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305
We have planned for it. I admit I made a mistake in allowing the United Left to
help us, they have caused us about as much trouble as I expected from them.
But I handled them, Alisdair handled the publicity with his usual panache, but
it is you and you alone who have pulled the punters out to vote for you today.
Your performances on stage, off stage, in lectures, in coffee lounges,
everywhere you care to name have been the reason you have won this
election. You alone. Despite the influence other people say Alisdair and I
have on elections in this place we couldn’t do it without a candidate of your
calibre to carry it all off. ‘
Christopher put his hands on Tom’s massive shoulders. ‘Thanks Tom.
Now let’s open my bloody boxes!’
§§A§§
‘Look at that Elizabeth!’ Annabelle and Elizabeth were touring the
tables just as Tom and Christopher had been moments earlier. ‘Tom and
Chris look very serious over there.’
Elizabeth watched as Tom put his arms around Christopher’s
shoulders and led him over to a coffee table.
‘I told you once before Annabelle, Tom is just a great big teddy bear.
When you were younger I bet you had a favourite teddy bear that you would
cuddle when you felt lonely or afraid, but this one bites as well to protect his
friends, his candidates and if you keep playing your cards right, you as well!’
Annabelle looked at Tom. To her there was no one else in the room
but Tom Shearer and her. ‘How did you feel, inside, when you first saw
Alisdair and you realised that he was the one for you?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Very much like you feel now Annabelle.’
mf
306
‘Shuffle the deck then Elizabeth. There is a serious new alliance about
to be made public at the party afterwards.’
§§A§§
‘You ran a good campaign Mr. Treasurer.’ Tom said to David
Thompson. ‘Your pseudo deal with Bill fucked him out of his stride entirely. I
think he thought you were serious.’
David laughed. ‘Manipulating the opposition is not the prerogative of
sons of Clydeside welders Tom; we have had welders on Tyneside for as long
as you lot have. He did fall for it rather easily though. I think he thought I was
just another Englishman fawning to the Scots.’
‘That just proves what a patronising gobshite he really is then doesn’t it
David? It also proves he is certainly not the best man for the job.’
‘Or the best woman Tom.’
Both David and Tom laughed heartily at that last remark.
‘Seriously though David, he will stand for Deputy in the Exec’s.’
‘That is my worry as well Tom. Elizabeth has already said that if she
does not win she won’t seek Deputy.’
‘Christopher has similar thoughts. He is happy doing Entertainments
and spending more time on his degree next year.’
David sipped his coffee. ‘We have a problem then Tom.’
Tom smiled. ‘Not really David. Let’s get together for a pint sometime
next week and discuss it.’
§§A§§
‘Bill! I didn’t think you would bother turning up!’ Alisdair said.
‘I may not have won Alisdair but I think I have done enough to lose
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307
Christopher and his beloved United Left this election.’
‘That’s a very negative attitude to take Bill.’
Bill Cowie smiled. ‘You know as well as I do Alisdair that nobody
except for the candidates and their campaign teams take it seriously.’
Alisdair felt seriously like punching Bill, but he resisted the temptation.
‘About as seriously as the students took you Bill? Especially after you
threw up on that stage over there on Friday afternoon.’
Bill laughed, but with very little humour in the attempt.
Bill patted Alisdair on the arm. ‘We are all Union men Alisdair. We
should get together and discuss the Exec elections sometime next week.’
Alisdair looked at Bill in total amazement. Two seconds ago he was
bragging about fucking up Christopher’s campaign, and now he wanted to
discuss helping him in the Exec’s! The guy really did need a smacking!
Alisdair was leaving in a few months anyway, but he kept his cool and simply
said.
‘In your fucking dreams son!’
§§A§§
Elizabeth slipped her arm into David’s. All the boxes had now been
opened and the count would not take much longer.
‘Thank you David for your handling of my campaign. We might just
have pulled it off.’
David smiled at her. She had been a brilliant candidate. If only they
had more time to plan. He glanced at the ever-increasing piles of votes.
‘It is all down to Pitt Street Elizabeth. I reckon we are even with
Christopher so far.’
mf
308
‘Will you keep the same team together for the Exec’s?’
David nodded. ‘As a matter of fact I and Tom are meeting next week to
discuss just that.’
‘Really?’ Elizabeth looked at David wide-eyed.
‘Left, right, united, divided, it is all a load of simplistic politics Elizabeth.
We, and I mean, everyone in this hall, have a multi-million pound enterprise to
run next year. I admire Tom and Alisdair, I may not agree with their politics or
the means they use sometimes, but they have this place in their thoughts all
the time. They, and a few others, myself included I would like to think, have
made this a better Union than it was four years ago.’
Elizabeth squeezed his hand. ‘You have certainly changed a lot of
things in this Union David, especially my views on the running of it, and who
really runs it.’
§§A§§
Half an hour later the Returning Officer called the candidates to the
stage. The result was known. A huddle formed on the stage, the Retuning
Officer, Elizabeth, David, Christopher, Tom and Bill. The results were viewed;
it was agreed that there was no need for a recount and a second preference
count was also not required.
The doors to the Assembly Hall were opened and a tannoy call went
out throughout the Union that the result of the Presidential Election was to be
announced in five minutes.
§§A§§
Tom, Alisdair, Annabelle and David stood at the back of the Hall
together as about three hundred students thronged into the hall. Annabelle
mf
309
slipped her hand round Tom’s waist. Terry Pritchard joined the four students
at the back of the hall. He was about to find out who his successor was to be.
‘Members of the Students Association, I, as Returning Officer, have
pleasure in announcing the results of the Presidential Election.’ Sid looked
round the hall. ‘The percentage of votes cast was 73%.’ A cheer went up
from the audience. It was the highest turnout in living history. ‘The
percentage of individual votes cast was as follows. William Alexander Cowie
– 5%, Elizabeth Fiona Livingstone – 44%, Christopher Charles Moore – 51%.
I duly declare Christopher Charles Moore President Elect of the University of
Strathclyde Students Association.’
The students in the hall erupted. David shook Tom and Alisdair’s
hand. Annabelle kissed Tom full and square on the lips, and Alisdair on the
cheek. It was a result that would benefit the Union in the long run.
Christopher took several minutes to calm the students down, especially
his own supporters from the Fun-Fun Club before he could make his speech.
‘Mr. Returning Officer, Members of the Election Committee, Mr.
President, fellow members of the Association. It is with mixed feelings that I
stand before you. The results show clearly that you think I am the best man
for the job. I thank you all for your confidence in me and I also thank you all
for the large turnout. I also congratulate the Returning Officer and his
committee for their excellent handling of this election. On a personal note I
would like to thank, from the bottom of my heart, my campaign team, and,
may I add, my mentors. Ladies and gentlemen, Tom Shearer and Alisdair
Graham.’
The applause which erupted around the Assembly Hall was
mf
310
spontaneous and heart felt.
Christopher took a deep breath.
‘However, I found out this afternoon that Frank Green has been
charged with aiding and abetting the terrorists who bombed Frazers on
Monday and who were eventually apprehended outside our very own Union
whilst trying to kidnap the Secretary of State for Scotland.’
Christopher paused. Both Tom and Alisdair detected a break in his
voice, but Christopher carried on strongly and with authority.
‘Frank Green seconded my nomination for this election. I cannot
therefore accept the damage to this Union when the general public finds out
about this. I cannot in all honesty, and for the good of the Union, accept the
post of President Elect.’
A complete silence descended on the students in the hall as
Christopher left the stage and went into the Green Room, the scene of some
of his greatest triumphs in the Union, Fleetwood Mac, the Who, the Move, and
last week, Elton John.
Annabelle gasped and buried her head in Tom’s shoulders, sobbing
sorely. Tom was not far away from tears himself. Not because of what
Christopher had just said, but the reason why he had said it. It was
something he had been dreading for the last two days. He kissed her on the
forehead and made his way to the Green Room.
Terry Pritchard mounted the stage and had a few brief words with the
Retuning Officer. The University Bursar joined their conversation. For Sam
Boag, the Returning Officer, this had been an eventful election. A Tribunal
had been called, and now a first in that the winner had declined the
mf
311
nomination to be President.
‘Members of the Students Association, I have been advised by the
President, and this has been agreed by the University Authorities, that the
correct procedure to be followed in such a unique situation is for Mr. Moore’s
second preferences to be counted. I would be grateful if you would all now
leave the hall again so that this can be done.’
§§A§§
It was a sombre foursome that sat in the President’s Office drinking
malt whiskey from Terry’s personal drinks cabinet.
Alisdair tried to lighten the mood. ‘Where’s the sherry Terry?’
The President burst out laughing, as did Tom and Christopher.
‘Alisdair, I used to be partial to a drop of Harveys until some smart arse
came up with my election slogan – THE SHERRY DAYS ARE OVER!‟
Terry Pritchard raised his glass to Christopher. Tom and Alisdair did
likewise.
‘Christopher, what you did tonight was courageous, and all of us here
secretly wish we had such courage of our convictions.’
‘It just would not have been right Terry. It would always have been
brought up again and again. Bill was right; he did lose me this election. He
cast the final stone at yesterday’s Heckling Meeting. I couldn’t think how to
counter it yesterday, and in reality there is no answer to it. ‘
Christopher chinked glasses with Tom.
‘The guys I really feel sorry for are Tom and Alisdair. They have burst
a gut for me over the last year.’
Tom summed it up.
mf
312
‘I should be disappointed Christopher, but I am not in the least. In fact I
am proud to be associated with a guy who puts the Union first, and himself
second. The stand you took today when Ron appeared but not Frank was
pure selflessness. You, as young as you are, have taught every single
person in this Union a lesson today.’
Alisdair interrupted. ‘One question Christopher. Would you have done
it if Bill had come second?’
Christopher burst out laughing. ‘Fuck off Alisdair. I might have
principles, but I am not stupid!’
The President poured another round of drinks.
‘Where does that leave us now then gentlemen?’
Tom answered. ‘With a vulnerable right wing Madam President Elect,
Mr. President. I think what Christopher did tonight has cremated the United
Left, but I don’t want the right wing to get a grip on forming policy for the next
year. Not that Elizabeth would do that intentionally, but if she gets the wrong
Exec!’
Alisdair, who was the only one who knew of Tom’s plans for next year
asked. ‘Deputy, Tom?’
‘I would rather describe it as retiring into politics Alisdair.’ Tom noticed
the amused look on Terry Pritchard’s face. ‘Terry, I am not completely daft. I
have been offered a post grad course next year and with the Deputy
President’s stipend as well, it is a tidy sum.’
Alisdair added. ‘David Thompson to continue as Treasurer?’
Terry Pritchard nodded. ‘Good lad is David. Vice President?
Alisdair?’
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313
‘I decline Mr. President. Hopefully I am about to become a real person,
and get a real job, instead of being a ‘professional’ student, but I will have a
word with Rab.’
Tom made smoke from his pipe. ‘Well that is settled next year’s Exec.’
The telephone rang. The second preference count had been
completed.
‘I think the following quote attributed to Winston Churchill is in order
after what Christopher did tonight.’ Tom stood up and offered his hand to
Christopher.
‘It is not enough that we do our best; sometimes we have to do what is
required.’
§§A§§
The Election was now well and truly over with the Returning Officer’s
announcement that Elizabeth Fiona Livingstone had been duly elected as the
President Elect.
Alisdair stood with Tom at the back of the hall whilst Elizabeth made
her acceptance speech.
‘Mr. Returning Officer, members of the Students Association, it is with
pride that I stand before you tonight. Not selfish pride because you have
elected me as your President for next year, but pride in being a member of the
same Students Association as Christopher Moore. What Christopher did in
this hall earlier tonight was completely unselfish.’
Elizabeth saw Christopher standing at the side of the hall with Terry
Pritchard. She motioned for the audience to give Christopher a round of
applause. Once it had abated she continued.
mf
314
‘I have to thank my campaign team, David Thompson and Annabelle
Jones, without whose help, guidance, and support I would not be standing
here tonight.’
She paused and looked directly at Alisdair and Tom.
‘What I am about to say next members of the Association might make
you think I have already started celebrating. I am going to take the
unprecedented step of thanking Christopher’s campaign team, not just for
running Christopher’s campaign this year, but for all the work they have put
into your Union for the last four years. I find it rather ironic that the effort they
have put into curtailing the influence the United Left in the SRC has come to
this tonight. Tom Shearer once said to me, and I quote, ‘The United Left is
dead and buried Elizabeth’. Well Tom, they have just risen from the grave
tonight and bit you well and truly on the arse! Neither you nor Alisdair
deserved what happened tonight. I am sincerely sorry that your political
careers in this Union had to end so sadly. You both deserved better.’
Tom smiled and said as an aside to Alisdair. ‘Our political careers
ending? Stupid woman! I told you at the start of the week that your girlfriend
was getting on my tits. Was I right or was I right?’
Alisdair laughed as the two of them turned to leave that hall. ‘That
girlfriend, tits and all, will be my wife by the time she takes over as President.’
Tom puffed his pipe. ‘Well I have three things to say to that Alisdair.
Get her up the stick quick so that I, as Deputy President, can run this place as
I think it should be run. Secondly, I always knew you had secret aspirations to
be the President, and now we will have a President Graham! Lastly,
congratulations you old bugger.’
mf
315
§§A§§
Alisdair and Elizabeth cut through Martha Street on their way to
Queens Street Station leaving behind John Street littered with posters and
handouts, which the heavy rain was slowly turning into pulp. It was two
o’clock in the morning and the post Election party had just finished
Alisdair looked at the front page of the Daily Record he had just bought
at the taxi rank. The front page was dedicated to the arrest of the IRA and
several Glasgow students. He showed the paper to Elizabeth. A thought
struck him. It must have been Frank Green who supplied the sketch of the
Exec Offices and not McPherson. Being a Glasgow student he would not
have know the Offices in such detail. The bastard was involved after all!
Alisdair turned his attention back to Elizabeth. ‘Christopher was right in
doing what he did, wasn’t he?’
Elizabeth kissed him passionately. ‘He was one hundred percent right.
That why you and Tom picked him. He is a guy with principles.’
Alisdair gave the taxi driver his address.
‘Did you realise Liz that as President Elect you are now entitled to a
late night taxi paid for by the Union?’
§§A§§
mf

A Late Night Taxi

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A Late Night Taxi

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Chapter 1 - Monday 31st January

John McCluskey glanced casually around the staff canteen before

‘The timing devices and the detonators arrived last night.’ He

continued with their breakfast without as much as a nod of acknowledgment.

said. ‘Right, Johnny boy. We’ll do it tomorrow then!’

chance of getting caught.

bomb making technique. He was changing his ‘signature’.

The harsh unmelodious ringing of the alarm clock woke Alisdair

offending noise as the clock began the second cycle of rings.

temper to have to listen to Tony Blackburn twittering on about what a

qualified for a pilot’s licence.

hours with that very tasty little brunette.

A cold sweat suddenly gripped him. It wasn’t anything to do with his

found out about the brunette.

temper was as fiery as the highlights in her hair.

his ground floor flat.

He turned his head and stretched over carefully to switch on the

squinted at the alarm clock.

the Shawlands Hotel with his flat mate Rab McDonald.

Johnny Cash records. The hotel management’s idea of a Country and

sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

He yawned deeply as he wandered across the threadbare carpet as if

work. He yawned again.

drew Alisdair over to the large bay window.

magazines wouldn’t get wet.

Alisdair pressed his forehead against the damp windowpane. The

he couldn’t remember what classes he had. He wasn’t going to any today! It

unsuspecting Glasgow public at ten o’clock.

distinctive chink of milk bottles being placed on concrete steps, the

As he straightened up from lighting the gas fire in a vain attempt to

photograph of Elizabeth he kept on the mantelpiece.

none of this would have happened.’

It sounded a weak excuse but if he claimed mitigating circumstances,

he knew he could still outrun her.

on on Saturday afternoon. No two hairs on his head were pointing in the

spilling all over the table.

The snow covered fields flashed by the windows of the train as it

trouble was, Elizabeth had said yes!

that they had first met. Typically it had involved football.

She had gone with a friend to watch Strathclyde University play

her favourite record to make love to, the LP version.

Alisdair called it commitment, she called it recklessness. She wanted him

totally fit for tonight.

a typical guy, he would have forgotten.

the Charities Appeal offices, like worker ants from an anthill.

Charities Week generated a lot of interest amongst both the students

also, over the years, become a City institution.

Today’s Glasgow newspapers had already blasted Ygorra as being

with the same people complaining.

during the following week.

Andrew Todd, the General Convenor, was busy setting up the

customary cardboard Appeal thermometer in the foyer. It showed they had

rattling students in fancy dress on Saturday.

Alisdair was not amused. He though he looked at least presentable.

Rab, as usual, was in with a quick quip to Andrew. He pointed at

Students from both universities in the city rarely missed an opportunity

to have a dig at students from the other.

By now the smoky atmosphere was beginning to get to Alisdair. He

mail, my little tartan torrag. I need a cup of coffee, fast.’

Alisdair had been born and brought up in the Greenside area of

under his arms.

Their interests outside of university were just as diverse. Alisdair was

it on the television, slumped in an armchair, with a can of beer in each hand.