Relaxing luxuriously against soft cushions, Henry suddenly remembered some lines he had heard somewhere, long ago.
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,
Ease after war, death after life does greatly please...”
Maybe he hadn’t got the words quite right, but for the first time he knew what they meant. Port after stormy seas...death after life... Not death in battle, not murder...death crowning a serene old age...no
, that wasn’t right. The whole point was the abrupt contrast between storm and calm, like rounding Steep Hill. Suicide, then, perhaps. But that was taking a gloomy view: after all, stormy seas were stimulating and exhilarating and even pleasurable. It was just that one couldn’t live at that pitch for ever. After the gale, the calm. After life, death...does greatly please...
“I do believe he’s asleep,” said Emmy.
Henry opened his eyes with a jerk. “I’m not,” he said. “I was thinking. Can I have some more tea?”
At half past six they went ashore. In honour of the occasion, they had all changed into their cleanest and most respectable clothes, and the men—after some debate—had actually shaved. As they pulled for the hard, speculation ran high as to the identity of the new mayor of Berrybridge. The polling booth was due to close at a quarter to seven, but they suspected that the result was already known, or at least that counting was by now taking place.
Rosemary came out strongly for Old Ephraim, but Alastair would have none of it. “It’ll be new blood this time,” he said. “You’ll see. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Bill Hawkes got in.”
“Well, I’m for Herbert,” Emmy said. “He’d be so thrilled.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Alastair. “He’d be even more impossible than ever.”
“Of course, we mustn’t forget Sam,” Rosemary put in. “Remember, he’s got connections with the Hall. I think we’ve been underestimating Sam.”
The waterfront of Berrybridge Haven presented a bizarre aspect as they came ashore. Herbert’s ramshackle, black-tarred shed had virtually disappeared under a thicket of posters. These were written in bold but shaky scarlet letters on white paper: most of them read, simply, VOTE FOR HOLE, but the writer had evidently tired of his repetitive task, for occasionally he had substituted HOLE FOR MAYOR, and in one case, in an excess of personal loyalty, UP WITH HERBERT.
On the other side of The Berry Bush, Bill Hawkes’s smart, newly built boathouse had also been subjected to electioneering zeal. He—as befitted the youngest and most go-ahead candidate—had hit on the revolutionary and eye-catching notion of writing his slogans in pale blue paint on black paper. And the slogans themselves provided additional evidence that an imaginative mind had been at work. WHO, demanded one poster, GOT THE NEW SLIP BUILT?: WHO, echoed another, CLEANED UP THE FORESHORE?: WHO, persisted a third, PAINTED THE NOTICES NEW? To these superbly rhetorical questions, there was but one answer. Along the front of the shed, a series of sheets of black paper, each bearing a single letter in blue, spelt out BILL HA KES. On the shore, a further sheet inscribed with the letter “W” was being chewed systematically to pulp by a fat, thoughtful-looking black spaniel.
The other two candidates had, Henry surmised, been taken unawares by this high-powered campaigning, for their attempts at retaliation bore all the marks of hasty improvisation. Also, Ephraim and Sam lacked the advantage of the splendid display areas afforded by the professional establishments of Messrs. Hawkes and Hole. However, to do them justice, they had tried. A grimy piece of paper, tacked onto a tree, bore the scribbled retort EPHRAIM BUILT THE BRIDGE, DIDN’T HE?, while the black hull of Sam’s boat, which was hauled well up onto the foreshore, was adorned with two sheets of newspaper, on which had been written, in enormous letters of black tar, HONEST RIDDLE.
The foreshore was deserted. If the shore was deserted, however, the pub was packed to suffocation, and an excited babble of voices drifted out into the yard. As Ariadne’s crew pushed their way into the bar, a sudden silence fell. Standing on tiptoe, Henry just managed to catch a glimpse of what was going on, over the shoulder of a very stout, grey-haired woman in a flowered rayon dress. A space had been cleared around the table in the window, at which Sir Simon and Bob Calloway were ensconced in official dignity. On the table stood five biscuit tins. Four of them were labelled, respectively, HERBERT, RIDDLE, HAWKES, and EPHRAIM, and each of these contained some small pieces of paper. The fifth was empty. Sir Simon, who had evidently just completed his count of the votes, was writing some figures on a piece of paper. Then he looked up, and rose to his feet. The crowded bar held its breath.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of Berrybridge Haven,” began Sir Simon, pontifically, “I have much pleasure in announcing to you the name of your new mayor. After a secret ballot, held in the highest traditions of British democracy,” Sir Simon went on, prolonging the agony, “I am delighted to be able to tell you that this borough has elected as its mayor for the coming year none other than that fine citizen and good friend to us all...” He paused for breath, looked at his paper again to make sure, and finally came out with it. “Our popular and esteemed Harbour Master, Mr. Herbert Hole.”
Instantly, uproar broke loose. There were cheers and boos and stampings of feet and shouts of congratulation and defamation, and, above all, urgent pleas for beer. Herbert himself was persuaded to climb onto the table, whence he surveyed his constituents with—Henry was surprised to see—tears in his faded blue eyes. For once in his life, Herbert seemed to be at a loss for words.
He was given a chance to recover from his emotion, however, for Sir Simon—appealing for quiet in a stentorian bellow—was insisting on reading out the details of the voting. Through the cries of “Good old Herbert!”, “Speech!” and “Pint o’ mild, Bob!”, he struggled to fulfill his duty to the electorate.
“Herbert Hole, sixteen votes,” yelled Sir Simon. “Bill Hawkes—do you mind being quiet over there?—Bill Hawkes, fourteen votes. Ephraim Sykes—can you hear me at the back?—twelve votes. Sam Riddle, eight votes. Which means,” he added, after a swift calculation, “that one hundred and six percent of the electorate registered their votes. Very creditable.”
This got an enormous cheer, and there were renewed shouts of “Speech, Herbert!” By this time, Herbert had recovered his normal composure. He raised his hands in a strangely dignified gesture, and silence fell. Henry, glancing round, saw David, Colin and Anne standing together near the window. Hamish was beside the bar, behind which Henry was somewhat surprised to see, in addition to the barman, Miss Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby and George Riddle. He presumed, correctly, that Sir Simon had insisted on Priscilla being relegated to this comparatively calm vantage point, and that George was keeping some sort of discreet check on her consumption of alcohol.
Herbert began to speak. “Friends,” he said. Everybody cheered again. “Citizens of Berrybridge, I thank you. On behalf of me and Mrs. ’Ole.”
Amid acclamation, the large lady who had been obstructing Henry’s view was propelled somehow through the mob, and a short delay occurred while several of Herbert’s more ardent supporters tried to hoist her onto the table beside her husband. The Lady Mayoress herself, however, soon put a stop to this procedure.
“You take your ’ands off of me, Jim Sykes,” she remarked tartly to an athletic-looking youth who had clasped her round the knees as a preliminary to heaving her upwards to join Herbert. “And mind me pore feet, if you please.”
This rebuke went home. Jim Sykes retreated into the crowd again, and Mrs. Hole favoured the company with a brief simper and a murmured “Delighted, I’m sure,” before saying to her husband, in a fierce whisper, “Get on with it, then.”