The Storytellers by Robert Mercer-Nairne Page B

broke the Hunters’ story and has got to know the family quite well.”
    There had been only twelve in the dining room, but she and Harvey had been at opposite ends of the table and neither had attempted to build on their unexpected encounter in March.
    â€œThe indications are,” the forty-one-year-old broadcaster was explaining, “that there has been a high turnout, in spite of the bad weather, and our first result may come from the smallest constituency, Glasgow Central. Do you expect a fairly even swing across the country, David Butler?”
    â€œYes, I think there will be a more even swing than many have been expecting,” the Oxford researcher answered, “except in Scotland, where our first result could come from, so it probably won’t tell us much.”
    â€œI see Mudd is tied up, so let me introduce you myself.”
    George Gilder guided Frances through the crush and cigarette smoke to a petite woman whose chair was parked by a side wall with a clear view of the screen.
    â€œMiss Hunter, I am George Gilder, editor of The Sentinel . This is my guest, Lady Graham, who has asked to meet you.”
    â€œFrances, please,” Frances Graham implored as she bent down.
    â€œYes, that’s the trouble with these chairs,” Abigail Hunter acknowledged. “You are always at one level, usually the wrong one.”
    â€œI read The Sentinel piece. It must have been horrific.”
    â€œTo be honest, all I know about it has come from what I have been told and from reading that journalist’s quite brilliant article.”
    â€œMr Mudd?”
    â€œYes, Harvey Mudd. He really captured it I’m told.”
    â€œThey arrested the man who did this to you, didn’t they?”
    â€œThey did. Max something or other. He’s in prison now, thank God. And, do you know, he wasn’t even a member of a union?”
    â€œThere was another young man arrested as well, wasn’t there?” Frances asked.
    â€œYes, a Trotskyite organizer from Cowley. He was acquitted unfortunately. The pickets proper were from the Transport and General Workers’ Union. They weren’t even prosecuted,” Abigail recounted, the first note of bitterness sounding in her voice.
    â€œAnd what is going on at Flood Street, Michael?” the broadcaster asked, trying to maintain a momentum that could not be allowed to flag until 4.00 a.m.
    â€œWell, I think we are all watching you, David.”
    â€œSo no sign of Mrs Thatcher then?”
    â€œNo. No sign. We believe she is inside with her family.”
    â€œWith all her family?”
    â€œYes, all her family is here. We expect her to travel to her Finchley constituency later.”
    â€œWill you get out of this?” Frances asked.
    â€œNo, they don’t think so. But we are hoping to modify a truck so that I can drive again. I would really like that.”
    â€œSo your family still has trucks?”
    â€œNot at the moment, I’m afraid. We’re starting again. And to think, my grandparents survived the war!”
    They both looked across at the big screen where Robin Day, sporting his trademark bow tie and brandishing a large cigar, was talking so unconvincingly about his humble opinion that David Dimbleby could barely keep a straight face.
    â€œI really hope she wins,” Abigail said, as one of her brothers came over with a glass of wine and Frances left in search of her husband.
    * * *
    â€œThese are the forty-one marginal seats Mrs Thatcher must win if she is going to get a working majority,” Bob McKenzie was explaining standing next to one of his boards. “A rosette will mean a Conservative win, a tick a Labour hold.”
    â€œNow let’s go to one of those constituencies, Derby North,” the broadcaster picks up, “to see what the floating voters we have been following finally decided. Bernard, what have you got?”
    With two on either side of him, one woman and