"We Can't Run Away"

On election day, Tory Anthony Eden put on a brown tweed suit and set out hatless to tour the polling stations in his Warwickshire constituency. At one Conservative headquarters, officials told Eden of two elderly spinsters who had sent word, "Don't worry about us. We shall bicycle down to vote after tea." At another station, an indomitable 80-year-old woman made it to the polling booth, cast a Tory vote and collapsed. Said she: "Well, there, that's the last thing I can do for my country!"

Gin & Eggs. After making the rounds, Eden sipped a gin & French at Warwick Castle. Said he: "I'm convinced we've got out every middle-class Tory vote today, but I see no sign of a trend." At dinner, the county treasurer was even less confident. He fidgeted a while, then offered to bet that Eden's majority would not top 6,000. Eden took the bet, then mused; "You know, the county treasurer might be right at that." (Eden won his bet at the count next day; his majority was 8,814.)

While Eden was sipping his cocktail, Aneurin Bevan, Labor's handsome dynamo, was completing a tour of 40 polling places, in his Welsh mining constituency

Ebbw Vale. In contrast to Eden's cautious doubts, Bevan was in a mood of exuberant confidence when he got back to his sister's house in Tredegar. His wife Jennie Lee called him from Cannook (in Staffordshire), where she was running for1 reelection. Said Nye to Jennie: "Everything's fine here, my sweet. How are you --exhausted?"

Then Bevan sat down to an Ebbw Vale feast: two fried eggs.

The count of Bevan's votes that night did nothing to deflate his buoyance. When, at 3:30 a.m., he was declared elected by 21,500 votes, ex-Miner Bevan cried: "This is a great day." Then he introduced his Tory opponent, Grame B. Finlay, a pale-faced figure in a lounge suit and sheepskin jacket. The crowd booed vigorously. Bevan's triumph was sweet indeed as he authoritatively called, "Order, order, we must show what sportsmen we are."

When he turned in at 5 a.m., Labor was 60 seats ahead. Bevan felt so well that he was even complacent about Tory victories. "Oh, well," he said, "I suppose we must have some of them in."

He boarded the 10:35 a.m. at Newport for London in fine fettle. "I can feel the blood stirring in my veins," he said, "but I'd rather lose than see Labor get a small majority." In the light of the returns (up to that point), Bevan obviously felt that

Prime Minister Clement Attlee had been overcautious in making a moderate campaign that had kept the fiery .Bevan under wraps.

At London's Paddington station his tune changed. His secretary met him with the news that Labor's lead was slipping fast. Bevan sucked in his breath, grunted: "I don't like it." Then he said: "We don't seem to have much success wooing the middle classes, do we? You can't woo them; they want a strong man to lead them."

Champagne & Cheese. The shifting fortune of the long count brought similar shifts of mood to other election figures.

Attlee knew he was elected by 2 a.m. Tensely, he made a little speech of thanks at Walthamstow's town hall. When Attlee came out of the hall and into the cold, wet morning, a woman admirer cried: "Good old Clem--Walthamstow's still loyal." Attlee laughed. At 4 a.m. his wife drove him to Labor headquarters at Transport House. Party Secretary Morgan Phillips was in charge of the tabulation. His staff, nibbling cheese sandwiches, greeted the first night's returns with restrained jubilation.

A mile from Transport House, a Tory celebration at the Savoy Hotel was plunged in gloom. Champagne, opened for toasts, stood on the tables going flat.

Winston Churchill had promised to show up if the early returns were good. He did not show.

Earlier in.the day he had cast his vote at St. Stephen's parish hall, South Kensington, for the Conservative candidate Sir Patrick Spens. Churchill spent election night at home, appeared the next day at his own constituency, Woodford, burdened with a gold-headed cane and a somber mood. Mrs. Churchill was cheerful. She introduced the Labor candidate, young Seymour Hills, to Churchill. Hills grinned a buck-toothed grin and flushed. Said Churchill: "So you're the Labor candidate, are you?" and walked away.

In a side room Churchill sat for a while listening to a portable radio and making notes with a ballpoint pen. He was glum until the Labor lead began to drop. Then he threw away a long-dead cigar, lighted a fresh one. "Now it's really getting exciting," said Churchill.

Blue's a Lovely Color. At Labor headquarters, too, it was exciting--in a different way. Morgan Phillips was feverishly scribbling calculations on bits of blue paper. One Laborite looked at the news ticker, whispered, "We're down to 24." Everyone heard him. The ticker throbbed on. Phillips' ashtray overflowed. He sat back silent, jaw in hand; then he got up, glanced out of the window, sat down again and lighted another cigarette. The voice at the ticker spoke again: "We're down to four--no, three--no, four . . ." At 4:45 p.m. Phillips looked across the room toward the machine, paused, then breathed a query: "Neck and neck?" The set faces nodded. Phillips took a deep breath, nodded and closed his eyes.

At Tory headquarters in Abbey House, young staff women excitedly raced up & down the worn stone stairs, screeching to each other: "Darling, isn't it too wonderful? We're winning." Upstairs, in his map-lined office, Tory Party Chief Lord Woolton lovingly contemplated a constituency map. "Blue's a lovely color," he beamed as he contentedly flagged Tory wins with blue-headed pins. Downstairs, someone dared to murmur: "Those horrible Labor divisions in Scotland haven't come in yet." But the Cassandra was howled down by a fresh wave of cheering as still another Tory win was chalked up.

But by 6 p.m., the Tories had begun to feel the chill of fear again. From the dead-heat of a few hours before, Labor had slowly and jerkily pulled ahead. A pale-faced Tory official, joy gone dead in his eyes, gasped: "They could win--even now. My God!"

In Transport House, Morgan Phillips was seized with the same thought. At 6:30, Phillips totted up his figures again, calculated them against the results still due, said: "If I get five more, I'm home! At least I'm home over the Tories. I need another 13 to be clear overall." Again Phillips scanned his charts. Finally he looked up. "I can do it," he said quietly. At 8:10 p.m., a Scottish grandmother, Mrs. Jean Mann, won the seat at Coatbridge, gave Phillips the 313th seat he needed to hold his overall majority.

At No. 10 Downing Street, Violet Attlee had a hot bath and went to bed. Clement Attlee read a detective novel for a while and then he too retired for the night. Next morning, after a go-minute cabinet meeting, Clement Attlee had an announcement: despite his narrow majority, he would carry on the "King's government." Morgan Phillips agreed. Said he: "We can't run away."

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