Roundabout
THE ELECTION
Beneath the Italianate skies and the heavy gilt of the restaurant, Neptune as ever interviewed a nymph with a three-pronged microphone, and four TV sets had been installed. But at the begin- ning of the evening only spasmodic notice was taken of them: the diners clapped politely (as for a tombola win) when a Conservative seat was held, but managed during Labour returns to be concentrating on their plates. With the election of Dr. Summerskill, however, this devo- tion to good manners wore thin; boos and hisses sputtered round the room, to be echoed, later, for Barbara Castle and Gaitskell.
As was to be expected, most of the diners were not young.. Thin-on-Top people alternated with rigid grey and brown perms; there was one blonde, one up-to-date hairstyle, one pretty dress : several of the women looked as if they hadn't combed their hair since the dissolution of Parliament. There was a good deal of substan- tial jewellery, much of it looking, like the long evening dresses, as if it had been in the family some time; and crepe had a working majority oyer lace and others. Eccentricities were few : a grandmotherly woman wearing a daytime hat with evening dress; a large raw-looking matron in an Eton crop that seemed to have been painted on. Jewels, furs, bags, shoes appeared to have been selected at random from a common pile as the wearers came through the door. As the success and the drink began to wear in, scraps of conversation became audible.
'Look ! Look! Oh no, not again!' complained a pink-faced young man as Gaitskell appeared with dignity and restraint on the screens. 'He looks worse every time you see him. Of course,' he consoled himself, 'it is just rubbing it in.'
At the result of Rochester and Chatham (Lab. candidate A. G. Bottomley) someone told a very old story about Cholmondleigh-Chumly, Bottom- ley-Bumly : uproarious applause.
▪ . . celebrating at the golf club tomorrow, I suppose? . .
▪ . . the Socialists down the drain; only thing is, we don't go down the drain with them. . .
`. . . it's four pounds a week insurance, but the firm pays . . .'—the speaker wound his mouth round his cigar and laughed fatly.
A fadedly pretty woman leaned over to her com- panion. 'I've got a friend who's known Harold for years,' she said, raising her voice against a burst of cheering. 'And he says'—she tried hard —Ile says he's A DEAR CHAP. . .
Festivity was in the air; even in the clog rooms, there was no more question of aski which party a stranger supported than of he tating to wish an atheist a Merry Christina The blonde explained : 'We're Weybridge. Ther all those people from Vickers, unfortunately, b he's in all right.' She hadn't explained who was: she didn't need to.
And yet, like Christmas, it was oddly uneve ful : there was no real triumph because there never been any real fear of defeat. It was only t undercurrent of nastiness that was surprising sheep do not usually have forked tongues. Towards two, as Hall Green put back t Minister of Supply, the room began to clew Someone helped the grandma into a red plu, coat. Several men pressed their host's shouldL as they left, with the suppressed glee of men wt have just pulled off a big deal. A woman weedy velvet thanked her hosts effusively f the meal : 'It's been wonderful,' she said. Everybody went home happy, for whether t not the Government much enjoys their suppo the roomful certainly knew who supported the'
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