DIARY
JUDY STEEL The beginning of canvassing. I choose the large village of St Boswells, regarded as a Tory stronghold although the truth is that it returns a Liberal vote of 50 per cent plus. But it does have some active Tories. I encounter one of them, a cheerfully aggressive pensioner with bleached blue eyes. a tanned, wrinkled face, and hair that is inscrutable under an all-embracing tweed bonnet. He sits on the wall of his cottage in the sunshine and harangues me. He is in favour of nuclear bombs (the more the better); reintroducing hanging and flogging; and would like to do away with trade unions. And the Prime Minister is wonderful. Although officially he Won't Say, it seems reasonably safe to mark him down as a Tory. He launches into a tirade against David. 'What's he doing at press conferences in London? Why isn't he here? He ought to be having meetings in the villages.' I tell him that David will, in fact, he having a village meeting here on the last Saturday of the campaign. 'A Saturday? Everyone will be out shopping.' Saturday night, I explain. 'Then they'll all be at the pub.' But at the last election a good 150 of the residents of St Boswells forwent their Saturday night at the pub to crowd into the primary school. I am spending too long with my pensioner, who is a lost cause. He turns his line of fire to David's work as an MP, an area where he is on especially weak ground. But to try to make a point he praises our neighbour Archy Kirkwood to the skies. I am a little surprised by this enthusiasm but echo his praises. He pounces: 'You're not denying it, then?' That Archy Kirkwood's a wonderful con- stituency MP? Of course not. All the Liberal MPs are.' He realises his error. 'Oh
• • • I got confused.' I part from him amicably, but with no illusions of conver- sion.
How important are the public meet- ings nowadays? Has television's saturation killed them? The by-election at which David came into Parliament was won and lost on the public meetings, as were the next few elections. But as his majority has grown consistently larger (I do not and never have used the expression 'safe seat'; every vote is there to be won or lost at every election), the meetings have lost some of their zest. Where, oh where are the hecklers of yesteryear? Transmogrified into supporters. and sometimes even into chairmen. At any rate, we keep the meet- ings going. Between us, David and I do about 30 over the campaign in the consti- tuency. As his party duties take him around the country, I have taken over the smaller village meetings while he still speaks — and, more important, answers
questions — in the larger communities. They are meetings that never fail to amaze the media circus. Though the ubiquitous cameras roll up at them, they retain their essence. They are not the meetings of a party leader; they arc the forum where the local candidate is examined and cross- examined. There is no kowtowing, no adulation, no compromising. Some ques- tions may simply be to elucidate policy; some call him to account. These are the people who send him to Parliament, and neither he nor they forget that role.
y own meetings are doucer and smaller. Being the candidate's wife I feel entitled to refer to the manifesto before replying to questions. It is, I must say, appallingly badly indexed and I have still not managed to find taxation policy set out in such a way that a candidate's wife may interpret it. But that is what happens when political presentation is in the hands of the admen rather than the politicians. The questions cover an amazing range. On my first evening's meetings, for example, they include the lack of opportunities for young people to set up in agriculture, the future of rural schools, the likely price of Alliance support in a balanced Parliament, the revenue-raising powers of a Scottish assembly under the Alliance proposals, and policy on the environment, nuclear power, and disarmament when defence comes up at meetings. It is that aspect that is stressed: there is as much perturbation about the Tories' aggressive line as about Labour's supine one. And the Alliance policy properly condensed — to the termi- nology of freeze — is comprehensible and acceptable. One of the nicest aspects of the meetings is the number of fairly young children attending, and the fact that they too are prepared to ask questions. At
David's meeting in Selkirk, what looks like an 11-year-old asks questions about the health service and the future of the local cottage hospital, while at Walkerburn a 13-year-old demands the right of children to the franchise.
An aspect of elections at this time of year in the Borders is that they face competition that is insurmountable in terms of public attention. It is the season of the Common Ridings. It's a bit like trying to run an election over Christmas. These festivals — traditions, call them what you will — have been in existence for much longer than general elections and are considerably more popular. Though this is not the place to give them the lyrical descriptions they deserve, let me give a very brief sketch. A Standard Bearer, or Cornet (the title varies from place to place), is chosen from amongst the young men of the town to lead a week's celebrations. The climax comes when at the head of a mounted cavalcade of up to 600 riders he carries the town's flag around the boundaries of the old common lands. Week after week, from June to August, one town follows the other, completely absorbed in its Common Riding. The side effects on the election are manifold. For example, the site of the count has had to be changed. The hall in Selkirk, used for the last two elections, is the venue for a big concert and ceremony for the 'nicht afore the morn' of Selkirk Common Riding. The repercussions of commandeering it were rightly — considered to be too overwhelming by the returning officer. So, for the first time, the count is to be in Galashiels, where the Braw Lads' Gathering will not take place for a fortnight. The higher profile of the festivals vis-a-vis the election is aptly illustrated by an incident relating to the SNP candidate. He had gone for a haircut to a local hairdresser, in whom he confided his need for a tidy up 'because I'll be photographed a lot over the next few weeks'. 'Oh yes,' the hairdresser replied conversationally, 'are you one of the Braw Lads' attendants?'
Late at night, David phones after a day of hurtling round the country, round press conferences and television studios. His visits back here at weekends, for all the continued campaigning, refresh him for the weeks between. As for me, I can't believe my luck that we have an area to fight for where every prospect pleases, and where even the gorse and broom of the hillsides seem to echo the voters' views with their glory of blazing Alliance gold.
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