Gwyneth laughed. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “We’ve never had a jar of your fish paste in the house.”

“And I must confess I’ve never voted Labour, though I might if I lived in Bristol.”

Gwyneth smiled.

“What odds would you put on Giles holding on to his seat?” asked Bob.

“Clinging on by his fingernails seems the likely outcome,” said Gwyneth. “Bristol Docklands has always been a marginal seat, but the opinion polls suggest that this time it’s going to be too close to call. So a lot will depend on who the local Conservatives select as their candidate.”

“But Giles is a popular minister, much admired on both sides of the House. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“About a thousand votes in Griff Haskins’s opinion. But his constituency agent never stops reminding me that if the national swing is against you, there’s not a lot you can do about it.”

*   *   *

“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.

“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.

“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.

“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.

“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”

“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.

“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”

“And at Downing Street?” inquired Bob.

“We don’t do high tea at Downing Street,” said the prime minister, as he made his way slowly around the table, shaking hands and signing menus.