GREAT BRITAIN: 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.