GREAT BRITAIN: We Can't Run Away

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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!"