SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK
J. W. M. THOMPSON
At one stage in my life I spent a certain amount of time attending parliamentary elections, and I came to know well one peculiarly poignant moment when the whole envelope of hot air by which candi- dates tend to be enclosed and protected is suddenly dispersed, and one sees, perhaps for the first time, the human being within, struggling like a naked man beset by ill- disposed hornets. This moment came when some minority candidate—it was usually a Liberal, of course—had been putting on a brave show of confidence, talking of a great swing in opinion, producing amazing canvass returns, and generally fostering the idea that a major landslide was in the making. Then, just before the campaign ended, came a public opinion poll which demonstrated, in its fell and heartless way, that the heroic challenger was in fact a certain loser and would in truth be darned lucky if he saved his deposit. The press gathered round the victim. What (he was asked) had he to say about his brave claims now? And I always used to think, what could the poor fellow say? There are situations in life—especially public life—when there are no words to call upon for help. Saying nothing is no escape: and saying anything at all is almost certain to make matters worse.
These painful scenes came into my mind, by a roundabout route, when I read of the balance of payments surplus just reported. Or, to be more precise, when I read the comment upon this news which had been wrung from Mr Heath by a callous journalist. What could he say? Of course, Mr Heath was justified in recalling the five black years, and in pointing to the vast foreign debts incurred along the way. All the same, here was good news for a change: and somehow the impression was given that Mr Heath was trying to turn it into bad news. Perhaps the Tories would be wise to give this problem some thought. When things go well for the country, it is, in a narrow sense, bad luck for the opposi- tion. There are no words to alter that— yet something has to be said. I recommend a little practice in registering just the right blend of patriotic satisfaction with a soupcon of scepticism and, of course, a wistful implication that things might have been so very much better, if only
Taking the rap
It was hard for Jeremy Thorpe to be assailed by new and significant criticisms of his leadership of the Liberals just as the party conference was opening. Understand- able, though, since a large part of a modern party leader's job is to play the role of scapegoat, and if the Liberals are frustrated by their situation they're almost bound to turn on Mr Thorpe. But he has so far proved a Liberal leader very much of the style and limitations that were to be expected: he will never be a political star like Mr Grimond, but then neither will any of the other Liberal MPS—and that includes Mr Hooson, the most talked-of alternative. In retrospect it is plainer than ever how much Jo Grimond did for his party. Now, of course, he is showing that he is disillu- sioned about the whole party set-up as it works at present (so, of course, are a large number of voters, in a less articulate way)
and that can hardly be a great help to his successor. It is hard to believe, though, that if Mr Thorpe were to be replaced there would be any substantial upsurge in Liberal support. For that they will have to watt until the next Tory government takes over and begins to grow unpopular.
Seventy-five
I hope Mr J. B. Priestley has enjoyed the genial fuss made of his seventy-fifth birth- day. As a master-craftsman with an immense amount of work to his credit, he has thoroughly earned any plaudits which a country more disposed to honour singers than writers chooses to offer him. And he has always given the impression of taking a sensible pleasure in his own success. while retaining a certain scepticism about its manifestations. There was a dinner in honour of his birthday five years ago at which he found himself on the receiving end of a somewhat fulsome eulogy by Lord Snow. 'If you care to come on the Embank. ment afterwards,' said Priestley heavily. when his turn came, 'you can see me walk on the water, too.' Some people have prob- ably wondered this week how he has reached the age of seventy-five without being awarded a knighthood or some such dis- tinction. The truth seems to be that he was offered a 'K', but turned it down; the pleasant story I've heard (I hope it's true) is that he hadn't much choice in the matter. since the offer arrived when he had just completed a breezily opinionated article denouncing the whole idea of establishment honours for writers. It's the sort of con- catenation of events which would amuse him.
Harvest
Every year at this season I think how agree- able it would be to grow fruit on a grand scale, to crop the delectable harvest of great orchards spreading across a warm hillside. Instead I ascend an insecure ladder to gather in the modest handfuls of fruits afforded by my own decrepit apple trees. Considering the gulf between reality and vision, it always seems to me a delightful activity, one of the pleasantest of the garden duties.
This year the sun shone on the proceed- ings, the hordes of wasps which have appeared this summer generously tolerated rriy intrusion, and a swallow circled com- panionably round my head. The apples. too, in spite of the trees' advancing years and indifferent health, were large, numerous and delicious. Later I read that 1969 is an exceptionally good year for apples—'a vintage year', said one report. The phrase caused me to wish once again that ut made more in this country of the fruit which grows here to perfection. The imported balls of cotton wool which we eat by the ton are nothing beside the noble objects English trees can yield. And whj is there no cult of fine ciders, since ow climate is unfriendly to the grape? Why no' even a native applejack to match the French Calvados? One may simmer with indigna tion at the Chancellor's attempts to confine wine-drinking to the expense-account rich: 'it remains strange that our own abundant resources are so undervalued.
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