On the walls of the Labour Party constituency headquarters is a blown-up map of the area with red and blue crosses marked against the houses. We meet Mrs Castle, a large middle-aged lady who is managing the campaign – my father calls her a ‘marvel’, and a man holding a pile of leaflets.

‘It’s quiet in here today,’ my father exclaims. ‘Where’s Colson?’ ‘Colson’, he is informed, has phoned in to say he has twisted an ankle and needs to rest up; he sends his apologies. Frowning, my father looks round the room again as if expecting to see more people at the filing cabinets.

‘Where are the boys?’

‘They’ll be around, Lewis,’ Mrs Castle assures him.

‘Hmmp. Where are our volunteers? The place is more like a morgue today than a busy office! Well, come along, Lionel.’ He addresses the man with a moustache and slick parted hair holding the leaflets. ‘What are we waiting for? We’ll take the area between Elm Park and Queens Road. Jo can fill in for Colson…here take these leaflets, Jo,’ handing me a pile from a long table by the wall. ‘You can start on Carlyle Street, I’ll take Bentham Road, Lionel the next along, Mrs Castle the fourth and whoever finishes first will move on to Baker Street.’ He turns back to me.

‘Why are you looking like that, sweetheart? There’s nothing to it.’............

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