There’s a long-standing joke in our family about “Daddy’s seat”. It originated in a nail biting count many years ago when a TD of our acquaintance was on the verge of losing his seat. Except his tearful family only ever referred to it as “Daddy’s seat” though Daddy was long dead and it was his son’s political career that was at risk. This is just the sort of thing that drives civilians completely mad. But when a seat’s been in a family throughout living memory its hard not to develop a sense of ownership.
Last week my sisters and I wondered would we be weeping over the loss of “Daddy’s seat”. He’s been a councillor for 43 years and the odds were against him this time. The constituency had lost both a seat and a core area in a boundary change. In 2004 he was last man in and barely survived after a gruelling count. At 2am one of the sisters left the count centre for some fresh air. Outside she encountered his running mate and his team who were eating cigarettes. If Daddy didn’t make it, they were in big trouble. “How’s it going?” the poll topping running mate guiltily enquired. “How do you think?” she replied bitterly. “They’re counting Sinn Fein transfers.” Not the kind of votes a Fine Gaeler wants to be depending on.
In the end it was a Fianna Fáil man who lost out and “Daddy’s seat” was saved. But we took no pleasure in it. The Fianna Fail councillor was Gabriel Cribbin, a decent man whose votes transferred to my father since they were popular in the same townland. We felt terrible that he was the one who had to walk away and we all glared at the Independent troublemaker who was the cause of such trauma. As for the running mate, a grudge was born.
That’s the funny thing about counts. It’s an alternative reality glimpsed only when the concentration of so many politicians and their supporters in one location causes a breach in the multiverse. Establishment politicians from rival parties form quick allegiances over ballot boxes. Running mates evolve into bitter enemies. Once the votes are counted, the normal service of party political rivalry is resumed.
John Paul Phelan will blame Mairead McGuinness rather than Nessa Childers. Gay Mitchell will be sorry for Eoin Ryan. Technically no one has a right to a seat, but Maureen O’Sullivan was entitled to Tony Gregory’s. Seats are not lost; they are stolen.
Though I tend to steer clear of my father’s political life I agreed to represent the family at the tally while they stayed home and conserved their energy for the actual counting. To the non-political person the main purpose of the tally is to provide an early prediction of winners and losers. To the Taliban of Irish politics that’s a side issue. The Fundamentalists use it to uncover treachery.
Voters hold politicians to account, but the tally system ensures that politicians can hold voters to account too.
My function was to stand and watch as a local box is opened. As the papers are sorted I call out who gets the first preference. As this is a group tally, a Fianna Fail worker makes a stroke against the relevant name on his tally sheet. We are a good team and between the two of us we don’t miss a paper.
When the box is finished we tot up the totals and study the result before its handed over to the bosses. My father did well, which is expected. It’s one of “his” boxes. Seamus Murray, the local Fianna Fáil candidate did ok, but we notice the Labour candidate has done well – too well as it transpires the following day. Jimmy Fegan, the “town” Fianna Fáil candidate has picked up a few strays but their man is satisfied that their vote management has operated effectively. But my new friend points ominously to the 42 votes for the Da’s running mate. He looks at me curiously. “That was bad management” he offers. “That’s the makings of a row,” I assure him.
No one minds a dozen or so votes going astray. People are entitled to vote for whomever they want of course. But forty two is not free will – it’s a conspiracy. Forty two acts of betrayal which allowed a running mate to get too far ahead and put the weaker candidate at risk. In rural constituencies, the questions start when the count ends. This week, the electoral register from the personation agent will be pored over and armed with evidence of those who voted, known allegiances and the numbers from the tally, it won’t take long to identify the guilty parties who voted the wrong way.
This is the genius and the horror of a good tally. The secret ballot loses a considerable degree of secrecy. As always the innocent have nothing to fear. Only those who told barefaced lies need worry and justice comes in the form of mere inter-generational suspicion and mistrust. As it happened, the good people of Enfield gave my father a great vote and at 73, hale and hearty, he is a councillor once more. “But the best bit” my mother said as I drove her home “is that we’ll never have to do it again”. Losing it would have been hard. Giving it away won’t be easy – but it’s the best way to let go of “Daddy’s seat”.
The article was originally published in the Irish Times June 2009
