The Final Cut (18 page)

'Sorry, Roger. Pressing engagement, I couldn't get out of it.'

'Not good enough, you know, old girl. I put my arse on the line for you, now you owe me. How about saying sorry over dinner tomorrow night?' He leant his thick arm on the statue behind her, bringing them closer together, an intimacy he claimed by right as a Whip. He reeked of Old Spice and other things less sweet. She was searching the Lobby for someone else - anyone else - to distract her attention, but he did not notice, his own eyes were clamped firmly upon her blouse.

'Sorry, Roger, can't do tomorrow. I'm having my hair done. Following night's out, too, I'm hoping to go to assertiveness class. If my husband lets me.' She smiled, hoping he might take the hint.

'Next week, then,' he persisted. 'It'd be fun. There's a hint of a reshuffle coming up, new jobs going, we could discuss your future. Might even be able to get you added to the Whip's List of new stars.'

As he spoke, a fellow Member squeezed past and

Garlick took the opportunity to move his body still closer, trying to brush against her. Claire voiced no objection; in this hothouse of stretched emotions and endless nights it was not uncommon for her to be propositioned, particularly after Members had indulged in a good dinner, and alienating every colleague who had put a hand on her knee or an amorous arm around her waist would leave her a member of a drastically reduced party. Boys' club rules, and she had asked to join. But she didn't have to take Garlick's crap.

'Not next week, Roger. I'm having a new kitchen fitted.' She continued to smile, but with great firmness she placed her fingers on his chest and pushed him away.

Both his attitude and the comer of his lip turned with the rejection. 'Bloody women! You're all the same in this place. Useless. How the hell can we run the country with you crying off every time you get a migraine or one of the kids goes down with mumps.' Other Members standing nearby had begun to tune in; he was aware he had acquired an audience and raised his voice. 'It's about time you got something straight. This isn't a knitting class or a creche, it's the House of Commons, and you're here to do as you're told. Leg up. Lie down. Roll over. Adopt as many different positions as a missionary in a pot. You were elected to support the Government, not to wander through the voting lobbies as though you're picking and choosing underwear at Marks & Spencer's. You turn up when we tell you and do as you're told!'

The blood was flowing early today; from amongst the colleagues gathered around came a shuffling noise, a mixture of embarrassment and expectation, like the sound of a butcher's apron being passed.

'I am very sorry I missed last night's vote, Roger. I had no choice.' She took great care to squeeze out any tremble or trace of emotion which might have crept into her voice.

'What was so important, then, that you had to let us all down? For God's sake don't tell me you had a pressing engagement with your bloody gynaecologist.'

'No, I wasn't on my back, Roger. I was with Francis. You know, the Prime Minister? He asked me to become his PPS.'

The audience around them stirred and Garlick's jowls began to take on a deeper hue of crimson. He appeared to be having trouble controlling his lower jaw. 'The Prime Minister asked you to become his . . .' He couldn't finish.

'His Parliamentary Private Secretary. And you know what kind of girl I am, Roger. Couldn't possibly say no.'

'But the Chief didn't know anything about it,' he stammered. He prayed he was being wound up.

Of course the Chief Whip didn't know, couldn't possibly have been brought in on the discussion. He was one of those marked to end up in the pot beside the missionary. Along with several of the Junior Whips.

'F.U. was planning to mention it to him over lunch today. It obviously hasn't come down the line yet. At least, not as far as you.'

A senior member
of the audience plucked at Gar
lick's sleeve. 'Game, set and testicles, I'd say, old boy,' and walked off chortling.

Garlick appeared like a punctured Zeppelin, arms flapping uselessly, making gushing noises, deflating, half the man he had just been yet, as she knew, more than the man he was shortly to be. She had come upon the privilege of access and inside information, and Claire realized how much she loved it. Incapable of speech, all communications facilities shot away, Garlick turned and shuffled off in the direction of the Whips' Room and its bottle of whisky.

'I'm really delighted, Claire, always thought you were overdue for recognition. Put a word in for you with the Boss some time ago. Glad to see it helped.' Out of nowhere Booza-Pitt was at her elbow; his antennae were awesome.

'I can't believe all the good words that have been put in for me recently,' she replied cryptically.

'I hope I can be one of the first to congratulate you. Let's have dinner. Soon.'

The invitation. Which would be followed by solicitous enquiries about her husband and a small gift for the kids. In one bound she had jumped from Division Three straight into Division One, leapfrogging over the heads of some two hundred - mostly male - colleagues. It filled Geoffrey with unease. She had short-circuited his system, the system he had designed to protect him and promote his cause. She didn't fit and he didn't understand her, couldn't control her. He might have the authority of Ministerial office but she had the influence of access - she'd practically be living at Number Ten. She was competition, raw and naked - talking of which, there was no point in trying to get her to bed, he'd already tried.

The whispered news had already circumnavigated the Lobby and Geoffrey became aware that many eyes were upon them. In proprietorial fashion he took her by the arm. 'You and I are going to have so much fun,' he said, and led her into the Chamber.

Urquhart stumbled into his place on the Government Front Bench, clutching his red folder. He would have preferred to stride into the Chamber, making a grand entrance from behind the Speaker's Chair, but the place was always packed for his appearances and he had to squeeze past bodies, elbows, legs and other outstretched impedimenta of Members who hadn't seen him coming. He'd almost made it to his seat, stepping high like a dressage exercise, leaning on Tom Makepeace's shoulder for support, when a Junior Treasury Minister experienced a cramp spasm and kicked his Prime Minister in the shin. Another volunteer for the view from the backbench gods.

In spite of it, Urquhart felt good, very positive. Over lunch he had informed the Chief Whip that his services as bosun would no longer be required on the voyage. The man had understood what it portended. The great ship of state rarely stopped to pick up those who had fallen overboard, let alone any who had been deliberately dropped; he'd've been better off as a barnacle. Yet at his point of greatest misery he had been thrown a Life belt, the promise of a peerage after the next election if he kept his mouth shut and caused no trouble in the meantime. So with that he had sat down and made a reasonable show of enjoying his final meal, in between the soup and fish helping his Prime Minister complete the final tally of those who would join him over the side. The sense of duty and discipline is instilled sufficiently deep within the psyche of most Whips that the sight of blood, even their own, does not appear to affect their appetite.

As he sat in his seat by the Dispatch Box, gazing at the army of Opposition assembled in layered ranks before him, Urquhart was struck by how much like a fairground shooting gallery it all appeared. Row upon row of ducks who in good order would flutter to their feet and present themselves for - well, dispatch, with the umpires of the press lobby gazing down in impartial anticipation as they waited to count the scorched feathers. He intended they should have a busy day. His eyesight might be going, but not his instinctive aim.

The first duck to squawk and break cover was a Welshman whose voice conveyed the gentle lilt of the Clwyd coastline and a wit of solid coal. With vigour and at seemingly interminable length, he was expressing his concern that the Prime Minister cared too little for matters European. Urquhart drew a deep breath of boredom and raised his eyes to examine the ceiling, his thoughts passing through it to the roof terrace above . . . Quickly he wrenched himself back to the business of the House.

'Finally, the Prime Minister says he believes in a single economic market, and so do I. But if he truly does believe, why oh why does he turn his back on a single currency? All these pounds,
schillings and pesetas are so w
asteful.'

He says it beautifully, Urquhart thought, practically eisteddfod standard. All Welsh wind. He rose and leant an elbow on the Dispatch Box to give himself better aim.

'If I might be allowed to intervene in the Honourable Gentleman's soliloquy . . .' He smiled to show there were no hard feelings. Then with a decisive flick he closed the red folder in front of him which contained his civil service briefing. Apparently this was not to be a civil service answer. 'I would like him to know that I entirely agree with him.'

There was a buzz of consternation. Since when did Urquhart agree with the Opposition?

'Well, almost entirely, on his main point. Which I take to be . ..' - adroitly and without the Welshman being fully aware of it, Urquhart was moving the goal posts, wanting to play an entirely different game - 'which I take to be what we have to do in order to bring about an effective single market in Europe? Although I fail to see why he should be so keen to do away with the British pound and banish the King's head from the coin of our realm.'

The Welshman was flapping his wings; that's not what he had meant at all. And who the hell was Francis Urquhart to put on the armour of Royal champion?

'But let me tell him.' Urquhart's finger was pointing, taking aim. 'If we want to build a single market, get rid of waste and inefficiency, there is something far more important than a single currency. And that's a single language.'

There was a stunned silence as the House digested this entirely new morsel. In the box reserved for civil servants to the side of the Speaker's Chair, an aide began riffling through the pages of his brief like a prompter desperately trying to return the play to the lines of its script.

'Oh, yes’
Urquhart continued, raising his voice and preparing to hit the adverbs and adjectives. 'There is nothing more wasteful and expensive for business than having to deal in a multitude of different languages. The cost runs into billions every year, measure it in whatever currency you will. The economic logic is indisputable, our first priority must be to talk with one voice.' He shrugged his shoulders as if confronted with a problem he could do nothing about. 'I suppose it is simply an accident of history that the only language capable of meeting that bill is English.'

From his position along the Front Bench, Boiling-broke gave a roar of delight - his Saturday night special, as Urquhart termed it, a noise several octaves above steak and kidney pudding and more appropriate to celebrating a victory by Manchester United. Urquhart was grateful nonetheless and turned to acknowledge the cheer, which was being picked up widely behind him. He noticed that Tom Makepeace displayed little desire to join the celebrations.

'So, when the Europeans come and start talking to me about a single currency in English, that's when I'll start listening,' he declaimed. He was enjoying himself thoroughly. Sod the diplomatic etiquette. Was it his fault if Brussels had no sense of humour? 'And I shall expect the Honourable Gentleman's unflinching and Welsh-hearted support.' A nice touch; that'll go down in his constituency like a slut on a slide.

Urquhart beamed at the uproar all around and resumed his seat. Even before he had done so, the Opposition Leader was on his feet, stretching at his Armani seams, his face flushed with outrage. Urquhart nestled back on the leather. Having seen his colleague blown away in a flurry of feathers, only a complete turkey would be so eager to take his place. But Clarence was a complete turkey, practically oven-ready.

'I have rarely heard views expressed in this House that have been so unworthy and un
-
European. The Prime Minister's performance today has been a national disgrace. In a few days' time he is to fly to a meeting with the French President. Does he not realize the sort of greeting he will have to endure? What will it do to the reputation of this country to have its Prime Minister booed through the streets of

Paris?' Paradoxical cheers came from his supporters behind, which quickly died in confusion as Urquhart accepted them graciously. Clarence battled on. 'When will the Prime Minister realize how much damage he is doing to the interests of this country with his stubbornness, his constant veto of new ideas, his abject refusal to be a good European?'

Tumult. It took a considerable time and the repeated intervention of the Speaker before Urquhart had any chance of being heard. He saw no reason to rush.

'Perhaps it's the Right Honourable Gentleman's youth which makes him so impetuous. Perhaps, too, it explains his apparent willingness to come to this House every week and learn by the good old Victorian method of a sound thrashing. But youth alone isn't enough to excuse ignorance.' Urquhart eased back the sleeves of his suit in the manner of a teacher preparing to chalk a blackboard. 'He seems to have climbed so high up his European Tower of Babel that he's become giddy and disorientated. Once more I shall have to bring him down to earth. Remind him of the other times when the world had cause to be grateful that we in Britain set our face against the fashion in Europe. When we exercised our veto. Said "No", "No" and "No" again. Showed ourselves stubborn and utterly unwilling to bend. As we did in 1940. We stood alone, backed only by God and the seas when all the rest' - he dismissed them with a broad wave of his hand - 'had capitulated.'