The Final Cut (19 page)

Bollingbroke was going all but berserk, determined that his support should be heard above the volleys of disorder being fired from the benches around. As he paused in the din, Urquhart was reminded of the pose adopted by the statue of

Churchill beyond the doors of the Chamber and he decided to give it a try, left foot to the fore, jacket sides swept back, hands grasping hips, leaning forward to face the sound of gunfire.

'Our
stubbornness -
I believe that was the word he used - our stubbornness saved Europe then. And the British Prime Minister wasn't booed in the streets after we'd liberated Paris, they got down on their knees and gave thanks!'

God, that would cause chaos in France, but he could live with that. The French had not a single vote that counted on election night. Overhead he could see eager faces in the press gallery leaning out for a better view; more importantly, the benches behind him had become a raging sea of white Order Papers, as though to a man the Government Party was preparing to ward off another threat of invasion. Well, almost to a man. Makepeace was sitting, legs stiff and outstretched, dour expression cast in cement. He would be a problem when he unthawed. But Urquhart thought he had the solution to that.

Urquhart strode briskly down the corridor leading to his office in the House of Commons, composing headlines.

'What d'you think?
"F.U. Blasts Brussels Babble"
’
. "Francis
6;
France
0"? How about "To
Be or Not To Be - That is the Language"
^’
.
Yes, I like that.'

Claire struggled to keep up. He had left the Chamber with the zest of a soprano buoyed by a dozen curtain calls, motioning her to follow. Normally he would have been surrounded by a pack of civil servants but they had decided to fall into a protective huddle and linger while they counted their dead. He swept into his room, held the heavy oak door for her then slammed it shut with the crash of an artillery barrage. He stood to attention, facing her, presenting himself for inspection. 'How was I?'

'You were completely
...'
She searched for the word. What could she say? His mastery over the House amazed and inspired her in the same measure as the rabid jingoism of his words offended all she held dear. But her views, for the moment, didn't matter; she was here to learn. 'Francis, you were completely bloody impossible.'

'Yes, I was, wasn't I? Feathers everywhere. Best pillow fight in ages.' He bounced on his toes, a younger man by forty years, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

'Francis, were you serious? About a single language?'

'Course not. It'll never happen. But it'll bugger up all this nonsense about a single currency for a while, and our voters will love it. Worth another three per cent in the polls by the end of the month, you wait and see.'

He was unusually animated, the adrenalin still pumping. Question Time was trial by ordeal, when the most powerful man in the land was dragged to the edge of a great cliff and made to look down upon the fate which must one day await him on the rocks below. She had heard that in order to endure the ordeal some Prime Ministers had drunk, others had been physically sick beforehand, but in the Chamber Urquhart seemed always in control, almost nerveless. Yet here behind closed doors she could feel the tension flooding through his pores. His blood was hot, his passions high, a lover at orgasm. She was being permitted to share a moment of great intimacy.

'You are my lucky charm, Claire. I can feel it.'

He reached out, held her by the arms, claiming her, and at the same time seeking support from her as the fire within him slowly began to subside. She tried to pretend there was nothing sexual in the moment but in vain - here was power, the most potent of forbidden fruit, and authority, passion, vulnerability, all mixed as one, every indulgence she had ever dreamed about in politics and of which she was now part. She stared into his eyes, awed by the privilege of the moment, knowing that her political life would never be as simple again.

The moment was broken by the sounds of protest coming from outside the door and the hurried and unannounced entrance of a figure in a state of considerable agitation. It was Tom Makepeace. His agitation seemed only to grow as he caught the wake of the intimate moment between his leader and his former lover. He had been about to offer a cursory apology for bursting in but decided to dispense with any of the tattered formalities, glaring first at Claire before turning on the Prime Minister.

'Francis, that performance was little short of a disgrace. An insult to our European partners. In one afternoon you've managed to unravel everything I've achieved in my time as Foreign Secretary. And all for the sake of gratuitous parliamentary fisticuffs.'

'You've got to learn, Tom, that it's not all Queensberry Rules in Europe. Occasionally you need a bit of pepper on the gloves.'

'You can't go screwing around with foreign policy without having the courtesy to consult me first, I won't have it. How can you expect me to deal in good faith with my counterparts after that?' He tossed back the forelock that had fallen across his brow, trying to recompose his temper.

'Ah, good point. I don't.'

Claire took a step back. She knew what was coming and felt as if she were intruding. She experienced a strong twinge of embarrassment, too. Was it because Makepeace had until a few days previously been her lover, or because she was as yet unaccustomed to the rituals of humiliation? His gaze of suspicion followed her.

'Tom, you are one of my most capable and pious of Ministers, a great source of strength. Potentially. You are also the Government's most passionate Euro-enthusiast, a source of considerable confusion. Potentially. So - I'm moving you to Environment, where your piousness can find its reward and your enthusiasm can inflict less harm.'

The blow had been landed but the effect was not instantaneous. By degrees the forelock tumbled forward once more and his expression turned to confusion. Stiffly, his head began to shake from side to side as though trying to shake itself free from sudden confusion and disbelief.

'Think about it, Tom. You're a man of great administrative ability and considerable social conscience in a Government believed by most to be utterly heartless. That must cause you as much distress as it does me. So where better to display your personal credentials and the Government's best intentions than in the field of Environment? Good for you, good for us all.'

The head was still shaking. 'I'll not accept.'

'It is not a matter for debate.'

'Environment or Out?'

'If that's the way you want to put it.'

Makepeace drew a deep breath, struggling for composure which, after a few moments, he found. 'Then I resign.'

Claire looked afresh at him; God, he really meant it. He wouldn't compromise. He was wrong, but she found herself appreciating more than ever that streak of stubbornness, both noble and naive, which was the most endearing and aggravating feature of Tom Makepeace. Urquhart, however, seemed less impressed. His euphoria had gone, to be replaced by unadorned exasperation.

'Tom, you can't resign! For God's sake stop being so petulant and look at what it means. It won't be so very long before I decide to retire and the party starts looking for a new leader. My guess is they'll go for a change of style, too. Someone with a little less stick and a bit more sugar than me. Someone who has a different bias to his politics, just for the joy of a change. Sounds like a pretty good description of Tom Makepeace.
Environment is a great opportu
nity for you - grab it with both hands!' He allowed the thought to take root for a moment. 'What the party won't do, Tom, is to hand over its destiny to someone who's spent the last couple of years sulking on the backbenches.'

Makepeace was wound tight as a piano wire, feet spread apart for support, his arms knotted lest his hands betray the trembling emotions inside, his features set rigid as he struggled for control. Slowly, at the very edges of his mouth, Claire noticed the traces of a wistful smile beginning to appear, the picture of a man saying farewell to something of great importance to himself. But what? Position? Or principle?

'Francis, your logic is almost impeccable. It has only one small fault.' 'And what is that?'

'You underestimate how much I have come to dislike you.' And with that he was gone.

The silence he left behind grew oppres
sive. 'I suppose that meant No’
Urquhart muttered at last. 'Shall I go after him?'

'No. I'll not beg.' Nor would he forgive. 'And it was threatening to be such a pleasant day.'

It might, perhaps, have made a difference if Makepeace had been allowed a few quiet moments for thought and reflection, an opportunity to set practicality alongside his sense of wounded pride in order to discover which would finish the day stronger. But the wind of fate blows capricious in Westminster, and it was not to be. The corridor from the Prime Minister's House of Commons office emerges directly beside the stairwell leading down from the press gallery. In his careless anger Makepeace all but bowled over Dicky Withers as the pressman emerged from the stairs.

'Arrest this ruffian, Sergeant!' Withers demanded of the policeman who guarded this sensitive section of palace corridor.

'Not likely, Dicky. I've just put five quid on him becoming the next Gaffer.'

'A pity,' Makepeace responded as he dusted down the pressman in apology. 'You'd have got much better odds in the morning.'

Withers eyed his assailant carefully, noting the unusually discomfited expression. 'That's one hell of a hurry, Tom. Tell me, are you flying or fleeing?'

'Does it make a difference?'

'Sure. When a Foreign Secretary is caught charging around like that it must be either a woman or a war. Which is it? You know you can confide in me. I'll only tell about a million people.'

Makepeace finished straightening the carnation at the pressman's lapel. Everything in its order. 'Get the boys together for me, Dicky. Lobby Room in fifteen minutes. Then we can tell the whole bloody world. Can't give you an exclusive, but you'll get the first interview afterwards.'

'Sounds like war.'

'It is.'

MAKEPEACE
DECLARES
WAR ON
URQUHART

FOREIGN
SECRETARY 'QUITS
IN
DISGUST'

By Richard Withers, Political Editor

Foreign Secretary Thomas Makepeace left the Government yesterday amidst bitter recriminations with Downing Street over the direction of Government policy. There was also controversy as to whether he had resigned or been sacked.

'I've walked out on him in disgust,' Makepeace told a hurriedly convened Westminster press conference.

Downing Street sources later went to considerable effort to deny this, stating that he had been 'consistently out of step' with Government policy on Europe, and the Prime Minister had no choice but to dismiss him. One Government loyalist last night described Makepeace as 'a Euro-crank'.

It was a day of extraordinary excitement at Westminste
r. The sensational resignation/
dismissal followed immediately upon scenes of uproar within the House of Commons after the Prime Minister Francis Urquhart had denounced
...

Last night Makepeace announced the formation of a new pro-European group within the Government party called 'the Concorde Club'. 'It will be modem, progressive and entirely up-to-date. It will be opposed to political Neanderthalism,' he said. Observers were left in no doubt that the political Neanderthal he had most in mind was Francis Urquhart.

It is unclear how much support the Concorde Club will gain but if the widely respected
Makepeace is able to gain a sub
stantial following, it will represent a most serious threat to the Prime Minister and his chances of continuing long in office.

'This sounds like war,' one senior party source commented.

She rapped at the door. 'He's on, Francis.'

From within the bathroom there was the sound of water being swirled and agitated as Urquhart eased himself back to the present. 'Leave the door open, would you? And switch it up.'

She did as he asked, and also refilled his glass. They made such a balanced team, she mused, with their instincts so intertwined, facing the world and its foibles practically as one. She couldn't remember the last time they had indulged a serious difference of opinion. Was it the redecoration of the apartment at Downing Street or the sacking of his first Chancellor? He'd played both in traditional fashion, while she had encouraged him to be more adventurous with both the decor and the axe. They'd compromised; she'd changed the furniture and he'd kept his Cabinet colleague (but only for another six months, she remembered. Francis had sacked him on her birthday - beneath it all he could be such a romantic).