The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (50 page)

“I see,” Urquhart mused, the creeping cold sending his left leg into spasm while a pair of ducks splashed their way into flight from the lake. Wonderful targets, he thought. “That’s a kind offer, of course, sir. But I wouldn’t want the Environment Secretary to feel in any way that we were undermining his authority. I have to keep a happy team around me…”

“You are absolutely right, I do agree. That’s why I took the precaution of chatting about this with the Environment Secretary myself. I didn’t want to put any proposal to you that might be an embarrassment. He said he would be delighted, offered to brief me himself.”

Bloody Dickie. He’d no sense of humor, that was clear; now it appeared as if he had no other sense either.

“Today this is just a muddy field,” the King continued. “But in the years to come this could be a new way of life for us all. Don’t you see?”

Urquhart couldn’t. He could see only piles of mud spread around like newly turned graves. Damp was seeping through the welts of his shoes and he was beginning to feel miserably uncomfortable. “You must take care, sir. Environmental matters are becomingly increasingly the stuff of party politics. It’s important that you remain above such sordid matters.”

The King laughed. “Fear not, Prime Minister. If I were meant to become involved in party politics the Constitution would have allowed me a vote! No, such things are not for me; in public I shall stick strictly to matters of the broadest principle. Simply to encourage, to remind people that there is a better way ahead.”

Urquhart was growing increasingly irritable. His socks were sodden, and the thought of the public being told from on high that there was a better way ahead than the one presently being pursued, no matter how delicately phrased, smacked of grist to the Opposition’s mill and filled him with unease, but he said nothing in the hope that his silence would bring an end to the conversation. He wanted a warm bath and a stiff whiskey, not more regal thoughts on how to do his job.

“In fact, I thought I might pursue the point in a speech I have to make in ten days’ time to the charitable foundations…”

“The environment?” The irritation and impatience were beginning to show in Urquhart’s tone, but the King appeared not to have noticed.

“No, no, Mr. Urquhart. An address intended to bring people together, to remind them how much we have achieved, and can continue to achieve, as a nation. Broad principles, no specifics.”

Urquhart felt relieved. An appeal to motherhood.

“The charitable foundations are making such prodigious efforts, when there are so many forces trying to divide us,” the King continued. “Successful from the less well-off. Prosperous South from the Celtic fringe. Suburbs from the inner cities. No harm in encouraging families secure in their own homes this Christmas to spare a thought for those forced to sleep rough in the streets. In the rush, so many seem to have been left behind, and at this time of year it’s appropriate to reach out to the less fortunate, don’t you think? To remind us all that we must work toward being one nation.”

“You’re intending to say that?”

“Something on those lines.”

“Impossible!”

It was a mistake, a rash outburst brought on by frustration and the growing cold. Since there was no book of rules, no written Constitution to order their conduct, it was vital to maintain the fiction of agreement, of discussing but never disputing, no matter how great their differences, for in a house of cards that lean one upon the other each card has its place. A King must not be seen to disagree with a Prime Minister, nor a Prime Minister with a King. Yet it had happened. One impatient word had undermined the authority of one and threatened both.

The King’s complexion colored rapidly; he was not used to being contradicted. The scar on his left cheekbone inflicted in a fall from a horse showed suddenly prominent and purple while his eyes carried an undisguised look of annoyance. Urquhart sought refuge in justification.

“You can’t talk of one nation as if it didn’t exist. That implies there are two nations, two classes, a divide which runs between us, top dogs and the downtrodden. The term reeks of unfairness and injustice. It’s not on, sir!”

“Prime Minister, you exaggerate. I’m simply drawing attention to the principle—exactly the same principle as your Government has just endorsed in my Christmas address to the Commonwealth. North and South, First World and Third, the need to secure advancement for the poor, to bring the different parts of the world community closer together.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because…”

“Because they’re black? Live in distant corners of the world? Don’t have votes, Prime Minister?”

“You underestimate the power of your words. It’s not what the words mean; it’s how others will interpret them.” He waved his arms in exasperation and sought to pummel life back into his frozen limbs. “Your words would be used to attack the Government in every marginal constituency in the country.”

“To read criticism of the Government into a few generalized Christmastime sentiments would be ridiculous. Christmas isn’t just for those with bank accounts. Every church in the country will be ringing to the stories of Good King Wenceslas. Would you have him banned as politically contentious? Anyway, marginal seats, indeed…We’ve only just had an election. It’s not as if we have to worry about another just yet.”

Urquhart knew it was time to back down. He couldn’t reveal his election plans—Palace officials were notoriously gossipy—and he had no taste for a personal dispute with the Monarch. He sensed that danger lay therein. “Forgive me, sir. Perhaps the cold has made me a little too sensitive. Just let me say there are potential dangers with any subject as emotive and complex as this. Perhaps I could suggest you allow us to see a draft of the speech so that we can check the detail for you? Make sure the statistics are accurate, that the language is unlikely to be misinterpreted? I believe it is the custom.”

“Check my speech? Censorship, Mr. Urquhart?”

“Heavens, no. I’m sure you would find our advice entirely helpful. We would take a positive attitude, I can guarantee.” His politician’s smile was back, trying to thaw the atmosphere, but he knew it would take more than flattery. The King was a man of rigid principles; he’d worked hard for many years developing them, and he wasn’t going to see them smothered by a smile and a politician’s promise.

“Let me put it another way,” Urquhart continued, his leg once more going into spasm. “Very soon, within the next few weeks, the House of Commons must vote on the new Civil List. You know how in recent years the amount of money provided for the Royal Family has become increasingly a subject of dispute. It would help neither you nor me if you were engaged in a matter of political controversy at a time when the House wanted to review your finances in a cool, constructive manner.”

“You’re trying to buy my silence!” the King snapped. Neither man was renowned for his patience, and they were goading each other on.

“If you want a semantic debate then I put it to you that the whole concept of a constitutional monarchy and the Civil List is precisely that—we buy your silence and active cooperation. That’s part of the job. But really…” The Prime Ministerial exasperation was undisguised. “All I’m offering is a sensible means for us both to avoid a potential problem. You know it makes sense.”

The King turned away to gaze across the bedraggled lawns. His hands were behind his back, his fingers toying irritably with the signet ring on his little finger. “What has happened to us, Mr. Urquhart? Just a few moments ago we were talking of a bright new future, now we haggle over money and the meaning of words.” He looked back toward Urquhart, who could see the anguish in his eyes. “I am a man of strong passion, and sometimes my passion runs ahead of what I know is sensible.” It was as close to an apology as Urquhart was going to get. “Of course you shall see the speech, as Governments have always seen the Monarch’s speeches. And of course I shall accept any suggestion you feel you must make. I suppose I have no choice. I would simply ask that you allow me to play some role, however small and discreet, in pushing forward those ideals I hold so deeply. Within the conventions. I hope that is not too much to ask.”

“Sir, I would hope that in many years to come you and I, as Monarch and Prime Minister, will be able to look back on today’s misunderstanding and laugh.”

“Spoken like a true politician.”

Urquhart was uncertain whether the words implied compliment or rebuke. “We have our principles, too.”

“And so do I. You may silence me, Prime Minister; that is your right. But you will not get me to deny my principles.”

“Every man, even a monarch, is allowed his principles.”

The King smiled thinly. “Sounds like an interesting new constitutional concept. I look forward to discussing it with you further.” The audience was over.

Urquhart sat in the back of his armored Jaguar, trying vainly to scrape mud from his shoes. He remembered that George III, finished with the oak tree, had also made a general of his horse. His mind filled with visions of a countryside turned over once again to the yoke and plow and city streets smothered in decaying horse manure, By Royal Appointment. His feet were frozen, he thought he was developing a cold, his Environment Secretary was a complete dolt, and it was scarcely nine weeks before he wanted to call an election. He could take no chances; there was no time for cock-ups. There could be no suggestion of a Two Nation debate with the Government inevitably on the receiving end. It was impossible; he couldn’t take the risk. The King would have to be stopped.

Ten

Political principles are like the women of a harem. You need to dress them up, put them on display frequently, and occasionally pick one out for special attention. But never spend too much time or money on them; otherwise, they may come to possess you.

The taxi picked her up from home seven minutes late, which made her furious. She decided it would be for the last time; they’d been late three times this week. Sally Quine didn’t want to be mistaken for other women, the kind who arrive for client meetings habitually late, flash a leg in excuse, and laugh a lot. She didn’t mind showing off a leg but she hated having to offer excuses and always ensured she arrived anywhere five minutes before the rest so she would be fully prepared and in charge of proceedings. The early bird always hijacks the agenda. She would fire the taxi firm first thing in the morning.

She closed the door to her home behind her. It was a terraced house in a highly fashionable part of Islington with small rooms and reasonable overheads. It represented all that she’d been able to squeeze out of the wreckage she had left behind in Boston, but in the banks’ view it was good collateral for the loans on her business, and at the moment that was more important than running the sort of gin palace and entertainment lounge preferred by most of her larger competitors. It had two bedrooms, one of which had come set up as a nursery. It had been the first room to be ripped apart; she couldn’t bear the sight of any more bears bouncing across the wallpaper and the memories they brought with them. The room was now covered in impersonal filing cabinets and shelves carrying thick piles of computer printout rather than talcum powder and tubs of Vaseline. She didn’t think of her baby too often, she couldn’t afford to. It hadn’t been her fault, no one’s fault really, but that hadn’t dammed the flood of guilt. She had sat and watched the tiny hand clutching her little finger, the only part of her body small enough for him to cling to, his eyes closed, struggling for each breath, all but submerged beneath the impersonal tubes and anonymous surgical paraphernalia. She had sat and sat and watched, and watched, as the struggle was gradually lost and the strength and spirit of the tiny bundle had faded away, to nothing. Not her fault, everyone had said so. Everyone, that is, except that slimehound of a husband.

“Downing Street, you say,” commented the cab driver, ignoring a barbed rejoinder about his timing. “You work there, do you?” He seemed relieved to discover she was simply another ordinary sufferer and began a steady monologue composed of complaints and observations about their political masters. It was not that he was ill-disposed toward the Government, which seemed one stage removed from his daily life since he took all his fares in cash and therefore paid practically no income tax. “It’s just the streets are looking grim, luv. A week before Christmas and it’s not really happening. Shops half empty, fewer people needing cabs and those what do are skimping on the tips. Dunno what your pals in Downing Street are saying, but tell ’em from me the tough times are right around the corner. Old Francis Urquhart better pull his socks up or he won’t be long in following what’s-his-name…er, Collingridge.”

Less than a month out of office and already the memory was beginning to slip inexorably from the mind.

She ignored his chatter as they meandered through the dark, drizzly streets of Covent Garden, past the restored monument of Seven Dials that marked what had been some of the worst slums of Dickensian London with its typhoid and footpads and that now presided over the heart of London’s Theatreland. They passed a theater that stood dark and empty; the show had closed, in what should have been the busiest time of year. Straws in the wind, she thought, remembering Landless’s warning, or maybe great armfuls of hay.

The taxi dropped her off at the top of Downing Street and in spite of his blunt hints she refused to sign for a tip. The policeman at the wrought-iron gate consulted the personal radio tucked away beneath his rain cape, there was a crackle in response and he let her through. A hundred yards away loomed the black door, which swung open even before she had put her foot on the step. She signed a visitors’ book in the entrance hall, which was deserted except for a couple of policemen. There was none of the bustle and activity she had expected and none of the crowds of the evening she had met Urquhart. It seemed as if Christmas had arrived early.

Within three minutes she had passed through as many sets of hands, each civil servant contriving to appear more important than the last, as she was led upstairs, through corridors, past display cases full of porcelain until she was shown into an inner office and the door closed behind her. They were on their own.