House of Cards (17 page)

'You'll have to forgive me, Francis. Four years in the Foreign Office has not prepared me particularly well for handling direct questions like that. Maybe I'm not used any more to people coming straight to the point. I hope you will forgive me if I struggle a little to match your bluntness.'

This was nonsense, of course. Woolton was renowned for his direct, often combative political style which had found an uneasy home in the Foreign Office. He was simply playing for time, collecting his thoughts.

'Let's try to put aside any subjective views
...'
- he blew another enormous cloud of smoke to hide the patent insincerity of the remark-'... and analyse the problem like a civil service position paper.'

Urquhart continued to look strained and nervous, but smiled inwardly. He knew Woolton's personal views, and so he already knew the conclusion at which their hypothetical civil servant was going to arrive.

‘F
irst, have we really got a problem? Yes, and it's a serious one. My lads, back in Lancashire are hopping mad, we have a couple of local by-elections coming up which we are going to lose, and the polls are looking awful. I think it's right that you should be taking soundings.

'Second, is there a painless solution to the problem? Don't let us forget that Henry has led us successfully through our fourth election victory. He is the leader of the party which the voters supported. So it's not easy so soon after an election to contemplate a radical alteration to either the policies or the personalities with which we were elected.'

Woolton was by now obviously beginning to relish the analysis.

'Think it through. If there were any move to replace him - which is essentially what we are discussing
...'
—
Urquhart contrived to look pained at Woolton's bluntness and once more examined the drink in his glass —
'...
it would be highly unsettling for the Party, while the Opposition would be rampant. It would, look like a messy palace coup and an act of desperation. What do they say? "Greater love hath no politician than he lay down the life of his friends to save his own"! We could never make it look like the response of a mature and confident political party, no matter how we tried to dress it up. It would take a new leader at least a year to repair the damage and glue together the cracks. So we should not fool ourselves that replacing Henry represents an easy option.

'Third, when all is said and done, can Henry find the solution to the problem himself? Well, you know my views on that I stood against him for the leadership when Margaret retired, and I have not changed my mind that his selection was a mistake.'

Urquhart now knew that he had read his man well. While Woolton had never expressed any open dissatisfaction after the waves of the leadership election had settled, public loyalty is rarely more than a necessary cover for private ambition, and the Foreign Secretary had never done more than was strictly necessary to maintain that cover.

Woolton was now refilling their glasses while continuing his analysis. 'Margaret managed an extraordinary balance of personal toughness and sense of direction. She was ruthless when she had to be - and often when she didn't have to be as well. She always seemed to be in such a hurry to get where she was going that she had no time to take prisoners and .didn't mind trampling on a few friends either. It didn't matter so much because she led from in front. Yet Henry doesn't have any sense of direction, only a love of office. And without that sense of direction, when he tries to be tough it simply comes across as arrogance and harshness. He tries to mimic Margaret but he hasn't got the balls.

'So these we have it. If we try to get rid of him we're in deep trouble. If we keep him, to use an old Lancashire expression, we're stuffed.'

He returned to his pipe, puffing furiously to rekindle its embers until he disappeared once more behind the haze.

Urquhart hadn't spoken for nearly ten minutes, but now moved to the edge of his chair once again. 'Yes, I see. B
ut I
don't see. What is it you are saying, Patrick?'

Woolton roared with laughter. I'm sorry, Francis. Too much bloody diplomatic claptrap. I can't even ask the wife to pass the cornflakes nowadays without confusing her. You want a direct answer? OK. A majority of 24 simply isn't enough, and at the rate we are going we shall get wiped out next time around. We cannot go on as we are.'

'So what is the solution? We have to find one.'

'We wait. We need time, a few months, to prepare the public perception and pressure for the PM to stand down, so that when he does we shall be seen to be responding to a positive public demand rather than indulging in private squabbles. Perceptions are crucial, Francis, and we shall need a little time to get them right.'

And you need a little time to prepare your own pitch for the job, thought Urquhart. You old fraud. You want the job just as badly as ever.

He knew Woolton would need the time to spend as many evenings as possible in the corridors and bars of the House of Commons strengthening relationships with his colleagues, increasing the number of his speaking engagements in the constituencies of influential MPs, broadening his reputation with newspaper editors and columnists, building up his credentials. His official diary would get cleared very rapidly. He would spend less time travelling abroad and much, much more time travelling around Britain making speeches about the challenges facing the country in the year 2000.

You
have a particularly difficult and delicate task, Francis. You are in a central position for judging whether there is any chance of Henry staging some sort of recovery or, failing that, when the time is right to move. Too early and we shall all look like assassins. Too late and the Party will be in pieces. You will have to keep your ear very close to the ground, and decide if and when the time has come to move. I assume you are taking soundings elsewhere?'

Urquhart nodded carefully in silent assent. He's nominated me as Cassius, he thought, put the dagger in my hand and left it to me to nominate the Ides of March. Urquhart was exhilarated to discover that he did not mind the sensation at all.

'Patrick, I'm very grateful that you feel able to be so frank with me. The next few months are going to be difficult for all of us, and if I may I will continue to take your counsel. And you may be sure that not a word of this will pass outside this room.' He rose to finish the meeting.

'My Special Branch team are all going on at me about how walls have ears. I'm damned glad you have the next door bungalow!' Woolton exclaimed, thumping Urquhart playfully between the shoulder blades as his visitor strode over to retrieve his red box.

‘I
hope you will be joining me there for my reception this evening, Patrick. You won't forget, will you?'

'Course not. Always enjoy your parties. Be rude of me to refuse your champagne!'

I
’
ll see you in a few hours then,' replied Urquhart, picking up a red box.

As Woolton closed the door behind his visitor, he poured himself another drink. He would skip the afternoon's conference debates and have a bath and a short sleep to prepare himself for the evening's heavy schedule. As he reflected on the conversation he had just had, he began to wonder whether the whisky had dulled his senses. He was trying to remember how Urquhart had voiced his own opposition to Collingridge, but couldn't. 'Crafty sod. Let me do all the talking.'

As he sat there wondering whether he had been just a little too frank with his guest, he totally failed to notice that Urquhart had walked off with the wrong red box.

Mattie had been in high spirits ever since sending through her copy shortly after lunch and had spent much of the afternoon thinking of the new doors which were slowly beginning to open for her. She had just celebrated her first anniversary at the
Telegraph,
and her abilities were getting recognition. Although she was one of the youngest members of staff, her stories had begun to get on the front page on a frequent basis - and they were good stories, too, she knew that. Another year of this sort of progress and she would be ready to make the next step, perhaps move up as an assistant editor or find a role with more room to write serious political analysis and not just daily pot boilers. Mind you, she had no complaints today. It would take an outbreak of war to stop the copy she had just filed from making the splash headline on the front page. It was a strong story about a Government who had lost their way; it was well written and would certainly help to get her noticed by other editors and publishers.

But it was not enough. In spite of it all, she was beginning to realise that something was missing. Even as her career developed, she was gradually discovering an emptiness which hit her every time she left the office and got worse as she walked past her front door into her cold, silent apartment. There was a pit somewhere deep inside her which had begun to ache, an ache she hoped had been left way behind in Yorkshire. Damn men! Why couldn't they leave her alone? But she knew no one else was to blame; her own needs were gnawing away inside her, and they were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Neither could she ignore the urgent message to call her office which she received shortly before
5
o'clock. She had just finished taking tea on the terrace with the Home Secretary, who was anxious to get the
Telegraph
to puff his speech the following day and who in any event wanted an excuse to avoid sitting through another afternoon of his colleagues' speeches. The hotel lobby was crowded as people began to desert the conference hall early in search of refreshment and relaxation, but one of the public telephones was free and she decid
ed to put up with the noise.
When she got through, Preston's secretary explained that he was engaged on the phone and connected her with the deputy editor, John Krajewski, a gentle giant of a
man
she had begun to spend a little time with during the long summer months, spurred on by a shared enjoyment of good wine and the fact that his father, like her grandfather, had been a wartime refugee from Europe. She greeted him warmly, but his response left her feeling like ice.

'Hello, Mattie. Look, let me not cover everything in three feet of bullshit but come straight to the point. We're not - he's not - running your story. I really am sorry.'

There was a stunned silence over the phone as she turned over the words in her own mind to make sure that she had understood correctly.

'What th
e hell do you mean you're not ru
nning it?'

'Just what I say, Mattie.' Krajewski was clearly having grave dif
ficulty with the conversation. ‘I’
m sorry I can't give you all the details because Grev has been dealing with it personally -
’I
haven't touched it myself - but apparently it's such a hot story that he feels he cannot run it without being absolutely sure of our ground. He says that we have always supported this Government loyally and he's not about to throw editorial policy out of the window on the basis of an anonymous piece of paper. He says we have to be absolutely certain before we move, and we can't be if we don't know where this piece of paper came from.'

'For God's sake, it doesn't matter where the bloody paper came from. Whoever sent it to me wouldn't have done so if he thought his identity was going to be spread all over our news room. All that matters is that it's genuine, and I've confirmed that.'

'Look, I know how you must feel about this, Mattie, and I wish I were a million miles away from this one. Believe me I've argued this one hard and long for you, but Grev is adamant. It's not running.'

Mattie wanted to scream. She suddenly regretted making the call from a crowded lobby, where she could not argue the case for fear that a rival journalist would hear, and neither could she use the sort of language she felt like using with dozens of constituency wives crowding around her.

'Let me talk to Grev.'

'Sorry. I think he's busy on the phone.'

‘I’ll
hold!'

In fact
’
said the deputy editor in a voice heaped with embarrassment,
‘I
know he's going to be busy for a long time and insisted that I had to be the one to explain it to you. I know he wants to talk to you, Mattie - but tomorrow. There's no point in trying to scream him into submission tonight.'

'So he's not running the story, he hasn't got the balls to tell me why, and he's told you to do his dirty work for him!' Mattie spat out her contempt. 'Wh
at sort of newspaper are we runn
ing, Johnnie?'

She could hear the deputy editor clearing his throat, unable to find suitable words to respond. Krajewski appreciated just how tearingly frustrated Mattie felt, not only with the story but with Preston's decision to use him as a buffer. He wondered if he should have made more of a fight of it on her behalf, but in recent weeks he had become increasingly distracted by Mattie's obvious if unpromoted sexuality and he was no longer certain just how professionally objective he was.

'Sorry, Mattie.'

'And screw you, Johnnie!' was all she was able to hiss down the line before slamming the phone back into its cradle.

She was consumed with anger, not only with Preston and politics but also with herself for being unable to find a more convincing argument to fight her cause or a more coherent way of expressing it.