The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (54 page)

“I don’t care if he’s in his bloody coffin. Dig him up and get him on the phone.”

Roderick Motherup, known as Incest throughout the newspaper world, was the paper’s Royal Correspondent, the man paid to know who was doing what to whom behind the discreet facades of any of the Royal residences. Even while he lay flat on his back.

“Incest? Why the hell did we miss this story?”

“What story?” a weak voice sounded down the line.

“I pay you a whole truckful of money to spread around enough Palace servants, chauffeurs, and snitches so we know what’s going on. Yet you’ve bloody gone and missed it.”

“What story?” the voice chimed in again, more weakly.

The editor began reading the salient facts. The extracts from the King’s draft speech excised by the Government. The replacement sections suggested by the Government, full of economics and optimism, which the King had refused to use. The conclusion that behind the King’s recent address to the National Society of Charitable Foundations lay one hell of a row.

“So I want the story, Incest. Who’s screwing who? And I want it for our next edition in forty minutes.” He was already scribbling draft headlines.

“But I haven’t even seen the story,” the correspondent protested.

“Have you got a fax?”

“I’m in the hospital!” came the plaintive protest.

“I’ll bike it round. In the meantime get on the phone and get back to me with something in ten.”

“Are you sure it’s true?”

“I don’t care if the damned thing’s true. It’s a fantastic ball-breaking story and I want it on our front page in forty minutes!”

In editorial offices all around London similar words of motivation were being relayed to harassed Royal-watchers. There was the sniff of a downturn in the air, advertising revenues were beginning to fall, and that meant nervous proprietors who would more happily sacrifice their editors than their bottom lines. Fleet Street needed a good circulation-boosting story. This would put many tens of thousands on tomorrow’s sales figures and had the promise of being a story that would run and run. And run.

Fifteen

He lies every day in luxury. I lie, very occasionally, in the House of Commons—or at least I distribute the truth a little unevenly. It gives me a much better idea of where my vulnerable parts are located.

A long time ago, at a point lost in the mists of time, an incident took place during a war fought in Canada between the British and the French. At least, it was probably in Canada, although it could have taken place at almost any point on the globe where the two fiercely imperialist nations challenged each other, if indeed it took place at all. According to the reports two armies, one British and the other French, marched up opposite sides of the same hill, discovering unexpected confrontation on the brow. Heavily packed ranks of infantrymen faced each other, readying themselves for battle, hastily preparing their muskets in a deadly race to shed first blood.

But the troops were led by officers who were also gentlemen. The English officer, seeing his counterpart but a few feet away, was quick to see the demands of courtesy and, taking off his hat with a low sweep, invited the French to shoot first.

The Frenchman could be no less gallant than his English enemy and, with a still deeper bow, offered: “No, sir. I insist. After you.”

At which the English infantrymen fired and blew the French apart.

Prime Minister’s Question Time in the House of Commons is much like that confrontation in Canada. All MPs are addressed as “honorable” and all in trousers as “gentlemen,” even by their fiercest enemy. They are drawn up facing each other in ranks only two sword lengths apart and, in spite of the apparent purpose of asking questions and seeking information, the real intent is to leave as many of your opponents’ bodies as you can manage bleeding on the floor of the Chamber. But there are two crucial differences with the confrontation on the hilltop. It is the one who strikes second, the Prime Minister with the last word, who normally has the advantage. And MPs on all sides have learned the lesson that the midst of battle is no place for being a gentleman.

The news of the dispute over the King’s speech hit the newspapers on the last full day of business before the Christmas recess. There was little seasonal goodwill to be found anywhere as His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition sensed its first good opportunity of testing the mettle of the new Prime Minister. At three fifteen p.m., the hour appointed for the Prime Minister to take questions, the Chamber of the House of Commons was packed. Opposition benches were strewn with copies of that morning’s newspapers and their graphic front-page headlines. During the course of the previous night editors had worked hard to outbid each other, and headlines such as “A Right Royal Rumpus” had given way to “King’s Draft Daft Says PM,” eventually becoming simply “King of Cardboard City.” It was all richly amusing and luridly speculative.

The Leader of the Opposition, Cordon McKillin, rose to put his question amid a rustle of expectation on all sides. Like Urquhart he had been born north of the border but there the resemblance ceased. He was considerably younger, his waistline thicker, his hair darker, his politics more ideological, and his accent much broader. He was not noted for his charm but had a barrister’s mind, which made his words always precise, and he had spent the morning with his advisers wondering how best to circumvent the rules of the House, which forbid any controversial mention of the Royal Family. How to raise the topic of the King’s speech, without touching on the King?

He was smiling as he reached out to lean on the polished Wooden Dispatch Box that separated him from his adversary by less than six feet. “Will the Prime Minister tell us whether he agrees”—he looked theatrically at his notes—“it is time to recognize that more people than ever are disaffected in our society, and that the growing sense of division is a matter for grave concern?”

Everyone recognized the direct quote from the King’s forbidden draft.

“Since the question is a very simple one, which even he should be able to understand, a simple yes or no will suffice.” Very simple indeed. No room for wriggling away from this one.

He sat down amid a chorus of approval from his own backbenchers and a waving of newspaper headlines. When Urquhart rose from his seat to respond he, too, wore an easy smile, but some thought they saw a distinct reddening of his ears. No wriggling. The only sensible course of action was direct avoidance, not to risk a cacophony of questions about the King’s views, yet he didn’t like to be seen running away from it. But what else could he do?

“As the Right Honorable Gentleman is aware, it is not the custom of this House to discuss matters relating to the Monarch, and I do not intend to make it my custom to comment on leaked documents.”

He sat down, and as he did so a roar of mock anger arose from the benches in front of him. The bastards were enjoying this one. The Opposition Leader was already back on his feet, his smile broader still.

“The Prime Minister must have thought I asked a different question. I don’t recall mentioning His Majesty. It is entirely a matter between him and the Palace if the Prime Minister chooses to censor and cut to ribbons His Majesty’s remarks. I wouldn’t dream of raising such matters in this place.” A howl of mockery was hurled toward Urquhart from along the Opposition benches. Beneath her long judicial wig Madam Speaker shook her head in disapproval at such obvious circumvention of the rules of the House, but decided not to intervene. “So can the Prime Minister get back to the question actually asked, rather than the one he wishes had been asked, and give a straight question a straight answer?”

Opposition MPs were pointing fingers at Urquhart, trying to get under his skin. “He’s chicken, running away!” exclaimed one. “Can’t face up to it,” said another. “Happy Christmas, Francis,” mocked a third. Most simply rocked back and forth on the leather benches in delight at the Prime Minister’s discomfort. Urquhart glanced at the Speaker, hoping she might slap down such conduct and with it the entire discussion, but she had suddenly found something of great interest to study on her Order Paper. Urquhart was on his own.

“The purpose of the question is clear. My answer remains the same.”

There was pandemonium now as the Opposition Leader rose for the third time. He leaned with one elbow on the Dispatch Box for many long moments without speaking, savoring the state of passion of his audience, waiting for the din to die, enjoying the sight of Urquhart impaled on his hook.

“I have no way of knowing what passed between the Prime Minister and the Palace. I know only what I read in the newspapers”—he waved a copy of the
Sun
for the benefit of the television cameras—“and I have long ceased to believe anything I read there. But the question is simple. Such concerns about the growth of division within our society are shared by millions of ordinary people, whether or not they are held by those, shall we say, somewhat less than ordinary. But if the Prime Minister is having trouble with the question, let me rephrase it. Does he agree”—McKillin glanced down, a copy of the
Chronicle
now in his hand—“with the sentiment that we cannot rest content while tens of thousands of our fellow citizens sleep rough on our streets, through no fault of their own? Does he accept that in a truly United Kingdom the sense of belonging of unemployed crofters in the Scottish Highlands is just as vital as that of homeowners in the southern suburbs? Would he support the view that it is a sign for concern rather than congratulation if more people drive our streets in Rolls-Royces while the disabled in their wheelchairs are left in the gutters, still unable to catch a Number 57 bus?” Everyone recognized the words that had been hijacked from the censored speech. “And if he doesn’t like those questions, I’ve got lots more.”

They were baiting Urquhart now. They didn’t want answers, just blood, and in parliamentary terms they were getting it. Yet Urquhart knew that once he responded to any point concerning the King’s speech he would lose all control of the matter, that he would be open to attack without restraint.

“I will not be drawn. Particularly by a pack of jackals.” From the Government backbenches, which had grown increasingly quiet during the exchanges, came a growl of support. This was more like the exchanges they were used to handling, and insults began to fly freely across the Chamber as Urquhart continued, shouting to make himself heard above the din. “Before he takes his pretense of interest in the plight of the homeless and unemployed too far, perhaps the Right Honorable Gentleman should have a word with his trade union paymasters and tell them to stop pushing through inflationary pay claims that only force decent citizens out of their jobs and out of their homes.” The roar was almost deafening. “He greets the problems of others with all the relish of a grave digger!”

It was an adept attempt at self-preservation. The insults had at last dragged attention away from the question and a tide of protest swept across the Chamber, creating waves of heaving arms and invective that crashed like surf on either side. The Opposition Leader was back on his feet for a fourth attempt but Madam Speaker, conscious that perhaps she should have done more to curtail the questioning and protect the Prime Minister, decided that enough was enough and handed the floor over to Tony Marples, a prison officer elected to represent the marginal constituency of Dagenham at the last election who regarded himself as a savior of “the ordinary chap” and who made no secret of his ambition to get a Ministerial job. He wouldn’t get one, of course, not simply because he probably wouldn’t last long in the House nor because he was homosexual, but because an estranged boyfriend had recently retaliated by wrecking the MP’s Westminster flat before being carted away by the police. Disaffected lovers had dragged down many finer men than Marples, and no Prime Minister was going to give him the chance to follow in their footsteps, no matter how well trodden. But in Madam Speaker’s eyes his ambition made Marples just the man to lob the PM an easy ball to hit and so provide the House with an opportunity to regain its composure.

“Wouldn’t the Prime Minister agree with me,” Marples began in strong Cockney tones; he hadn’t prepared a question in advance, but he thought he knew how to help his beleaguered leader, “that this Party stands second to none in its respect for the institutions of this country, and in particular in its respect, love, and devotion to our wonderful Royals?”

He paused for a second. Once on his feet he was suddenly uncertain how to finish. He coughed, hesitated, too long, exposing a gap like a chink in medieval armor. The Opposition lunged. Interventions were hurled at him from across the Chamber, throwing him even further off stride until his mind jammed in second and stalled. His jaw sagged and his eyes grew wide with the terror of those who wake from a dream to find that nightmare has become reality and they are naked in a public place. “Our wonderful Royals,” he was left repeating, ever more feebly.

It was left to an Opposition MP to deliver the final blow, putting him out of his misery with a stage whisper that carried to all parts of the House.

“Particularly our queens!”

Even many on Marples’s own side failed to restrain their smug grins. Marples saw an Opposition member blow a silent kiss of mockery in his direction, his confidence drained from him for all to see, and he sank miserably back into his seat as the Opposition once more reached a state of euphoria.

Urquhart closed his eyes in despair. He had hoped he’d staunched the flow of blood; now he would need a tourniquet. He thought he would apply it to Marples’s neck.

Sixteen

A king cannot shop for his principles at the supermarket. How can he bleed for the people in monogrammed slippers?

The King was standing, as was his custom, near the window of his sitting room. He was toying self-consciously with the crested signet ring on his left hand, and made no move toward Urquhart. The Prime Minister had been kept waiting outside for a period not actually discourteous but noticeably longer than usual; now he was forced to pace across the full length of the room before the King extended his hand. Once again Urquhart was surprised at the limp handshake, remarkable for someone who took such pride in his physical fitness. A sign of inner weakness? Or an occupational injury? At the King’s silent direction they sat in the two chairs by the fireplace.