The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (65 page)

Immediately he drew back, despairing at what he had done. He collapsed into a chair, the energy and hate draining from him like an hourglass shedding its last grains of sand. “My God, Sally, forgive me. I am so very sorry.”

By contrast, she retained a supreme calm. She’d had so much practice. “Me too, Francis.”

He was panting, the leanness that often gave him the appearance of vigor and youth now turning him into a shriveled, aging man. He had breached his own defenses. “I have no children,” he said, gasping for breath, “because I cannot. I have tried all my life to convince myself that it never mattered, but every time I see that damned man and listen to his taunts, it’s as if I am stripped naked and humiliated simply by being in his presence.”

“You think he does it deliberately…?”

“Of course it’s deliberate! He uses his talk of love like weapons of war. Are you so blind you can’t see?” His anger gave way to contrition. “Oh, Sally, believe me, I’m sorry. I have never hit a woman before.”

“It happens, Francis.”

Sally stared at this new image of the man she had thought she knew, then closed the door quietly behind her.

Thirty-Two

Leadership is the quality that enables a man to make a complete cock-up of things, combined with the ability to rise far above it.

A buzz of expectation grew as Urquhart walked into the House from behind the Speaker’s Chair, red leather folder tucked beneath his arm, civil servants filing like ducklings into the officials’ box at the back of the Chamber. They were there to provide him with instant information should the need arise, but it wouldn’t. He had briefed himself very carefully for this one; he knew exactly what he wanted.

“Madam Speaker, with permission, I would like to make a statement…”

Urquhart looked slowly across the packed benches. McKillin sat on the other side of the Dispatch Box, double-checking the statement Urquhart’s office had made available to him an hour beforehand. He would be supportive. Such matters were supposed to be noncontroversial and, in any event, as Urquhart’s personal relations with the King had become the subject of press controversy, so the Opposition Leader’s identification with the Monarch had grown. Your enemy, my friend. It’s what Opposition was about. The Leader of the small Liberal Party, sitting with his band of eternal optimists toward the far end of the Chamber, was likely to be less enthusiastic. He had seventeen MPs in his party and an ego greater than all the others combined. As a precocious backbencher he had made a name for himself by introducing a private bill to restrict the scope of the Civil List to only five members of the Royal Family and, furthermore, to batter home the message of equality by passing Royal succession down through the eldest child of either sex, and not exclusively the eldest son. It had given him ten minutes of parliamentary time before the bill was thrown out, but several hours of prime time on television and coverage in newspapers he measured in feet. He had a record to defend; doubtless he would seek to do so with decorum but, as Urquhart glanced further around the House, the Prime Minister noted that decorum had a short shelf life in politics.

His eyes alighted on “The Beast of Bradford.” Dressed in his habitual shapeless sports jacket, the colorful and eccentric Member for Bradford Central was already leaning forward in anticipation, lank hair falling over his eyes, wringing his hands and waiting to leap to his feet at the first opportunity. The Opposition MP was a street fighter who saw every issue as a chance to pursue the class war against capitalism, which he fought with considerable venom sustained by the scars of a factory accident as a working student that had left him with two short fingers on his left hand. An ardent republican, he was primed to self-ignite on issues involving hereditary rights. He was also utterly predictable, which is why Urquhart had ensured that one of his own members, a Knight of the Leafy Suburbs renowned for his bucolic complexion and pugnacious temper, was stationed directly opposite. The Knight had been deputed to “take care” of The Beast during the statement; what this might involve had been left to The Knight’s discretion, which was notoriously fragile, but he was anxious “to get back into the fray,” as he put it, after treatment for a mild heart complaint. He was already glowering across the floor at the Honorable Member for Bradford Central, seated barely six feet away.

“I would like to make a statement on arrangements for future financial support for His Majesty the King during the ten-year period ahead,” Urquhart continued. He paused to look directly at The Beast and smiled condescendingly. The other responded with an audible growl, which only served to broaden the Prime Minister’s smile. The Beast’s cage was already being rattled.

“The settlement is a considerable and I hope generous one, but is for a full ten-year period during which the vagaries of inflation must be accounted for. Should inflation prove to be less than predicted, the surplus will be carried forward…”

“’Ow much is the Princess getting?” The Beast snapped.

Urquhart ignored him and continued with his explanation.

“Come on, then. Tell us. ’Ow much are we paying Charlotte to screw around in the Caribbean next year?”

“Order! Order!” Madam Speaker demanded shrilly.

“I was only asking…”

“Shut up, you fool!” snapped The Knight, a comment heard by everyone in the Chamber with the exception of the official record takers of
Hansard
.

“Carry on, Prime Minister.”

The atmosphere was already tangled, the temperature rising as Urquhart continued to the end of his short announcement. He had to struggle through growing noise as The Knight continued his private tussle across the floor of the Chamber. The Beast muttered away throughout the brief and supportive response of the Leader of the Opposition who, in a modest attempt to get under Urquhart’s skin, was fulsome in his praise of the King’s environmental work and social perceptiveness.

“Tell that to this bloody man!” the Knight stormed, waving an accusing finger at The Beast who had just impugned his wife’s fidelity. He got a crude gesture involving two amputated fingers in response.

The Liberal leader, when it came to his turn, was less supportive. “Will the Prime Minister recognize that, although we fully support the valuable work of the Royal Family, its financial affairs leave much to be desired? The Civil List represents but a fraction of the expense to the taxpayer of the Royal Family when you take into account the airplanes of the Royal Flight, the Royal Yacht, the Royal Train…”

“The Royal Racing Pigeons,” interrupted The Beast.

“…the costs of which are buried in the budgets of various Government departments. Wouldn’t it be better, more open and honest, to consolidate all these expenditures into one budget so that we know exactly what the true figures are?”

“It’s a sham. What’re you ’iding?”

“I resent the Right Honorable Gentleman’s insinuation that I am being neither open nor honest…” Urquhart began.

“’Ow much is it, then?”

“There is no secret conspiracy on these matters. The Royal Family gives us excellent value for money—”

“’Ow much money?”

A handful of others were joining in the interruptions from the Opposition benches. It seemed they might have found a weakness in the Prime Minister’s defenses and could not resist the temptation to exploit it.

“The figures vary greatly from year to year because of exceptional items…”

“Like what?”

“…such as refits and modernization of the Royal Trains. Also the Royal Palaces require extensive upkeep that in some years is unduly heavy. It is often very difficult to extract the exact cost out of large departmental budgets.” Urquhart appeared to be suffering from the interruptions. He was noticeably under pressure, reluctant to give details, which only excited his hecklers further. The more he prevaricated the louder became the calls for him to “come clean”; even the Liberal leader was joining in.

“The House must understand that the statement I am making today covers the Civil List only. On other items of expenditure I am bound by custom, and it would be most improper of me to make announcements about such matters without first consulting His Majesty. We must preserve the dignity of the Crown and recognize the esteem and affection in which the Royal Family is held.”

As Urquhart paused to consider his words the noise levels around him rose sharply. His brow clouded.

“It was only the other day that the Opposition benches were accusing me of treating His Majesty with contempt, yet now they insist that is precisely what I do.” This antagonized his hecklers; the language swilling around the floor became increasingly unparliamentary. “They are a pathetic lot, Madam Speaker.” Urquhart waved a menacing finger at the benches opposite. “They don’t want information, they just want a row!” He appeared to have lost his temper in the face of the constant baiting, and Madam Speaker knew that it would mark the end of any sensible dialogue. She was just about to curtail discussion and call the next business when an explosion erupted in the vicinity of The Knight, who was on his feet.

“On a Point of Order, Madam Speaker!”

“No points of order, please. We’ve already wasted enough time…”

“But that wretched man just told me to go and have another heart attack!”

Accusatory fingers pointed toward The Beast and the pandemonium grew worse.

“Really!” snapped the Speaker in exasperation.

“’E’s got it wrong, as always,” The Beast was protesting innocently. “I told ’im ’e would have another ’eart attack, if he found out ’ow much the bloody Monarchy cost. It’s millions and millions…”

The rest was lost in the storm of outrage from all sides.

Urquhart picked up his folder and started to leave. He looked at the parliamentary benches in turmoil. Great pressure would undoubtedly be brought to bear on him to reveal the full cost of the Royal Family, and he might have to give it. In any event, prompted by the row, every newspaper in Fleet Street would be setting journalists to dig and make inspired guesses, and reasonably accurate figures wouldn’t be too difficult to find. A pity, he thought to himself, that last year the King’s Flight replaced both their aging airplanes, and modern jets don’t come cheap. A still greater pity that it happened to coincide with an extensive refit for the Royal Yacht
Britannia
. The figures even the dimmest journalist would arrive at would be well in excess of one hundred and fifty million pounds, and that was too large a chunk of red meat for even the most loyal editor to ignore. Yet nobody could accuse Urquhart of being unfair or inconsiderate to the King, not personally. Hadn’t he done his best to defend the King, even while under considerable pressure? By tomorrow morning’s headlines it would be the King himself experiencing the pressure. Then for Sally’s opinion poll.

Even for a Prime Minister it had been an exceptional day’s work, he told himself.

Thirty-Three

Better a man of any reputation than a forgotten one. I have no intention of being forgotten, and what does it matter if I’m not forgiven?

“Mr. Stamper would like a word, Prime Minister.”

“In his capacity as Privy Councilor, Chairman of the Party, Chief Bottle Washer, or honorary president of his football club?” Urquhart swung his feet down from the green leather sofa on which he had been propped reading Cabinet papers as he waited in his House of Commons office for a series of late-night divisions. He couldn’t remember what they were voting for next. Was it to increase punishment for offenders, or reduce subventions to the United Nations? Something, anyway, which would get the tabloids going and reveal the Opposition in the worst possible light.

“Mr. Stamper didn’t say,” responded the humorless private secretary, who had still put no more than his head and left shoulder around the door.

“Wheel him in!” the Prime Minister instructed.

Stamper appeared, offered no word of greeting, and made straight for the drinks cupboard where he poured himself a large whiskey.

“Looks like bad news, Tim.”

“Oh, it is. Some of the worst I’ve heard for ages.”

“Not another selfish swine in a marginal seat gone and died?”

“Worse, much worse, Francis. Our latest private polls put us three points ahead. What’s even more worrying, for some reason people seem to like you, you’re ten points ahead of McKillin. Your vanity will be uncontrollable. Your ridiculous plan for an early election looks as if it could work after all!”

“Praise the Lord.”

“There’s something even more fascinating, Francis,” Stamper continued in more serious demeanor. Unbidden he had filled a glass for Urquhart and handed it to him before continuing. “I’ve just been having a quiet chat with the Home Secretary. The cock-up theory of politics rules supreme. Seems that little shit Marples has at last gotten himself caught with his trousers down, late the other night on the towpath at Putney.”

“In January?” Urquhart asked incredulously.

“Absolutely
in
flagrante
. With a fourteen-year-old. Apparently he’s into little boys.” He made himself comfortable behind Urquhart’s desk, his feet up on the Prime Ministerial blotter. He was deliberately pushing his luck, teasing. His news must be particularly weighty, mused Urquhart.

“But lucky. The police were going to charge him so he broke down and told them everything in the hope they’d go easy on him. Lots of names, addresses, gossip, suggestions of where to look if they wanted to find an organized prostitution ring.”

“Castration’s too good—”

“And it appears he came up with a very interesting name. David Mycroft.”

Urquhart took a deep swig.

“So all of a sudden our boys in blue have gone coy and are asking for a little informal guidance. If Marples gets prosecuted, he’ll implicate Mycroft and all hell will break loose. The Home Secretary’s given a nod and a wink that prosecuting the Honorable and Upright Member for Dagenham would not be in the public interest. So we’re saved a by-election.”