“Slave labor, rowing the Government’s galley, that’s all they reckon we are,” Quillington sniffed.
“And so you shall remain if you don’t speak up for yourselves,” Landless warned.
“Sounds like mutiny,” his brother said from the drinks table, “taking on the Government.”
“So what? You’ve got nothing to lose. Better than staying silent simply in order to be abused. Remember what they tried with the King’s speech? You’re in the same firing line.”
“Never did have any time for that Urquhart,” Quillington muttered into his brandy balloon.
“The press wouldn’t report it anyway,” his brother commented, handing a full glass back to the Princess. When he sat down, Landless noticed he had drawn even closer to her. Their hands were side by side on the car rug.
“Some press would,” Landless interjected.
“Benjamin, of course, you’re a darling,” Charlotte said soothingly, “but all the rest of them are interested in is a photograph of me with my dress blown up around my ears so they can gossip about where I buy my underwear.”
It was not an entirely accurate picture, mused Landless. The press was mostly interested in where she left her underwear, not where she bought it.
“Shouldn’t give honors to pressmen,” Mickey continued. “Particularly peerages. Clouds their objectivity. Makes them too damned self-important.”
Landless didn’t feel insulted; rather, he felt as if slowly they were beginning to offer him acceptance, setting aside the fact that he was born to a different world.
“You know, perhaps you’re right,” Quillington continued. “Hell, about the only right they allow us nowadays is to get on our hind legs in the Lords, and it’s about time we started using it properly. You know, making the Lords and the hereditary principle the first line of defense for you and yours, Beany.”
“If you’ve anything you want to say, I’ll make sure it gets an outing,” Landless offered. “Just like we did with the Christmas speech.”
“I think we’ve hit on a damned fine idea, Beany,” Quillington said. Already he was beginning to expropriate the idea for his own. “Anything you want said, I’ll say it for you. If the King can’t make a public speech, then I’ll make it for him. Into the public record on the floor of the Lords. We mustn’t let them gag us.” He nodded in self-approval. “Sorry you can’t stay the night, Landless,” he continued. “Plenty of other ideas I’d like to try on you.” The conversion was complete. “Some other time, eh?”
Landless understood the hint and glanced at his watch. “Time I was going,” he offered, and rose to his feet to make his rounds of farewell.
He would be glad to get out into the fresh air. He didn’t belong here, not with these people: no matter how polite they were and no matter how successful he became, he would never belong. They wouldn’t allow it. He might have purchased a ticket to the dinner table, but he could never buy his way into the club. He didn’t mind, he didn’t care to join. This was yesterday, not tomorrow. Anyway, he’d look ridiculous on a horse. But he had no regrets. As he glanced behind him from the door, he could see his host standing by his fireplace, dreaming of chivalrous battles yet to come on the floor of the House of Lords. And he could see the Princess and the younger Quillington, already anticipating the disappearance of the outsider, holding hands on the sofa. There were stories here aplenty, with patience.
Twenty-Six
A royal conscience is like a wind upon a field of corn. It might cause a ripple but usually passes to no lasting effect.
The House of Commons attendant entered the gentlemen’s lavatory in search of his quarry. He had an urgent message for Tom Worthington, a Labor MP from what used to be a mining constituency in Derbyshire before they closed the mines, who prided himself on his working-class origins in spite of the fact that it had been more than twenty years since anything other than ink and ketchup had stained his hands. The lavatory was inescapably Victorian with fine antique tiles and porcelain, sullied only by an electric hot-air drier at which Jeremy Colthorpe, an aging and notoriously pompous Member from the pretentious shires, was drying his hands. “By chance seen Mr. Worthington, sir?” the attendant inquired.
“Can only handle one shit at a time in here, my man,” Colthorpe responded through his nose. “Try one of the bars. In some corner under a table, most likely.”
The attendant scurried off as Colthorpe was joined at the wash basins by the only other man in the room, Tim Stamper.
“Timothy, dear boy. Enjoying party headquarters? Making an excellent job of it, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Stamper turned from the basin and lowered his head in appreciation, but there was no warmth. Colthorpe was known for his airs, purporting to be a leader of local society, yet he’d married into every penny, which only made him still more condescending toward former estate agents. Classlessness was a concept Colthorpe would never support, having spent most of his life trying to escape from its clutches.
“Glad for a chance to speak with you actually, old chap,” Colthorpe was saying, his smile more a simper as he searched keenly in the corners of the mirror for reassurance that he and Stamper were alone in the echoing room. “Confidentially, man to man,” he continued, trying to glance surreptitiously beneath the doors of the cubicles.
“What’s on your mind, Jeremy?” Stamper responded, mindful that during all of his years in the House, Colthorpe had never done more than pass the time of day with him.
“Lady wife. Getting on a bit, seventy next year. And not in the best of health. Brave gal, but finding it more than ever difficult to help in the constituency—it’s damned large, forty-three villages, don’t you know, takes some getting round, I can tell you.” He moved over toward Stamper at the basins and started washing his hands for the second time, trying to evince confidentiality but clearly ill at ease. “Owe it to her to take off some of the pressure, spend a little more time together. No way of telling how long she may have.” He paused while he worked up a considerable lather as if he were always meticulous about hygiene and to emphasize the depth of his concern for his wife. Both effects were wasted on Stamper who, when Deputy Chief Whip, had seen Colthorpe’s private file, which included reference to the regular payments he made to a single mother who used to tend bar in his local pub.
“To be frank, I’m thinking of giving up my seat at the next election. For her sake, of course. But it’d be a damnable pity to see all that experience I’ve gained over the years go to waste. Would love to find some way of…still being able to contribute, don’t you know. To go on doing my bit for the country. And the party, of course.”
“What did you have in mind, Jeremy?” Stamper already knew precisely where the conversation was headed.
“Open to suggestion. But obviously the Lords would seem a sensible option. Not for me, so much, but for the little lady. Mean a lot to her after all these years. Particularly when…you know, she might not have very long to enjoy it.”
Colthorpe was still splashing water around to make a pretense at casualness and had succeeded in drenching the front of his trousers. He realized he was beginning to make a fool of himself and turned the taps off with a savage twist, turning directly toward Stamper, hands by his side, water dripping from his soaked cuffs. “Would I have your support, Tim? The backing of the party machine?”
Stamper turned away and headed for the electric hand drier, its harsh noise forcing Colthorpe to follow him across the room, and them both to raise their voices.
“There will be quite a few colleagues retiring at the next election, Jeremy. I expect a number of them will want a seat in the Lords.”
“Wouldn’t press my own case, but for the wife. I’d work hard at the job, wouldn’t skive off like so many of the others.”
“Ultimately, of course, it’s up to Francis. He’ll have a tough job deciding between the various claims.”
“Would you?” Stamper threw over his shoulder. “Francis does value loyalty above everything.”
“Absolutely. Anything the two of you want, rely on me!”
The hand drier suddenly ceased its raucous huffing and in a moment the atmosphere had grown hushed, almost confessional. Stamper turned to stare at Colthorpe from only a few inches away.
“Can we really rely on you, Jeremy? Loyalty first?”
Colthorpe was nodding.
“Even as far as the King is concerned?”
“The King…?” Confusion crept in.
“Yes, Jeremy, the King. You’ve already seen how he’s rocked the boat. And Francis fears it’s going to get worse. The Palace needs reminding, very firmly, who’s in charge.”
“But I’m not sure…”
“Loyalty, Jeremy. That’s what will make the difference between those who get what they want out of this Government, and those who don’t. It’s an unpleasant business, this thing with the Palace, but somebody has to stand up and defend the important constitutional principles at stake. Francis can’t, you see, not formally and publicly as Prime Minister. That would create a constitutional crisis, which he absolutely does not want. The only way to avoid that may be to get someone other than a Minister, someone with great seniority and authority—someone like you, Jeremy—to remind the Palace and the public what’s at stake. It’s the least Francis has a right to expect from his loyal supporters.”
“Yes, but…Get into the House of Lords by attacking the King?”
“Not attacking. Reminding him of the highest constitutional principles.”
“But it’s the King who creates new peers—”
“Solely and exclusively on the advice of the Prime Minister. The King cannot refuse his recommendations.”
“It’s a little like Alice in Wonderland—”
“So’s a lot of what the Palace has been saying.”
“I’d like to think about it a little.”
“You need to think about loyalty?” Stamper’s tone was harsh, accusatory. His lip curled in contempt and there was fire in the sepulchral eyes. Without a further word the Party Chairman turned on his heel and made his way toward the door. His hand was already on the shiny brass doorknob, and Colthorpe realized his ambitions were ruined if the door closed on this conversation.
“I’ll do it!” he squealed. “Tim, I know where my loyalties lie. I’ll do it.” He was breathing heavily with the tension and confusion, trying to regain his self-control, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You can rely on me, old chap.”
Stamper held his stare, spreading his lips in the coldest of smiles. Then he closed the door behind him.
Twenty-Seven
It’s said that Guy Fawkes was the only man ever to enter the Parliament building with an honest intent. I think that’s a little unfair on the archbishops. Some of them, at least.
The lunch had started excellently. Both Mickey Quillington and his first cousin, Lord Chesholm of Kinsale, appreciated a good claret, and the cellar of the House of Lords dining room had a large number from which to choose. They had chosen to drink Château Léoville-Barton but were unable to decide between the ’82 and ’85 vintage. So they had ordered a bottle of both and slipped gently into midafternoon in the warm embrace of the elegant mahogany paneling and attentive staff. Chesholm was a good twenty years older than Quillington and substantially more wealthy, and the impecunious younger peer had hoped to use the lunch for the launch of an appeal to family solidarity that would involve his relative in leasing several hundred of Quillington’s Oxfordshire acres at a generous rate, but sadly his tactics had gone awry. The claret proved too much for the elderly peer to manage and he couldn’t concentrate, repeatedly exclaiming that he didn’t live in Oxfordshire. The bill, although heavily subsidized, still reflected the exceptional nature of the wine and Quillington felt bruised. Maybe the old bugger would regain his wits by teatime.
They were attending the House to voice objection to a Bill that sought a total ban on foxhunting, and the debate was well under way by the time they took their places on the deep-red morocco benches in the Gothic chamber. Within minutes Chesholm was asleep while Quillington slouched with his knees tucked beneath his chin as he listened with growing resentment to a former polytechnic lecturer, recently elevated to the life peerage for his diligence in the study of trade union matters, expounding his belief in the decay and corruption of those who still believed they owned the countryside as if by divine right. Debates in the Lords are conducted in far less pompous and vitriolic style than in the Lower Chamber, as befits its aristocratic and almost familial atmosphere, but the lack of outright rudeness did not prevent the peer from putting across his point of view forcefully and effectively. From around the Chamber, uncharacteristically packed for the occasion by hereditary peers and noble backwoodsmen from distant rural parts, came a growl of wounded pride, like a stuck boar at bay. Such displays of emotion are not commonplace in the Upper Chamber, but such a concentration of hereditary peers was also unusual outside the circumstance of state funeral or Royal wedding. It may not have been the Lords at their norm, nor even at their best, but it was certainly their Lordships at their most decorous.
Quillington cleared his throat; the debate was threatening to spoil the warm glow left by the claret. The poly-peer had broadened his attack from foxhunting itself to those who hunted, and Quillington took great exception. He was not the type of person who rode roughshod over others’ rights—he’d never forced any farm laborer out of a tied cottage, and any damage inadvertently caused while hunting was always paid for. Blast the man, the Quillingtons had been dedicated custodians. It had cost them their fortune and his father’s health and had left his mother with little but years of tearful widowhood. Yet here was an oaf who had spent all his working life in some overheated lecture room living off an inflation-proofed salary, accusing him of being no better than a scrounger. It was too much, really too bloody much. This sort of wheedling and insolent insinuation had gone on for too long, harking back to a style of class warfare that was fifty years out of date.
“’Bout time we put them in their place, don’t you think, Chesy?” Almost before he realized it, Quillington was on his feet.
“This debate is only nominally about foxhunting; that is merely the excuse. Behind it lies an insidious attack on the traditions and values that have not only held our countryside together, not only held this House together, but have also held the whole of society together. There are wreckers in the land, some maybe even among our number here”—he deliberately avoided looking at the previous speaker, so that everyone would know precisely whom he meant—“who in the name of democracy would force their own narrow, militant opinions upon the rest, the silent majority which is the true and glorious backbone of Britain.”
He licked his lips. There was a flush in his cheeks, a mixture of Château Léoville-Barton and real emotion that succeeded in engulfing the unease he customarily felt in public, which on more than one occasion had left him tongue-tied and floundering at the opening of the annual village fête. “They want revolution, no less. They would abandon our traditions, abolish this Chamber, stamp on our rights.” Quillington waved a finger at the canopied Throne that dominated one end of the hall and stood empty and forlorn. “They even seek to reduce to silence and insignificance our own Royal Family.”
Several of Their Lordships raised a collective eyebrow. The rules about discussion of the Royal Family were very restrictive, particularly in a debate on blood sports. “To the point, my Lord,” one growled in warning.
“But, noble Lords, this is the point,” protested Quillington. “We are not here to rubber-stamp what comes from the Lower House. We are here to offer counsel, advice, warning. And we do so, just as the Monarch does, because we represent the true long-term interests of thi
s country. We represent the values that have made our nation great over previous centuries and that will continue to guide her well into the next century. We are not here to be swayed by every passing fashion and fad. We do not suffer from the corruption of having to get ourselves elected, of having to pretend that we are all things to all men, of making promises we know we cannot keep. We are here to represent what is immutable and constant in society.”
Mutters of “Hear, hear” could be heard from the crowded benches around Quillington. The Lord Chancellor drummed his fingers as he concentrated in bewigged and ermined splendor from his seat on the Woolsack; the speech was most unusual, but really rather a splendid entertainment.
“It may seem a long way from the plottings of hunt-saboteurs to assaults on Buckingham Palace, but what we have seen of both recently should encourage us to stand firm in our beliefs, not to run for the cover of undergrowth like terrified vermin.” His long, thin arms were extended theatrically away from his body, as if trying to haul in their sympathy. He needn’t have bothered, peers were beginning to nod and tap their knees to indicate support. “Both this House and the Royal Family are here to defend those timeless aspects of the national interest, unfettered by the selfishness of The Other Place. There is no need for this House to kowtow to the muscle and money of commercial interests!” The poly-peer was sitting upright, ready to try and intervene. He was sure Quillington was about to go too far. “Not for us the temptations of bribing the public with their own money, we are here to defend the public against shortsightedness and falsehood. And at no time is that duty more pressing upon us than when we have a new Cabinet and a Prime Minister who have not even been elected by the people. Let him go to the country promising to castrate the Monarch and abolish the House of Lords if he dare, but until he has won that right and power at an election, let us not allow him to do quietly and privately what he has not yet been able to do publicly.”
The House of Cards Complete Trilogy Page 48