Claire thrust a malt whiskey into Urquhart’s hand—Bruichladdich, she’d done her homework—and propelled him toward the Newsnight editor and the developer, neither of whom would be sitting next to him during the meal.
“Pressure groups are a curse,” Thresher, the developer, was protesting. “Am I right, Mr. Urquhart?” He pronounced it Ukut, in its original Scottish form, rather than the soft Southern Urkheart so beloved of the BBC, who at times seemed capable of understanding neither pronunciation nor policy. “Used to be there was a quiet, no-nonsense majority, folks that mowed their lawns and won the wars. But now everyone seems to belong to some minority or other, shouting t’odds and lying down in t’road trying to stop other folk getting on with life. Environmentalists”—Thresher emphasized every syllable, as though wringing its neck—“will bring this country to its knees.”
“We have a heritage, surely we must defend it?” Wendy the Newsnight editor responded, accepting with good grace the fact that for the moment she had been cast in the role of lonesome virtue.
“Green-gabble.” Urquhart pounced, joining in the game. “It’s everywhere. Knee-jerk nostalgia for the days of the pitchfork and pony and trap. You know, ten years ago the streets of many Northern towns were deserted, now they’re congested with traffic jams as people rush to the shops. I’m rather proud of those traffic jams.”
“Could I quote you, Prime Minister?” Wendy smiled.
“I doubt it.”
“Here’s something you might quote, but won’t, lass.” Thresher was warming to his task. “I’ve got a development planned in Wandsworth centered around one old worm-eaten cinema. Neither use nor ornament, practically falling to pieces it is, but will they let me knock it down? The protesters claim they prefer the knackered cinema to a multimillion-pound shopping complex with all the new jobs and amenities. Daft buggers won’t sit in t’cinema and watch films; no, all they do is sit down in t’street outside, get up petitions and force me to a planning inquiry that’ll take years. It’s a middle-class mugging.”
“Not in my house, I trust.” Claire had returned to usher them to the dining room. As they followed her bidding, Urquhart found himself alone with Thresher.
“So what are you going to do, Mr. Thresher?”
“Happen I’ll take my money away, put it in some Caribbean bank and buy myself a pair of sunglasses.”
“A great pity for you. A loss for the country, too.”
“What’s Government going to do about it then, Prime Minister?”
“Mr. Thresher, I’m surprised that a man of your worldly experience should think the Government is capable of doing anything to help.” Urquhart had a habit of talking about his colleagues in the manner of a world-weary headmaster confronted with irresponsible schoolboys who deserved a thrashing.
“So it’s off t’Caribbean.”
“Perhaps the answer might lie a little closer.”
“How close?”
“Brixton, perhaps?”
“You interest me.”
“I was merely wondering why, if the protesters want a cinema, you don’t give them a cinema.”
“But that’s not the game. Anyway, nobody comes.”
“You’re obviously showing the wrong films. What do you think would occur if, for instance, you started showing cult films with a strong ethnic flavor? You know, Rasta and dreadlocks?”
“I’d have to start giving the tickets away.”
“Lots of them. Around the black community, I’d suggest.”
“God, the place’d start swarming with ’em. But what would be the point?”
Urquhart plucked the other’s sleeve to delay him at the entrance to the dining room, lowering his voice. “The point, Mr. Thresher, is that after four weeks of Bob Marley and juju, it wouldn’t surprise me if the good burghers of Wandsworth changed their minds about your cinema; indeed, I harbor the strongest suspicion they’d crawl to you on hands and knees, begging you to bring in the bulldozers.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “It’s a pathetic fact of middle-class life that liberalism somehow fades with the nightfall.”
Thresher’s jaw had dropped; Claire had appeared once more at their side to organize them. “This is a decent house. So whatever you two are plotting had better stop,” she instructed genially. “Otherwise no pudding.”
“I think I’ve just ’ad that, pet. You know, your boss is a most remarkable man.” Thresher’s voice vibrated with unaccustomed admiration.
“I’m glad you agree. Does my feminine intuition sense a substantial check being written out to party headquarters?” she inquired, twisting his arm as she led him to his place.
“For the first time in my life, I think I might.”
Claire found her own seat at the head of the table, flanked by Urquhart and Nures. “I’m impressed, Francis. I’ve been trying for five years to get him to open his wallet, yet you did it in five minutes. Did you sell the whole party, or just a few principles?”
“I merely reminded him that among the grass roots of politics are to be found many weeds.”
“And in the bazaar there are many deals to be done,” Nures added.
“A touch cynical for someone who’s off duty, Mehmet,” she suggested.
“Not at all. For what is the point of going to the market if you are not intending to deal?” he smiled.
“Window-shopping?”
His eyes brushed appreciatively over her, taking in the subtle twists of silk—she had no need of excessive ornamentation—not lingering to give offense, before running around the dining room, where modern art and soft pastel had given way to Victorian classic displayed upon bleached oak paneling. “You do not leave the impression of one who spends her life with her nose pressed up against the window, Claire.”
“That’s true. But at least it enables me to lay my hand on my heart and deny any ambition of grabbing your job, Francis.”
“How so?” he inquired, in a tone that suggested he wouldn’t believe a word.
She puckered her nose in distaste. “I couldn’t possibly live in Downing Street. It’s much too far from Harrods.”
And the evening had been a great success.
It was as Urquhart and his wife were preparing to leave that Nures took him to one side.
“I wanted to thank you, Prime Minister, for everything you have done to help bring about peace in my island. I want you to know we shall always be in your debt.”
“Speaking entirely privately, Mr. President, I can say how much I have admired your tenacity. As we both know to our cost, the Greeks have never been the easiest of people to deal with. Do you know, the Acropolis is falling down around their ears yet still they demand the return of the Elgin Marbles? Intemperate vandalism.”
“The Greek Cypriots are different, of course.”
“Accepted. But Balkan blood runs thicker than water. Or logic, at times.”
“And oil.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know the seismic report of the offshore waters has been published?”
“Yes, but it didn’t show any oil, did it?”
“Precisely.” Nures paused, a silence hung between them. “But I wanted you to know that if there were any oil, and if that oil were under my control, I would very much want my British friends to help us exploit it.”
“All this talk of oil, you sound as if you expect it. But there was nothing in the report.”
“Instinct?”
“I hope for your sake those instincts are right. But it would then depend upon the outcome of the boundary arbitration.”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, I think I begin to see.”
“I have very strong instincts in this matter, Mr. Urquhart. About the oil.”
Urquhart was clear that his feet were now standing directly in the middle of the bazaar. “I cannot i
nterfere, even if I wanted to,” he replied softly. “The arbitration is a judicial process. Out of my hands.”
“I understand that completely. But it would be such a pity if my instincts were right yet the arbitration went wrong, and the Greeks gave all the exploitation rights to their good friends the French.”
“A tragedy.”
“Great riches for both your country and mine”—why did Urquhart feel he really meant “for both you and me”? Instinct, that was it—“great riches lost. And I would lose most. Imagine what would happen to me if my people discovered that I had given away a fortune in oil? I would be dragged through the streets of Nicosia.”
“Then we must hope that fortune smiles on you, and wisdom upon the judges.”
“I would have so many reasons to be exceptionally grateful, Mr. Urquhart.”
Their confidences balanced carefully on a narrow ledge; any move too swift or aggressive, and they would both fall—would Urquhart attempt to run, or would he push? They spoke in whispers, taking care to maintain their poise, when suddenly they were joined by a new and uninhibited voice. “Such a rare commodity in politics, don’t you think, gratitude?” It was Mortima who, farewells indulged, had been hovering. “You’d rather be flayed alive than let the French run off with anything, Francis. You really must find a way of helping Mr. Nures.”
“I shall keep my fingers crossed for him.” And, nodding farewell to the Turk, Urquhart crept back off the ledge.
Claire was waiting for him by the front door. “A truly exceptional evening,” he offered in thanks, taking her hand. “If only I could organize my Government the way you organize your dinner parties.”
“But you can, Francis. It’s exactly the same. You invite the guests, arrange the menu, decide who sits where. The secret is to get a couple of good helpers in the kitchen.”
“As it happens I’ve been thinking of rearranging the table, playing a bit of musical chairs. But you make a good point about the backstage staff. What do you think?”
“You want me to be indiscreet.”
“Of course. Drabble, for instance?”
“A disaster.”
“Agreed. And Barry Crumb?”
“So aptly named.”
“No Crumbs in the kitchen Cabinet, you think?” He laughed, enjoying the game.
Barry Crumb was the Prime Minister’s Parliamentary Private Secretary. The PPS is a Member of Parliament but in the view of many the lowest form of parliamentary life. The job is that of unofficial slave to a Minister, performing any function the Minister may request from serving drinks to spying on colleagues. As such it is unpaid, but the cost to the individual is high since the PPS is deprived of any form of independence, being required to follow the Government line on all matters of policy. Thus it is an excellent means of shutting up a backbencher who is becoming troublesome.
Yet the job is more, and much sought after, for it provides privileged insights into Ministerial life and is regarded as the first step on the ladder, the training ground from which new Ministers are plucked. Those involved in the process liken themselves to a “Tail End Charlie,” a rear gunner who with luck may survive and move forward through the ship to become a navigator, perhaps one day even the captain. Those of more cynical disposition suggest that it is merely the start of the process whereby a backbencher is deprived of the capacity for independent thought and action, thereby making him suitable to be selected for higher office.
A PPS dwells in the shadow of the Minister and has no independent existence. But that shadow may be long, and the PPS has rights of access, both in the Palace of Westminster and at the Department of State, even at times in the Minister’s private life.
And to have access in abundance to a great Minister, let alone a Prime Minister, to hover at the right hand and to sit in the rear seat, is one of the most fascinating opportunities available to any young parliamentarian, which is why so blithely they trade their independence for insight and opportunity, and the rudimentary beginnings of influence.
It was a pity about Barry Crumb. He jumped when he should have tarried, hovered when he should be gone, an enthusiast but a man so afraid of getting it wrong that self-consciousness deprived him of initiative and any ability to read Urquhart’s mind or moods. The man had no subtlety, no shade. No future.
“He’s not up to it, is he?” Urquhart stated.
“No. But I am.”
He took his coat and chuckled at her impudence. In the whole of Christendom there had never been a female PPS, not to a Prime Minister. The boys wouldn’t like it, lots of bad jokes about plumbing and underwear. But, Urquhart reflected, it was his intention to shake them up, so what if it upset a few, all the better. Remind them who’s in charge. He needed a fresh pair of legs, and at the very least these would be a young and extremely attractive pair of legs, far easier to live with than Crumb’s. And he had the feeling she might prove far more than merely a mannequin.
“Would you get rid of the Mercedes and start buying your suits at Marks & Spencer?”
“No. Nor will I as your PPS shave my head, grow hair on my legs, or allow myself headaches for three days every month.”
He waved good-bye to the rest of the guests, the business of departure replacing the need to reply. “Time to depart.” He summoned Mortima who was bidding Nures farewell, but Claire was still close by his shoulder, demanding his attention.
“I am up to it, Francis.”
He turned at the door. “You know, I do believe you are.”
Eleven
All politicians are cuckoos. I betray, therefore I am.
There was no longer pleasure for her, nothing but dark childhood memories dragged from within by the rhythmic protest of a loose bedspring. She couldn’t hide it, he must have noticed, even as his frantic climax filled the bedroom with noise.
That is much how she remembered them, the childhood nights in a small north London duplex with Victorian heating and walls of wafer, filled with the sounds of bodies and bedsprings in torment. When the eight-year-old had inquired about the noises, her mother had muttered sheepishly about childish dreams and music. Perhaps that’s what had inspired Harrison Birtwistle, although by preference she’d rather listen to the torturing of bedsprings.
Did anybody still sleep in those classic cast-iron bedsteads full of angry steel wire and complaints, she wondered? It had been so many years since she had, and no regrets at that. Nor did she miss the sitting room carpet, a porridge of cigarette burns and oil blots and other stains for which there had never been any explanation. “I’ll go down to Hardwick’s and get you another,” her father had always promised her mother. But he never did.
Claire Carlsen had left so much behind, yet still the distant echoes tugged at her; she remembered the fear more than the physical pain and abuse, the disgust where later she learned there might have been love, the tears made scarcely easier to bear by the fact they were shared among all three children. She had escaped, as had her sister, but not her younger brother, who still ran a small fish wholesalers around the street markets of south London in between extended bouts of hop-induced stupefaction and wife beating. Like his father. He’d probably go the same way, too, unless his drunken driving intervened. Their father had come home late for Sunday dinner as usual, had cursed them all and thrown his overcooked food away, slumped on the floor in front of The Big Match, belched and closed his eyes.
The doctor later declared it had been a massive coronary. “No pain, Mrs. Davies,” he had assured. Better than the bastard deserved. They had burned the sitting room carpet on the same day they’d burned him.
The memories sprouted like weeds and she knew that no matter how much she hacked and raked, the roots would always remain buried deep inside.
“Where were you?” Tom Makepeace, still breathless, raised his flushed head from the pillow.
“Oh, a million miles away and abou
t thirty years ago. Sorry,” she apologized, gently levering his weight off her.
“In all the years I’ve known you I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your childhood. Locked doors.” With a finger he began rearranging the blond hair scattered across her forehead. “I don’t like you having secrets from me. When I’m with you like this, I want to have you all. You know you’re the most important thing to happen in my life for a very long time.”
She looked at him, those kind, deep, affectionate eyes, still retaining a hint of the small stubborn boy that made both his politics and personality emotional and so easy to embrace. And she knew now was the moment, must be the moment, before too much damage was done.
“We’ve got to stop, Tom.”
“You’ve got to get back to the House?”
“No. Stop for good. You and me. All this.”
She could see the surprise and then injury overwhelm his face.
“But why…?”
“Because I told you from the start that falling into bed with you did not mean I was going to fall in love with you. I can’t fill the gaps in your life; we’ve got to stop before I hurt you.” She could see she already had.
He rolled onto his back and studied the ceiling, anxious that she should not see the confusion in his eyes; it was the first time in many years he wished he still smoked. “You know I need you more than ever.”
“I cannot be your anchor.” Which was what he so desperately needed. As the currents of politics had swirled ever more unsteadily around him, some pushing him on, others enviously trying to snatch him back, the lack of solid footing in his private life had left him ever more exposed. His youngest son was now twenty and at university, his academic wife indulging in her new freedom by accepting a visiting fellowship at Harvard that left her little more than a transient caller in his life with increasingly less to share. He was alone. Fifty had proved a brutal age for Makepeace.
The House of Cards Complete Trilogy Page 69