House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  The following morning and less than one week after Firdaus Jhabwala had met with Urquhart, the Chief Whip delivered £50,000 in cash to the Party treasurer. Substantial payments in cash were not unknown and the treasurer expressed delight at discovering a new source of funds. Urquhart suggested that the treasurer’s office make the usual arrangements to ensure that the donor and his wife were invited to a charity reception or two at Downing Street, and asked to be informed when this happened so that he could make a specific arrangement with the Prime Minister’s political secretary to ensure that Mr. and Mrs. Jhabwala had ten minutes alone with the Prime Minister beforehand.

  The treasurer made a careful note of the donor’s address, said that he would write an immediate and suitably cryptic letter of thanks, and locked the money in a safe.

  Uniquely among the fellowship of Cabinet ministers, Urquhart left for holiday that evening feeling utterly relaxed.

  PART TWO

  THE CUT

  Fourteen

  I once won second prize at school. I got a Bible, bound in leather. A note inside the cover, written in copperplate, said it was a prize for achievement. Achievement? For coming second?

  I read that Bible from cover to cover. I noticed that St. Luke said that we should forgive our enemies. I read the rest of his words, and the words of all the saints, truly I did. Nowhere did any of them mention a thing about forgiving our friends.

  August

  A time of respite, of pushing cares to one side, of summer showers and freshness, of ice cream and strawberries and lollipops and laughter, of remembering all those things that life should be about. Except the newspapers during August were bloody dreadful.

  With politicians and the main political correspondents all away, second-string lobby correspondents struggled to fill the vacuum and cement their careers. So they chased every passing whisper. What was on Tuesday only a minor piece of speculation on page five had by Friday sometimes led the paper. The August crowd wanted to make their mark, and the mark they chose all too frequently to make was on the reputation of Henry Collingridge. Backbenchers who had been left to molder and whom time had forgotten suddenly were honored with significant pieces describing them as “senior party figures,” those who were new to the game were called “up and coming,” and they were all given space so long as their views were salacious and spiced. Rumors about the Prime Minister’s distrust of his Cabinet colleagues abounded, as did reports of their dissatisfaction with him, and since there was no one around to authoritatively deny the rumors the silence was taken as authoritative consent. The speculation fed on itself and ran riot.

  Mattie’s report sparked rumors about an “official inquisition” into Cabinet leaks. Soon after, they had grown into predictions that there would after all be a reshuffle in the autumn. The word around Westminster had it that Henry Collingridge’s temper was getting increasingly erratic, even though he was enjoying a secluded holiday on a private estate many hundreds of miles away near Cannes.

  It was during these dog days of August that the Prime Minister’s brother also became the subject of a spate of press stories, mostly in the gossip columns. The Downing Street Press Office was repeatedly called upon to comment on suggestions that the Prime Minister was bailing out “dear old Charlie” from the increasingly close attentions of his creditors, including the Inland Revenue. Of course, Downing Street wouldn’t offer any comment—it was personal, not official—so the formal “no comment” that was given to the most fanciful of accusations was recorded in the news coverage, usually with a twist and innuendo that left it bathed in the most damaging light.

  August tied the Prime Minister ever more closely to his impecunious brother. Not that Charlie was saying anything stupid; he had the common sense to keep well out of the way. But an anonymous telephone call to one of the sensationalist Sunday newspapers helped track him down to a cheap hotel in rural Bordeaux. A reporter was sent to pour enough wine down him to encourage a few vintage “Charlie-isms,” but instead succeeded only in making Charlie violently sick over the reporter and his notebook. Then he passed out. The reporter promptly paid £50 to a big-busted girl to lean over the slumbering form while a photographer captured the tender moment for posterity and the newspaper’s eleven million readers.

  “‘I’M BROKE AND BUSTED,’ SAYS CHARLIE,” the headline screamed while the copy beneath it reported that the Prime Minister’s brother was nearly destitute and cracking under the pressure of a failed marriage and a famous brother. In the circumstances Downing Street’s “absolutely no comment” seemed even more uncaring than usual.

  The next weekend the same photograph was run alongside one of the Prime Minister holidaying in considerable comfort in the South of France—to English eyes a mere stone’s throw from his ailing brother. The implication was clear. Henry couldn’t be bothered to leave his poolside to help. The fact that the same newspaper a week earlier had been reporting how deeply Henry was involved in sorting out Charlie’s financial affairs seemed to have been forgotten—until the Downing Street Press Office called the editor to complain.

  “What the hell do you expect?” came the reply. “We always give both sides of the story. We backed him warts and all through the election campaign. Now it’s time to restore the balance a bit.”

  Yes, the newspapers during August were dreadful. Truly bloody dreadful.

  September–October

  It got worse. As the new month of September opened, the Leader of the Opposition announced he was resigning to make way for “a stronger arm with which to hold our banner aloft.” He had always been a little too verbose for his own good, that was one of the reasons why he’d been pushed—that, and losing the election, of course. He was killed off by the younger men around him who had more energy and more ambition, who made their moves quietly, almost without his knowing until it was too late. He announced his intention to resign in an emotional late-night interview from his constituency in the heartland of Wales, but by the weekend almost seemed to have changed his mind under pressure from his still intensely ambitious wife, until he discovered that he could no longer rely on a single vote in his Shadow Cabinet. Yet, once he had gone, they were eloquent in praise of their fallen leader. His death united his party more effectively than anything he had achieved in office.

  The arrival of a new political leader electrified the media and gave them raw meat on which to feast. It wasn’t enough to satisfy them, of course. It did nothing but whet their appetite for more. One down, more to follow?

  When Mattie received her summons to hurry back to the office she was with her mother in the kitchen of the old stone cottage outside Catterick.

  “But you’ve only just got here, love,” her widowed mother protested.

  “They can’t do without me,” Mattie replied.

  It seemed to mollify her mother. “Your da would be so proud of you,” she said as Mattie scraped charcoal from the slice of toast she had just scorched. “You sure there’s not a young man you’re missing?” she added gaily, teasing.

  “It’s work, Mum.”

  “But…Is there anyone you’ve found in London, caught your eye, sort of thing?” her mother pressed, eying her daughter with curiosity as she served up a plate of bacon and eggs fresh from the pan. Mattie had been remarkably quiet since she’d arrived a couple of days earlier. Something was going on. “I were so worried for you when you broke up with Whassisname.”

  “Tony, Mum. He has a name. Tony.”

  “Not since he was silly enough to give up on you.”

  “I gave up on him, Mum, you know that.” Not a bad sort, Tony, far from it, but no ambition to go South, not even with Mattie.

  “So,” her mother muttered, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “is there anyone? In London?”

  Mattie didn’t speak. She stared out of the window, ignored the breakfast. It was answer enough for her mother.

  “Early days, is
it, pet? Well, that’s good. You know, I was so worried when you went down to London. Such a lonely, unfriendly place. But if you’ve found your bit of happiness then that’s all right wi’ me.” She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her mug of tea. “Perhaps it’s not fair for me to say, but you know what your da thought about you. Nothing would’ve given him greater pleasure than to be around to watch you settle down.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  Mattie shook her head. “It’s not like that, Mum.”

  But her mother knew better, could see it in her face, in the way her daughter’s thoughts had been elsewhere, back in London, ever since she’d arrived. She put her hand on Mattie’s shoulder.

  “All in good time. Your da would be ever so proud of you, pet.”

  Would he? Mattie doubted that. She’d done no more than touch the sleeve of this man but had spent the weeks since then fixated with him, lying awake, jumping when the phone rang, hoping it was him. Conjuring up thoughts she should never have about someone who was three years older than her father would have been. No, her dad would never have understood, least of all approved. Mattie didn’t understand it, either. So she said nothing and went back to her plate of cooling breakfast.

  Fifteen

  Party conferences can be such fun. They resemble a nest of cuckoos. Sit back and enjoy watching everyone trying to push the others out.

  The Opposition elected its new leader shortly before the Party’s annual conference in early October. The process of selecting a replacement front face seemed to galvanize them, gave them new hope, resurrection, and redemption wrapped in a bright red ribbon. The party that gathered together for its conference was unrecognizable as the rabble that had lost the election only a few months before. It celebrated beneath a banner that was as enormous as it was simple: VICTORY.

  What took place the following week, as Collingridge’s flock was gathered for its own conference, was in complete contrast. The conference center at Bournemouth could be uplifting when filled with four thousand enthusiastic supporters, but something was missing. Spirit. Ambition. Balls. The bare brick walls and chromium-plated fitments served only to emphasize the sullenness of those who gathered.

  Which posed a considerable challenge for O’Neill. As Publicity Director he was charged with the task of packaging the conference and raising spirits; instead, he could be seen talking with increasing agitation to individual members of the media scrum, apologizing, justifying, explaining—and blaming. In particular, and when in alcohol, he blamed Lord Williams. The Chairman had cut the budget, delayed decisions, not got a grip on things. Rumors were circulating that he wanted the conference to be low key because he expected that the Prime Minister was likely to get a rough ride. “PARTY DOUBTS COLLINGRIDGE LEADERSHIP” was the first Guardian report to come out of Bournemouth.

  In the conference hall, the debates proceeded according to a rigid pre-set schedule. An enormous sign hung above the platform—“FINDING THE RIGHT WAY.” To many eyes it seemed ambivalent. The speeches struggled to obey its command and a distracting buzz took hold in margins of the hall that the stewards were quite incapable of quelling. Journalists and politicians gathered in little huddles in the coffee shops and rest areas, stirring tea and discontent. Everywhere they listened, the men from the media heard criticism. Former MPs who had recently lost their seats voiced their frustration, although most asked not to be quoted for fear of screwing up their chances of being selected for safer seats at the next election. However, their constituency chairmen showed no such caution. They’d not only lost their MPs but also faced several years of the Opposition in control of their local councils, nominating the mayor and committee chairmen, disposing of the fruits of local office.

  And, as a previous prime minister had wistfully acknowledged, there were “events, dear, events” to reduce the hardiest of men to tantrums and despair. One of the most compelling events of the week was to be a by-election, due on Thursday. The Member for Dorset East, Sir Anthony Jenkins, had suffered a stroke just four days before the general election. He had been elected while in intensive care and buried on the day he should have been taking the Oath of Allegiance. Dorset East would have to do battle all over again. His seat, just a few miles from those gathering at Bournemouth, had a government majority of nearly twenty thousand, so the Prime Minister had decided to hold the by-election during conference week. There were those who had advised against it but he argued that, on balance, it was worth the risk. The conference publicity would provide a good campaigning background, and there would be a strong sympathy vote for Sir Anthony (not by those who knew the old sod, his agent had muttered). Party workers at the conference could take a few hours off and get in some much-needed canvassing, and, when they had finished their task and success was won, the Prime Minister would enjoy the enormous satisfaction (and cheap publicity) of being able to welcome the victorious candidate during his own conference speech. It was a plan. Of sorts.

  Yet the busloads of conference-goers returning from their morning’s canvass were bringing back reports of a coolness and complaint on the doorstep. The seat would be held, of course, nobody doubted that, it had been in the Party since the war, but the thumping victory that Collingridge had demanded was beginning to look more distant with every day.

  Bugger. It was going to be a difficult week, not quite the victory celebration the Party managers had planned.

  Wednesday, October 13

  Mattie woke with a pounding headache. She looked out of the window at the sheet of grayness that had been pulled across the sky. A cold wet wind was blowing off the sea, tormenting seagulls and rattling her window. “Another day in paradise,” she muttered, throwing back the covers.

  She had little cause to be ungrateful. As the representative of a major national newspaper she was one of the few journalists fortunate enough to be offered accommodation in the headquarters hotel. Others fended for themselves in more distant venues and would get a damned good soaking by the time they made it to the conference center. Mattie, however, was one of the chosen few, accommodated in a hotel where she could mix freely with politicians and party officials. That was what accounted for her headache; she’d mixed a little too freely the previous evening. She’d been propositioned twice, once by a colleague and much later that evening by a Cabinet minister, who had gotten over Mattie’s rejection by turning his attention to a young woman from a PR company. They had last been seen wandering off in the direction of the car park.

  Mattie wasn’t prudish about such matters. She and her colleagues deliberately stoked politicians with alcohol and there was a price to pay when the furnace grew overheated. A politician in a bar usually had one of two objectives—sex or slander—and such encounters provided a wonderful opportunity for Mattie to pick up gossip. The biggest problem was how many of the pieces her befuddled mind could pull together in the morning. She stretched her legs, trying to force the blood around her system, and made a tentative start on some calisthenics. Every limb screamed that this was a rotten way to cure a hangover so she opted instead for an open window—a move that she immediately recognized as the second bad decision of the day. The small hotel was perched high on the cliff tops, ideal for catching the summer sun but exposed on an autumn morning of scudding clouds and sea storms. Her overheated room turned into an icebox in seconds, so Mattie decided she would make no more decisions until after a gentle breakfast.

  It was as she wandered out of the shower that she heard a scuffling noise outside in the corridor. A delivery. She pulled a towel around her and crossed to the door. Work, in the form of the morning newspapers, was piled outside on the hallway carpet. She gathered them up and threw them carelessly toward the bed. As they spread chaotically over the rumpled duvet, a sheet of paper fluttered free and fell to the floor. She rubbed her eyes when she picked it up, then rubbed them again. The morning mists were slow to disperse. When they did she read the w
ords emblazoned across the top of the sheet: “Opinion Research Survey No. 40, October 6.” Even more prominent, in bold capital letters, was the word: “SECRET.”

  She sat down on the bed, rubbed her eyes once again to make sure. They’ve surely not started giving them away with the Mirror, she thought. She knew the Party conducted weekly surveys of public opinion but these had a highly restricted distribution, Cabinet ministers and a handful of top Party officials. She’d been shown copies on rare occasions, but only when they contained good news that the Party wanted to spread about a bit; otherwise they were kept under strictest security. Two questions immediately sprang into Mattie’s mind, which was quickly recovering its edge. What good news could possibly be found in the latest survey? And why had it been delivered wrapped up like a serving of cod and chips?

  As she read, her hand began to tremble in disbelief. The Party had won the election weeks ago with 43 percent of the vote. Now its popularity rating was down to 31 percent, a full 14 percent behind the Opposition. Avalanche and earthquake. Yet there was worse to come. The figures on the Prime Minister’s popularity were appalling. He was miles behind the new Leader of the Opposition. About as popular as an intestinal worm. Collingridge was more disliked than any prime minister since Anthony Eden in his mad phase.

  Mattie reknotted the towel around her and squatted on her bed. She no longer needed to ask why she had been sent the information. It was dynamite, and all she had to do was light the touch paper. The damage it would do if it exploded in the middle of the Party conference would be catastrophic. This was a deliberate act of sabotage and a brilliant story—her story, so long as she got it in first.

  She grabbed for the telephone and dialed.

  “What?” a sleepy woman’s voice yawned.