continuation of politics by other means? He was wrong, of course, ridiculously wrong. Politics? War? As my dear wife Mortima constantly reminds me, there is no distinction.
Sunday, June 13
Urquhart’s official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman’s starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. It was Sunday, shortly before four. He had left Mortima at home in Pimlico with their guests, eight of them, more than usual for a Sunday but this was the anniversary of his father’s death and he was in the habit of filling it with distraction. The men and handful of women of the press were gathered behind the barriers on the far side of the street from the world’s most famous front door, which stood wide open as the car drew up—like a political black hole, Urquhart had often thought, into which new prime ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded by protective hordes of civil servants, and only after they had sucked the life out of them.
Urquhart had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car’s rear seat so that as he climbed out in front of Number Ten, he would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras. He stretched himself to his full height and was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from the press huddle, providing him with an excuse to walk over for a few words. He spotted Manny Goodchild, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.
“Well, Manny, did you have any money on the result?” he inquired.
“Mr. Urquhart, you know my editor would frown on putting his money where my mouth is.”
“Nevertheless.” Urquhart raised an eyebrow.
The old press man’s lips wriggled like two unrelated caterpillars. “Put it this way, Mrs. Goodchild has already booked her holiday in Majorca, and thanks to Mr. Collingridge I’m going with her, too.”
Urquhart sighed theatrically. “’Tis an ill wind.”
“And talking of ill winds, Mr. Urquhart”—his colleagues pressed closer as Manny got into his stride—“are you here to advise the Prime Minister about the reshuffle? Won’t there have to be a pretty good clear out after a disappointing result like that? And does it all mean a new job for you?”
“Well, I’m here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it,” Urquhart responded coyly. “And we won, remember. Don’t be so downbeat, Manny.”
“It’s rumored that you’re expecting a major new post.”
Urquhart smiled. “Can’t comment on rumors, Manny, and anyway you know that’s one for the PM to decide. I’m here simply to give him some moral support.”
“You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?”
The smile struggled to survive. “Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?”
“More than an hour ago. We were wondering when someone else was going to turn up.”
It took every ounce of experience gathered through Urquhart’s many years in politics not to let his surprise show. “Then I must go,” he announced. “Can’t keep them waiting.” He gave a courteous nod of his head, turned on his heel, and strode back across the road, ditching his plan to wave at the cameras from the doorstep of Number Ten, just in case it looked presumptuous.
On the other side of the black-and-white tiled hallway, a carpeted corridor led toward the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister’s youthful political secretary was waiting for him at the end. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.
“The Prime Minister is expecting you, Chief Whip.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
The secretary flinched. “He’s in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” Duty done, and not waiting for any further hint of sarcasm, he bounded off up the stairs.
It was twelve knuckle-cracking, watch-tapping
Sunday, June 13
Urquhart’s official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman’s starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. It was Sunday, shortly before four. He had left Mortima at home in Pimlico with their guests, eight of them, more than usual for a Sunday but this was the anniversary of his father’s death and he was in the habit of filling it with distraction. The men and handful of women of the press were gathered behind the barriers on the far side of the street from the world’s most famous front door, which stood wide open as the car drew up—like a political black hole, Urquhart had often thought, into which new prime ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded by protective hordes of civil servants, and only after they had sucked the life out of them.
Urquhart had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car’s rear seat so that as he climbed out in front of Number Ten, he would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras. He stretched himself to his full height and was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from the press huddle, providing him with an excuse to walk over for a few words. He spotted Manny Goodchild, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.
“Well, Manny, did you have any money on the result?” he inquired.
“Mr. Urquhart, you know my editor would frown on putting his money where my mouth is.”
“Nevertheless.” Urquhart raised an eyebrow.
The old press man’s lips wriggled like two unrelated caterpillars. “Put it this way, Mrs. Goodchild has already booked her holiday in Majorca, and thanks to Mr. Collingridge I’m going with her, too.”
Urquhart sighed theatrically. “’Tis an ill wind.”
“And talking of ill winds, Mr. Urquhart”—his colleagues pressed closer as Manny got into his stride—“are you here to advise the Prime Minister about the reshuffle? Won’t there have to be a pretty good clear out after a disappointing result like that? And does it all mean a new job for you?”
“Well, I’m here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it,” Urquhart responded coyly. “And we won, remember. Don’t be so downbeat, Manny.”
“It’s rumored that you’re expecting a major new post.”
Urquhart smiled. “Can’t comment on rumors, Manny, and anyway you know that’s one for the PM to decide. I’m here simply to give him some moral support.”
“You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?”
The smile struggled to survive. “Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?”
“More than an hour ago. We were wondering when someone else was going to turn up.”
It took every ounce of experience gathered through Urquhart’s many years in politics not to let his surprise show. “Then I must go,” he announced. “Can’t keep them waiting.” He gave a courteous nod of his head, turned on his heel, and strode back across the road, ditching his plan to wave at the cameras from the doorstep of Number Ten, just in case it looked presumptuous.
On the other side of the black-and-white tiled hallway, a carpeted corridor led toward the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister’s youthful political secretary was waiting for him at the end. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.
“The Prime Minister is expecting you, Chief Whip.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
The secretary flinched. “He’s in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” Duty done, and not waiting for any further hint of sarcasm, he bounded off up the stairs.
It was twelve knuckle-cracking, watch-tapping
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