minutes before he reappeared, leaving Urquhart to stare distractedly at the portraits of previous prime ministers that adorned the famous staircase. He could never get over the feeling of how inconsequential so many of the recent holders of the office had been. Uninspiring, unfitted for the task. By contrast, the likes of Lloyd George and Churchill had been magnificent natural leaders, but would they be allowed to rise to the top nowadays? One had been promiscuous and had sold peerages, the other had spent far too much time in drink, debt, and hot temper; both were giants, yet neither man would have made it past the modern media. Instead the world had been left to the pygmies, men of small stature and still less ambition, men chosen not because they were exceptional but because they didn’t offend, men who followed the rules rather than making their own, men…Well, men like Henry Collingridge.
The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He’s ready for you now.”
The room used by Collingridge as his study was on the first floor, overlooking the Downing Street garden to St. James’s Park. A modest room, as so much else in this jumble of spaces that made up the second most important address in the country. As Urquhart entered he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the large desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour or so. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste bin and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister, his notes spilling over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of manila folders containing MPs’ biographies.
Urquhart brought up a chair, one without arms, and sat in front of the other two, feeling rather like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. Collingridge and Williams were silhouetted against the windows. Urquhart squinted into the light, balancing his own folder of notes uneasily on his knee.
“Francis, you were kind enough to let me have some thoughts on the reshuffle,” the Prime Minister began. No ceremony, straight down to business. “I am very grateful; you know how useful such suggestions are in stimulating my own thoughts.”
Urquhart inclined his head in silent gratitude.
“You’ve obviously put a lot of work into them. But before we get down to specifics I thought we should chat about the broad objectives first. You’ve suggested—well, what shall I call it?—a rather radical reshuffle.” Collingridge peered at the sheet of paper in front of him, through reading glasses he kept only for private occasions. His finger ran down the list. “Six new members for the Cabinet, some extensive swapping of portfolios among the rest.” He sighed, sat back in his chair, as though distancing himself from it all. “Tell me why. Why such a heavy hand? What do you think it would achieve?”
Urquhart’s senses were on alert. He didn’t care for this. He had hoped to be brought in at the earliest stage but the other two were already well ahead of him and he didn’t know where. He’d found no chance to sniff out the Prime Minister’s own views, to read his mind; it was an unhealthy place for a Chief Whip to be in. He wondered whether he was being set up.
As he blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in from behind the Prime Minister’s head, he could read nothing of the expression. He wished now that he hadn’t committed his thoughts to paper—it left him no wriggle room, no escape route—but it was too late for regrets. Williams was staring at him like a hawk. He spoke slowly, so as not to raise alarm, searching for words that might cover his tracks.
“Of course, Prime Minister, they are only suggestions, indications really, of what you might be able to do. I thought, in general, in the round, that it might be better to err on the
The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He’s ready for you now.”
The room used by Collingridge as his study was on the first floor, overlooking the Downing Street garden to St. James’s Park. A modest room, as so much else in this jumble of spaces that made up the second most important address in the country. As Urquhart entered he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the large desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour or so. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste bin and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister, his notes spilling over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of manila folders containing MPs’ biographies.
Urquhart brought up a chair, one without arms, and sat in front of the other two, feeling rather like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. Collingridge and Williams were silhouetted against the windows. Urquhart squinted into the light, balancing his own folder of notes uneasily on his knee.
“Francis, you were kind enough to let me have some thoughts on the reshuffle,” the Prime Minister began. No ceremony, straight down to business. “I am very grateful; you know how useful such suggestions are in stimulating my own thoughts.”
Urquhart inclined his head in silent gratitude.
“You’ve obviously put a lot of work into them. But before we get down to specifics I thought we should chat about the broad objectives first. You’ve suggested—well, what shall I call it?—a rather radical reshuffle.” Collingridge peered at the sheet of paper in front of him, through reading glasses he kept only for private occasions. His finger ran down the list. “Six new members for the Cabinet, some extensive swapping of portfolios among the rest.” He sighed, sat back in his chair, as though distancing himself from it all. “Tell me why. Why such a heavy hand? What do you think it would achieve?”
Urquhart’s senses were on alert. He didn’t care for this. He had hoped to be brought in at the earliest stage but the other two were already well ahead of him and he didn’t know where. He’d found no chance to sniff out the Prime Minister’s own views, to read his mind; it was an unhealthy place for a Chief Whip to be in. He wondered whether he was being set up.
As he blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in from behind the Prime Minister’s head, he could read nothing of the expression. He wished now that he hadn’t committed his thoughts to paper—it left him no wriggle room, no escape route—but it was too late for regrets. Williams was staring at him like a hawk. He spoke slowly, so as not to raise alarm, searching for words that might cover his tracks.
“Of course, Prime Minister, they are only suggestions, indications really, of what you might be able to do. I thought, in general, in the round, that it might be better to err on the
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