rebuke at the newspaperman's overfamiliarity, but it slid off the Landless hide without making a dent. 'My apologies, but the new Chancellor will be here in five minutes.'
'Forgive me, Ben. Already I'm discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don't mind.'
'That's how I like it.' Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.
'You control the Telegraph group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.' Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn't care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.
Urquhart's hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. 'Sorry, Ben. You can't have it.'
The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.
'What the 'ell do you mean I can't bloody have it?' The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.
The Government doe s not believe it would be in the national interest.'
'Crap, Francis. We agreed.'
'The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,' Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.
'We had a deal! You know it. I know it.'
'As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favour of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty per cent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.'
'My thirty per cent supported you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.'
'Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don't add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.'
'Bullshit. We had a deal!' His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.
'Ben, it's impossible. You must know that. I can't in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It's not good business. It's not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.'
'But carving me up will make bloody marvellous headlines, is that it?' Landless's head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. 'So that's why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they'll see me going out. Feet first. You've set up a public execution in front of the world's cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I'll fight you every step of the way, everything I've got.'
'Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,' Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails.
'Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.'
Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. 'You miserable little sh—'
Suddenly the door opened and in walked Elizabeth Urquhart in full flow. 'Francis, it's impossible, completely impossible. The apartment's appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there's not enough money left in the budget . . .' She trailed off as she noted Landle ss's fists trembling six inches above the table.
'You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.'
'Spare me
'Forgive me, Ben. Already I'm discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don't mind.'
'That's how I like it.' Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.
'You control the Telegraph group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.' Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn't care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.
Urquhart's hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. 'Sorry, Ben. You can't have it.'
The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.
'What the 'ell do you mean I can't bloody have it?' The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.
The Government doe s not believe it would be in the national interest.'
'Crap, Francis. We agreed.'
'The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,' Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.
'We had a deal! You know it. I know it.'
'As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favour of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty per cent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.'
'My thirty per cent supported you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.'
'Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don't add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.'
'Bullshit. We had a deal!' His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.
'Ben, it's impossible. You must know that. I can't in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It's not good business. It's not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.'
'But carving me up will make bloody marvellous headlines, is that it?' Landless's head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. 'So that's why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they'll see me going out. Feet first. You've set up a public execution in front of the world's cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I'll fight you every step of the way, everything I've got.'
'Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,' Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails.
'Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.'
Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. 'You miserable little sh—'
Suddenly the door opened and in walked Elizabeth Urquhart in full flow. 'Francis, it's impossible, completely impossible. The apartment's appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there's not enough money left in the budget . . .' She trailed off as she noted Landle ss's fists trembling six inches above the table.
'You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.'
'Spare me
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