To Play the King

The King missed the mild humour as he struggled with his own thoughts, a deep furrow slicing across the forehead of a face which had launched a million commemorative mugs, plates, tea trays, T-shirts, towels, ashtrays and even the occasional chamber pot, most of them made in the Far East. ‘You know, I do hope it’s auspicious, a new King and new Prime Minister. There’s so much to be done. Here we are on the very brink of a new millennium, new horizons. Tell me, what are your plans?’

Urquhart spread his hands wide. ‘I scarcely…there’s been so little time, Sir. I shall need a week or so, to reshuffle the Government, set out some priorities…’ He was waffling. He knew the dangers of being too prescriptive and his leadership campaign had offered years of experience rather than comprehensive solutions. He treated all dogma with a detached academic disdain and had watched with grim satisfaction while younger opponents tried to make up for their lack of seniority with detailed plans and promises, only to discover they had advanced too far and exposed vulnerable ideological flanks. Urquhart’s strategy for dealing with aggressive questioning from journalists had been to offer a platitude about the national interest and to phone their editors; it had got him through the twelve tumultuous days of the leadership race, but he had doubts how long such a game plan would last. ‘Above all, I shall want to listen.’

Why was it that politicians uttered such appalling clichés, which their audiences nevertheless seemed so blithe to accept? The Monarch was nodding his head in silent agreement, his tense body rocking gently to and fro as he sat on the edge of his chair. ‘During your campaign you said that we were at a crossroads, facing the challenges of a new century while building on the best from the old. “Encouraging change while preserving continuity.”’

Urquhart acknowledged the phrase.

‘Bravo, Mr Urquhart, more power to your hand. It’s an admirable, summation of what I believe my own job to be, too.’ He grasped his hands together to form a cathedral of bony knuckles, his frown unremitting. ‘I hope I shall be able to find – that you will allow me – some way, however small, of helping you in your task.’ There was an edge of apprehension in his voice, like a man accustomed to disappointment.

‘But of course, Sir, I would be only too delighted…did you have anything specific in mind?’

The King’s fingers shifted to the knot of his unfashionably narrow tie and twisted it awkwardly. ‘Mr Urquhart, the specifics are the stuff of party politics, and that’s your province. It cannot be mine.’

‘Sir, I would be most grateful for any thoughts you have…’ Urquhart heard himself saying.

‘Would you? Would you really?’ There was a rising note of eagerness in his voice, which he tried to dispel, too late, with a chuckle. ‘But I must be careful. While I was merely heir to the Throne I was allowed the luxury of having my own opinions and was even granted the occasional privilege of expressing them, but Kings cannot let themselves be dragged into partisan debate. My advisers lecture me daily on the point.’

‘Sir,’ Urquhart interjected, ‘we are alone. I would welcome any advice.’

‘No, not for the moment. You have much to do and I must not delay you.’ He rose to indicate that the audience was at an end, but he made no move towards the door, steepling his fingers to the point of his bony, uneven nose and remaining deep in thought, like a man at prayer. ‘Perhaps – if you will allow me? – there is just one point. I’ve been reading the papers.’ He waved towards the chaos of his desk. ‘The old Department of Industry buildings on Victoria Street, which are to be demolished. The current buildings are hideous, such a bad advertisement for the twentieth century, they deserve to go. I’d love to drive the bulldozer myself. But the site is one of the most important in Westminster, near the Parliament buildings and cheek by jowl with the Abbey itself, one of our greatest ecclesiastical monuments. A rare opportunity for us to grasp, don’t you think, to create something worthy of our era, something we can pass on to future generations with pride? I do so hope that you, your Government, will ensure the site is developed…how shall I put it?’ The clipped boarding-school tones searched for an appropriately diplomatic phrase. ‘Sympathetically.’ He nodded in self-approval and seemed emboldened by Urquhart’s intent stare. ‘Encouraging change while preserving continuity, as one wise fellow put it? I know the Environment Secretary is considering several different proposals and, frankly, some of them are so outlandish they would disgrace a penal colony. Can’t we for once in our parsimonious lives make a choice in keeping with the existing character of Westminster Abbey, create something which will respect the achievements of our forefathers, not insult them by allowing some misguided modernist to…’ – his lips quivered in indignation – ‘to construct a stainless-steel mausoleum which crams people on the inside and has its mechanical entrails displayed without?’ Passion had begun to overtake the diffidence and a flush had risen to colour his cheeks.

Urquhart smiled in reassurance, an expression which came as easily as oxygen. ‘Sir, I can assure you that the Government’ – he wanted to say ‘my Government’ but the words still seemed to dry behind his dentures – ‘will have environmental concerns at the forefront of their considerations.’ More platitudes, but what else was he supposed to say?

‘Oh, I do hope so. Perhaps I should apologize for raising the matter, but I understand the Environment Secretary is to make a final decision at any time.’

For a moment, Urquhart felt like reminding the King that it was a quasi-judicial matter, that many months and more millions had been poured into an official planning inquiry which now awaited the Solomon-like deliberation of the relevant Minister. Urquhart might have suggested that, to some, the King’s intervention would look no better than jury-nobbling. But he didn’t. ‘I’ll look into it. You have my word, Sir.’

The King’s pale blue eyes had a permanent downward cast which made him appear always sincere and frequently mournful as though burdened by some sense of guilt, yet now they sparkled with unmistakable enthusiasm. He reached out for the other man’s hand. ‘Mr Urquhart, I believe we are going to get along famously.’

Seemingly unbidden, the King’s Private Secretary was once more at the open doors and with a bow of respect Urquhart made his way towards them. He had all but crossed the threshold when he heard the words thrown after him. ‘Thank you once again, Prime Minister!’

Prime Minister. There it was. The first time. He’d done it.

‘So…what did he say?’ They were in the car on the way to Downing Street before his wife roused him from his reverie.

‘What? Oh, not a lot. Wished me well. Talked about the great opportunities ahead. Went on about a building site near Westminster Abbey. Wants me to ensure it’s built in mock Tudor or some such nonsense.’

‘Will you humour him?’

‘Mortima, if sincerity could build temples then the whole of England would be covered in his follies, but this is no longer the Dark Ages. The King’s job is to give garden parties and to save us the bother of electing someone else president, not to go round interfering.’

Mortima snorted her agreement as she fumbled impatiently through her bag in search of lipstick. She was a Colquhoun by birth, a family which could trace its descent in direct line from the ancient kings of Scotland. They had long since been stripped of the feudal estates and heirlooms, but she had never lost her sense of social positioning or her belief that most modern aristocracy were interlopers – including ‘the current Royal Family’, as she would frequently put it. Royalty was merely an accident of birth, and of marriage and of death and the occasional execution or bloody murder; it could just as easily have been a Colquhoun as a Windsor, and all the more pure stock for that. At times she became distinctly tedious on the subject, and Urquhart decided to head her off.

‘Of course I shall humour him. Better a King with a conscience than not, I suspect, and the last thing I need is sour grapes growing all over the Palace. Anyway, there are other battles to be fought and I want him and his popularity firmly behind me. I shall need it.’ His tone was serious and his eyes set upon a future of perceived challenges. ‘But at the end of the day, Mortima, I am the Prime Minister and he is the King. He does what I tell him to, not the other way around. The job’s ceremony and sanctimony, that’s all. He’s the Monarch, not a bloody architect.’

They were driving past the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall, slowing down as they approached the barriers at the head of Downing Street, and Urquhart was relieved to see there were rather more people here to wave and cheer him on for the benefit of the cameras than at the Palace. He thought he recognized a couple of young faces, perhaps party headquarters had turned out their rent-a-crowd. His wife idly slicked down a stray lock of his hair, while his mind turned to the reshuffle and the remarks he would make on the doorstep, which would be televised around the world.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Mortima pressed.

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Urquhart muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he smiled for the cameras as the car turned into Downing Street. ‘As a new King the man is inexperienced, and as constitutional Monarch he is impotent. He has all the menace and bite of a rubber duck. But fortunately, on this matter, I happen to agree with him. Away with modernism!’ He waved as a policeman came forward to open the heavy car door. ‘So it really can’t be of any consequence…’

CHAPTER THREE (#u0daff878-3fbd-5599-a02a-f4844cc6e11c)

Loyalty is the vice of the underclasses. I hope I am above such things.

‘Put the papers down, David. For God’s sake, take your nose out of them for just a minute of our day together.’ The voice was tense, more nervous than aggressive.

The grey eyes remained impassive, not moving from the sheaf of documents upon which they had been fixed ever since he had sat down at the breakfast table. The only facial reaction was an irascible twitch of the neatly trimmed moustache. ‘I’m off in ten minutes, Fiona, I simply have to finish them. Today of all days.’

‘There’s something else we have to finish. So put the bloody papers down!’

With reluctance David Mycroft raised his eyes in time to see his wife’s hand shaking so vigorously that the coffee splashed over the edge of her cup. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘You. And me. That’s the matter.’ She was struggling to control herself. ‘There’s nothing left to our marriage and I want out.’

The King’s press aide and principal public spokesman switched automatically into diplomatic gear. ‘Look, let’s not have a row, not now, I’m in a hurry and…’

‘Don’t you realize, we never have rows. That’s the problem!’ The cup smashed down into the saucer, overturning and spreading a menacing brown stain across the tablecloth. For the first time he lowered his sheaf of papers, every movement careful and deliberate, as was every aspect of his life.

‘Perhaps I could get some time off. Not today, but…We could go away together. I know it’s been a long time since we had any real chance to talk…’

‘It’s not lack of time, David! We could have all the time in the world and it would make no difference. It’s you, and me. The reason we don’t have any rows is because we have nothing to argue about. Nothing at all. There’s no passion, nothing. All we have is a shell. I used to dream that once the children were off our hands it might all change.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’m tired of deluding myself. It will never change. You will never change. And I don’t suppose I will.’ There was pain and she was dabbing her eyes, yet held her control. This was no flash of temper.

‘Are you…feeling all right, Fiona? You know, women at your time of life…’

She smarted at his patronizing idiocy. ‘Women in their forties, David, have their needs, their feelings. But how would you know? When did you last look at me as a woman? When did you last look at any woman?’ She returned the insult, meaning it to hurt. She knew that to break through she was going to have to batter down the walls he had built around himself. He had always been so closed, private, a man of diminutive stature who had sought to cope with his perceived physical inadequacies by being utterly formal and punctilious in everything he did. Never a hair on his small and rather boyish head out of place, even the streaks of grey beginning to appear around his dark temples looking elegant rather than ageing. He always ate breakfast with his jacket on and buttoned.

‘Look, can’t this wait? You know I have to be at the Palace any—’

‘The bloody Palace again. It’s your home, your life, your lover. The only emotion you ever show nowadays is about your ridiculous job and your wretched King.’

‘Fiona! That’s uncalled-for. Leave him out of this.’ The moustache with its hint of red bristled in indignation.

‘How can I? You serve him, not me. His needs come before mine. He’s helped ruin our marriage far more effectively than any mistress, so don’t expect me to bow and fawn like the rest.’

He glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘Look, for goodness sake, can we talk about this tonight? Perhaps I can get back early.’

She was dabbing at the coffee stain with her napkin, trying to delay meeting his gaze. Her voice was calmer, resolved. ‘No, David. Tonight I shall be with somebody else.’

‘There’s someone else?’ There was a catch in his throat, he had clearly never considered the possibility. ‘Since when?’

She looked up from the mess on the table with eyes which were now defiant and steady, no longer trying to evade. This had been coming for so long, she couldn’t hide from it any more. ‘Since two years after we got married, David, there has been someone else. A succession of “someone elses”. You never had it in you to satisfy me. I never blamed you for that, really I didn’t, it was just the luck of the draw. What I bitterly resent is that you never even tried. I was never that important to you, not as a woman. I have never been more than a housekeeper, a laundress, your twenty-four-hour skivvy, an object to parade around the dinner circuit. Someone to give you respectability at Court. Even the children were only for show.’

‘Not true.’ But there was no real passion in his protest, any more than there had been passion in their marriage. She had always known they were sexually incompatible; he seemed all too willing to pour his physical drive into his job while at first she had contented herself with the social cachet his work at the Palace brought them. But not for long. In truth, she couldn’t even be sure who the father of her second child was, while if he had doubts on the matter he didn’t seem to care. He had ‘done his duty’, as he once put it, and that had been an end of it. Even now as she poured scorn on him as a cuckold she couldn’t get him to respond. There should be self-righteous rage somewhere, surely, wasn’t that what his blessed code of chivalry called for? But he seemed so empty, hollow inside. Their marriage had been nothing but a rat’s maze within which both led unrelated lives, meeting only as if by accident before passing on their separate ways. Now she was leaping for the exit.

‘Fiona, can’t we—’

‘No, David. We can’t.’