To Play the King

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_7b36579a-938d-5488-bd29-d3eba3cff9da)

A Monarch lives in a gilded cage. Happiness depends on whether he spends more time looking at the depth of the gilding or the size of the bars.

‘I won’t hear of it, David.’

It was ludicrous. Mycroft was in turmoil; there were so many unformed doubts, half-fears that he could not or dared not realize, which he needed to talk through with the King, for both their sakes. Yet he was reduced to snatching a few words along with mouthfuls of chlorinated water as they ploughed through the waves of the Palace swimming pool. The King’s only concession to the interruption in his daily exercise schedule was to switch from the crawl to the breaststroke, enabling Mycroft more easily to match his pace. It was his rigid discipline that enabled the King to maintain his excellent physical shape, and kept all those who served him struggling to keep up.

The King was a fierce defender of the forms of marriage – it came with the job, he would say – and Mycroft had felt it necessary to make the offer. ‘It’s for the best, Sir,’ he persisted. ‘I can’t afford to let you become embroiled in my personal difficulties. I need some time to sort myself out. Better for all of us if I resign.’

‘I disagree.’ The King spat out a mouthful of water, finally resolving to finish the conversation on dry land, and headed for the marbled poolside. ‘We’ve been friends since university and I’m not going to throw away the last thirty years simply because some reptilian gossip columnist might hear of your private problems. I’m surprised you should think I would consider it.’ He ducked his shiny head one last time beneath the water as he reached for the steps. ‘You’re part of the management board of this firm, and that’s how it’s going to stay.’

Mycroft shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his vision. It wasn’t just the marriage, of course, it was all the other pressures he felt crowding in on him which made him feel so apprehensive and wretched. If he couldn’t be completely honest even with himself, how could he expect the King to understand? But he had to try.

‘Suddenly, everything looks different. The house. The street. My friends. Even I look different, to myself. It’s as if my marriage was a lens which gave the world a particular perspective over all these years, and now that it’s gone nothing seems quite the same. It’s a little frightening…’

‘I’m sorry, truly, about Fiona. After all, I’m godfather to your eldest, I’m involved.’ The King reached for his towel. ‘But, dammit, women have their own extraordinary ways and I can’t profess to understand them. What I do know, David, is that it would make no sense for you to try to get through your problems on your own, to cut yourself off not only from your marriage but also from what you have here.’ He placed a hand on Mycroft’s dripping shoulder. The contact was very close, his voice concerned. ‘You understand me, David, you always have. I am known by the whole world yet understood by so few. You do, you understand. I need you. I will not allow you to resign.’

Mycroft stared into his friend’s angular face. He found himself thinking the King’s leanness made him look drawn and older than his years, particularly with his hair grown so thin. It was as if a furnace inside was burning the King up too quickly. Perhaps he cared too much.

Care too much – was it possible? Fiona had tossed Mycroft back into the pool and he was struggling in the deep waters, unable to touch bottom. It dawned on him that he had never touched bottom, not once in his life. Far from caring too much, he realized he had never really cared at all and the sudden understanding made him panic, want to escape before he drowned. His emotional life had been shapeless, without substance or roots. Except here at the Palace, which now provided his only support. The man he had once tossed fully clothed through the ice of the college fountain and who had come up spitting bindweed and clutching a lavatory seat was saying, in the only way a lifetime of self-control allowed, that he cared. Suddenly it mattered, very much.

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘I don’t know a single marriage, Royal, common or just plain vulgar, which hasn’t been through the wringer; it’s so easy to think you’re on your own, to forget that practically everyone you know has jumped through the same hoops.’

Mycroft remembered just how many nights of their marriage he and Fiona had spent apart, and imagined what she had been up to on every one of those nights. There really had been a lot of hoops. He didn’t care, not even about that. So what did he care about?

‘I need you, David. I’ve waited all my life to be where I am today. Don’t you remember the endless nights at university when we would sit either side of a bottle of college port and discuss what we would do when we had the opportunity? We, David, you and me. Now the opportunity has arrived, we can’t throw it away.’ He paused while a liveried footman deposited a silver tray with two mugs of herbal tea on the poolside table. ‘If it’s really over with Fiona, try to put it behind you. Look ahead, with me. I can’t start on the most important period of my life by losing one of my oldest and most trusted friends. There’s so much to do, for us both.’ He began towelling himself vigorously as though determined to start that very minute. ‘Don’t make any decisions now. Stick with it for a couple of months and, if you still feel you need a break, we’ll sort it out. But trust me, stay with me. All will be fine, I promise.’

Mycroft was unconvinced. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere and no one he wanted to run to. And the thought of what he might find if he ran too far overwhelmed him. After so many years he was free, and he didn’t know if he could handle freedom. He stood, water dripping from the end of his nose and through his moustache, weighing his doubts against the Sovereign’s certainty. He could find no sense of direction, only his sense of duty.

‘So, what do you feel, old friend?’

‘Bloody cold, Sir.’ He managed a weak smile. ‘Let’s go and have a shower.’

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_26d7dd35-39e5-53df-824f-38bee0e2a755)

Of course I have principles. I like to dust them down regularly. With a trowel.

‘Circulate, Francis. And smile. This is supposed to be a celebration, remember.’

Urquhart acknowledged his wife’s instruction and began forcing his way slowly through the crowded room. He hated these occasions. It was supposed to be a party to thank those who had helped him into Downing Street, but inevitably Mortima had intervened and turned it into another of her evenings for rubbing shoulders with anyone from the pages of the social columns she wanted to meet. ‘The voters love a little glamour,’ she argued, and like any self-respecting Colquhoun she had always wanted to preside over her own Court. So instead of a small gathering of colleagues he had been thrust into a maelstrom of actresses, opera stars, editors, businessmen and assorted socialites, and he knew his small talk couldn’t last the evening.

The guests had clattered through the dark December night into the narrow confines of Downing Street, where they found a large Christmas tree outside the door of Number Ten, placed at Mortima Urquhart’s instructions to give TV-viewers the impression that this was simply another family eagerly waiting to celebrate Christmas. Inside Number Ten, the glitterati had crossed the threshold, unaware they had already been scanned by hidden devices for weapons and explosives. They handed over their cloaks and overcoats in exchange for a smile and a cloakroom ticket, and waited patiently in line on the stairs which led to the Green Room, where the Urquharts were receiving their guests. As they wound their way slowly up the stairs and past its walls covered in portraits of previous Prime Ministers, they tried not to stare too hard at the other guests or their surroundings. Staring implied you hadn’t done this a hundred times before. Most had little to do with politics, some were not even supporters of the Government, but the enthusiasm with which they were greeted by Mortima Urquhart left them all impressed. The atmosphere was sucking them in, making them honorary members of the team. If power were a conspiracy, they wanted to be part of it too.

For ten minutes, Urquhart struggled with the confusion of guests, his eyes never resting, darting rapidly from one fixed point to another as if always on guard, or on the attack, forced to listen to the complaints of businessmen and the half-baked social prescriptions of chat-show hosts. At last he reached gratefully for the arm of Tim Stamper and dragged him into a corner.

‘Something on your mind, Francis?’

‘I was just reflecting on how relieved Henry must be not to have to put up with all this any longer. Is it really worth it?’

‘Ambition should be made of more solid stuff.’

‘If you must quote Shakespeare, for God’s sake get it right. And I’d prefer it if you chose some other play than Julius Caesar. You’ll remember they’d had him butchered well before the interval.’

‘I am suitably reproached. In future in your presence I shall quote only from Macbeth.’

Urquhart smiled grimly at the cold humour, wishing he could spend the rest of the evening crossing swords with Stamper and plotting the next election. In less than a week, the polls had already placed them three points ahead as the voters responded to the fresh faces, the renewed sense of urgency throughout Whitehall, the public dispatch of a few of the less acceptable faces of Government. ‘They like the colour of the honeymoon bed linen,’ Stamper had reported. ‘Fresh, crisp, with just enough blood to show you’re doing your job.’ He had a style all his own, did Stamper.

Across the chatter of the crowded room they could hear Mortima Urquhart laughing. She was immersed in conversation with an Italian tenor, one of the more competent and certainly the most fashionable opera star to have arrived in London in recent years. She was persuading him through a mixture of flattery and feminine charm to give a rendition later in the evening. Mortima was nearing fifty yet she was well preserved and carefully presented, and already the Italian was acquiescing. She rushed off to enquire whether there was a piano in Downing Street.

‘Ah, Dickie,’ Urquhart chanted, reaching out for the arm of a short, undersized man with a disproportionately large head and serious eyes who had thrust purposefully through the crowd towards him. Dickie was the new Secretary of State for the Environment, the youngest member of the new Cabinet, a marathon runner, an enthusiast and an intervener, and he had been deeply impressed by Urquhart’s admonition that he was to be the defender of the Government’s green credentials. His appointment had already been greeted with acclaim from all but the most militant pressure groups, yet at this moment he was looking none too happy. There were beads of moisture on his brow; something was bothering him.

‘Was hoping to have a word with you, Dickie,’ said Urquhart before the other had a chance to unburden himself. ‘What about this development site in Victoria Street? Had a chance to look into it yet? Are you going to cover it in concrete, or what?’

‘Good heavens, no, Prime Minister. I’ve studied all the options carefully, and I really think it would be best if we dispense with the more extravagant options and go for something traditional. Not one of these steel and glass air-conditioning units.’

‘Will it provide the most modern office environment?’ Stamper intervened.

‘It’ll fit into the Westminster environment,’ Dickie continued a little uneasily.

‘Scarcely the same thing,’ the Party Chairman responded.

‘We’d get a howl of protest from the heritage groups if we tried to turn Westminster into downtown Chicago,’ Dickie offered defensively.

‘I see. Planning by pressure group.’ Stamper gave a cynical smile.

The Environment Secretary looked flustered at the unexpected assault but Urquhart came quickly to his rescue. ‘Don’t worry about Stamper, Dickie. Only a week at party headquarters and already he can’t come into contact with a pressure group without raising his kneecap in greeting.’ He smiled, this was considerably greater fun than being preached at by the two large female charity workers who were hovering behind Dickie, waiting to pounce. He drew Dickie closer for protection. ‘So what else was on your mind?’

‘It’s this mystery virus along the North Sea coast which has been killing off the seals. The scientific bods thought it had disappeared, but I’ve just had a report that seal carcasses are being washed up all around Norfolk. The virus is back. By morning there will be camera crews and newshounds crawling over the beaches with photos of dying seals splashed across the news.’

Urquhart grimaced. ‘Newshounds!’ He hadn’t heard that term used in years. Dickie was an exceptionally serious and unamusing man, exactly the right choice for dealing with environmentalists. They could bore each other for months with their mutual earnestness. As long as he kept them quiet until after March…‘Here’s what you do, Dickie. By the time they reach the beaches in the morning, I want you there, too. Showing the Government’s concern, being on hand to deal with the questions of the…newshounds.’ From the corner of his eye he could see Stamper smirking. ‘I want your face on the midday news tomorrow. Alongside all those dead seals.’ Stamper covered his mouth with a handkerchief to stifle the laugh, but Dickie was nodding earnestly.

‘Do I have your permission to announce a Government inquiry, if I feel it necessary?’

‘You do. Indeed you do, my dear Dickie. Give them whatever you like, as long as it’s not money.’

‘Then if I am to be there by daybreak, I’d better make tracks immediately. Will you excuse me, Prime Minister?’

As the Environment Secretary hustled self-importantly towards the door, Stamper could control himself no longer. His shoulders shook with mirth.

‘Don’t mock,’ reproached Urquhart with an arched eyebrow. ‘Seals are a serious matter. They eat all the damned salmon, you know.’

Both men burst into laughter, just as the two charity workers decided to draw breath and swoop. Urquhart spied their heaving bosoms and turned quickly away to find himself looking at a young woman, attractive and most elegantly presented with large, challenging eyes. She seemed a far more interesting contest than the elderly matrons. He extended a hand.

‘Good evening. I’m Francis Urquhart.’

‘Sally Quine.’ She was cool, less gushing than most guests.