To Play the King

by Michael Dobbs

  'The Princess's bikini could yet prove to be as powerful as the sling of David.'

  'If somewhat larger,' she added testily. 'Continue with the tutorial.'

  'Then perhaps: "Do you think the Royal Family deserves its recent pay increase or do you think, in the current economic circumstances, it should be setting an example of restraint?" Words like that.'

  'Perhaps even: "Do you think the number of members of the

  Royal Family supported by the taxpayer should remain the same, get larger, or be reduced?" '

  'You're learning, Francis. If you put in a question immediately before that to ask whether they feel they get good value for money from the work of Princess Charlotte and a couple of other disreputable or unknown Royals, they'll be warmed up for it and you'll get an even fiercer response.'

  His eyes were glittering.

  'Only then do you come to the killer. "Is the Royal Family more or less popular, or doing a better or worse job for the country, than five years ago?" Top of the mind the public will say they are still great fans. So you have to bring out their deeper feelings, the concerns they hide away, the sort of things they're not always aware of themselves. Put that question up front, first off, and you'll probably discover that the Royals are only marginally less popular than they were. But ask away after you've given them a chance to think about sand, sex and Civil Lists, and your devoted and loyal citizens will have become a rebellious mob who will string up their beloved Princess Charlotte by her bikini straps. Is that enough?'

  'More than enough.'

  'Then if you don't mind I'm going to disappear for a little repair work.' Her hand was on the door handle when she turned around. 'You don't like the King, do you. Man to man, I mean.'

  'No.' The reply was dry, blunt, reluctant. It only fuelled her curiosity.

  'Why? Tell me.' She was pushing at doors he had not chosen to open freely, but she had to broaden the relationship if it were not to descend into empty habit and boredom. It had to be more than simply screwing each other, and the Opposition between times. Anyway, she was naturally curious.

  'He's sanctimonious, naive,' came the low reply. 'A pathetic idealist who's getting in the way.'

  'There's more, isn't there?'

  'What do you mean?' he asked, irritation undisguised. 'Francis, you're halfway to raising a rebellion. You're not planning that just because he's sanctimonious.' 'He's trying to interfere.'

  'Every editor in Fleet Street tries to interfere yet you invite them to lunch, not to their own lynching.'

  'Why must you press it? All this twaddle about his children and the future!' His face revealed anguish, the tone had sharpened and his characteristic control had disappeared. 'He lectures me constantly about how passionate he is to build a better world, for his children. About how we shouldn't build a gas pipeline or nuclear power station without thinking first, about his children. How his first duty as a future King and Monarch was to produce an heir to the Throne - his children!' The flesh around his eyes had grown grey and his lips were spittled with saliva as he grew rapidly more animated. 'The man is possessed about his children. Forever talking about them whenever I meet him. Nagging. Harassing. Whining. As if children were some form of miracle which he alone could perform. Yet isn't it the commonest, most covetous and selfish act of all, to want to recreate your own image?'

  She stood her ground. 'No, I don't think it is,' she said softly. She was suddenly frightened by the eyes which were red with fire, looking directly at her yet at the same time staring through her to some torment hidden beyond. 'No, it's not. Not selfish.'

  'It's sheer egoism and self-love, I tell you. A pathetic attempt to grab at immortality.'

  'It's called love, Francis.'

  'Love! Was your child born out of love? Damned funny kind of love that leaves you in hospital with broken ribs and the child in a cemetery plot!'

  She slapped him with the full force of an open palm, and knew at once it was a mistake. She should have recognized the danger signs in the throbbing veins at his temples. She should have remembered that he had no children, had never had children. She should have shown pity. Understanding came with a cry of pain as his hand lashed in return across her face.

  Immediately he drew back, despairing at what he had done. He collapsed into a chair, the energy and hate draining from him like an hour-glass shedding its last grains of sand. 'My God, Sally, forgive me. I am so very sorry.'

  By contrast, she retained a supreme calm. She'd had so much practice. 'Me too, Francis.'

  He was panting, the leanness that often gave him the appearance of vigour and youth now turning him into a shrivelled, ageing man. He had breached his own defences. 'I have no children,' he said, gasping for breath, 'because I cannot. I have tried all my life to convince myself that it never mattered, but every time I sec that damned man and listen to his taunts, it's as if I am stripped naked and humiliated simply by being in his presence.'

  'You think he does it deliberately . . . ?'

  'Of course it's deliberate! He uses his talk of love like weapons of war. Are you so blind you can't see?' His anger gave way to contrition. 'Oh, Sally, believe me, I'm sorry. I have never hit a woman before.'

  'It happens, Francis.'

  Sally stared at this new image of the man she had thought she knew, then closed the door quietly behind her.

  A buzz of expectation grew as Urquhart walked into the House from behind the Speaker's Chair, red leather folder tucked beneath his arm, civil servants filing like ducklings into the officials' box at the back of the Chamber. They were there to provide him with instant information should the need arise, but it wouldn't. He had briefed himself very carefully for this one; he knew exactly what he wanted.

  'Madam Speaker, with permission, I would like to make a statement

  Urquhart looked slowly across the packed benches. McKillin sat on the other side of the Dispatch Box, double-checking the statement which Urquhart's office had made available to him an hour beforehand. He would be supportive. Such matters were supposed to be non-controversial and, in any event, as Urquhart's personal relations with the King had become the subject of press controversy, so the Opposition Leader's identification with the Monarch had grown. Your enemy, my friend. It's what Opposition was about. The Leader of the small Liberal Party, sitting with his band of eternal optimists towards the far end of the Chamber, was likely to be less enthusiastic. He had seventeen MPs in his party and an ego greater than all the others combined. As a precocious backbencher he had made a name for himself by introducing a private bill to restrict the scope of the Civil List to only five members of the Royal Family and, furthermore, to batter home the message of equality by passing Royal succession down through the eldest child of either sex, and not exclusively the eldest son. It had given him ten minutes of parliamentary time before the bill was thrown out, but several hours of prime time on television and coverage in newspapers which he measured in feet. He had a record to defend; doubtless he would seek to do so with decorum but, as Urquhart glanced further around the House, the Prime Minister noted that decorum had a short shelf-life in politics.

  His eyes alighted on The Beast of Bradford'. Dressed in his habitual shapeless sports jacket, the colourful and eccentric Member for Bradford Central was already leaning forward in anticipation, lank hair falling over his eyes, wringing his hands and waiting to leap to his feet at the first opportunity. The Opposition MP was a street-fighter who saw every issue as a chance to pursue the class war against capitalism, which he fought with considerable venom sustained by the scars of a factory accident as a working student which had left him with two short fingers on his left hand. An ardent republican, he was primed to self-ignite on issues involving hereditary rights. He was also utterly predictable, which is why Urquhart had ensured that one of his own members, a Knight of the Leafy Suburbs renowned for his bucolic complexion and pugnacious temper, was stationed directly opposite. The Knight had been deputed to 'take care' of The Beast during the statem
ent; what this might involve had been left to The Knight's discretion, which was notoriously fragile, but he was anxious 'to get back into the fray', as he put it, after treatment for a mild heart complaint. He was already glowering across the floor at the Honourable Member for Bradford Central, seated barely six feet away.

  'I would like to make a statement on arrangements for future financial support for His Majesty the King during the ten-year period ahead,' Urquhart continued. He paused to look directly at

  The Beast and smiled condescendingly. The other responded with an audible growl, which only served to broaden the Prime Minister's smile. The Beast's cage was already being rattled.

  The settlement is a considerable and I hope generous one, but is for a full ten-year period during which the vagaries of inflation must be accounted for. Should inflation prove to be less than predicted, the surplus will be carried forward . . .'

  "Ow much is the Princess getting?' The Beast snapped.

  Urquhart ignored him and continued with his explanation.

  'Come on, then. Tell us. 'Ow much are we paying Charlotte to screw around in the Caribbean next year?'

  'Order! Order!' Madam Speaker demanded shrilly.

  'I was only asking . . .'

  'Shut up, you fool!' snapped The Knight, a comment heard by everyone in the Chamber with the exception of the official record takers of Hansard.

  'Carry on, Prime Minister.'

  The atmosphere was already tangled, the temperature rising as Urquhart continued to the end of his short announcement. He had to struggle through growing noise as The Knight continued his private tussle across the floor of the Chamber. The Beast muttered away throughout the brief and supportive response of the Leader of the Opposition who, in a modest attempt to get under Urquhart's skin, was fulsome in his praise of the King's environmental work and social pcrceptiveness.

  Tell that to this bloody man!' the Knight stormed, waving an accusing finger at The Beast who had just impugned his wife's fidelity. He got a crude gesture involving two amputated fingers in response.

  The Liberal leader, when it came to his turn, was less supportive. 'Will the Prime Minister recognize that, although we fully support the valuable work of the Royal Family, its financial affairs leave much to be desired? The Civil List represents but a fraction of the expense to the taxpayer of the Royal Family when you take into account the aeroplanes of the Royal Flight, the Royal Yacht, the Royal Train . . .'

  The Royal Racing Pigeons,' interrupted The Beast.

  '. . . the costs of which are buried in the budgets of various Government departments. Wouldn't it be better, more open and honest, to consolidate all these expenditures into one budget so that we know exactly what the true figures are?'

  'It's a sham. What're you 'iding?'

  'I resent the Right Honourable Gentleman's insinuation that I am being neither open nor honest . . .' Urquhart began. "Ow much is it, then?'

  'There is no secret conspiracy on these matters. The Royal Family gives us excellent value for money—' "Ow much money?'

  A handful of others were joining in the interruptions from the Opposition benches. It seemed they might have found a weakness in the Prime Minister's defences and could not resist the temptation to exploit it.

  'The figures vary greatly from year to year because of exceptional items . . .' 'Like what?'

  '. . . such as refits and modernization of the Royal Trains. Also the Royal Palaces require extensive upkeep which in some years is unduly heavy. It is often very difficult to extract the exact cost out of large departmental budgets.' Urquhart appeared to be suffering from the interruptions. He was noticeably under pressure, reluctant to give details, which only excited his hecklers further. The more he prevaricated the louder became the calls for him to 'come clean'; even the Liberal leader was joining in.

  'The House must understand that the statement I am making today covers the Civil List only. On other items of expenditure I am bound by custom, and it would be most improper of me to make announcements about such matters without first consulting His Majesty. We must preserve the dignity of the Crown and recognize the esteem and affection in which the Royal Family is held.'

  As Urquhart paused to consider his words the noise levels around him rose sharply. His brow clouded.

  'It was only the other day that the Opposition benches were accusing me of treating His Majesty with contempt, yet now they insist that is precisely what I do.' This antagonized his hecklers; the language swilling around the floor became increasingly unparliamentary. 'They are a shambolic lot, Mr Speaker.' Urquhart waved a menacing finger at the benches opposite. 'They don't want information, they just want a row!' He appeared to have lost his temper in the face of the constant baiting, and Madam Speaker knew that it would mark the end of any sensible dialogue. She was just about to curtail discussion and call the next business when an explosion erupted in the vicinity of The Knight, who was on his feet.

  'On a Point of Order, Madam Speaker!'

  'No points of order, please. We've already wasted enough time . . .'

  'But that wretched man just told me to go and have another heart attack!'

  Accusatory fingers pointed towards The Beast and the pandemonium grew worse.

  'Really!' snapped the Speaker in exasperation.

  ' 'E's got it wrong, as always,' The Beast was protesting innocently. ‘I told 'im 'e would have another 'eart attack, if he found out 'ow much the bloody Monarchy cost. It's millions and millions. . .'

  The rest was lost in the storm of outrage from all sides.

  Urquhart picked up his folder and started to leave. He looked at the parliamentary benches in turmoil. Great pressure would undoubtedly be brought to bear on him to reveal the full cost of the Royal Family, and he might have to give it. In any event, prompted by the row, every newspaper in Fleet Street would be setting journalists to dig and make inspired guesses, and reasonably accurate figures wouldn't be too difficult to find. A pity, he thought to himself, that last year the King's Flight replaced both their ageing aeroplanes, and modern jets don't come cheap. A still greater pity that it happened to coincide with an extensive refit for the Royal Yacht Britannia. The figures even the dimmest journalist would arrive at would be well in excess of one hundred and fifty million pounds, and that was too large a chunk of red meat for even the most loyal editor to ignore. Yet nobody could accuse Urquhart of being unfair or inconsiderate to the King, not personally. Hadn't he done his best to defend the King, even while under considerable pressure? By tomorrow morning's headlines it would be the King himself experiencing the pressure. Then for Sally's opinion poll.

  Even for a Prime Minister it had been an exceptional day's work, he told himself.

  'Mr Stamper would like a word, Prime Minister.'

  'In his capacity as Privy Councillor, Chairman of the Party, Chief Bottle Washer or honorary president of his football club?' Urquhart swung his feet down from the green leather sofa on which he had been propped reading Cabinet papers as he waited in his House of Commons office for a series of late-night divisions. He couldn't remember what they were voting for next. Was it to increase punishment for offenders, or reduce subventions to the United Nations? Something, anyway, which would get the tabloids going and reveal the Opposition in the worst possible light.

  'Mr Stamper didn't say,' responded the humourless private secretary, who had still put no more than his head and left shoulder around the door.

  'Wheel him in!' the Prime Minister instructed.

  Stamper appeared, offered no word of greeting, and made straight for the drinks cupboard where he poured himself a large whisky.

  'Looks like bad news, Tim.'

  'Oh, it is. Some of the worst I've heard for ages.'

  'Not another selfish swine in a marginal seat gone and died?'

  'Worse, much worse, Francis. Our latest private polls put us three points ahead. What's even more worrying, for some reason people seem to like you, you're ten points ahead of McKillin. Your vanity wil
l be uncontrollable. Your ridiculous plan for an early election looks as if it could work after all!'

  'Praise the Lord.'

  'There's something even more fascinating, Francis,' Stamper continued in more serious demeanour. Unbidden he had filled a glass for Urquhart and handed it to him before continuing. 'I've just been having a quiet chat with the Home Secretary. The cock-up theory of politics rules supreme. Seems that little shit Marples has at last got himself caught with his trousers down, late the other night on the towpath at Putney.'

  'In January?' Urquhart asked incredulously.

  'Absolutely in flagrante. With a fourteen-year-old. Apparently he's into little boys.' He made himself comfortable behind Urquhart's desk, his feet up on the Prime Ministerial blotter. He was deliberately pushing his luck, teasing. His news must be particularly weighty, mused Urquhart.