'Can only handle one shit at a time in here, my man,' Colthorpe responded through his nose. 'Try one of the bars. In some corner under a table, most likely.'
The attendant scurried off as Colthorpe was joined at the wash basins by the only other man in the room, Tim Stamper.
'Timothy, dear boy. Enjoying party headquarters? Making an excellent job of it, if you don't mind my saying.'
Stamper turned from the basin and lowered his head in appreciation, but there was no warmth. Colthorpe was known for his airs, purporting to be a leader of local society, yet he'd married into every penny, which only made him still more condescending towards former estate agents. Classlessness was a concept Colthorpe would never support, having spent most of his life trying to escape from its clutches.
'Glad for a chance to speak with you actually, old chap,' Colthorpe was saying, his smile more a simper as he searched keenly in the corners of the mirror for reassurance that he and Stamper were alone in the echoing room. 'Confidentially, man to man,' he continued, trying to glance surreptitiously beneath the doors of the cubicles.
'What's on your mind, Jeremy?' Stamper responded, mindful that during all of his years in the House Colthorpe had never done more than pass the time of day with him.
'Lady wife. Getting on a bit, seventy next year. And not in the best of health. Brave gal, but finding it more than ever difficult to help in the constituency – it's damned large, forty-three villages, don't you know, takes some getting round, I can tell you.' He moved over towards Stamper at the basins and started washing his hands for the second time, trying to evince confidentiality but clearly ill at ease. 'Owe it to her to take off some of the pressure, spend a little more time together. No way of telling how long she may have.' He paused while he worked up a considerable lather as if he were always meticulous about hygiene and to emphasize the depth of his concern for his wife. Both effects were wasted on Stamper who, when Deputy Chief Whip, had seen Colthorpe's private file, which included reference to the regular payments he made to a single mother who used to tend bar in his local pub.
'To be frank, I'm thinking of giving up my seat at the next election. For her sake, of course. But it'd be a damnable pity to see all that experience I've gained over the years go to waste. Would love to find some way of… still being able to contribute, don't you know. To go on doing my bit for the country. And the party, of course.'
'What did you have in mind, Jeremy?' Stamper already knew precisely where the conversation was headed.
'Open to suggestion. But obviously the Lords would seem a sensible option. Not for me, so much, but for the little lady. Mean a lot to her after all these years. Particularly when… you know, she might not have very long to enjoy it.'
Colthorpe was still splashing water around to make a pretence at casualness and had succeeded in drenching the front of his trousers. He realized he was beginning to make a fool of himself and turned the taps off with a savage twist, turning directly towards Stamper, hands by his side, water dripping from his soaked cuffs. 'Would I have your support, Tim? The backing of the party machine?'
Stamper turned away and headed for the electric hand dryer, its harsh noise forcing Colthorpe to follow him across the room, and them both to raise their voices.
'There will be quite a few colleagues retiring at the next election, Jeremy. I expect a number of them will want a scat in the Lords.'
'Wouldn't press my own case, but for the wife. I'd work hard at the job, wouldn't skive off like so many of the others.'
'Ultimately, of course, it's up to Francis. He'll have a tough job deciding between the various claims.' 'I voted for Francis…' – that was a lie – 'I'd be loyal.'
'Would you?' Stamper threw over his shoulder. 'Francis does value loyalty above everything.' 'Absolutely. Anything the two of you want, rely on me!'
The hand drier suddenly ceased its raucous huffing and in a moment the atmosphere had grown hushed, almost confessional. Stamper turned to stare at Colthorpe from only a few inches away. 'Can we really rely on you, Jeremy? Loyalty first?' Colthorpe was nodding. 'Even as far as the King is concerned?' 'The King…?' Confusion crept in.
'Yes, Jeremy, the King. You've already seen how he's rocked the boat. And Francis fears it's going to get worse. The Palace needs reminding, very firmly, who's in charge.' 'But I'm not sure…'
'Loyalty, Jeremy. That's what will make the difference between those who get what they want out of this Government, and those who don't. It's an unpleasant business, this thing with the Palace, but somebody has to stand up and defend the important constitutional principles at stake. Francis can't, you see, not formally and publicly as Prime Minister. That would create a constitutional crisis, which he absolutely does not want. The only way to avoid that may be to get someone other than a Minister, someone with great seniority and authority – someone like you, Jeremy – to remind the Palace and the public what's at stake. It's the least Francis has a right to expect from his loyal supporters.'
'Yes, but… Get into the House of Lords by attacking the King?'
'Not attacking. Reminding him of the highest constitutional principles.' 'But it's the King who creates new peers-' 'Solely and exclusively on the advice of the Prime Minister. The King cannot refuse his recommendations.' 'It's a little like Alice In Wonderland-' 'So's a lot of what the Palace has been saying.' 'I'd like to think about it a little.'
'You need to think about loyalty?' Stamper's tone was harsh, accusatory. His lip curled in contempt and there was fire in the sepulchral eyes. Without a further word the Party Chairman turned on his heel and made his way towards the door. His hand was already on the shiny brass door knob, and Colthorpe realized his ambitions were ruined if the door closed on this conversation. 'I'll do it!' he squealed. 'Tim, I know where my loyalties lie. I'll do it.' He was breathing heavily with the tension and confusion, trying to regain his self-control, wiping his hands on his trousers. 'You can rely on me, old chap.'
Stamper held his stare, spreading his lips in the coldest of smiles. Then he closed the door behind him.
The lunch had started excellently. Both Mickey Quillington and his first cousin, Lord Chesholm of Kinsale, appreciated a good claret and the cellar of the House of Lords dining room had a large number from which to choose. They had chosen to drink Leoville-Barton but were unable to decide between the '82 and '85 vintage. So they had ordered a bottle of both and slipped gently into mid-afternoon in the warm embrace of the elegant mahogany panelling and attentive staff. Chesholm was a good twenty years older than Quillington and substantially more wealthy, and the impecunious younger peer had hoped to use the lunch for the launch of an appeal to family solidarity which would involve his relative in leasing several hundred of Quillington's Oxfordshire acres at a generous rate, but sadly his tactics had gone awry. The claret proved too much for the elderly peer to manage and he couldn't concentrate, repeatedly exclaiming that he didn't live in Oxfordshire. The bill, although heavily subsidized, still reflected the exceptional nature of the wine and Quillington felt bruised. Maybe the old bugger would regain his wits by teatime.
They were attending the House to voice objection to a Bill which sought a total ban on fox-hunting, and the debate was well underway by the time they took their places on the deep-red morocco benches in the Gothic chamber. Within minutes Chesholm was asleep while Quillington slouched with his knees tucked beneath his chin as he listened with growing resentment to a former polytechnic lecturer, recently elevated to the life-peerage for his diligence in the study of trade union matters, expounding his belief in the decay and corruption of those who still believed they owned the countryside as if by divine right. Debates in the Lords are conducted in far less pompous and vitriolic style than in the Lower Chamber, as befits its aristocratic and almost familial atmosphere, but the lack of outright rudeness did not prevent the peer from putting across his point of view forcefully and effectively. From around the Chamber, uncharacteristically packed for the occasion by hereditary peers and no
ble backwoodsmen from distant rural parts, came a growl of wounded pride, like a stuck boar at bay. Such displays of emotion are not commonplace in the Upper Chamber, but such a concentration of hereditary peers was also unusual outside the circumstance of state funeral or Royal wedding. It may not have been the Lords at their norm, nor even at their best, but it was certainly their Lordships at their most decorous.
Quillington cleared his throat; the debate was threatening to spoil the warm glow left by the claret. The poly-peer had broadened his attack from fox-hunting itself to those who hunted, and Quillington took great exception. He was not the type of person who rode roughshod over others' rights; he'd never forced any farm labourer out of a tied cottage, and any damage inadvertently caused while hunting was always paid for. Blast the man, the Quillingtons had been dedicated custodians. It had cost them their fortune and his father's health and had left his mother with little but years of tearful widowhood. Yet here was an oaf who had spent all his working life in some overheated lecture room living off an inflation-proofed salary, accusing him of being no better than a scrounger. It was too much, really too bloody much. This sort of wheedling and insolent insinuation had gone on for too long, harking back to a style of class warfare which was fifty years out of date.
' 'Bout time we put them in their place, don't you think, Chesy?' Almost before he realized it, Quillington was on his feet.
'This debate is only nominally about fox-hunting, that is merely the excuse. Behind it lies an insidious attack on the traditions and values which have not only held our countryside together, not only held this House together, but have held the whole of society together. There are wreckers in the land, some maybe even amongst our number here' – he deliberately avoided looking at the previous speaker, so that everyone would know precisely whom he meant – 'who in the name of democracy would force their own narrow, militant opinions upon the rest, the silent majority which is the true and glorious backbone of Britain.'
He licked his lips, there was a flush in his cheeks, a mixture of Leoville-Barton and real emotion that succeeded in engulfing the unease he customarily felt in public, which on more than one occasion had left him tongue-tied and floundering at the opening of the annual village fete. 'They want revolution, no less. They would abandon our traditions, abolish this Chamber, stamp on our rights.' Quillington waved a finger at the canopied Throne which dominated one end of the hall and stood empty and forlorn. 'They even seek to reduce to silence and insignificance our own Royal Family.'
Several of Their Lordships raised a collective eyebrow. The rules about discussion of the Royal Family were very restrictive, particularly in a debate on blood sports. 'To the point, my Lord,' one growled in warning.
'But, noble Lords, this is the point,' protested Quillington. 'We are not here to rubber-stamp what comes from the Lower House. We are here to offer counsel, advice, warning. And we do so, just as the Monarch does, because we represent the true long-term interests of this country. We represent the values which have made our nation great over previous centuries and which will continue to guide her well into the next century. We are not here to be swayed by every passing fashion and fad. We do not suffer from the corruption of having to get ourselves elected, of having to pretend that we are all things to all men, of making promises we know we cannot keep. We are here to represent what is immutable and constant in society.'
Mutters of 'Hear, hear' could be heard from the crowded benches around Quillington. The Lord Chancellor drummed his fingers as he concentrated in bewigged and ermined splendour from his seat on the Woolsack; the speech was most unusual, but really rather a splendid entertainment.
'It may seem a long way from the plottings of hunt-saboteurs to assaults on Buckingham Palace, but what we have seen of both recently should encourage us to stand firm in our beliefs, not to run for the cover of undergrowth like terrified vermin.' His long, thin arms were extended theatrically away from his body, as if trying to haul in their sympathy. He needn't have bothered, peers were beginning to nod and tap their knees to indicate support. 'Both this House and the Royal Family are here to defend those timeless aspects of the national interest, unfettered by the selfishness of The Other Place. There is no need for this House to kowtow to the muscle and money of commercial interests!' The poly-peer was sitting upright, ready to try and intervene. He was sure Quillington was about to go too far. 'Not for us the temptations of bribing the public with their own money, we are here to defend the public against shortsightedness and falsehood. And at no time is that duty more pressing upon us than when we have a new Cabinet and a Prime Minister who have not even been elected by the people. Let him go to the country promising to castrate the Monarch and abolish the House of Lords if he dare, but until he has won that right and power at an election, let us not allow him to do quietly and privately what he has not yet been able to do publicly.'
The poly-peer had had enough. He was not quite sure what transgression Quillington was making, but the emotional temperature in the Chamber had soared, shouts of support for Quillington were coming from all sides, and the poly-peer suddenly felt the Chamber close in around him like a courtroom dock. 'Order! The noble Lord must restrain himself,' he interjected.
'Why…?' 'No, let him go on…' 'Allow him to finish…' On all sides Quillington was being offered advice and encouragement, while the poly-peer sprang to his feet, shouting across the Chamber and wagging his finger in vain. Quillington had won, and knew it.
'I have finished, my Lords. Do not forget your duty, nor your allegiance to the King, nor the sacrifices which you and your forefathers accepted in order to make this nation great. Use this wretched Bill to remind others that you have not forgotten, and let the lion roar once more!'
He sat down as peers took their Order Papers and rapped them sharply on the leather benches in front of them to show their approbation.
As Order Papers beat down either side of his head, the elderly Chesholm woke with a start. 'What? What was that? Did I miss something, Mickey?'
***
'On a Point of Order, Madam Speaker.' 'Point of Order, Mr Jeremy Colthorpe.'
Madam Speaker's shrill voice cut through the din of the House of Commons as MPs milled around preparing to vote after an Opposition debate on sub-standard housing, which had just wound its way through three turbid hours. Normally Madam Speaker was caustic about points of order raised during divisions and, indeed, the ancient rules of the House made such interruptions problematic by requiring the MP to have his head covered – in order better to be seen amidst the confusion, so said the rule book; to deflect idle time-wasters, according to common sense. But Colthorpe was a Member of long standing and not a renowned trouble-maker; he stood defiantly if somewhat absurdly attired in a collapsible opera hat kept in the Chamber for the purpose. Points of order often had an element of comedy to them, and the bustle in the Chamber subsided as MPs strained to hear what was upsetting the old man.
'Madam Speaker, on rare occasions a question of such importance and urgency arises that it is of overriding importance to the business of the House, and you decide it is necessary for the appropriate Minister to be summoned before us to answer for it. I believe this matter is just that.' It was more than that. News of Quillington's speech had drifted through the tea rooms and bars of the House of Commons even as Colthorpe was still chiding himself for making such a nonsense of his exchange with Stamper; he didn't have much practice in grovelling to estate agents, he told himself, and he knew he'd made a hash of it. He had listened to reports of the peer's words like a drowning man greets the sound of an approaching rescue ship, and had bustled off to find Stamper, terrified that someone else would find him first. Within forty minutes he was back in the Chamber, and on his feet.
'Earlier this afternoon, in Another Place, a noble Lord accused this House of political corruption, of seeking to deprive both their Lordships and His Majesty the King of their constitutional rights, and claiming that His Majesty had been improperly silenced. Such
a challenge to the actions of this House and to the office of the Prime Minister is such as to-'
'Hold on a minute!' Madam Speaker enjoined Colthorpe to silence in a broad Lancashire accent. 'I've heard nothing about this. Most improper. You know it's against the rules of this House to discuss personal matters relating to the King.'
'This is not a personal matter but a constitutional matter of the highest importance, Madam Speaker. The rights of this House are enshrined in custom and established over the course of many years. When they are challenged, they must be defended.'
'Nevertheless, I want to see what was said before I allow this one to run.' The Speaker waved Colthorpe down but he was not to be deflected.
'We tarry and delay at our peril, Madam Speaker. This is just another example of the interfering, interventionist tendencies of the mod-Monarchy-'
'That's enough!' She was on her feet now, staring furiously over half-moon glasses, demanding Colthorpe subside.
'But Madam Speaker, we must be allowed to respond to attacks made on us, no matter from what source those attacks emanate. The debate in Another Place, ostensibly about fox-hunting, has been turned into a direct assault on this Chamber. Now, Madam Speaker, I don't wish to impugn the integrity of anyone wishing to make such attacks…' She liked the sound of that, and hesitated.
'It is possible, I suppose,' Colthorpe continued, 'to care passionately for the welfare of the nation from the back of a horse while out pursuing foxes.' There was an amused growl of support from the benches around. 'It may even be possible to identify with the plight of the homeless from within the luxury of a palace – indeed, several palaces. It may even be possible, I could not deny it, that being driven around the country in chauffeured limousines and private trains with forty carriages affords a unique insight into the problems of those confined to wheelchairs…'
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