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…’
