'I'm not quite sure where to start, Mr Urquhart,' the King began as they settled in the chairs. 'We are supposed to be making history but it appears there is no form for these occasions. I have nothing to give you, no rich words of advice, not even a seal of office to hand over. I don't have to invite you to kiss my hand or take any oath. All I have to do is ask you to form a Government. You will, won't you?'
The obvious earnestness of his Sovereign caused the guest to smile. Urquhart was in his early sixties, ten years older than the King, although the difference appeared less; the younger man's face was stretched and drawn beyond its years with a hairline in rapid retreat and the beginnings of a stoop. It was said that the King had replaced his complete lack of material concerns with a lifetime of tortured spiritual questioning, and the strain was evident. While Urquhart had the easy smile and small talk of the politician, the intellectual aloofness of an academic and the ability to relax of a man trained to dissemble and if necessary to deceive, the King had none of this. Urquhart felt no nervousness, only the cold; indeed, he began to pity the younger man's gravity. He leaned forward.
'Yes, Your Majesty. It will be my honour to attempt to form a Government on your behalf. I can only hope that my colleagues won't have changed their minds since yesterday.'
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, 'I-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 cliches 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, stcepling 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 construct a stainless-steel monolith 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, for the first time. He'd done it. My Government. My Government. It had all seemed so improbable, but there had been so many improbable Prime Ministers. Pitt, a mere youth of twenty-four. Disraeli, a Jew. Lloyd George, an outrageous adulterer who sold peerages for hard cash. Churchill, son of a syphilitic. Macmillan, a cuckold who honoured his wife's lover with a peerage. The Earl of Home, the Tory Party's noble ruin. And Margaret Thatcher, housewife. Lord Home was a thoroughgoing gentleman whereas she was unrepentantly ruthless, yet she had won every election she fought while he led his Government to instant defeat. It took ruthlessncss and even a little sin to understand power and its uses. He had learnt the lesson. Never repent. For most the art of politics was all about survival, but that alone had never been enough for him. What was the use of engaging in the battle of ideas and egos if all one was left with was survival? Political success required sacrifices, preferably of others, and he had sacrificed enough in his time. Friends, colleagues, those closest to him. Pushed, prodded, thrown from the rooftops and beneath the wheels of public opinion. And he had never repented. Leadership brought with it the awesome and inescapable responsibilities of life and death, and he knew he was worthy of such decisions.