House of Cards (5 page)

A respectful if not total silence grew over the revellers, and O'Neill returned to the industrial captains. All eyes were fixed on the screen. No one noticed Penny gathering her bag and slipping quietly out.

The screen announced another Government win, but yet again with a reduced majority. While the commentators analysed and sought to be the first to get in with their view that the Government were indeed having a less than splendid night of it, a loyal roar of approval arose from all the agency staff present, most of whom had by now totally forgotten their own political convictions and were ready to celebrate at the slightest excuse. After all, it was only an election.

The Prime Minister waved back from the screen, his stretched smile indicating that he was taking the result rather more seriously than was his audience. The festive mood began to drown out his speech of thanks to the returning officer and local police, and by the time he had left the platform to begin his long drive back to London two agency art directors were pronouncing the official demise of the battered fig trees.

A shout from across the room reached through to O'Neill's group.

'Mr O'Neill. Mr O'Neill. Telephone for you.' The security guard held the telephone up in the air and pointed dramatically to the mouthpiece.

'Who is it?' mouthed O'Neill back across the room.

‘
What?
’
queried the guard, looking nervous.

‘
Who is it?'
he mouthed again.

'Can't hear you,' the guard yelled above the hubbub, gesticulating wildly.

O'Neill cupped his hands around his mouth and once more demanded to know who it was.

It's the Prime Minister's Office!' screamed the frustrated guard, unable to restrain himself and not quite knowing whether he should be standing to attention..

His words had an immediate effect, and the noise of celebration subsided into an expectant hush. An avenue to the telephone suddenly opened up in front of O'Neill, and he slowly and obediently made his way over to the phone, trying to look modest and matter of fact.

It's one of his secretaries. She will put you through,' said the guard, obviously grateful to hand over the awesome responsibility.

'Hello. Hello. Yes, this is Roger.' A brief pause. 'Prime Minister! How are you? Many, many congratulations. The result is really very good in the circumstances. A victory is sweet whether you win 5-0 or 5-4 ... Yes, yes. Oh, that's so kind. I'm at the advertising agency as it happens.'

The room was now so hushed they could almost hear the fig trees crying. 1 think they have performed marvellously, and I certainly couldn't have done it without their support
...
May I tell them that?'

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the totally enraptured audience. The Prime Minister just wants me to thank you all on his behalf for helping run such a fantastic campaign. He says it made all the difference.' He went back to the phone and listened for a few seconds more. 'And he's not going to demand the money back!'

With that the room erupted into a great roar of applause and cheers, and O'Neill held the phone aloft to catch every last sound.

'Yes, Prime Minister. I am totally thrilled and honoured to receive your first telephone call after your own election
..
.I
look forward to seeing you, too. Yes, I shall be at Smith Square later
...
Of course, of course. I will see you then, and congratulations once again. Good night
’

He replaced the telephone gently in its cradle, and turned to face the whole room: Suddenly his face burst into abroad smile, and as he did so the entire gathering broke out into a series of ringing cheers. They pummelled him forcefully on the back as he tried to shake all their hands at once. He was still trying to force his way bac
k to the beaming captains as,
in the next street, Penny carefully put down the car phone and began to adjust her lipstick in the car mirror.

FRIDAY
11th
JUNE

The onlookers in Smith Square had increased dramatically in number as they waited for the Prime Minister's arrival. Midnight had long since tolled but tonight biological clocks would be stretched to the limit. They could see from the TV technicians' monitors that his convoy, escorted by police outriders and pursued by camera cars, had long since left the Ml and was now approaching Marble Arch. It would be less than ten minutes before they arrived, and three youthful cheerleaders were encouraging the crowd to warm up with a mixture of patriotic songs and shouts.

They were having to work harder than at previous elections. While some people were waving enormous Union Jacks, the members of the crowd seemed to be less keen on brandishing the large mounted photographs of Henry Col-lingridge with which they had been supplied. Several of them were wear
ing personal radios, and inform
ing those around them of the results. Even the cheerleaders would stop occasionally to discuss the latest information.

They also had competition, because several Opposition supporters had decided to infiltrate the crowd and were now proceeding to wave tneir own banners and chant their own slogans. Half a dozen policemen moved in to ensure that high spirits on both sides were kept under control, but they did not interfere.

Reports began to circulate that the computers were now forecasting a majority of 28, and two of the cheerleaders broke off to indulge in an earnest discussion as to whether this constituted an adequate working majority. They concluded that it probably was, and returned to their task. But the crowd had turned into an unresponsive audience, the early enthusiasm increasingly deflated with concern, and they decided to save their effort until Henry Collingridge arrived.

Inside the building, Charles Collingridge was getting increasingly drunk. His ruddy and capillaried face was covered in perspiration, and his eyes were liquid and bloodshot.

'A good man, brother Henry. A great Prime Minister
’
he was babbling. Those around him who were still listening could detect the alcoholic lisp which had begun to creep into his voice as he repeated the familiar family history.
‘I
always thought he would have been an even better manager of the family business, could have made it one of the country's truly great companies, but he always preferred politics. Mind you, manufacturing bath fittings was never my cup of tea, either, but it kept father happy. Henry could have grown the business, made something of it, I'm sure. Do you know they even import the stuff from Poland nowadays? Or is it Romania
...
?'

He interrupted his monologue by knocking what was left of his glass of whisky over his already stained trousers and, amidst the fluster of apologies and appeals for help, the Party Chairman Lord Williams took the opportunity to move well out of range. His wise old eyes revealed none of it, but he resented having to extend hospitality to the Prime Minister's brother. Although Charles was not a bad man, he was a weak man who was becoming a bloody nuisance on a regular basis, and the Party's ageing and most senior
apparatchik
liked to run a very tight ship. Yet as experienced as he was, he was only the navigator and knew there was little point in trying to throw the admiral's brother overboard.

He had once raised the problem directly with the Prime Minister of the increasing rumours and the growing number of snide references to his brother in the gossip columns. As one of the few men left who had been a prominent player even in the pre-Thatcher days, he had the seniority and some would argue even the responsibility to do so. But it had been to no avail.

‘I
spend half my time having to spill blood
’
the Prime Minister had pleaded. 'Please don't ask me to spill my own brother's.'

Henry had agreed to ensure that Charles would watch his behaviour, or rather that he would watch Charles's behaviour himself. But he never really had the time, and he knew that Charles would promise anything even while he became increasingly incapable of delivering. He couldn't moralise or be angry, because he knew it was always the other members of the family who suffered most from the pressures of politics. And Williams understood that, too, for hadn't he gone through three marriages since he first entered politics nearly forty years ago?

It was not a matter of lack of love, more a lack of time for loving, with lonely women and neglected families stuck at home and suffering much more from the unkind barbs of politics than the politicians themselves. Politics left a trail of pain and tortured families in its wake, all the more hurtful because it was incidental and unintended. Even the hardened Party Chairman felt a twinge of sorrow as he watched Collingridge stumble from the room. But such feelings were not a sound basis on which to run a Party, and he resolved to have another discussion with the Prime Minister now that the election was over.

Michael Samuel, the Secretary of State for the Environment and one of the newest and certainly most telegenic members of the Cabinet, came over to greet him. He was young enough to be the Chairman's son, a
nd he was something of a protegé
for the elderly statesman. He had been given his first major step up the greasy Ministerial pole by Williams when, as a young Member of Parliament, on Williams' recommendation he had been made a Parliamentary Private Secretary, the unpaid skivvy to a senior Minister who is meant to fetch and carry, to do so without complaint and to offer
his
support without question on any issue — qualities designed to impress Prime Ministers when selecting candidates for promotion. Williams' help had ignited a spectacular rise through Ministerial ranks for Samuel, and the two men remained firm friends.

'Problem, Teddy?' Samuel enquired.

'Michael. A Prime Minister can choose his friends and his Cabinet, but unfortunately not his relatives.'

'Any more than we can select our colleagues.'

Samuel nodded towards Urquhart, who had just entered with his wife after driving up from his constituency. Samuel's glance was cold. He did not care for Urquhart, who had not supported his promotion to Cabinet and who on more than one occasion had been heard to describe Samuel as 'a latter day Disraeli, too good looking and too clever for his own good.'

The veneer over the traditional and still lingering anti-Semitism wore very thin at times, but Williams had offered the brilliant young lawyer good counsel. 'Don't be too intellectual,' Williams had advised, 'and don't look too successful. Don't be too liberal on social matters or too prominent on financial matters. And for God's sake watch your back. Many more politicians have been betrayed by their colleagues than have ever been destroyed by their opponents. Remember it.'

Samuel watched unenthusiastically as Urquhart and his wife were forced by the crush of people towards him. 'Good evening, Francis. Miranda.' Samuel forced his practised smile. 'Congratulations. A 17,000 majority. I know about 600 MPs who are going to be very jealous of you in the morning with a majority like that.'

'Michael! Well, I'm sure you managed to hypnotise the female voters of Surbiton once more. If only you could pick up their husbands' votes as well, you too could have a majority like mine!'

They laughed gently at the banter, accustomed in public to hiding the fact that they did not enjoy each other's company, but there was an embarrassed silence as neither of them could think of a suitable means of disengaging rapidly from the conversation.

They were rescued by Williams, who had just put down the phone. 'Don't let me interrupt, but Henry will be here any minute.'

I’ll
come down with you,' volunteered Urquhart immediately.

'And you, Michael?' asked Williams.

I
’
ll wait here. There will be quite a rush when he arrives. I don't want to get trampled.'

Urquhart wondered whether Samuel was having a gentle dig at him, but chose to ignore it and accompanied Williams down the stairs, which had become crowded with excited office staff as the word had spread of the Prime Minister's imminent arrival. The appearance of the Party Chairman and Chief Whip outside on the pavement galvanised the cheerleaders, who resumed their attempts to raise the spirits of the crowd. An organised cheer went up as the armoured black Daimler with its battalion of escorts swung around the square, to be greeted by the brilliance of the television lights and a thousand flaring flashguns as both professional and amateur cameramen tried to capture the scene.

As the car drew to a halt, Collingridge emerged from the rear seat and turned to wave to the crowd and the cameras. Urquhart tried just a little too hard to get to him to shake his hand, and instead managed to get in the way. He retreated apologetically while on the other side of the car Lord Williams, with the chivalry and familiarity which comes of many years, carefully assisted the Prime Minister's wife out of the car and planted an avuncular kiss on her cheek. A bouquet appeared from somewhere along with two dozen party officials and dignitaries who all wished to get in on the act, and the whole heaving throng somehow managed to squeeze through the swing doors and into the building.

Similar scenes of confusion and congestion were repeated inside as the Prime Minister's party tried to push its way upstairs through the workers, pausing only for. a traditional word of thanks to the staff from the stairs, which had to be repeated because of the press photographers had not managed to assemble themselves quickly enough.