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