The King turned away to gaze across the bedraggled lawns. His hands were behind his back, his fingers toying irritably with the signet ring on his little finger. 'What has happened to us, Mr Urquhart? Just a few moments ago we were talking of a bright new future, now we haggle over money and the meaning of words.' He looked back towards Urquhart, who could see the anguish in his eyes. ‘I am a man of strong passion, and sometimes my passion runs ahead of what I know is sensible.' It was as close to an apology as Urquhart was going to get. 'Of course you shall see the speech, as Governments have always seen the Monarch's speeches. And of course I shall accept any suggestion you feel you must make. I suppose I have no choice. I would simply ask that you allow me to play some role, however small and discreet, in pushing forward those ideals I hold so deeply. Within the conventions. I hope that is not too much to ask.'
'Sir, I would hope that in many years to come you and I, as Monarch and Prime Minister, will be able to look back on today's misunderstanding and laugh.'
'Spoken like a true politician.'
Urquhart was uncertain whether the words implied compliment or rebuke. 'We have our principles, too.'
'And so do I. You may silence me, Prime Minister, that is your right. But you will not get me to deny my principles.'
'Every man, even a monarch, is allowed his principles.'
The King smiled thinly. 'Sounds like an interesting new constitutional concept. I look forward to discussing it with you further.' The audience was over.
Urquhart sat in the back of his armoured Jaguar, trying vainly to scrape mud from his shoes. He remembered that George III, finished with the oak tree, had also made a general of his horse. His mind filled with visions of a countryside turned over once again to the yoke and plough and city streets smothered in decaying horse manure, By Royal Appointment. His feet were frozen, he thought he was developing a cold, his Environment Secretary was a complete dolt and it was scarcely nine weeks before he wanted to call an election. He could take no chances, there was no time for cock-ups. There could be no suggestion of a Two Nation debate with the Government inevitably on the receiving end. It was impossible; he couldn't take the risk. The King would have to be stopped.
* * *
The taxi picked her up from home seven minutes late, which made her furious. She decided it would be for the last time; they'd been late three times this week. Sally Quine didn't want to be mistaken for other women, the kind who arrive for client meetings habitually late, flash a leg in excuse and laugh a lot. She didn't mind showing off a leg but she hated having to offer excuses and always ensured she arrived anywhere five minutes before the rest so she would be fully prepared and in charge of proceedings. The early bird always hijacks the agenda. She would fire the taxi firm first thing in the morning.
She closed the door to her home behind her. It was a terraced house in a highly fashionable part of Islington with small rooms and reasonable overheads. It represented all that she'd been able to squeeze out of the wreckage she had left behind in Boston, but in the banks' view it was good collateral for the loans on her business and at the moment that was more important than running the sort of gin palace and entertainment lounge preferred by most of her larger competitors. It had two bedrooms, one of which had come set up as a nursery. It had been the first room to be ripped apart; she couldn't bear the sight of any more bears bouncing across the wallpaper and the memories they brought with them. The room was now covered in impersonal filing cabinets and shelves carrying thick piles of computer print-out rather than talcum powder and tubs of vaseline. She didn't think of her baby too often, she couldn't afford to. It hadn't been her fault, no one's fault really, but that hadn't dammed the flood of guilt. She had sat and watched the tiny hand clutching her little finger, the only part of her body small enough for him to cling to, his eyes closed, struggling for each breath, all but submerged beneath the impersonal tubes and anonymous surgical paraphernalia.