taps off with a savage twist, turning directly towards Stamper, hands by his side, water dripping from his soaked cuffs. 'Would I have your support, Tim? The backing of the party machine?'
Stamper turned away and headed for the electric hand dryer, its harsh noise forcing Colthorpe to follow him across the room, and them both to raise their voices.
'There will be quite a few colleagues retiring at the next election, Jeremy. I expect a number of them will want a scat in the Lords.'
'Wouldn't press my own case, but for the wife. I'd work hard at the job, wouldn't skive off like so many of the others.'
'Ultimately, of course, it's up to Francis. He'll have a tough job deciding between the various claims.'
‘I voted for Francis . . .' — that was a lie - 'I'd be loyal.'
'Would you?' Stamper threw over his shoulder. 'Francis does value loyalty above everything.'
'Absolutely. Anything the two of you want, rely on me!'
The hand drier suddenly ceased its raucous huffing and in a moment the atmosphere had grown hushed, almost confessional.
Stamper turned to stare at Colthorpe from only a few inches away. 'Can we really rely on you, Jeremy? Loyalty first?' Colthorpe was nodding. 'Even as far as the King is concerned?' 'The King . . . ?' Confusion crept in.
'Yes, Jeremy, the King. You've already seen how he's rocked the boat. And Francis fears it's going to get worse. The Palace needs reminding, very firmly, who's in charge.'
'But I'm not sure . . .'
'Loyalty, Jeremy. That's what will make the difference between those who get what they want out of this Government, and those who don't. It's an unpleasant business, this thing with the Palace, but somebody has to stand up and defend the important constitutional principles at stake. Francis can't, you see, not formally and publicly as Prime Minister. That would create a constitutional crisis, which he absolutely does not want. The only way to avoid that may be to get someone other than a Minister, someone with great seniority and authority - someone like you, Jeremy - to remind the Palace and the public what's at stake. It's the least Francis has a right to expect from his loyal supporters.'
'Yes, but . . . Get into the House of Lords by attacking the King?'
'Not attacking. Reminding him of the highest constitutional principles.'
'But it's the King who creates new peers—' 'Solely and exclusively on the advice of the Prime Minister. The King cannot refuse his recommendations.' 'It's a little like Alice In Wonderland—' 'So's a lot of what the Palace has been saying.' 'I'd like to think about it a little.'
'You need to think about loyalty?' Stamper's tone was harsh, accusatory. His lip curled in contempt and there was fire in the sepulchral eyes. Without a further word the Party Chairman turned on his heel and made his way towards the door. His hand was already on the shiny brass door knob, and Colthorpe realized his ambitions were ruined if the door closed on this conversation.
'I'll do it!' he squealed. 'Tim, I know where my loyalties lie. I'll do it.' He was breathing heavily with the tension and confusion, trying to regain his self-control, wiping his hands on his trousers. 'You can rely on me, old chap.'
Stamper held his stare, spreading his lips in the coldest of smiles. Then he closed the door behind him.
The lunch had started excellently. Both Mickey Quillington and his first cousin, Lord Chesholm of Kinsale, appreciated a good claret and the cellar of the House of Lords dining room had a large number from which to choose. They had chosen to drink Leoville-Barton but were unable to decide between the '82 and '85 vintage. So they had ordered a bottle of both and slipped gently into mid-afternoon in the warm embrace of the elegant mahogany panelling and attentive staff. Chesholm was a good twenty years older than Quillington and substantially more wealthy, and the impecunious younger peer had hoped to use the lunch for the launch of an appeal to family solidarity which would involve his relative in leasing several hundred of Quillington's Oxfordshire acres at a generous rate, but sadly his tactics had gone awry. The claret proved too much for the elderly peer to manage and he couldn't concentrate, repeatedly exclaiming that he didn't live in Oxfordshire. The bill, although heavily subsidized, still reflected the exceptional nature of the wine and Quillington felt bruised. Maybe the old bugger would regain his wits by teatime.