Michael Dobbs - To play the king

There had been no point in seeking opinions; they would have been so pathetically predictable. Too soon, too precipitate, too uncertain, too much damage to the institution of the Monarchy, they would have said. Too much chance they would lose their Ministerial chauffeurs sooner than necessary. Oh, ye of little faith! They needed some backbone, some spunk. They needed terrifying out of their political wits.

He had waited until they finished smiling and congratulating each other at their favourable showing in the opinion polls – their favourable showing! He had called on the Chancellor of the Exchequer to recite for them just how wretched it was all going to be, particularly after the chaos in the markets had knocked the stuffing out of business confidence. A tunnel which had been dug deeper and longer than anyone could have expected, the Chancellor recited, with not a flicker of light to be seen and a Budget in the middle of next month which would blow holes in their socks. If they had any socks left.

While they were chewing nauseously on those bones he had asked the Employment Secretary about the figures. School holidays beginning on March 15, some three hundred thousand school leavers flooding onto the market, and employment prospects which looked as welcoming as a witch's armpit. The jobless total would rise above two million. Another election pledge out of the window. And then he had turned to the Attorney General's report about the prospect for Sir Jasper Harrod's trial. From the ague which crossed one or two of the faces he suspected there were other individual donations which had not yet come to light amongst the high and, for the moment, mighty. Thursday March 28 was the trial date. No, no postponements likely, the dirty linen being hung out to dry within days of the first rap of the judge's gavel. Sir Jasper had made it clear he did not wish to suffer on his own.

The colleagues had begun to look as though they were sailing in an overcrowded dinghy through a Force Nine before he put his own twist to their discomfort. A strong rumour that McKillin was considering resignation at Easter. Only that twerp of an Environment Secretary Dickie thought it good news; the rest had recognized it immediately for what it was – the Opposition's best hope of salvation, a new start, a clean break with McKillin's fooleries and failures, a leap for firm new ground. Even the other dunderheads had seen that – all except Dickie. He would have to go, after the election.

Only after silence had hung in the air for many seconds did he thrown them a lifeline, a chance to be hauled towards dry land. An election. On Thursday March 14. Just enough time if they hurried and scuttled to tidy up the parliamentary loose ends and a dissolution which would squeeze them through before the next storms hit and overwhelmed them. Not a suggestion, not a request for opinions, simply an indication of his mastery of tactics and why he was Prime Minister, and not any of the rest of them. A strong opinion poll lead. An Opposition in disarray. A Royal scapegoat. A timetable. And an audience with the King in under an hour to issue the Royal Proclamation. What more could they want. Yes, he knew it was tight, but there was time enough. Just.

'Your Majesty.' 'Urquhart.'

They did not bother sitting. The King showed no signs of offering a chair, and Urquhart needed only seconds to deliver his message.

'There is only one piece of business I wish to raise. I want an immediate election. For March 14.' The King stared at him, but said nothing.

'I suppose in fairness I must tell you that part of the Government's manifesto will be a proposal to establish a parliamentary committee of inquiry into the Monarchy, its duties and responsibilities. I shall propose to that commission a series of radical restrictions on the activities, role and financing of both you and your relatives. There has been too much scandal and confusion. It is time for the people to decide.'

When he replied the King's voice was remarkably soft and controlled. 'It never ceases to amaze me how politicians can always pontificate in the name of the people, even as they utter the most absurd falsehoods. Yet if I, an hereditary Monarch, were to read from the Testaments my words would still be regarded with suspicion.'

The insult was delivered slowly so that it sank deep. Urquhart smiled patronizingly but offered no response.

'So it is to be outright war, is it? You and me. The King and his Cromwell. Whatever happened to that ancient English virtue of compromise?' 'I am a Scot.'

'So you would destroy me, and with me the Constitution which has served this country so well for generations.'

'A constitutional Monarchy is built on the mistaken concept of dignity and perfect breeding. It is scarcely my fault that you have all turned out to have the appetites and sexual preferences of goats!'

The King flinched as if he had been slapped and Urquhart realized he may have gone a step too far. After all, what was the point?

'I will bother you no longer, Sir. I merely came to inform you of the dissolution. March 14.' 'So you say. But I don't think you shall have it.'

There was no alarm in Urquhart's demeanour; he knew his rights. 'What nonsense is this?' 'You expect me to issue a Royal Proclamation today, this instant.' 'As I have every right to do.'

'Possibly. And then again, possibly not. An interesting point, don't you think? Because I also have rights accorded by the same constitutional precedents, rights to be consulted, to advise and to warn.'

'I am consulting you. Give me as much advice as you want. Warn me, threaten me for all I care. But that cannot prevent you from granting the dissolution I demand. That is the right of the Prime Minister.'

'Be reasonable, Prime Minister. This is my first time at this, I am new to the job. I need to take advice myself, talk to a few people, make sure I am taking the correct constitutional action. I'm sure I could be in a position to grant your request by, say, next week? Not unreasonable, is it? Just a few days?' 'That cannot be!' 'And why not?'

'You cannot expect me to hold an election on Maundy Thursday when those who are not on their knees are flat on their backs for the Easter holidays. No delay. I will not have it, d'you hear!' The composure had been peeled away; Urquhart's fists were clenched in consternation and his legs braced as if he were about to launch a direct physical attack against the Monarch. Instead of flinching or drawing back, the King began to laugh, a frosty, hollow noise which echoed around the high ceiling.

'You must forgive me, Urquhart. My little joke. Of course I cannot delay your demand. I merely wanted to see how you would react.' The muscles continued to pull his face into the expression of a smile, but behind it there was no sense of warmth. The eyes were like frost. 'You seem to be in something of a hurry. And so, I have to tell you, am I, for your eagerness has helped prompt a decision of my own. You see, Urquhart, I despise you and all that you stand for. The ruthless, relentless, utterly soulless way you pursue your ends. I feel bound to do everything within my power to stop you.'

Urquhart was shaking his head. 'But you cannot delay an election.'

'No. But neither can I accept what I know to be a fact, that you have destroyed my friends, and my family, and now you attempt to destroy me and along with me, the Crown. You know, Charlotte may be a foolish woman but she is basically a kind soul. She didn't deserve what you did to her. But then, neither did Mycroft.' He waited for a second or two. 'I see you don't even feel the need to deny it.' 'I make no comment. You can prove nothing.'

'I don't need to. Only to myself, at least. You see, Urquhart, you have used those I love as a doormat on which to wipe your boots as you wade your way through the sewers. Now you wish to trample on me. I won't allow it.'