Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

Claire looked afresh at him; God, he really meant it. He wouldn't compromise. He was wrong, but she found herself appreciating more than ever that streak of stubbornness, both noble and naive, which was the most endearing and aggravating feature of Tom Makepeace. Urquhart, however, seemed less impressed. His euphoria had gone, to be replaced by unadorned exasperation.

'Tom, you can't resign! For God's sake stop being so petulant and look at what it means. It won't be so very long before I decide to retire and the party starts looking for a new leader. My guess is they'll go for a change of style, too. Someone with a little less stick and a bit more sugar than me. Someone who has a different bias to his politics, just for the joy of a change. Sounds like a pretty good description of Tom Makepeace. Environment is a great opportunity for you – grab it with both hands!' He allowed the thought to take root for a moment. 'What the party won't do, Tom, is to hand over its destiny to someone who's spent the last couple of years sulking on the backbenches.'

Makepeace was wound tight as a piano wire, feet spread apart for support, his arms knotted lest his hands betray the trembling emotions inside, his features set rigid as he struggled for control. Slowly, at the very edges of his mouth, Claire noticed the traces of a wistful smile beginning to appear, the picture of a man saying farewell to something of great importance to himself. But what? Position? Or principle? 'Francis, your logic is almost impeccable. It has only one small fault.' 'And what is that?'

'You underestimate how much I have come to dislike you.' And with that he was gone. The silence he left behind grew oppressive. 'I suppose that meant No' Urquhart muttered at last. 'Shall I go after him?'

'No. I'll not beg.' Nor would he forgive. 'And it was threatening to be such a pleasant day.' It might, perhaps, have made a difference if Makepeace had been allowed a few quiet moments for thought and reflection, an opportunity to set practicality alongside his sense of wounded pride in order to discover which would finish the day stronger. But the wind of fate blows capricious in Westminster, and it was not to be. The corridor from the Prime Minister's House of Commons office emerges directly beside the stairwell leading down from the press gallery. In his careless anger Makepeace all but bowled over Dicky Withers as the pressman emerged from the stairs.

'Arrest this ruffian, Sergeant!' Withers demanded of the policeman who guarded this sensitive section of palace corridor.

'Not likely, Dicky. I've just put five quid on him becoming the next Gaffer.'

'A pity,' Makepeace responded as he dusted down the pressman in apology. 'You'd have got much better odds in the morning.'

Withers eyed his assailant carefully, noting the unusually discomfited expression. 'That's one hell of a hurry, Tom. Tell me, are you flying or fleeing?' 'Does it make a difference?'

'Sure. When a Foreign Secretary is caught charging around like that it must be either a woman or a war. Which is it? You know you can confide in me. I'll only tell about a million people.' Makepeace finished straightening the carnation at the pressman's lapel. Everything in its order. 'Get the boys together for me, Dicky. Lobby Room in fifteen minutes. Then we can tell the whole bloody world. Can't give you an exclusive, but you'll get the first interview afterwards.' 'Sounds like war.' 'It is.'

By Richard Withers, Political Editor Foreign Secretary Thomas Makepeace left the Government yesterday amidst bitter recriminations with Downing Street over the direction of Government policy. There was also controversy as to whether he had resigned or been sacked.

'I've walked out on him in disgust,' Makepeace told a hurriedly convened Westminster press conference.

Downing Street sources later went to considerable effort to deny this, stating that he had been 'consistently out of step' with Government policy on Europe, and the Prime Minister had no choice but to dismiss him. One Government loyalist last night described Makepeace as 'a Euro-crank'.

It was a day of extraordinary excitement at Westminster. The sensational resignation/dismissal followed immediately upon scenes of uproar within the House of Commons after the Prime Minister Francis Urquhart had denounced…

Last night Makepeace announced the formation of a new pro-European group within the Government party called 'the Concorde Club'. 'It will be modem, progressive and entirely up-to-date. It will be opposed to political Neanderthalism,' he said. Observers were left in no doubt that the political Neanderthal he had most in mind was Francis Urquhart.

It is unclear how much support the Concorde Club will gain but if the widely respected Makepeace is able to gain a substantial following, it will represent a most serious threat to the Prime Minister and his chances of continuing long in office.

'This sounds like war,' one senior party source commented.

She rapped at the door. 'He's on, Francis.'

From within the bathroom there was the sound of water being swirled and agitated as Urquhart eased himself back to the present. 'Leave the door open, would you? And switch it up.'

She did as he asked, and also refilled his glass. They made such a balanced team, she mused, with their instincts so intertwined, facing the world and its foibles practically as one. She couldn't remember the last time they had indulged a serious difference of opinion. Was it the redecoration of the apartment at Downing Street or the sacking of his first Chancellor? He'd played both in traditional fashion, while she had encouraged him to be more adventurous with both the decor and the axe. They'd compromised; she'd changed the furniture and he'd kept his Cabinet colleague (but only for another six months, she remembered. Francis had sacked him on her birthday – beneath it all he could be such a romantic).

He wasn't often wrong – hadn't been that morning when he'd offered a few predictions over breakfast. 'It'll be a busy weekend for Tom' he had forecast, 'standard rules of engagement for poor losers. Friday they run to the arms of their constituents for a show of moral support. Saturday it's a walk in the garden with the wife and waifs for a display of family values, then off on Sunday to the vicar to parade the conscience – a personal and intensely spiritual odyssey which somehow always seems to be accompanied by a make-up man and the mongols of the camera pack. Lord, how it must turn the stomach of picture editors, but somehow they seem to manage.' 'His wife's buried away in America, isn't she?'

'True. Maybe he has a girlfriend tucked away somewhere. You know, I think we should keep an eye on young Tom. Perhaps he has hidden depths.'

Now, as the early evening news announced that the once-and-maybe-future Cabinet Minister had been greeted enthusiastically by his Women's Luncheon Committee meeting, a shout of derision and the noise of parting waters came from the bathroom. Urquhart emerged wrapped in a towel.

To the apparent excessive interest of the pursuing news crew, Makepeace was shown purchasing a bag of oranges in his local market.

'Nice touch. From high ministry to lowly market place – our man of the people' Urquhart reflected. 'Bet he pays with a twenty-pound note. He won't have the slightest idea how much they cost,' Elizabeth muttered less charitably.

'Mr Makepeace, what are your plans now?' a breathless interviewer pressed as Makepeace produced his wallet.

'To go home and relax. It'll be the first weekend in almost ten years I haven't been surrounded by red boxes; I'm rather looking forward to it.'

'But you'll miss being in office, surely? Do you want to return to Government at any time?'