'He's in hospital. Just had his appendix out,' a female voice floated through his open door.
'I don't care if he's in his bloody coffin. Dig him up and get him on the phone.'
Roderick Motherup, known as Incest throughout the newspaper world, was the paper's Royal Correspondent, the man paid to know who was doing what to whom behind the discreet facades of any of the Royal residences. Even while he lay flat on his back. 'Incest? Why the hell did we miss this story?' 'What story?' a weak voice sounded down the line.
'I pay you a whole truckful of money to spread around enough Palace servants, chauffeurs and snitches so we know what's going on. Yet you've bloody gone and missed it.' 'What story?' the voice chimed in again, more weakly.
The editor began reading the salient facts. The extracts from the King's draft speech excised by the Government. The replacement sections suggested by the Government, full of economics and optimism, which the King had refused to use. The conclusion that behind the King's recent address to the National Society of Charitable Foundations lay one hell of a row.
'So I want the story, Incest. Who's screwing who. And I want it for our next edition in forty minutes.' He was already scribbling draft headlines. 'But I haven't even seen the story,' the correspondent protested. 'Have you got a fax?' 'I'm in hospital!' came the plaintive protest. 'I'll bike it round. In the meantime get on the phone and get back to me with something in ten.' 'Are you sure it's true?'
'I don't care if the damned thing's true. It's a fantastic ball-breaking story and I want it on our front page in forty minutes!'
In editorial offices all around London similar words of motivation were being relayed to harassed Royal-watchers. There was the sniff of a downturn in the air, advertising revenues were beginning to fall, and that meant nervous proprietors who would more happily sacrifice their editors than their bottom lines. Fleet Street needed a good circulation-boosting story. This would put many tens of thousands on tomorrow's sales figures, and had the promise of being a story which would run and run.
A long time ago, at a point lost in the mists of time, an incident took place during a war fought in Canada between the British and the French. At least, it was probably in Canada, although it could have taken place at almost any point on the globe where the two fiercely imperialist nations challenged each other, if indeed it took place at all. According to the reports two armies, one British and the other French, marched up opposite sides of the same hill, discovering unexpected confrontation on the brow. Heavily packed ranks of infantrymen faced each other, readying themselves for battle, hastily preparing their muskets in a deadly race to shed first blood.
But the troops were led by officers who were also gentlemen. The English officer, seeing his counterpart but a few feet away, was quick to see the demands of courtesy and, taking off his hat with a low sweep, invited the French to shoot first.
The Frenchman could be no less gallant than his English enemy and, with a still deeper bow, offered: 'No, sir. I insist. After you.'
At which the English infantrymen fired and blew the French apart.
Prime Minister's Question Time in the House of Commons is much like that confrontation in Canada. All MPs are addressed as 'honourable' and all in trousers as 'gentlemen', even by their fiercest enemy. They are drawn up facing each other in ranks only two sword lengths apart and, in spite of the apparent purpose of asking questions and seeking information, the real intent is to leave as many of your opponents' bodies as you can manage bleeding on the floor of the Chamber. But there are two crucial differences with the confrontation on the hilltop. It is the one who strikes second, the Prime Minister with the last word, who normally has the advantage. And MPs on all sides have learnt the lesson that the midst of battle is no place for being a gentleman.
The news of the dispute over the King's speech hit the newspapers on the last full day of business before the Christmas recess. There was little seasonal goodwill to be found anywhere as His Majesty's Loyal Opposition sensed its first good opportunity of testing the mettle of the new Prime Minister. At three fifteen p.m., the hour appointed for the Prime Minister to take questions, the Chamber of the House of Commons was packed. Opposition benches were strewn with copies of that morning's newspapers and their graphic front-page headlines. During the course of the previous night editors had worked hard to outbid each other, and headlines such as 'A Right Royal Rumpus' had given way to 'King's Draft Daft Says PM', eventually becoming simply 'King of Cardboard City'. It was all richly amusing and luridly speculative.
The Leader of the Opposition, Gordon McKillin, rose to put his question amidst a rustic of expectation on all sides. Like Urquhart he had been born north of the border but there the resemblance ceased. He was considerably younger, his waistline thicker, his hair darker, his politics more ideological and his accent much broader. He was not noted for his charm but had a barrister's mind, which made his words always precise, and he had spent the morning with his advisers wondering how best to circumvent the rules of the House which forbid any controversial mention of the Royal Family. How to raise the topic of the King's speech, without touching on the King?
He was smiling as he reached out to lean on the polished wooden Dispatch Box which separated him from his adversary by less than six feet. 'Will the Prime Minister tell us whether he agrees…' -he looked theatrically at his notes – 'it is time to recognize that more people than ever are disaffected in our society, and that the growing sense of division is a matter for grave concern?'
Everyone recognized the direct quote from the King's forbidden draft. 'Since the question is a very simple one, which even he should be able to understand, a simple yes or no will suffice.' Very simple indeed. No room for wriggling away from this one.
He sat down amidst a chorus of approval from his own backbenchers and a waving of newspaper headlines. When Urquhart rose from his seat to respond he, too, wore an easy smile, but some thought they saw a distinct reddening of his ears. No wriggling. The only sensible course of action was direct avoidance, not to risk a cacophony of questions about the King's views, yet he didn't like to be seen running away from it. But what else could he do?
'As the Right Honourable Gentleman is aware, it is not the custom of this House to discuss matters relating to the Monarch, and I do not intend to make it my custom to comment on leaked documents.'
He sat down, and as he did so a roar of mock anger arose from the benches in front of him. The bastards were enjoying this one. The Opposition Leader was already back on his feet, his smile broader still.
'The Prime Minister must have thought I asked a different question. I don't recall mentioning His Majesty. It is entirely a matter between him and the Palace if the Prime Minister chooses to censor and cut to ribbons His Majesty's remarks. I wouldn't dream of raising such matters in this place.' A howl of mockery was hurled towards Urquhart from along the Opposition benches. Beneath her long judicial wig Madam Speaker shook her head in disapproval at such obvious circumvention of the rules of the House, but decided not to intervene. 'So can the Prime Minister get back to the question which was actually asked, rather than the one he wishes had been asked, and give a straight question a straight answer?'
Opposition MPs were pointing fingers at Urquhart, trying to get under his skin. 'He's chicken, running away!' exclaimed one. 'Can't face up to it,' said another. 'Happy Christmas, Francis,' mocked a third. Most simply rocked back and forth on the leather benches in delight at the Prime Minister's discomfort. Urquhart glanced at the Speaker, hoping she might slap down such conduct and with it the entire discussion, but she had suddenly found something of great interest to study on her Order Paper. Urquhart was on his own.