'You see, Roger, I have seen gossip destroy so many men. Gossip founded on no more than circumstantial evidence or even naked jealousy, perhaps, but you know that the corridors around Westminster have been killing fields for less fortunate people than you or me. It would be a tragedy if you were pilloried either because of Lord Williams' hostility towards you or because people misunderstood your arrangement about expenses and your - hay fever.’
'What should I do?' The voice was plaintive.
'Your position is a delicate one, particularly at a time when the political currents within the Government are ebbing and flowing. I would suggest that you trust me. You need a strong supporter in the inner circles of the Party, particularly as the Prime Minister appears to be getting into more difficult waters and will be concentrating on rescuing himself rather than spending his time rescuing others.'
He paused to watch O'Neill writhe in his chair. ‘I would suggest the following. I shall tell the agency I have fully established that your expenses are legitimate. I shall ask them to continue with the arrangement, on the basis that we are doing it this way to avoid unhelpful jealousy from some of your colleagues within party headquarters who do not support extensive advertising budgets and who might use your high but perfectly legitimate expenses to attack the whole communications set-up. The agency can regard it as a sensible insurance policy. Also, I shall ensure that the Prime Minister continues to be fully informed of the good work you are doing for the Party. I shall certainly try to persuade him of the need to continue a high level publicity campaign to get him through the difficult months ahead, so that your budget is not cut to shreds by the Chairman.'
'You know I would be most grateful...' O'Neill mumbled.
In return, you will keep me informed of eveiything that is going on at party headquarters and in particular what the Chairman is up to. He's a very ambitious and dangerous man, you know. Playing his own game while professing loyalty to the Prime Minister. Between us, though, I think we can ensure that no harm is done to the Prime Minister's - or to your - interests. You must be my eyes and ears, Roger, and you will have to let me know immediately of anything you hear of the Chairman's plans. Your future could depend upon it.' He punched home the words to let O'Neill be in no doubt that he meant it.
‘We must work together on this. You will have to help me. I know how much you love politics and the Party, and I think the two of us together can help steer the Party through some difficult times ahead.'
'Thank you,' O'Neill whispered.
The Strangers Bar in the House of Commons is a small, dark room overlooking the Thames where Members of Parliament may take their 'Stranger' or non-Member guests. As a result it is usually crowded and noisy with rumour and gossip. Tonight was no exception as O'Neill propped up the bar with one elbow and struggled valiantly with the other to avoid knocking the drink out of his host's hand.
'Another one, Steve?' he asked of his immaculately dressed companion.
Stephen Kendrick looked somewhat out of place in his light grey Armani mohair suit, pearl white cuffs and immaculately manicured hands clasped around a glass of Federation bitter, a draught beer for which the bars of the Palace of Westminster afford a warm home.
'Now you know better than me that Strangers can't buy drinks here. And anyway, I've only been here two weeks and I wouldn't want to ruin my career by having anyone see the Prime Minister's pet Irish wolfhound forcing drinks down the Opposition's newest and fastest rising backbencher. Some of my more dogmatic colleagues would treat that as treachery!'
He grinned and winked at the barmaid to attract her attention. Another pint of dark bitter and a double vodka-tonic were quick in coming.
‘You know, Rog, I'm still pinching myself. I never really expected to get here, and I still can't decide whether it's a dream or just a bloody awful nightmare. When we worked together at the same little PR shop seven years ago, who would have guessed you would now be the chief grunter for the Prime Minister and I would be a humble if wonderfully talented Opposition MP?'
'Certainly not that little blonde telephonist we used to take turns with’ ribbed O'Neill. They both chuckled at the memory of younger and more frivolous days.
'Dear little Annie’ mused Kendrick.
‘I thought her name was Jennie’ protested O'Neill.
'Rog, in those days I never remember you being fussy about what they were called.'
The banter finally broke the ice between the two men which had been slowly thawing with the drink. When O'Neill had telephoned the new MP to suggest a drink for old times' sake, they had both found it difficult to revive the easy familiarity which they had known in earlier years. They had been careful, perhaps too careful, to avoid the subject of politics which now dominated both their lives and it had forced their conversation along artificial lines. Now O'Neill decided to take the plunge.
'Steve, I don't mind you buying the drinks all night as far as I'm concerned. The way my masters are going at the moment, I think a saint would be driven to drink.'
Kendrick accepted the opening. Tour lot do seem to be getting their robes of office in something of a twist. There are all sorts of weird rumours going round this place about how Samuel is furious with Williams for putting his head on the block with the PM, Williams is furious with Collingridge for screwing up the election campaign, and Collingridge is furious with just about everyone.'
'Maybe it's simply that they are all tired after the election and can't wait to get away on holiday’ O'Neill responded. 'Like an irritable family squabbling about how the car is packed before taking a long trip.'
If you don't mind me saying, old chum, I think your leader is going to have to put an end to all the bickering very quickly, or else hell go into the Summer Recess with the family looking more like a pack of Westminster alley cats. No Prime Minister can afford to let those sort of rumours run away from him, otherwise they begin to gain a life of their own. They become reality. Still, that's where you and your vast publicity budgets come to the rescue, like the Seventh Cavalry over the hill.'
'More like Custer's last bloody stand’ O'Neill said with some bitterness.
'What's the matter, Rog, Uncle Teddy run off with all your toy soldiers or something?' Kendrick asked with genuine curiosity.
O'Neill emptied his glass and Kendrick ordered another round.
'Between you and me, just as old chums, Steve, he's run off with almost all of them. Hell, we need to find new friends more than ever, but instead of going onto the offensive the Chairman seems content to retreat behind the barricades’
'Ah, do I detect the cries of a frustrated Publicity Director who has been told to shut up shop for a while?'
O'Neill banged the bar in exasperation. 'I shouldn't tell you this, I suppose, but as it's not going to happen there's no harm. The new hospital expansion programme which we promised at the election giving matching Government funds for any money raised locally. We had a wonderful promotional campaign, all ready to go throughout the summer while all you bastards were off on the Costa del Cuba or wherever it is you go’
Kendrick held his silence, not responding to the jibe.
'By the time you all came back in October, we would have won the hearts and minds of voters in every marginal seat in the country. We had the campaign all set! Advertising, a party political broadcast, ten million leaflets, direct mail. "Nursing Hospitals Back To Health." It would have made a wonderful build-up to the party conference as "The Party Which Delivers". But... he's pulled the plug. Just like that’
'Why?' asked Kendrick consolingly. 'Money problems after the election?'
That's the damnable thing about it, Steve. The money's in the budget and the leaflets have already been printed, but he won't even let us deliver them. He just came back from Number Ten this morning and said the thing was off. Then he had the nerve to ask whether the leaflets would be out of date by next year. It's so bloody amateurish!'
He tried to sound morose as he took another large mouthful of spirits, and hoped that he had followed Urquhart's instructions properly, not showing too much disloyalty or too much frankness, just professional pique. He had no idea why Urquhart had told him to concoct an entirely spurious story about a non-existent publicity campaign to pass on in the Strangers Bar. But it seemed a small thing to do for a man on whom he knew he depended.
As he gazed into the bottom of his glass, he saw Kendrick give him a long and deliberate glance. With the air of camaraderie squeezed from his voice, the MP asked 'Why, Rog, why?'
If only I knew, old chum. Complete bloody mystery to me.'
The Chamber of the House of Commons is of relatively modem construction, rebuilt following the war after one of the Luftwaffe's bombs had missed the docks and carelessly scored a direct hit on the Mother of Parliaments instead. Yet in spite of its relative youth the Chamber has an atmosphere centuries old. If you sit quietly in the comer of the empty Chamber, the freshness of the leather on the narrow green benches fades and the ghosts of Chatham, Walpole, Fox and Disraeli pace the gangways once again.
It is a place of character rather than convenience. There are seats for only around 400 of the 650 Members, who cannot listen to the rudimentary loudspeakers built into the back of the benches without slumping to one side and giving the appearance of being sound asleep. Which sometimes they are.
The Chamber places Members in face to face confrontation with their antagonists in opposition parties, separated only by the distance of one sword's length, lulling the unwary into complacency and into forgetting that the greatest danger is always but a dagger's length away, on the benches behind.
Least of all can a Prime Minister forget that well over half the members of his own Parliamentary Party usually believe they can do his job far better, with a firmer grip of detail, or diplomacy, or both. Prime Ministers are called to account twice a week when Parliament is sitting through the time honoured institution of Prime Minister's Question Time. In principle it gives Members of Parliament the opportunity to seek information from the leader of Her Majesty's Government; in practice it is an exercise in survival which owes more to the Roman arena of Nero and Claudius than to the ideals of the constitutionalists who developed the system.
The questions from Opposition Members usually do not seek information, they seek to criticise and to inflict damage. The answers rarely seek to give information, but to retaliate. Prime Ministers always have the last word, and it is that which gives them the advantage in combat, like the gladiator allowed the final thrust.
But Prime Ministers also know that they are expected to win, and it is the manner rather than the fact of their victory which will decide the level of vocal support and encouragement from the troops behind. Woe betide the Prime Minister who does not dispatch the Opposition's questions quickly but who allows them to return once again to the attack. The noisy enthusiasm of the Government backbenches can soon turn to sullen resentment and silent condemnation, for a Prime Minister who cannot dominate the floor of the House of Commons soon finds that he can count on the support of few of his colleagues. Then the Prime Minister must watch not only the opposition in front, but also the competition behind.
It was this constant challenge which made Macmillan sometimes sick with tension before Question Time, which caused Wilson to lose sleep and Thatcher to lose her temper. And Henry Collingridge was not quite up to any of their standards.
The day following O'Neill's evening foray into the Strangers Bar had not been going smoothly for the Prime Minister. The Downing Street press secretary had been laid low by his children's chicken pox, so the normal daily press briefing was of inferior quality and, even worse to the impatient Collingridge, was late. So was Cabinet, which had gathered at its accustomed time of 10 a.m. on Thursday to resolve Government policy. It had dragged on, embarrassed and confused by the explanation from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of how the Government's reduced majority had taken the edge off the financial markets, making it impossible in this financial year to implement the hospital expansion programme which they had promised so enthusiastically during the election campaign. The Prime Minister should have kept a grip on the discussion, but it rambled on and ended amidst acrimony.