As they proceeded down Piccadilly they passed by what had once been the town house of Lord Palmerston, a great Victorian Foreign Secretary who had become a still greater Prime Minister. Omens all the way; the flags which decorated the route seemed to stiffen in salute. The window of Hatchards was laden with copies of a book Makepeace had penned several years earlier and which until a few hours before had been heavily out of print; he signed several without breaking his pace. Drivers leaned on their horns, people waved from buses, tourists asked for autographs. The March for Peace had turned decisively into a celebration of victory. Yet even Makepeace was astonished as he came out of Pall Mall and into the amphitheatre of great buildings which surrounded Nelson's victory column. He had lingered behind in Hyde Park, allowing the body of the march to move ahead of him. In that great river alone he knew there were some fifteen thousand souls, but what he had not known was that the river was flooding into the still greater sea of those gathered to greet him in the square. As they sighted him, led by a skirl of pipers, they broke into an emotional tide of waving hands and banners which washed back and forth across the basin of the square, growing stronger as it did so in shouts and accents which represented all parts of the country and some parts even beyond its shores. More than forty thousand people were gathered under the unseeing eye of Lord Nelson until Trafalgar Square brimmed and overflowed with their enthusiasm. Makepeace walked through their midst like Moses carving his path through the Red Sea, his hands raised, clenched above his head, and they thundered their approval.
Even behind the thick shatter-proof glass of Downing Street, Urquhart could not mistake the roar, like the cry heard by Christians as they waited in the pit of the Colosseum, armed only with their faith in God. Urquhart had never placed much store in Faith, not if it meant being devoured by lions and the bones being quarrelled over by rats. How much better to believe in oneself, to die a Caesar rather than a humble sinner. There came another clamour as Makepeace mounted the podium. Only then did Urquhart set aside his books and begin to dress. He had forgotten to put out any cufflinks; he chose the pair of nine carat gold engraved with the family monogram that had once belonged to his father. He stood in front of the dressing mirror, checking all aspects of his appearance in the manner of a suitor about to propose marriage. He asked Elizabeth for her opinion. She approved, apart from the tie.
'But what are you planning to do this afternoon, Francis, that you should be dressed up so?'
'Why, I intend to address Tom Makepeace's little rally.'
Urquhart was adjusting his tie in the mirror, one ear tuned to the radio and the speech upon which Makepeace had just embarked, the other turned deafly in the direction of Corder. 'Friends. Brothers. My apologies - and sisters!' he heard Makepeace exclaim, before Corder's voice pushed all else aside.
'You can't do this,' the Special Branch officer was stating, emphatic to the point of shouting.
'You cannot stop me, my dear Corder,' Urquhart responded with complete equanimity.
'There are no security arrangements in place.'
'Our security is in the surprise. No one expects me.'
'There are thousands of your opponents out there, Prime Minister. They've travelled from all over the country for the specific purpose of letting you know how much they dislike you. And you want to walk right into their midst?'
'Right into their midst. Exactly.'
'No!' Corder's vehemence was genuine. 'This is crazy.'
'This is history, Corder.'
'May I talk as an old friend, Prime Minister?'
Urquhart turned to face him. 'So far as I am concerned, Corder, you always have.'
'You've been under an immense strain recently. Might this have . . .' - an awkward pause - 'clouded your judgement?'
'Gently put. Thank you.' Urquhart moved to place hands of reassurance on the shoulders of the other man. 'But on the contrary, old friend, the immense strain about which you talk has brought great clarity. You know, the prospect of being hanged and all that? I know what I'm doing. I absolve you of any responsibility.'
'They'll have me issuing parking tickets after this. You know that, don't you?'
'In which case you will be the first knight of the realm to be doing such work. I have already written out my resignation honours, Corder. I'm a Scot, not given to undue generosity, but you should know that you are on my list.'
Corder blinked, shook his head to free himself of what was clearly a distraction from his purpose and returned to the attack. 'I have to stop you.'
'Corder, you cannot.'
'Mrs Urquhart,' he appealed, changing tactic, 'will you stop him?'
Elizabeth had, like Urquhart, been examining her appearance in the mirror, brushing away a few imaginary creases from her jacket. 'I can scarcely do that, Corder.'
'Why not?'
'Because I'm going with him.' 'Are you, by God?' Urquhart exclaimed, challenging her.
She moved over to him, with care and great tenderness enfolded him in her arms and looked closely into his eyes. 'Yes, Francis, I am. I have come with you this far, I'll walk with you a few steps further, if you don't mind. And even if you do.'
His face began to move in agitation, trying to find some words of contradiction, but she placed a finger upon his lips to still them.
'It's only a little walk down the road’ she whispered. 'I won't hold you back.'
He stood on the front step of Number Ten, hand in hand with Elizabeth. Above him white clouds hung like gunsmoke in the summer sky, while behind him Corder was ranting into his personal radio. Urquhart turned in rebuke.
'No, Corder! No great posse of police. I want no human wall to hide behind, no excuse for confrontation with the crowd. I'll not have it.'
The tone was severe, brooking no argument. Corder muttered something into the radio and put it aside.
'Then may I accompany you, Prime Minister? As a family friend?'
Urquhart smiled. 'In that capacity you have always been welcome.'
They began walking down the street. As they approached the tall stressed-steel barriers at its end, a uniformed policeman outside the guard booth saluted while another jabbered excitedly down the telephone. But it was too late. The great gate swung open, and they were in Whitehall.
Large numbers of people were still trying to squeeze into the square, crowding pavements, beginning to clog the approach roads. The Superintendent had need of his extra serials, and more. And as the Urquharts made their way up Whitehall, recognition of them had an immediate effect.
'F.U. too! F.U. too!' barked one youth with the appearance of having been lifted from the front half of a dry cleaning commercial, but Elizabeth turned to launch a look of sharpest feminine rebuke directly at him and he subsided, his voice faltering like a slipping fan belt. His chant was not taken up, instead, a ripple of attention ran through the crowd at the sight of the great opponent, normally only seen through television screens and surrounded by the trappings of power, who to all appearances was enjoying a weekend stroll in the sun with his wife. Cries of recognition the Urquharts received with a civil nod of acknowledgement, chiding rewarded with one of Elizabeth's most devastating stares. As they made their way the five hundred yards up Whitehall, past the mounted sentries at Horseguards, a tremor of interest rather than intolerance ran before them like a bow wave, heralding their arrival. By the time they had reached the crowded edges of the square, the tremor had become a shock wave which began to force its passage through the mass of bodies ahead. Urquhart was coming! Urquhart was coming! And many, particularly those who did not have a good view of Makepeace speaking on the far side of Nelson's Column, turned to face their adversary.
Urquhart's timing was providential - or pestilential, depending on the viewpoint. As Makepeace was about to begin his peroration, he sensed a distinct loss of interest amongst a substantial part of his audience. He looked out across the sea of upturned faces in front of him, through which a turbulent cross-current seemed to be sweeping past and draggi
ng their eyes from him. Caught by their interest, Maria walked to the edge of the raised speaking platform to inspect the source of the disturbance; the look of alarm and confusion which took hold of her was enough to make Makepeace himself falter, serving only to fuel the distraction.
Superintendent Housego was there to meet them. At the first hint of the Urquharts' imminent arrival, relayed through the Information Room at Scotland Yard, he had uttered curses both profuse and profane. Then he had summoned the Tactical Support Group, his reserve of specially trained officers who were on stand-by in coaches parked in nearby Spring Gardens. But he hadn't enough; he wished he had a hundred more.
'I cannot allow this, Prime Minister.'
'You cannot stop me, Superintendent.'
'But I don't have enough men to force a way for you through the crowd.'
'I want no force,' Urquhart responded sharply. Then, more softly: 'Please. Ask your men to stand aside.'
Housego, bewildered, subsided.
Urquhart was still grasping the hand of Elizabeth when he crossed the roadway and came face to face with the crowd. From this point on he knew he would lose all control, becoming little more than another pawn in the great game upon which he had embarked. The faces confronting him were impassive, frozen by surprise. He nodded, smiled and took two steps towards them.
The British are cynics, always willing to believe in human weakness and bathe in the oils of collective scepticism which seep from their daily press. Yet on a personal level they are civil to the point of deception, hiding their real feelings behind a cloak of wooden etiquette in much the same way as they ask for the News of the World to be delivered wrapped between the sheets of the Sunday Telegraph. Had Hitler flown to London rather than requiring Chamberlain to come to Berchtesgarten, the entire country might have queued to shake his hand. The British are bad at personal confrontation.
So the crowd in front of Francis and Elizabeth Urquhart began to shuffle back, to make way and allow them through. Many even smiled in automatic reflex. And thus the Urquharts, slowly and arm in arm like a couple stepping out onto a ballroom floor, made their way towards the rostrum.
The impact of these matters on Makepeace was devastating. He knew he had lost the attention of the crowd, now he could see it parting like concubines before the Khan. With a half-joke about the arrival of unexpected reinforcements, Makepeace himself turned to the edge of the platform to inspect the cause of the disruption. He found Urquhart and his wife, with Corder a pace to the rear, at the bottom of the steps to the podium and already beginning to climb.
'Tom, good afternoon,' Urquhart greeted. 'This I did not expect.'
'Forgive me, I did not mean to disrupt you. But the deed is already done, you have won. I am tired of the fight, Tom.'
'That is gracious of you.' Then, suspiciously: 'Why are you here?'
'To salvage a little pride and respect in defeat, perhaps. On the radio at the start of your speech I heard you say that you did all that you have done more in sorrow than in anger. In that same spirit I have come to express my hopes for conciliation, if not between the two of us then at least for our country.'
'But why?'
'Because I love my country. Because I have led it for too long to wish to see the end of my career languish in bitterness and anger. I have made mistakes, been unfair to you. I would like the opportunity to apologize publicly.'
'What-here? Now?'
'With your permission.'
'Never!' Maria interjected. 'You can't let him hijack your rally like this.'
'I wish only to apologize.'
'Then take an advert in The Times.'
'Maria, Maria,' Makepeace chided gently, 'this is our meeting, these are our supporters. Not his. I've just been complaining about the lack of free speech and compassion in the Britain of Francis Urquhart; is the Britain of Tom Makepeace to begin in the same ugly fashion? What have I got to lose, apart from his public apology? Anyway,' he jested, trying to deflect her protest, 'if I turn him back he's likely to get lynched.'
'Then I may speak?'
Makepeace turned to the microphones. 'It would seem that Mr Urquhart is so impressed with our gathering that he has come to offer his personal apologies to us.'
Released from the confines of face-to-face formality, the crowd indulged their true feelings. A chorus of wolf-whistles and jeers erupted.
'No,' Makepeace held up his hand. 'Unlike some, we are forgiving and tolerant. Let us hear him. Before we condemn him.'
The cries scarcely subsided as Makepeace made way at the microphones for Urquhart.
'I still don't care for it,' Maria was complaining. 'I'd rather watch the lynching.'
How much more suitable she would have been as a leader than Makepeace, Urquhart reflected silently, if only she made a better choice of sleeping partner. He moved forward, Elizabeth at his side. The jeers grew in a crescendo. They volleyed back and forth across the square, gathering in pace and ferocity, the sea of arms and upturned faces turning turbulent and breaking like angry waves against the base of the great column, threatening to overwhelm him.
Suddenly Urquhart threw his hands in the air. 'Marchers! Marchers for peace! I salute you.'
It was as though he had thrown a massive blanket over a fire. Calm.
'We carve the mistakes of men upon their headstones, and bury their accomplishments with their bones. If that is my fate, then let it be.'
Even those few in the crowd who had continued to protest were now hushed to silence. This was not what they had expected.
'This is a rally to celebrate peace and I am indebted to your leader Thomas Makepeace for his permission to address you. I, too, have come in a spirit of peace. And reconciliation. For at the end of an election campaign it is time to accept the verdict of the people, no matter how personally hurtful. To bind the wounds. To move forward. Together. That is what I hope for our country today no less than when I first took office as your Prime Minister. I cannot deny that it was my wish to continue in Downing Street, and if that has seemed selfish on my part, then I accept the charge. If ambition is a crime, then I plead guilty.
'I have held ambition for my office, for there can be no greater privilege or higher accolade in a politician's life than to lead this country and you, its people. You have been kind enough to confer that accolade on me repeatedly for more than a decade, and if you choose to deny me that honour now then again I have no complaint. And certainly not against Tom Makepeace, for he is a decent man.
'I have also held ambition for the people, for it is only through the people that a country may grow great. And if their comfort and prosperity stand at levels which could only be seen as a dream some years ago, then I do not care one jot who is accorded the credit. It is enough for a leader to see those dreams fulfilled and if others wish to ascribe such prosperity to the influence of Europe, to statistical euphemism or even to economic accident, then, once more, I have no complaint.'
There was a shout from the crowd.
'No! Not even against Tom Makepeace. For he was a member of my Government for so many of those years. And he is a decent man.
'Yet above all I have been ambitious for our country, to restore it to the ranks of those nations considered great. Great Britain. Not simply another anonymous land indistinguishable from the others, but one for which we can raise our heads with pride and say "I am a Briton", and for that bold claim to be respected anywhere in the world. And particularly in Europe. I am not anti-European. It is not that I would be the last European, but that I would be the first Briton. That has been my ambition, and if it is an ambition which you do not share, as Tom Makepeace does not, then I have no complaint.
'Earlier today Tom Makepeace said that I owe you an apology and I listened to his words, the words of a decent man, with care. And if it is the view of you and other decent men and women that an apology is due, then it is freely given. As freely as I have given my heart and my life for you over these many years.'
His voice seemed to be
on the verge of breaking, and there was silence across the square. Maria was staring in hard reproach at Makepeace; he in turn stared stonily at his shoes. Urquhart appeared to be searching the crowd as though trying to reach for each and every one of them. Or searching for someone. On perches and pavements around the square, commentators were rapidly attempting to rewrite their scripts.
'But let me say that I have been brought to this place not so much for Britain as for Cyprus. An island which I know well, and which I love. Many of you here will disagree not only with what I have done, but with what I tried to do in Cyprus. Say that I am guilty of confrontation and bloodshed. But that is not what I tried to do. My aspiration, as you all know, was to bring peace to the island. To stop the bloodshed. To bring together the communities. I have failed, but it is an attempt which has failed for over a thousand years in that unhappy place. Yet that prospect of probable failure did not stop me from trying. Yes, if you like, peace was my ambition, and why not? And if I should lose my office because of that failure, how much greater is the loss suffered by ordinary peace-loving Cypriots?'