The Final Cut

‘So what are you going to do, Mr Thresher?’

‘Happen I’ll take my money away, put it in some Caribbean bank and buy myself a pair of sunglasses.’

‘A great pity for you. A loss for the country, too.’

‘What’s Government going to do about it then, Prime Minister?’

‘Mr Thresher, I’m surprised that a man of your worldly experience should think the Government is capable of doing anything to help.’ Urquhart had a habit of talking about his colleagues in the manner of a world-weary headmaster confronted with irresponsible schoolboys who deserved a thrashing.

‘So it’s off t’Caribbean.’

‘Perhaps the answer might lie a little closer.’

‘How close?’

‘Brixton, perhaps?’

‘You interest me.’

‘I was merely wondering why, if the protesters want a cinema, you don’t give them a cinema.’

‘But that’s not the game. Anyway, nobody comes.’

‘You’re obviously showing the wrong films – What do you think would occur if, for instance, you started showing cult films with a strong ethnic flavour? You know, Rasta and dreadlocks?’

‘I’d have to start giving the tickets away.’

‘Lots of them. Around the black community, I’d suggest.’

‘God, the place’d start swarming with ’em. But what would be the point?’

Urquhart plucked the other’s sleeve to delay him at the entrance to the dining room, lowering his voice. ‘The point, Mr Thresher, is that after four weeks of Bob Marley and ju-ju, it wouldn’t surprise me if the good burghers of Wandsworth changed their minds about your cinema; indeed, I harbour the strongest suspicion they’d crawl to you on hands and knees, begging you to bring in the bulldozers.’ He raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘It’s a pathetic fact of middle-class life that liberalism somehow fades with the nightfall.’

Thresher’s jaw had dropped; Claire had appeared once more at their side to organize them. ‘This is a decent house. So whatever you two are plotting had better stop,’ she instructed genially. ‘Otherwise no pudding.’

‘I think I’ve just ’ad that, pet. You know, your boss is a most remarkable man.’ Thresher’s voice vibrated with unaccustomed admiration.

‘I’m glad you agree. Does my feminine intuition sense a substantial cheque being written out to party headquarters?’ she enquired, twisting his arm as she led him to his place.

‘For the first time in my life, I think I might.’

Claire found her own seat at the head of the table, flanked by Urquhart and Nures. ‘I’m impressed, Francis. I’ve been trying for five years to get him to open his wallet, yet you did it in five minutes. Did you sell the whole party, or just a few principles?’

‘I merely reminded him that amongst the grass roots of politics are to be found many weeds.’

‘And in the bazaar there are many deals to be done,’ Nures added.

‘A touch cynical for someone who’s off-duty, Mehmet,’ she suggested.

‘Not at all. For what is the point of going to the market if you are not intending to deal?’ he smiled.

‘Window shopping?’

His eyes brushed appreciatively over her, taking in the subtle twists of silk – she had no need of excessive ornamentation – not lingering to give offence, before running around the dining room, where modern art and soft pastel had given way to Victorian classic displayed upon bleached oak panelling. ‘You do not leave the impression of one who spends her life with her nose pressed up against the window, Claire.’

‘That’s true. But at least it enables me to lay my hand on my heart and deny any ambition of grabbing your job, Francis.’

‘How so?’ he enquired, in a tone which suggested he wouldn’t believe a word.

She puckered her nose in distaste. ‘I couldn’t possibly live in Downing Street. It’s much too far from Harrods.’

And the evening had been a great success.

It was as Urquhart and his wife were preparing to leave that Nures took him to one side.

‘I wanted to thank you, Prime Minister, for everything you have done to help bring about peace in my island. I want you to know we shall always be in your debt.’

‘Speaking entirely privately, Mr President, I can say how much I have admired your tenacity. As we both know to our cost, the Greeks have never been the easiest of people to deal with. Do you know, the Acropolis is falling down around their ears yet still they demand the return of the Elgin Marbles? Intemperate vandalism.’

‘The Greek Cypriots are different, of course.’

‘Accepted. But Balkan blood runs thicker than water. Or logic, at times.’

‘And oil.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You know the seismic report of the offshore waters has been published?’

‘Yes, but it didn’t show any oil, did it?’

‘Precisely.’ Nures paused, a silence hung between them. ‘But I wanted you to know that if there were any oil, and if that oil were under my control, I would very much want my British friends to help us exploit it.’

‘All this talk of oil, you sound as if you expect it. But there was nothing in the report.’

‘Instinct?’

‘I hope for your sake those instincts are right. But it would then depend upon the outcome of the boundary arbitration.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Oh, I think I begin to see.’

‘I have very strong instincts in this matter, Mr Urquhart. About the oil.’

Urquhart was clear that his feet were now standing directly in the middle of the bazaar. ‘I cannot interfere, even if I wanted to,’ he replied softly. ‘The arbitration is a judicial process. Out of my hands.’

‘I understand that completely. But it would be such a pity if my instincts were right yet the arbitration went wrong, and the Greeks gave all the exploitation rights to their good friends the French.’

‘A tragedy.’

‘Great riches for both your country and mine…’ – why did Urquhart feel he really meant ‘for both you and me’? Instinct, that was it – ‘great riches lost. And I would lose most. Imagine what would happen to me if my people discovered that I had given away a fortune in oil? I would be dragged through the streets of Nicosia.’

‘Then we must hope that fortune smiles on you, and wisdom upon the judges.’

‘I would have so many reasons to be exceptionally grateful, Mr Urquhart.’

Their confidences balanced carefully on a narrow ledge; any move too swift or aggressive, and they would both fall – would Urquhart attempt to run, or would he push? They spoke in whispers, taking care to maintain their poise, when suddenly they were joined by a new and uninhibited voice. ‘Such a rare commodity in politics, don’t you think, gratitude?’ It was Mortima who, farewells indulged, had been hovering. ‘You’d rather be flayed alive than let the French run off with anything, Francis. You really must find a way of helping Mr Nures.’

‘I shall keep my fingers crossed for him.’ And, nodding farewell to the Turk, Urquhart crept back off the ledge.

Claire was waiting for him by the front door. ‘A truly exceptional evening,’ he offered in thanks, taking her hand. ‘If only I could organize my Government the way you organize your dinner parties.’

‘But you can, Francis. It’s exactly the same. You invite the guests, arrange the menu, decide who sits where. The secret is to get a couple of good helpers in the kitchen.’

‘As it happens I’ve been thinking of rearranging the table, playing a bit of musical chairs. But you make a good point about the backstage staff. What do you think?’

‘You want me to be indiscreet.’

‘Of course. Drabble, for instance?’

‘A disaster.’

‘Agreed. And Barry Crumb?’

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