Taking liberties with history
Oct. 8th, 2009 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantomThe first part of the HoC fic that I mentioned a few days ago. Due to the smaller audience for this fandom I'm going to keep posting them here rather than at the fic journal. *shrugs* Yeah, I'm flighty.
Anywho, this is a series of prequels. A colleague of Urquhart's introduces him to a young, fresh faced backbencher. And so it begins.
Monday 9th September 1963
The atmosphere in the Member’s Dining Room at the Palace of Westminster was tense to say the very least. It was quieter than usual, any conversations taking place being lowered to conspiratorial whispers and wherever possible communication was kept strictly non-verbal, like a pointed glance or a measured raise of an eyebrow.
Francis Urquhart, a Junior Minister at the Home Office sat alone, blankly staring down at the food on his plate; food that had looked unappetizing when it had been hot and fresh from the kitchen, and which now, cold and congealing, looked positively revolting.
He had been too lost in his own thoughts to contemplate eating anyway. Recent conversations with his wife were playing inside his head on a continuous loop making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else for too long. His mind was so full that he could barely hear the world outside it.
“It’s not a problem, Francis,” Elizabeth said as she arranged the fresh flowers in a vase then placed it on the windowsill. They were beautiful and bright but in his misery he felt they were mocking him. He wished he had the ability to wilt them with a glare.
She was always saying that. It’s not a problem. Elizabeth never had liked to admit defeat, so declaring that it wasn’t a problem spared her that humiliation. And Urquhart allowed it. He would spare her any pain if he could.
“Children are not everything,” she had continued, being so frustratingly casual during the conversation that he had felt like breaking something valuable. “If you ask me, this world is overpopulated anyway.”
It had been a lie. Whether it had been for her sake or for his he wasn’t sure but it had been a lie.
They had been married for thirteen years now and...nothing. They had not apportioned any blame for their childless state, not vocally anyway, but Urquhart blamed himself all the same and he had the feeling that Elizabeth blamed him too. Emotionally she was as close to him as she had always been; loyal and supportive and attentive. Physically though, she had withdrawn from him, seeming to give up on the idea of ever conceiving so seeing no use in such intimacy.
She filled her life with projects, and he with his work. He could not speak for his wife, but Urquhart would admit privately to himself to feeling empty, hollow. Work was slow and dull for him, even while the whole country had been rocked by scandal. Many people had been politically damaged by recent events but not Urquhart, and in a silly and childish way he resented that. No one had asked him whether he knew anything about Profumo, because...well why would he? It never occurred to them that maybe he did know something, that he knew many, many things, because he listened and watched and never forgot anything.
They didn’t care. Who was this Francis Urquhart?
He actually felt very alone. Alone at home while his wife was pretending that she didn’t care about children and alone at work where excitement was going on all around him yet had not included him.
“Francis,” came the familiar voice of Martin Redmayne from above him. He only just heard the voice, muffled as it was by the cruel voices in his head. Urquhart looked up to see a tall man standing in front of him, a copy of The Times under his arm. He looked every inch the typical politician with his smart, crisp, pressed suit and his greying hair swept back away from his high forehead. “Are you all right? You looked miles away.”
Urquhart smiled wanly up at him. “Hello, Martin. Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”
“Haven’t we all,” Redmayne replied ruefully, grimacing. “Nothing but bad news and malicious gossip,” he said brandishing his newspaper.
“Well, we’ve just gone through the silly season, Martin, the papers will throw anything at us,” Urquhart said, trying to sound reassuring. And Lord knows we’ve given them enough ammunition, he added silently.
His colleague appreciated his attempt and gave him an almost paternal smile.
Urquhart liked Redmayne. He was an understanding kind of person who had unfortunately been right in the thick of it when the recent Profumo affair had hit the Party. He was the Whip, and in the Whip’s office scandal was like a form of currency and it could boom and bust just the same.
There was an awkward silence as the conversation ran dry. For all their friendly feeling towards one another they had little in common aside from the obvious Party interests. Urquhart became too engrossed in his thoughts to notice when something across the room had caught Redmayne’s attention and made him smile in triumph. “What luck,” the older man had said very quietly.
“You know Francis,” Redmayne announced, his voice a little louder, breaking Urquhart’s reverie once more, “I think there’s someone you’d be quite interested in meeting.”
Then, in what looked like an absurd magic trick, the Chief Whip reached over and seemed to pluck from thin air, a short, lean young man and sat him down in front of Urquhart. “Timothy,” he said to him jovially, smiling at the momentary look of shock on the man’s face.
Redmayne turned back to Urquhart, “Francis Urquhart, this is Timothy Stamper.”
Stamper looked shyly at Urquhart for a moment before holding out his hand. “Call me Tim,” he clarified. “Pleased to meet you.”
Urquhart shook the younger man’s hand, which was cool and dry and gripped his firmly, confidently. His eyes were dark but extraordinarily bright and, while his smile was polite, there was a sly look in this young man’s expression. He was smooth and pale, neat and clean shaven and yet despite his obvious youthfulness there was an air of cynicism that surrounded him, as though he was distrustful of everything he saw and heard, as though he had already lived this life and knew it was all a shallow facade. Beneath the softness of youth was a rough, almost ageless quality.
Intrigued, Urquhart looked at him and was struck by the thought that Tim Stamper was the sort of man you didn’t look twice at until he was stood right in front of you, and then you would find yourself incapable of looking at anything else.
“Timothy is one of our newest backbenchers; won his first election in ’61,” Redmayne told Urquhart.
Urquhart looked questioningly at Stamper. “There was a by election in the spring when my predecessor resigned through ill health,” he clarified, his voice even, measured.
“One of the new faces of the Right, eh Francis?” Urquhart smiled at Redmayne but found his gaze drawn back to Stamper who, after the initial shock of being dragged into this conversation, had regained his composure taking everything in with keen eyes.
“Well,” Redmayne said, tucking his newspaper back under his arm in preparation to leave, “I have work to do. See you later gentlemen.” Before departing he gave Urquhart a pointed look and smiled. Urquhart was meant to see significance in this meeting, but for the life of him he couldn’t.
Without further explanation the Chief Whip took his leave and the two men were left alone together for the first time. Stamper, who had been thrown into this situation unexpectedly, was unsure whether he should stay or whether he too should excuse himself and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Urquhart on the other hand, who knew that introducing them had been no mere whim of Redmayne’s, decided to pursue the conversation. He had very little experience of people from the lower middle classes, but he proceeded with the arrogance that had been bred into him, the arrogance that told him that he was better than this man and that he had nothing to fear from him.
“Did you find your youth to be a problem during the election?” Urquhart asked, knowing from personal experience that many voters were biased against younger politicians, feeling that they had not ‘lived’ enough to enact sensible policy, little knowing that it was ‘living’ that inevitably embittered and corrupted even the best of men.
Stamper smiled that wonderfully sly smile of his. “No. I had a bit of trouble getting the party to put me up as a candidate though. I think they thought maybe I was a little too green.” He grinned again as he thought back on it. “I managed to persuade them though.”
“No problem with the electorate?”
Stamper smiled again, this time in wry amusement. “Mr Urquhart, my constituents are worried about immigration and high taxation. I got elected because I’m a Tory.”
There was something vulgar that hinted at power-grabbing in Stamper’s words and Urquhart felt himself cool slightly to the man. “Isn’t that a rather cynical way of choosing your political affiliation?”
The smile dropped from the younger man’s face and Urquhart saw for the first time a hint of the awesome power that face could have. He had gone from amiable to cold in a mere blink of an eye. “I said that was why I was elected, not why I’m a Tory.”
Urquhart felt suitably chastised and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I see,” he said, matching the coldness in the younger man.
“We determine our own futures in this world, Mr Urquhart. I wasn’t born rich. I haven’t been to Eton and Oxford.” That comment was definitely aimed at its audience. “I think about what I want and I go and get it. I don’t need the Government telling me what to do, I’m not a child. If it was left to the other lot we’d find the country in the shit while they threw money at every layabout who has decided they don’t feel like working. If I can make something of my life, so can they. Put everything up for grabs, reward the winners and don’t mollycoddle the losers. That’s how to make a strong society.”
Urquhart felt a flush of warmth at these words. There had been such passion in the young man’s voice and fire behind those disconcerting eyes that Urquhart had found himself holding his breath. Redmayne had been one hundred per cent correct; this really was one of the new faces of the Right. And what a superb face it was too.
“I bet that goes down well with the voters,” Urquhart said, referring to Stamper’s distinctive, candid rhetoric.
“Good old Tim Stamper,” he confirmed, “tells it like it is.” Urquhart could very well believe that that was his campaign slogan. “They know I’m only shopkeeper’s son but then...” He trailed off and his gaze slid almost lazily towards Urquhart. “Well, Profumo was a toff and look what he got up to.”
There was a brief moment of silence while Urquhart thought about how to proceed, and Stamper allowed him to think. Urquhart had made very few friends in the Party, although he had made many allies. People tended to see him as quiet and thoughtful and reserved, and maybe they were right, maybe Urquhart had spent too much time caught up in his own mind.
Now this young man, who was the complete opposite of Urquhart in background and style, had echoed Urquhart’s own thoughts and ideals, albeit in a blunter fashion, and he realised then why the Chief Whip had introduced them.
“What do you make of the rumours?” Urquhart asked. To an outsider it would have sounded cryptic, but there was only one rumour of any note floating around the Party at that time.
“Supermac is on the way out,” Stamper replied without missing a beat, “ill health I hear.”
“Prostate trouble apparently,” Urquhart confirmed.
Stamper’s grin grew and a quiet snort of laughter escaped him. “Oh dear, something to do with being thoroughly buggered by the press in recent months perhaps?” Urquhart found the younger man’s mocking smile infectious, and soon he too found himself smiling back and the two of them shared a conspiratorial laugh.
As their soft laughter dwindled Urquhart realised that for the first time that day he hadn’t thought about his problems at home. As he had sat and chatted to this extraordinary little man he had forgotten his troubles and the voices were silenced. There was something in his frank, crude humour that Urquhart felt soothing, even cathartic. He was refreshing and honest and his face was so sharp and intense that Urquhart couldn’t help but stare. And Stamper stared back, not intimidated by him one bit.
Let’s see how perceptive you are.
“And his successor?” he asked raising one elegant eyebrow.
Stamper chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully and his eyes flickered as he searched for an answer. “Butler’s the obvious choice,” he answered after a few second’s pause. There was a reservation in his tone though.
“But?” Urquhart probed.
Stamper’s gaze zeroed in on him once more and Urquhart had the distinct impression that he was being examined.
“Well Butler’s popular amongst many members of the Party, especially the back benchers, but I doubt the elder statesmen will want to recommend him. Too liberal.” Stamper’s words had an uncanny feel to them. As though he had stared at Urquhart long enough with those piercing eyes and seen straight into his mind. Urquhart allowed a tiny smile to flicker across his face; Stamper caught the action and matched it.
Urquhart continued, wanting to see how far this young man’s perception went. “What about Douglas-Home?”
Stamper did an odd sort of half blink and stared at Urquhart, nonplussed. “What, from the Lords?” Urquhart said nothing; he merely watched Stamper’s face as his brow furrowed in thought. He watched his eyes, able to see his mind working away on the riddle set before him. Suddenly understanding dawned on him and his brow smoothed out once more. “The Peerage Act.”
Urquhart smiled, pleased that his new acquaintance had passed his test. It would have been such a waste of raw talent otherwise. He had proven that he had an instinct for politics, albeit a rough one. Rough edges could be evened out.
“That’s why we were ordered to vote on it,” Stamper said, more to himself than to Urquhart. He had the smug look of a man who had just found the truth and Urquhart was intrigued by his obvious, although perhaps unwarranted arrogance.
Of all the people in the Party, all the members of the landed gentry and all the Oxbridge graduates, he wanted to take this man on as his protégé; this man who for all his common gaucheness was quick witted and obviously eager to learn.
“I thought it was odd that the Tories were giving in to Wedgwood-Benn,” Stamper sneered, swallowing heavily as though to get rid of the nasty taste that name had left in his mouth. “By passing that Act they’ve paved the way for Douglas-Home to reject his Peerage and take a seat in the Commons.” Stamper looked thoughtfully off into space for a moment before his gaze rested on Urquhart once more, this time with a questioning look. “Is it enough to counter everything, The Night of the Long Knives, Profumo? Will he be able to win over the electorate?”
Now it was Urquhart’s turn to look thoughtful. He had been able to discern the motives and the actions of the elder statesmen but he had to confess that the future was not clear to him, his own political instinct not yet honed as well as he would like. Yet Urquhart smiled at him and in that moment, though neither would ever mention it, both of them felt that connection, that attraction of opposites.
“I don’t know,” Urquhart replied. “We shall just have to wait and see won’t we?”
AN: Apologies to Martin Redmayne. A real person who has been dragged into the madness! Also, because I like history too much here's some linkies.
The Profumo Affair
Harold 'Supermac' Macmillan
Alec Douglas-Home
Rab Butler
Tony Benn (Anthony Wedgwood-Benn)
Anywho, this is a series of prequels. A colleague of Urquhart's introduces him to a young, fresh faced backbencher. And so it begins.
Monday 9th September 1963
The atmosphere in the Member’s Dining Room at the Palace of Westminster was tense to say the very least. It was quieter than usual, any conversations taking place being lowered to conspiratorial whispers and wherever possible communication was kept strictly non-verbal, like a pointed glance or a measured raise of an eyebrow.
Francis Urquhart, a Junior Minister at the Home Office sat alone, blankly staring down at the food on his plate; food that had looked unappetizing when it had been hot and fresh from the kitchen, and which now, cold and congealing, looked positively revolting.
He had been too lost in his own thoughts to contemplate eating anyway. Recent conversations with his wife were playing inside his head on a continuous loop making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else for too long. His mind was so full that he could barely hear the world outside it.
“It’s not a problem, Francis,” Elizabeth said as she arranged the fresh flowers in a vase then placed it on the windowsill. They were beautiful and bright but in his misery he felt they were mocking him. He wished he had the ability to wilt them with a glare.
She was always saying that. It’s not a problem. Elizabeth never had liked to admit defeat, so declaring that it wasn’t a problem spared her that humiliation. And Urquhart allowed it. He would spare her any pain if he could.
“Children are not everything,” she had continued, being so frustratingly casual during the conversation that he had felt like breaking something valuable. “If you ask me, this world is overpopulated anyway.”
It had been a lie. Whether it had been for her sake or for his he wasn’t sure but it had been a lie.
They had been married for thirteen years now and...nothing. They had not apportioned any blame for their childless state, not vocally anyway, but Urquhart blamed himself all the same and he had the feeling that Elizabeth blamed him too. Emotionally she was as close to him as she had always been; loyal and supportive and attentive. Physically though, she had withdrawn from him, seeming to give up on the idea of ever conceiving so seeing no use in such intimacy.
She filled her life with projects, and he with his work. He could not speak for his wife, but Urquhart would admit privately to himself to feeling empty, hollow. Work was slow and dull for him, even while the whole country had been rocked by scandal. Many people had been politically damaged by recent events but not Urquhart, and in a silly and childish way he resented that. No one had asked him whether he knew anything about Profumo, because...well why would he? It never occurred to them that maybe he did know something, that he knew many, many things, because he listened and watched and never forgot anything.
They didn’t care. Who was this Francis Urquhart?
He actually felt very alone. Alone at home while his wife was pretending that she didn’t care about children and alone at work where excitement was going on all around him yet had not included him.
“Francis,” came the familiar voice of Martin Redmayne from above him. He only just heard the voice, muffled as it was by the cruel voices in his head. Urquhart looked up to see a tall man standing in front of him, a copy of The Times under his arm. He looked every inch the typical politician with his smart, crisp, pressed suit and his greying hair swept back away from his high forehead. “Are you all right? You looked miles away.”
Urquhart smiled wanly up at him. “Hello, Martin. Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”
“Haven’t we all,” Redmayne replied ruefully, grimacing. “Nothing but bad news and malicious gossip,” he said brandishing his newspaper.
“Well, we’ve just gone through the silly season, Martin, the papers will throw anything at us,” Urquhart said, trying to sound reassuring. And Lord knows we’ve given them enough ammunition, he added silently.
His colleague appreciated his attempt and gave him an almost paternal smile.
Urquhart liked Redmayne. He was an understanding kind of person who had unfortunately been right in the thick of it when the recent Profumo affair had hit the Party. He was the Whip, and in the Whip’s office scandal was like a form of currency and it could boom and bust just the same.
There was an awkward silence as the conversation ran dry. For all their friendly feeling towards one another they had little in common aside from the obvious Party interests. Urquhart became too engrossed in his thoughts to notice when something across the room had caught Redmayne’s attention and made him smile in triumph. “What luck,” the older man had said very quietly.
“You know Francis,” Redmayne announced, his voice a little louder, breaking Urquhart’s reverie once more, “I think there’s someone you’d be quite interested in meeting.”
Then, in what looked like an absurd magic trick, the Chief Whip reached over and seemed to pluck from thin air, a short, lean young man and sat him down in front of Urquhart. “Timothy,” he said to him jovially, smiling at the momentary look of shock on the man’s face.
Redmayne turned back to Urquhart, “Francis Urquhart, this is Timothy Stamper.”
Stamper looked shyly at Urquhart for a moment before holding out his hand. “Call me Tim,” he clarified. “Pleased to meet you.”
Urquhart shook the younger man’s hand, which was cool and dry and gripped his firmly, confidently. His eyes were dark but extraordinarily bright and, while his smile was polite, there was a sly look in this young man’s expression. He was smooth and pale, neat and clean shaven and yet despite his obvious youthfulness there was an air of cynicism that surrounded him, as though he was distrustful of everything he saw and heard, as though he had already lived this life and knew it was all a shallow facade. Beneath the softness of youth was a rough, almost ageless quality.
Intrigued, Urquhart looked at him and was struck by the thought that Tim Stamper was the sort of man you didn’t look twice at until he was stood right in front of you, and then you would find yourself incapable of looking at anything else.
“Timothy is one of our newest backbenchers; won his first election in ’61,” Redmayne told Urquhart.
Urquhart looked questioningly at Stamper. “There was a by election in the spring when my predecessor resigned through ill health,” he clarified, his voice even, measured.
“One of the new faces of the Right, eh Francis?” Urquhart smiled at Redmayne but found his gaze drawn back to Stamper who, after the initial shock of being dragged into this conversation, had regained his composure taking everything in with keen eyes.
“Well,” Redmayne said, tucking his newspaper back under his arm in preparation to leave, “I have work to do. See you later gentlemen.” Before departing he gave Urquhart a pointed look and smiled. Urquhart was meant to see significance in this meeting, but for the life of him he couldn’t.
Without further explanation the Chief Whip took his leave and the two men were left alone together for the first time. Stamper, who had been thrown into this situation unexpectedly, was unsure whether he should stay or whether he too should excuse himself and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Urquhart on the other hand, who knew that introducing them had been no mere whim of Redmayne’s, decided to pursue the conversation. He had very little experience of people from the lower middle classes, but he proceeded with the arrogance that had been bred into him, the arrogance that told him that he was better than this man and that he had nothing to fear from him.
“Did you find your youth to be a problem during the election?” Urquhart asked, knowing from personal experience that many voters were biased against younger politicians, feeling that they had not ‘lived’ enough to enact sensible policy, little knowing that it was ‘living’ that inevitably embittered and corrupted even the best of men.
Stamper smiled that wonderfully sly smile of his. “No. I had a bit of trouble getting the party to put me up as a candidate though. I think they thought maybe I was a little too green.” He grinned again as he thought back on it. “I managed to persuade them though.”
“No problem with the electorate?”
Stamper smiled again, this time in wry amusement. “Mr Urquhart, my constituents are worried about immigration and high taxation. I got elected because I’m a Tory.”
There was something vulgar that hinted at power-grabbing in Stamper’s words and Urquhart felt himself cool slightly to the man. “Isn’t that a rather cynical way of choosing your political affiliation?”
The smile dropped from the younger man’s face and Urquhart saw for the first time a hint of the awesome power that face could have. He had gone from amiable to cold in a mere blink of an eye. “I said that was why I was elected, not why I’m a Tory.”
Urquhart felt suitably chastised and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I see,” he said, matching the coldness in the younger man.
“We determine our own futures in this world, Mr Urquhart. I wasn’t born rich. I haven’t been to Eton and Oxford.” That comment was definitely aimed at its audience. “I think about what I want and I go and get it. I don’t need the Government telling me what to do, I’m not a child. If it was left to the other lot we’d find the country in the shit while they threw money at every layabout who has decided they don’t feel like working. If I can make something of my life, so can they. Put everything up for grabs, reward the winners and don’t mollycoddle the losers. That’s how to make a strong society.”
Urquhart felt a flush of warmth at these words. There had been such passion in the young man’s voice and fire behind those disconcerting eyes that Urquhart had found himself holding his breath. Redmayne had been one hundred per cent correct; this really was one of the new faces of the Right. And what a superb face it was too.
“I bet that goes down well with the voters,” Urquhart said, referring to Stamper’s distinctive, candid rhetoric.
“Good old Tim Stamper,” he confirmed, “tells it like it is.” Urquhart could very well believe that that was his campaign slogan. “They know I’m only shopkeeper’s son but then...” He trailed off and his gaze slid almost lazily towards Urquhart. “Well, Profumo was a toff and look what he got up to.”
There was a brief moment of silence while Urquhart thought about how to proceed, and Stamper allowed him to think. Urquhart had made very few friends in the Party, although he had made many allies. People tended to see him as quiet and thoughtful and reserved, and maybe they were right, maybe Urquhart had spent too much time caught up in his own mind.
Now this young man, who was the complete opposite of Urquhart in background and style, had echoed Urquhart’s own thoughts and ideals, albeit in a blunter fashion, and he realised then why the Chief Whip had introduced them.
“What do you make of the rumours?” Urquhart asked. To an outsider it would have sounded cryptic, but there was only one rumour of any note floating around the Party at that time.
“Supermac is on the way out,” Stamper replied without missing a beat, “ill health I hear.”
“Prostate trouble apparently,” Urquhart confirmed.
Stamper’s grin grew and a quiet snort of laughter escaped him. “Oh dear, something to do with being thoroughly buggered by the press in recent months perhaps?” Urquhart found the younger man’s mocking smile infectious, and soon he too found himself smiling back and the two of them shared a conspiratorial laugh.
As their soft laughter dwindled Urquhart realised that for the first time that day he hadn’t thought about his problems at home. As he had sat and chatted to this extraordinary little man he had forgotten his troubles and the voices were silenced. There was something in his frank, crude humour that Urquhart felt soothing, even cathartic. He was refreshing and honest and his face was so sharp and intense that Urquhart couldn’t help but stare. And Stamper stared back, not intimidated by him one bit.
Let’s see how perceptive you are.
“And his successor?” he asked raising one elegant eyebrow.
Stamper chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully and his eyes flickered as he searched for an answer. “Butler’s the obvious choice,” he answered after a few second’s pause. There was a reservation in his tone though.
“But?” Urquhart probed.
Stamper’s gaze zeroed in on him once more and Urquhart had the distinct impression that he was being examined.
“Well Butler’s popular amongst many members of the Party, especially the back benchers, but I doubt the elder statesmen will want to recommend him. Too liberal.” Stamper’s words had an uncanny feel to them. As though he had stared at Urquhart long enough with those piercing eyes and seen straight into his mind. Urquhart allowed a tiny smile to flicker across his face; Stamper caught the action and matched it.
Urquhart continued, wanting to see how far this young man’s perception went. “What about Douglas-Home?”
Stamper did an odd sort of half blink and stared at Urquhart, nonplussed. “What, from the Lords?” Urquhart said nothing; he merely watched Stamper’s face as his brow furrowed in thought. He watched his eyes, able to see his mind working away on the riddle set before him. Suddenly understanding dawned on him and his brow smoothed out once more. “The Peerage Act.”
Urquhart smiled, pleased that his new acquaintance had passed his test. It would have been such a waste of raw talent otherwise. He had proven that he had an instinct for politics, albeit a rough one. Rough edges could be evened out.
“That’s why we were ordered to vote on it,” Stamper said, more to himself than to Urquhart. He had the smug look of a man who had just found the truth and Urquhart was intrigued by his obvious, although perhaps unwarranted arrogance.
Of all the people in the Party, all the members of the landed gentry and all the Oxbridge graduates, he wanted to take this man on as his protégé; this man who for all his common gaucheness was quick witted and obviously eager to learn.
“I thought it was odd that the Tories were giving in to Wedgwood-Benn,” Stamper sneered, swallowing heavily as though to get rid of the nasty taste that name had left in his mouth. “By passing that Act they’ve paved the way for Douglas-Home to reject his Peerage and take a seat in the Commons.” Stamper looked thoughtfully off into space for a moment before his gaze rested on Urquhart once more, this time with a questioning look. “Is it enough to counter everything, The Night of the Long Knives, Profumo? Will he be able to win over the electorate?”
Now it was Urquhart’s turn to look thoughtful. He had been able to discern the motives and the actions of the elder statesmen but he had to confess that the future was not clear to him, his own political instinct not yet honed as well as he would like. Yet Urquhart smiled at him and in that moment, though neither would ever mention it, both of them felt that connection, that attraction of opposites.
“I don’t know,” Urquhart replied. “We shall just have to wait and see won’t we?”
AN: Apologies to Martin Redmayne. A real person who has been dragged into the madness! Also, because I like history too much here's some linkies.
The Profumo Affair
Harold 'Supermac' Macmillan
Alec Douglas-Home
Rab Butler
Tony Benn (Anthony Wedgwood-Benn)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:15 am (UTC)Holy cow, this is awesome. Thank you for the links, by the way! I'm so going to end up knowing more about the history of British politics in the 20th century than I do about my own country's XD (More interesting, if you ask me.)
I'm so looking forward to the next part! This was just fascinating. The idea that Francis and Elizabeth can't have children never occurred to me - but it makes so much sense; he always wanted a daughter (!), after all. And he's so... oh, so calculating and watchful and so like himself except without that final shove off the cliff of evil. And Tim! That he was introduced as "Timothy" absolutely makes me bounce with glee, and the slyness and the refusal to be intimidated and the subtle jabs at the upper classes! He's perfect. This:
“They know I’m only shopkeeper’s son but then...” He trailed off and his gaze slid almost lazily towards Urquhart. “Well, Profumo was a toff and look what he got up to.”
OMFG. *squeal* And and! I just adored how he seemed to read what Urquhart wanted him to say. I'm even wondering if that's exactly what he's doing - reading cues from Urquhart's expression to see how he should answer. This is SO GOOD!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:09 pm (UTC)Oh, I dunno, all politics is pretty interesting. All the power and intrigue!
The idea that Francis and Elizabeth can't have children never occurred to me
It's a really big issue in the book (TPtK). They don't make that much of it in the adaptation, which is a shame because it explains a lot. I'll come back to that at a later date though ;)
That he was introduced as "Timothy" absolutely makes me bounce with glee
I know! Again it's something I got from the book. Loads of people (upper class people who think they're so much better) refer to him as Timothy and it's just so...cute!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 10:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 10:48 pm (UTC)Tim on the other hand is positively cute at times!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 10:55 pm (UTC)I'd totally be reading it for Tim anyway XD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 10:59 pm (UTC)They're not bad books, it's just that a lot of the characterisation is different and I'm not sure Dobbs gets the appeal of Urquhart. He and Tim do have a healthier relationship though XD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 11:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-10 01:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:48 am (UTC)And so HoC fic grows and grows! Thanks so much for posting this...what a painless way to learn politics...spice it up with people like THAT! I completely believe the backstory. This was...wow. Great!
Um. Mayhap Elizabeth has some frigidity to Stamper in part because Francis found a son-figure without her input?
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:02 pm (UTC)Mayhap Elizabeth has some frigidity to Stamper in part because Francis found a son-figure without her input?
Indeed. I don't think Elizabeth approves of Urquhart's choice.
Also, bear in mind that Urquhart has a very different take on the role of "daddy" figure than the rest of us.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:53 pm (UTC)My viewing of the show is woeful, but I got the impression that she only approved of Francis' choices in the context of how well she could control them through Francis...again, could just be Nancy Reagan leaking out, but still...Stamper was not someone she could control because Francis had Stamper's loyalty first and foremost.
Still appalled that he threw him away like that...Had F.U. survived, I would have put him in a cell tower with bread, water, and a large-print copy of KING LEAR and OEDIPUS. Maybe a book of Aesop's fables for Sunday reading....
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 01:25 pm (UTC)Elizabeth approves much more of Stamper's replacement in The Final Cut, because he's much more her sort of person. I, however, do not approve!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 01:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 04:48 am (UTC)...Jesus, I really need to brush up on my British politics if I want to write in this fandom. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 11:56 am (UTC)Your descriptions of Stamper make me kind of want to do inappropriate things to my pics of Colin Jeavons
Oh good, I was hoping they might ;)
The Urquhart's do have a very strange marriage, but one that, bizarrely, seems to work pretty well for them.
Jesus, I really need to brush up on my British politics if I want to write in this fandom
This is the most frustrating part of it! Why is it all so complicated!?
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 06:31 pm (UTC)And the fact that the Urquharts' marriage works so well is what I like about it. They genuinely love each other (or seem to) in spite of....well, everything. It's weird and wrong and intrigues me.
*nuzzles her Colin Jeavons pics*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 09:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 11:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 12:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 01:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 01:46 pm (UTC)THAT SCENE.
THE TAPE.
"Not me. One of my chaps."
That just implied to me that Stamper had people protecting his back as much as he was protecting Urq's (the ungrateful sod). So when I think about it...I'm dying to know about someone who would be ostensibly working for Urq under Tim...but they had the discretion to take it to Tim instead. Did they do it out of political reasons, or some gaspingly slender personal motive? The whacked out evil genie in me rather likes the idea of someone being loyal to Tim.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 03:29 pm (UTC)And easy to fit into the chain of command in the whip's office as well. Also, Tim needs someone to
love himbe loyal to him.Okay!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-09 03:38 pm (UTC)