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Authors: Michael Dobbs
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Revealing sources is a hanging offense, banging on a minister’s private door only slightly lower down the list of contemptible behavior designed to cut off all forms of useful contact. Political correspondents don’t pursue their quarry back to their homes; it’s bad form, black marks and bollockings all round.
Mattie gave the inside of her cheek another bite. She was nervous. She didn’t lightly bend the rules but why was the bloody man not answering his phone? What on earth was he up to?
A thick Northern voice whispered in her ear, the voice she had so often missed since leaving the Yorkshire Post and the wise old editor who had given Mattie her first proper job. What had he said? “Rules, my girl, are nothing more than a comfort blanket for old men, something to wrap themselves up in against the cold. They exist for the guidance of the wise and the emasculation of the foolish. Don’t you ever dare come into my office and tell me you missed out on a good story because of somebody else’s sodding rules.”
“OK, OK, you miserable bugger, get off my back,” Mattie said out loud. She checked her hair in the mirror, running a hand through it to restore some life, opened the car door, stepped out onto the pavement and instantly wished she were somewhere else. Twenty seconds later the house echoed to the sound of the front door’s ornate brass knocker.
Urquhart answered the door. He was alone, casually dressed, not expecting visitors. His wife had returned to the country and the maid didn’t work weekends. As his eyes fell on Mattie they were filled with impatience; in the darkness of the street he didn’t immediately recognize the caller.
“Mr. Urquhart, I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon. I hope it’s not inconvenient.”
“Ten thirty at night? Not inconvenient ?” The impatience had turned to exasperation.
“Forgive me, but I need some help. No Cabinet changes, not one. It’s extraordinary. I’m trying to understand the thinking behind it.”
“The thinking behind it?” Urquhart’s voice dipped deeper into sarcasm. “I’m sorry but I have nothing to say.” He began to close the door only to see his unwanted visitor take a stubborn step forward. Surely the silly girl wasn’t going to put her foot in the door, it would be too comic for words. But Mattie spoke calmly and quietly.
“Mr. Urquhart. That’s a great story. But I don’t think you’d want me to print it.”
Urquhart paused, intrigued. What on earth did she mean? Mattie saw the hesitation, and threw a little more bait in the water.
“The story would read, ‘There were signs last night of deep Cabinet divisions over the non-shuffle. The Chief Whip, long believed to have harbored ambitions for a move to a new post, refused to defend the Prime Minister’s decision.’ How would you care for that?”
Only now, as his eyes adjusted to the shadows beyond his doorstep, did Urquhart recognize the Chronicle ’s new correspondent. He knew her only slightly but had seen and read enough of her in action to suspect she was no fool. It made him all the more astonished that she was now camped on his doorstep trying to intimidate him. “You cannot be serious,” Urquhart said slowly.
Mattie broke into a broad smile. “Of course I’m not. But what’s a girl supposed to do? You won’t answer your telephone or talk face-to-face.”
Her honesty disarmed him. And, as she stood beneath the light from the lamp above his door, highlights glinting in her short, blond hair, he had to admit that he’d come across less attractive sights in the lobby.
“I’d really like your help, Mr. Urquhart. I need something of substance, something I can get my teeth into, otherwise all I’ve got is thin air. And that’s all you’re leaving me at the moment. Please—help me.”
Urquhart sniffed, stared. “I ought to be bloody furious. On the phone to that editor of yours demanding an apology for such blatant harassment.”
“But you
Mattie gave the inside of her cheek another bite. She was nervous. She didn’t lightly bend the rules but why was the bloody man not answering his phone? What on earth was he up to?
A thick Northern voice whispered in her ear, the voice she had so often missed since leaving the Yorkshire Post and the wise old editor who had given Mattie her first proper job. What had he said? “Rules, my girl, are nothing more than a comfort blanket for old men, something to wrap themselves up in against the cold. They exist for the guidance of the wise and the emasculation of the foolish. Don’t you ever dare come into my office and tell me you missed out on a good story because of somebody else’s sodding rules.”
“OK, OK, you miserable bugger, get off my back,” Mattie said out loud. She checked her hair in the mirror, running a hand through it to restore some life, opened the car door, stepped out onto the pavement and instantly wished she were somewhere else. Twenty seconds later the house echoed to the sound of the front door’s ornate brass knocker.
Urquhart answered the door. He was alone, casually dressed, not expecting visitors. His wife had returned to the country and the maid didn’t work weekends. As his eyes fell on Mattie they were filled with impatience; in the darkness of the street he didn’t immediately recognize the caller.
“Mr. Urquhart, I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon. I hope it’s not inconvenient.”
“Ten thirty at night? Not inconvenient ?” The impatience had turned to exasperation.
“Forgive me, but I need some help. No Cabinet changes, not one. It’s extraordinary. I’m trying to understand the thinking behind it.”
“The thinking behind it?” Urquhart’s voice dipped deeper into sarcasm. “I’m sorry but I have nothing to say.” He began to close the door only to see his unwanted visitor take a stubborn step forward. Surely the silly girl wasn’t going to put her foot in the door, it would be too comic for words. But Mattie spoke calmly and quietly.
“Mr. Urquhart. That’s a great story. But I don’t think you’d want me to print it.”
Urquhart paused, intrigued. What on earth did she mean? Mattie saw the hesitation, and threw a little more bait in the water.
“The story would read, ‘There were signs last night of deep Cabinet divisions over the non-shuffle. The Chief Whip, long believed to have harbored ambitions for a move to a new post, refused to defend the Prime Minister’s decision.’ How would you care for that?”
Only now, as his eyes adjusted to the shadows beyond his doorstep, did Urquhart recognize the Chronicle ’s new correspondent. He knew her only slightly but had seen and read enough of her in action to suspect she was no fool. It made him all the more astonished that she was now camped on his doorstep trying to intimidate him. “You cannot be serious,” Urquhart said slowly.
Mattie broke into a broad smile. “Of course I’m not. But what’s a girl supposed to do? You won’t answer your telephone or talk face-to-face.”
Her honesty disarmed him. And, as she stood beneath the light from the lamp above his door, highlights glinting in her short, blond hair, he had to admit that he’d come across less attractive sights in the lobby.
“I’d really like your help, Mr. Urquhart. I need something of substance, something I can get my teeth into, otherwise all I’ve got is thin air. And that’s all you’re leaving me at the moment. Please—help me.”
Urquhart sniffed, stared. “I ought to be bloody furious. On the phone to that editor of yours demanding an apology for such blatant harassment.”
“But you
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