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'Go away. Go away. Please - go away!' he screamed, so loudly that neighbours came to the window to investigate.
If it's inconvenient, we'll come back some other time, sir.'
Silently they filed back to their car, and resumed the watch.
TUESDAY 23rd NOVEMBER
They were still there the following morning. After yet another sleepless night, Earle knew he had no emotional resources left. With red eyes and husky voice, he sat weeping gently in an armchair in the study. He had worked so hard, deserved so much, yet it had all come to this. He had tried so desperately to deserve his mother's love and commendation, to achieve something with which to illuminate her final years, but once again he had failed her, as she always said he would.
He knew he must finish it. There was no point in going on. He no longer believed in himself, and knew he had forfeited the right to have others believe in him. Through misty eyes he reached down into the drawer of his desk, and fumbled as he took out his private phone book. He punched the numbers on the phone as if they were nails being driven through his soul. He fought hard to control his voice throughout the brief conversation, but then it was finished, and he could weep again.
The news that Earle had pulled out of the race left everyone aghast as it flashed round Westminster later on Tuesday morning. It had happened so unexpectedly that there was no time to alter the printed ballot papers except with an ignominious scratching through of the name with a biro. Sir Humphrey was not best pleased that his carefully laid preparations should have been thrown into chaos at the last minute, and had some rough words to use for anyone who was willing to listen. But on the stroke of ten Committee Room Number 14, which had been set aside in the House of Commons for the ballot, opened its doors and the first of the 335 Government MPs who were going to vote began to file through. There would be two prominent absentees - the Prime Minister, who had announced he would not vote, and Harold Earle.
Mattie had intended to spend the whole day at the House of Commons chatting to MPs and gauging their sentiment. Most appeared to think that Earle's withdrawal would tend to help Samuel as much as anyone: 'the conciliators tend to stick with the conscience merchants' one old buffer had explained, 'so Earle's supporters will drift towards young Disraeli. They haven't got the sense to make any more positive decision.' Behind the scenes and in private conversations with colleagues who could be trusted, the campaign was taking a more unpleasant personal edge.
She was in the press gallery cafeteria drinking coffee with other correspondents when the tannoy system announced there was a telephone call for her. She took it at the nearest extension. The sense of shock which hit her when she heard the voice was even greater than the news of Earle's withdrawal.
'Hello, Mattie. I understand you were looking for me last week. Sorry you missed me, I was out of the office. Touch of gastric 'flu. Do you still want to get together?'
Roger O'Neill sounded so friendly and enthusiastic that she had trouble connecting it with the voice she had heard a few days earlier. Could it really have been O'Neill she had listened to drivelling down the phone? She remembered the reports about his outrageous performance at Urquhart's reception in Bournemouth, and realised the man must be riding an emotional helter skelter, careering between highs and lows like a demented circus ride.
If you are still interested, perhaps you would like to come across to Smith Square later today' he offered.
He showed no signs of the verbal bruising he had received from Urquhart, which had been particularly merciless. Urquhart had telephoned to instruct O'Neill to make the appropriate arrangements for Simon to attend Earle's weekend meeting, and to ensure that the Minorwas anonymously informed of the connections between the two men. Instead he had discovered that O'Neill was sliding steadily into his cocaine-induced oblivion and losing touch with events outside his increasingly narrow, kaleidoscopic world. There had been a confrontation. Urquhart could not afford to lose O'Neill's services inside party headquarters, or have loose ends unravelling at this point.
'One week, Roger, one more week and you can take a break, forget about all of this for a while if you want, and come back to that knighthood you've always wanted. Yes, Roger, with a "K" they will never be able to look down their noses at you again. And I can arrange everything for you. But you let me down now, you lose control and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. Damn you, get a grip on yourself. You've got nothing to fear. Just hold on for a few more days!'
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