Goodfellowe MP

by Michael Dobbs

  He returned to London two days early, drawn not only by the welcome distraction of Gerrard Street’s all-night noise but also, he had to admit privately, by the opportunity of seeing Elizabeth again. He was angry about Elizabeth. There was no place in his life for another woman, but nevertheless one had arrived. At a time when he was desperate to bring a semblance of order to his existence he’d succeeded only in adding a further element of confusion. It didn’t help that he was drinking too much, although he was still sufficiently clear-sighted to realize that his circumstances made him an ideal candidate for election as a parliamentary drunk. It couldn’t be long, he knew, before he would watch the pity that he still found in some colleagues’ eyes turn to derision and contempt. He was too proud for that. Something had to be done.

  He rose on the morning that Parliament was due to reconvene with a tongue as tough as a lizard and tasting as though it had been basted in bat oil. Two bottles of cheap Aussie Shiraz could do that and still leave enough to drive that hammer inside his skull. Bloody idiot. He knew he needed help. And perhaps a little punishment. Time to sort himself out, to beat his life back into shape.

  The concept both of punishment and of beating his life back into shape made him think of Dr Lin. The doctor was a practitioner of the art of Tui-Na or deep manipulation, less a massage than a medicinal assault upon the bones and internal organs of the body which, on the one previous occasion Goodfellowe had tried it, left him aware that there were several parts of his anatomy with which he had simply lost touch. Lin had found the slumbering muscles and systems of the Goodfellowe physique and woken them in a manner which left them complaining for days, yet which Goodfellowe had found eminently reassuring. They were still there … Good-fellowe had reached that point of maturity which passed as middle age in anyone else’s dictionary, where seeds of doubt about his physical competence had begun to germinate – his stamina, his speed, his waistline, even his virility, he questioned them all. He hadn’t been to bed with a woman for four years and voices began to insinuate that even if the opportunity arose, little else might. Such self-doubt is demeaning, corrosive in a man, but the gremlins had been confronted and put to stinging flight by Dr Lin’s beaming pork-pie face and the meat-cleaving hands that had worked their way from the tips of each individual toe to the very top of his scalp, prodding, bending, guiding, re-educating. And, once the dull ache had dispersed, it had proved undoubtedly reinvigorating. He needed more. Forty minutes later he was lying on the good doctor’s treatment couch, stripped to his underpants, regarding the doctor with trepidation.

  ‘Good morning, Minister,’ Jya-Yu’s cheery voice rang out. Lin spoke not a word of English and Jya-Yu acted as his interpreter in the treatment room. ‘Doctor say you tense today. Need good stretching.’

  The rack again. Goodfellowe winced as he was seized by the leg which proceeded to perform an arc in the air over his shoulder.

  ‘Doctor ask if you feel pain. If you do, he be very gentle with you.’

  Goodfellowe did not respond. He deserved a little punishment. It didn’t stop the guilt, but it certainly distracted from it. Anyway, his underpants were slipping and for the moment he was more concerned with rescuing his dignity before Jya-Yu.

  ‘Doctor say your liver very hot. You drink too much.’ It was a statement of fact, not a criticism. The Chinese, Goodfellowe was discovering, were remarkably uncensorious. Was that why there were so few Chinese editors? ‘And your shoes too tight. Make bad bowels.’

  ‘How can he tell I’m constipated simply by twiddling my toes? And how does he hope to cure it by tying knots in my legs?’

  ‘Chinese medicine does not deal with single parts of body,’ Jya-Yu explained as a bone cracked in his hip, ‘but at whole system. Look at things all round about, not just little bit at a time.’

  Dr Lin’s enormous hands were rushing up and down his backbone like a terrier in search of rabbits. The doctor was beginning to perspire with his exertions, turning his small white cap a fraction every few minutes to wipe his brow.

  ‘For example,’ continued Jya-Yu, ‘Doctor have strange lady in last week. She complain that she live in house full of greenfly, and greenfly were burrowing under her skin, giving her terrible itching.’

  ‘Sounds a little peculiar,’ Goodfellowe muttered through tightly clenched teeth. The terrier seemed to have found an entire warren of rabbits hiding beneath his deltoids and was determined to dig every last one of them out.

  ‘She say she go to three Western doctors, all of who say same thing. She need psychiatrist. Mental case. But Doctor Lin ask her if anyone else live in same house and have same problems with greenfly. She say no. So doctor say it cannot be greenfly. Then he start asking other questions. You know what he find?’

  Goodfellowe gasped, rendered hoarse by reason of the armlock which the doctor had placed around his neck.

  ‘She your age,’ Jya-Yu continued, ‘have women problems. Hormone changes. Menopause. Make her skin very itch-itch-itch. Not mental at all. She need only a few pills and Bob is your honoured uncle. You see, very important to look at things all round about.’ Her performance over, she gave a little bow.

  In spite of himself, Goodfellowe laughed. He was beginning to feel better now, more relaxed. The head was clear, the Yin had made contact with his Yang, his chest seemed to have filled out to twice its normal size and both oxygen and optimism were forcing their way back through the system. He felt sure the burning sensation cascading down his legs would disappear eventually.

  ‘Doctor say you very fit. For your age.’

  Lin slapped him cheerfully; it hurt. He decided to take it as a compliment. Looking at things all round about, the good doctor had pronounced him fit to do battle. He felt better, standing straight, re-enthused. A warrior in St Michael’s underwear.

  Outside the surgery the real world was lying in wait for him. As he spilled out onto the street he was greeted by a newspaper billboard. ‘Granite Expansion Plan’ it proclaimed. The Evening Herald was filled with coverage of Freddy Corsa’s latest corporate pronouncements, overflowing with phrases such as ‘dramatic new strategy for growth’, ‘challenging environment ushered in on the back of the Press Bill’ and ‘extensive new financial support in the pipeline’. There was reference to new investment partners, although Goodfellowe noted that no names were mentioned. The edition also contained a profile of Freddy Corsa which, even by the normal standards of proprietor hagiography, was unusually effusive, emphasizing his strong family and charitable commitments even as he moved to fulfil his ambition to place Granite amongst the largest companies in its sector, while the Herald’s diarist nominated him as one of the country’s most exciting young entrepreneurs. The Stop Press carried the announcement that the Granite share price had risen in response, on the basis of which the new City Editor had, entirely without announcement, ordered himself a new sports car.

  Less prominent, indeed entombed in the detail of an inside financial page, was the statement that in order to prepare for this great leap forward Granite was undertaking yet another review of its internal systems and manning levels – ‘to ensure the company is in the leanest and fittest possible shape for the opportunities ahead’. Gain through pain.

  Goodfellowe read it all. The explanations. The analysis. The veneration of Freddy Corsa. His new friend. A man on the move.

  In spite of his odiously pinching shoes, Goodfellowe found a new spring in his step. Lin’s muscle medicine had worked and he could feel the sun on his back warming his spirits. It was time for a new beginning, time to find a new way ahead. Perhaps the many fragments of his life could be made to fit together after all. As he kicked at pigeons in Trafalgar Square he took several decisions. He resolved to telephone Sam in France for no other reason than to let her know he hoped she was having a wonderful time. He would book dinner tonight at The Kremlin – but only half a bottle. And he would drop a note to Freddy Corsa to offer warmest congratulations – and his own services as Fleet Street’s newest occasional
columnist.

  Tom Goodfellowe, he decided, and with only the slightest limp, was back in business.

  For many, the House of Commons is a jungle inhabited by Great Beasts, and even occasionally by a Great She Elephant. This jungle is one of the noisiest places on the planet. The Great Beasts spend much of their time crashing through the undergrowth, guarding their territory jealously and ensuring that the other animals are aware of their presence by releasing terrifying roars in an attempt to induce fear and submissiveness. Confrontations are frequent, accompanied by theatrical and skilfully choreographed displays of aggression, but while all this activity might result in the trampling of a few small trees and shrubs only rarely does it draw blood. A sham. However, it’s a great show for tourists.

  In the jungle there are few Great Beasts. Most of the animals are less formidable, mere ground squirrels who find safety in burrows, popping up only briefly to see what all the noise is about before disappearing once more, or chattering marmosets who gather in the treetops to gossip and throw the occasional nut of protest at the back of a passing Great Beast. The nut-throwing rarely has the slightest effect, in spite of the fact that from a treetop a marmoset can sometimes see much farther than any Great Beast.

  The treetops of the parliamentary jungle are to be found in the formal rooms which divide off the Committee Corridor, a long and richly panelled passage that runs along the riverside flank of the Palace of Westminster. While the Great Beasts fight out their battles on the floor of the Chamber, it is up in Standing Committee that much of the real work of Parliament is performed, scrutinizing new legislation and examining every line of a Bill for any inadvertent intent or casual prejudice that may have been woven into the text by the parliamentary draftsmen. From the Committee Corridor the view can be much clearer, less obscured by the clouds of dust which rise from the strainings of Great Beasts below. Committees can offer reasoned advice, encourage second thoughts, even suggest new ideas – although more often than not the Great Beasts are making too much noise to hear.

  It was from this vantage point, shortly after Parliament had resumed from its Easter recess, that Goodfellowe found himself amongst twenty-four other Members in Committee Room 10, a substantial room of Pugin wall coverings and towering ceilings, where he had been summoned by Lillicrap to do his duty in the passage of the Press (Diversity of Ownership) Bill. The Committee Room was laid out on three sides with chairs and desks; the Chairman and his officers at the head, Government forces on his right, Opposition to the left, and the public scattered to the rear of the room. Goodfellowe sat in the last of three rows of seats allocated to the Government while Lillicrap, in the manner of an eager collie, sat guarding his flock from his position on the front row. The work of the Standing Committee, any Standing Committee, though often intriguing, is rarely enthralling and although to the distant eye Goodfellowe appeared to be busily engaged in studying Committee papers, in fact like many of the other Members present he was surrounded by constituency correspondence. There seemed little in the detail of Clause 2 Subsection 8 to engage him, so he occupied the time between votes in tasks such as signing letters and trying to fathom how he would cope with an engagements diary that resembled Bombay railway station in the monsoon season. Rush, crush, cancellations, unexpected alterations, a schedule bordering on chaos, but where did it all get him? There seemed to be precious few departures. And looming ahead were preparations for the next election, whenever that might come, which meant interminable evenings closeted with Beryl. For a moment he considered throwing himself on the tracks.

  His eyes wandered to the huge oil canvas which hung on the half-panelled wall on the opposite side of the room. It depicted a scene from the Napoleonic Wars, a great naval engagement of flame and ferocity in which Nelson was locked in combat with a French battleship. The Frenchie always reminded Goodfellowe of Beryl. She was dismasted, her rigging torn like cobwebs and her gunwales reduced to matchwood, but still there was defiance, still her cannon blazed, even as she was going down she refused to give up. And one of the pieces always seemed to be pointing directly at him. He had noticed that wherever he sat in that room, one of the Frenchie guns was always aimed in his direction. The muzzle followed him around like eyes on a Picasso. As Beryl would, every day throughout the next election.

  He was concluding that he would need not only a blind eye but also a deaf ear if he were to survive a campaign with Beryl when his attention was distracted by a member of the Opposition who was standing to pursue a Point of Order. Betty Ewing was complaining in persistent manner and broad Birmingham tones that her amendment had not been called in spite of the fact that it raised matters of fundamental importance to the Bill.

  ‘I appreciate you won’t give reasons for not selecting my amendment,’ she protested to the Chairman, ‘but can I encourage you to reconsider? We’re told by Europe that we’ve got to change the ownership rules for British newspapers, but it’s like playing games with mirrors. Who owns the newspapers anyway? In fact, how do we know this isn’t simply a great European prank to ensure that British newspapers end up in the hands of foreign owners?’

  ‘They already are,’ one of her colleagues interjected drily, while the Committee Chairman, Frank Breedon, a curmudgeon and particularly so after lunch, drummed his fingers impatiently.

  ‘The point I’m trying to make, Mr Breedon, is simply this. There is no logic in changing the rules of ownership if there is no way of knowing who the owners are. Shareholder lists are practically incomprehensible. They tell you that the Tom Dick & Harry Investment Trust owns shares, but who in turn owns Tom and Dick and Harry? This Bill will be meaningless without an amendment requiring a far more rigorous identification of anyone with a beneficial interest in the ownership of a newspaper. So that we know precisely who they are. Spelled out, on a central register. We can’t allow foreign owners to hide behind all sorts of incomprehensible corporate structures.’

  Several Members were on their feet trying to intervene and the Minister, too, was rising.

  ‘Order! Order!’ the Chairman barked. His voice was habitually loud, an attempt to compensate for his deafness and what was more than a measure of ineptitude. ‘I’ve had a Point of Order from Mrs Ewing. Let’s deal with that first.’ He nodded in the direction of the Minister.

  ‘Further to that point of order, Mr Breedon, can I assure the Committee that such fears are unwarranted? There are rules of disclosure required by the Stock Exchange which guard against covert ownership …’ – he ignored the snorts of derision and experience from across the floor – ‘and anyone who wilfully evaded them would be liable to prosecution.’

  ‘How can they be prosecuted if we don’t know who they are?’ Betty Ewing threw at him. ‘They could run rings around the regulations. We need a central register.’

  ‘What the Honourable Lady proposes is simply not practical,’ the Minister continued. He paused to moisten lips desiccated by a lifetime of reading out civil service briefs. ‘If those shares are owned by a pension fund, for example, are we supposed to make changes to a register every time someone leaves his job or dies? We might be registering literally thousands of such changes every day. No, it wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work.’

  Amidst chatter on all sides another Opposition Member had risen to pursue the matter. ‘I don’t often play the Puritan, Mr Chairman, but if we don’t know who the owners are this whole Bill is rendered utterly and completely and stupidly pointless. Like so much else of what comes out of Brussels.’ He smiled as even Government members responded loudly to his last point.

  ‘It would greatly assist the Committee if members would come to order. And if Puritanism wasn’t intermingled quite so freely with points of political principle,’ Breedon interjected, offering a little joke under pressure. It didn’t succeed. As the Chairman turned to consult on a point of procedure with his officials, crossfire erupted beyond the reach of his deaf ear.

  ‘We need a central register,’ Betty Ewing persisted.

  ‘I
t’s another Brussels bungle,’ added her colleague.

  ‘We can’t bury the Bill in bureaucracy,’ the Minister complained, gesticulating across the floor to the Opposition. ‘Why should we impose heavier burdens on newspapers than on other industries?’

  ‘Because newspapers are different.’

  The collective attention of the Committee Room was suddenly drawn to a new player in the game. The Minister turned to look in surprise and not altogether with warmth at Goodfellowe who, from his seat in the back row, shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t intended to intervene, his attentions had been elsewhere, on the gun barrel, on the constituency correspondence. Anyway, Government backbenchers weren’t supposed to rush forward to prop up Opposition Members engaged in duels with Ministers. But there it was. It had slipped out, almost unintentionally, rather in the manner that a dish might fall out from behind a partially closed cupboard door. Lillicrap, the master of closed cupboards, looked on in concern.

  ‘They are different,’ Goodfellowe repeated, feeling forced to justify himself. ‘We have always set newspapers apart from other industries. That’s why they don’t pay VAT, for instance.’

  ‘And why they get handed so many knighthoods and peerages,’ someone from the Opposition quipped.

  ‘Government grovel,’ another added. ‘You’d think there was an election coming.’

  ‘Did anyone mention Maxwell?’ a third enquired.

  The Minister turned to mouth a silent but unmistakable oath at Goodfellowe. Like a gun muzzle exploding.

  ‘Order! Order!’ Chairman Breedon demanded gruffly, his attention now back with them and aware he had lost control. He was in tetchy mood, needing to reassert his authority, and his irritation focused on Goodfellowe. ‘Frankly it’s surprising and exceedingly annoying that someone of the Honourable Gentleman’s experience should try to turn this Committee into a school playground.’