It had been a very necessary lunch, he reflected. Good to know his allies, and his enemies. Although politicians were scarcely sport. Like cabbages, really. Practically indistinguishable from one another, all set out in their neat green rows. Waiting to be dug up and boiled, whenever it suited.
Lillicrap’s invitation had been offered in the old spirit, before life in the Whips’ Office had dried his veins. It was in that same spirit that Goodfellowe had accepted. Lunch on the Terrace with Lillicrap providing. It was that cusp between spring and summer when warming breezes made music through the leaves and the Palace of Westminster seemed to melt into honey cake beneath the sun, and they had found a small table overlooking an ebbing tide. They turned their backs on the rest of the Terrace, discouraging interruption.
To Goodfellowe’s amazement, lunch appeared out of Lillicrap’s document case. A pack of smoked salmon, a couple of rich yellow lemons, whole grain rolls with little tubs of butter, a pepper grinder, every item was produced in the manner of a conjuring trick. The crowning moment came when Lillicrap extracted a bottle of cooled Rossendale Chardonnay, a wonderful New Zealand confection of gooseberries and cream and even a hint of corn. Enticing but not ostentatious, and the whole meal for less than a tenner.
‘And not an ounce on the waistline,’ Lillicrap enthused. He’d become tediously figure-conscious recently, and taken to visiting the gym.
They discussed old times and families, reminiscing about their first campaigns, their last unmarried loves, and a shared Whitsun break when the kids had raced their donkeys along the sands of Watergate Bay.
‘We go back a long way together, Tom. I’m always conscious of that,’ Lillicrap remarked, wiping the last of the crumbs from his lips.
‘I assume I’m due another formal bollocking, Lionel. Thanks for dressing it up so nicely.’
Lillicrap fed the last of his roll to the tangle of sparrows which flocked eagerly around. ‘Nothing formal about this. OK, so I’m a Whip and a bloody ambitious one, as you know, but I’d like to think I can still be your friend.’
‘Again, I’m grateful. Hadn’t realized sentiment was permitted to creep past the Chief Whip’s door.’
‘Don’t be too condescending, Tom. We’ve been supportive of you in the past, in your times of trouble.’
‘I suppose I should have known there would be a price to pay.’
‘Not at all. You were desperate to find a nursing home for Elinor, we were happy to help. No strings. You’re not the first colleague to find himself on a few financial hooks. The loan was all part of the service.’
Goodfellowe nodded. At the time he’d have danced with the Devil, and the Whips knew all the right steps.
‘I’m here as a friend today, Tom,’ Lillicrap continued, adjusting his carefully groomed hair that had slipped in the breeze, ‘and I’ll hope you’ll take what I’ve got in that spirit. A little bad news amongst the good.’ His frame tensed and he leaned once more towards his document case. The sparrows flew away in alarm. From the case he extracted a large manilla envelope which he weighed in his hand, as though having final misgivings, before pushing it across the table. ‘I think you’ll agree this is much better coming from me than from the Chief.’
Inside the envelope Goodfellowe found only one item, a photograph. Of himself with Jya-Yu, outside the police station. She was stretching up towards him, her small but well-formed figure clearly outlined, and she appeared to be kissing him full on the lips. One brief, tantalizing, devastatingly distorting moment, frozen in time. The custody sergeant had warned him, so had the inspector. Don’t get involved. ‘This is a stitch-up!’ Goodfellowe spat.
‘Freelance photographer, apparently. Been trying to hawk it around.’
‘There is nothing in this, Lionel.’ Goodfellowe was willing himself to keep calm, trying not to protest too ardently in case it lent the matter a sense of gravity, but his heart was racing. The photograph trembled slightly in his hand.
‘’Course not. But you’ll have to admit it doesn’t look too good. Nothing indecent, but the sort of thing which encourages people to think we’re all at it.’
Goodfellowe examined the photograph for a considerable period as though hoping it might fade in the sunlight. It only seemed to grow more compromising.
‘Wonder what dear old Beryl would make of it all?’ the Whip muttered, twisting the knife a little too keenly.
‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’ Goodfellowe barked, shoving the photograph back into the envelope.
‘Precisely the opposite. I said there was good news as well as bad. The photograph has been bought by a friend and won’t be appearing. Freddy Corsa, Tom, is a friend of this Government and doesn’t want to embarrass us. Or you.’
‘Is this the point where I’m supposed to fall down on my knees in gratitude? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Don’t be so bloody sanctimonious. Tread carefully, Tom. Not every newspaper would be as generous as Freddy Corsa. Westminster is a rosebed over which the media regularly deposit large amounts of manure. Don’t get smothered in it. I say that as a friend, and it seems to me you need a few friends.’
‘Sorry.’ Goodfellowe chewed his lip. ‘Bad day. Feeling a bit sensitive. Letter arrived this morning to tell me that the fees at Elinor’s nursing home are going up again. Small deluge over this particular rose bush.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘We talked about some other parliamentary consultancy. What do you think are the chances?’
‘Now you’re talking to me as a Whip.’
Goodfellowe understood. ‘And at the moment I’m regarded by the Whips’ Office as the loosest piece of elastic in the knicker factory.’
Lillicrap began packing away the remains of their meal. Duty in the Chamber beckoned, time for sympathy had run out. ‘Stop pushing everyone away, Tom. Look, there’s got to be an election sooner or later, and maybe sooner. Grasp the logic of that. We need to clear the decks, get rid of this Bill. Make sure we have the press on side. It’s as simple as that. There’s no great conspiracy.’
‘I never said there was.’
‘Speaking as a friend, you’ve got no Ministerial job, no money, few obvious prospects. And no licence, not even to bark.’ He pushed the envelope across the table. ‘You need this like you need ovaries.’
Goodfellowe looked upon the envelope, reluctant to touch it.
‘Keep it,’ Lillicrap added. ‘The Herald will have plenty of copies.’
It sounded like a threat.
The Whip was retreating now, disappearing away from the sunshine and through the doorway that led to the shadows within. ‘Think about it, Tom,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘I shall. Every word you’ve said, my friend.’
Lillicrap vanished, leaving Goodfellowe to ponder on oblivion.
‘And with friends like you providing the shovel, a man might dig himself all the way to damnation.’
Goodfellowe walked into the large open-plan basement area which housed some two dozen House of Commons secretaries – the Dragonaria, as Mickey called it, in recognition of several of its older inhabitants who seemed to breathe fire every time a male researcher or unmarried Member dallied around her desk, which they did often. For the moment the area was quiet, some secretaries were still at lunch, others only worked half-days. Mickey sat at her desk, almost hidden by a dozen red roses.
‘Lucky girl. From Justin?’ he enquired.
‘That cannot be a serious question.’
‘Then who?’
She sucked the end of her pencil, almost like a schoolgirl in the midst of an exam. Finally she asked, ‘Don’t you find that life can be complicated?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, the roses are from one of life’s little complications.’ She smiled brightly, all innocence.
He shook his head, genuinely puzzled. ‘How on earth does Justin put up with it?’
‘Because I give him a hard time, which he has been brought up to expect. And
also because when I give him a great time, it’s better than anything the poor darling’s ever found elsewhere. The benefits of experience, Tom, aren’t necessarily confined to old men with grumbling prostates.’
‘Not necessarily my area of expertise,’ he offered guardedly, concerned that one of the more elderly dragons might be tuned in. His concerns were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, which Mickey answered. Her face lit up.
‘It’s for you.’ She held out the phone. ‘One of your little complications, I think.’
He took the phone. ‘Goodfellowe.’
‘Hello, Tom. It’s Elizabeth. Haven’t seen you for a while. Just calling to see if everything is fine.’
He could have sworn it had grown suddenly warmer in the basement. Goodfellowe turned his back on Mickey. ‘Sorry about that, Elizabeth. It’s simply that … to be honest, I’ve had a real struggle this month to pay Sam’s school fees. ‘Fraid I haven’t had much scope for entertaining.’
‘Tom Goodfellowe, men don’t have to pay to see me. Why, what sort of girl do you think I am?’
He’d missed her; she was rebuking him, and he would happily have been flayed by her until dawn.
‘No excuses,’ he apologized. Anyway, how could he explain the most significant reason he hadn’t called, which he had trouble admitting even to himself? He was plain scared. Of his emotions, rusted and seized as they were, and of where they might lead. For too long that mighty machine which drove his lusts and his feelings had been silent – longer than four years, he realized with a pang of guilt, since well before the accident – and he was no longer sure he could control it if it started to turn again. He had made a conscious effort to put Elizabeth out of his mind, and failed. Now that he could hear her voice, the fire was being stoked once more. ‘I was going to call you,’ he offered. It was only half a lie; he spoke to her every night once the work had ceased to crowd his thoughts and he was alone in his bed of sorrows. ‘Elizabeth, I wonder … I’ve got to come back up to town next weekend. I’m reviewing the papers for one of the Sunday breakfast programmes. Because of the Bill, I suppose. I know you’ll be busy for much of Saturday evening with the restaurant but …’ – here goes – ‘if you’re free later, perhaps we could have supper. Then spend some time together on Sunday. All day, really. If you’d like.’
He waited, twisting in the silence, his throat dried by the sudden heat. A part of him, that part which yearned for a return to the simple and straightforward life, hoped she would say no and leave him rusting in peace.
‘I’d like.’
The great engine trembled. ‘Me too.’ He looked behind him. Mickey was pretending to be busy. ‘I don’t want to embarrass Mickey by discussing the sordid details in front of her. I’ll call you later.’ He rang off.
‘Just as long as you make sure there are some sordid details,’ Mickey muttered, loudly enough so he would be sure to hear.
On the floor at his feet he noticed a pile of pencil shavings. Like flakes of rust fallen from a great but neglected machine. ‘It’s been quite a day,’ he sighed.
‘Try and show a little more enthusiasm by the weekend,’ she advised.
‘I’m not even sure I’m going to make it through to then. More bills for Elinor. My dear friend Lillicrap has told me that I’ll only get another consultancy if I behave myself. And then this.’ He threw the envelope across the desk at her and waited as she opened it to reveal the photograph.
‘What’s this?’ she said in alarm.
‘It’s an attempt to blackmail me into being a good boy.’
‘You sure?’
‘Without a doubt. I could live to be a hundred and never see another photograph like that. And Freddy Corsa is sitting on it, refusing to publish. Why? Because he, like my Government, wants me to behave myself and help on the Bill. He’s not been able to buy my co-operation, so now he tries a rather less subtle approach.’
‘But why should he be so … eager? Anxious?’
‘That’s the question of the day. And I haven’t the slightest idea. The Bill will go through eventually, all I can do is get in the way. Delay it a little. Like lying down in front of the bulldozers.’
‘So what are you going to do, Tom?’
‘I know what any sane and sensible man would do. Get on with my life, take care of my wife, accept that my Government knows best and take up trainspotting.’
‘You’ve already got the anorak and woolly gloves.’
‘And doesn’t that about sum me up.’
‘Look, do you really want to become the scourge of Fleet Street?’ She was standing in order to command his attention. She had a very direct stare which some men could find intimidating.
‘Trouble is, I rather think I do,’ he mumbled mournfully.
‘Then for pity’s sake do it properly,’ she replied sharply. ‘Find out what Corsa is up to. And why. Stop being so emotional about the bloody thing.’
‘And what about my financial woes?’
‘Tom, I love you dearly but you are the most financially incompetent man I’ve ever met. Give you a million and somehow you’d let it all dribble through your fingers. You’re never going to change, so why worry about it? But please.’ She took both of his hands in her own, squeezing them urgently. ‘Don’t sell yourself.’
A proper Joan of Arc, he thought, clad in clinging cashmere. He wanted to rejoice for her commitment, share in her enthusiasm, rail against his misfortunes, above all to fight back with her. Instead he found himself twisting his lips, puckering as Elizabeth did when she concentrated. And remembering what had happened to Joan.
‘You really think one man can make a difference?’
‘If he’s surrounded by some good women, he might have a chance.’
‘Even if he’s the most financially incompetent man you’ve ever met?’
‘So long as I still get paid at the end of the month.’ In any event her salary was met directly by the House authorities, not by Goodfellowe. The same could not be said of her out-of-pocket expenses. Last month the cheque he’d signed for her had bounced. ‘Refer to drawer’, the bank had instructed imperiously. She never had, and never would. ‘Anyway, my mother always warned me not to get involved with older men who plied you with gifts and compliments. I suppose I’m safe with you,’ she added.
He laughed. It was the first time that week he had laughed. It was like a fond memory, warming his spirits. One of the dragons, returning from lunch, stared at them holding hands. He laughed all the more. ‘Time to prepare our defences. Two things you will do for me, Miss Ross. I need to get a feeling for what the Herald is up to, so get me back copies for the last three months.’
‘But you can find whatever answers you need on the computer network.’
‘Trouble is, I don’t know what questions to ask. I’ve got to have the original pages, not a computer index.’
‘And the second?’
‘Find Betty Ewing and see if she can break bread with me in the Tea Room this afternoon.’
‘Don’t you want somewhere a little more discreet if you’re going to sup with the Opposition?’
‘Discretion isn’t likely to feature prominently in this campaign.’
‘Perhaps it should.’ Mickey picked up the photograph lying on her desk.
‘I take your point,’ Goodfellowe acknowledged a little bashfully. ‘What do you think I should do about that?’
‘She’s not even a constituent. Stop seeing her, for your own sake.’
‘Trouble is, old duck, I can’t.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got to surrender to bail in a couple of hours.’
The Charge Room resembled an out-take from the latter stages of a Rocky movie. A fight had burst into life in the far corner between two motorcycle couriers and was continuing well beyond the point of futility. In spite of the presence of three police constables who were attempting to smother their enthusiasm by lying on top of them, the leather-clad pair were still managing to exchange punches and insults. Jya-Yu blanche
d. How could she be here, with such animals?
She had arrived at Charing Cross police station to be met by the sight of Goodfellowe attempting to shake the creases from his trousers and, after a wait of ten minutes, a representative from the firm of Crabbie & Gill, Solicitors. Mr Gill himself had been expected but had been detained on some more pressing issue, and in his stead had sent a junior colleague who attempted to conceal his lustreless youth and inexperience behind an air of profound superiority. He offered no apology for his lateness and could barely muster a handshake for Goodfellowe, while his client seemed scarcely to exist for him beyond the pages of a slim blue file. His smile was tight, like a piece of plucked elastic, with leaky eyes and an unfortunate case of acne which reminded Goodfellowe of a discarded oyster shell, an impression of emptiness which was reinforced every time the youth opened his mouth.
Jya-Yu, by contrast, appeared incapable of speech. The toll of sleepness nights had swollen her eyelids so that they had all but closed, her head was held low and her hands clenched tightly together, knuckles showing white, as if at any moment she expected to be thrust into handcuffs and was resigned to her fate. Throughout the preliminary interview with the arresting constable she maintained a rigid silence, speaking only to acknowledge her name, even when he told her of the damning lab report. Her fear was evident – fear which only increased as she was led into the Charge Room to be confronted by the heaving mass of bodies and abuse. Not until a fourth constable had added his substantial weight to the pile did the fight slowly subside, the motorcyclists flapping like fish on a river bank until there was no air left in their lungs for incitement. They were dragged away nose-down in the direction of the cells.
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