Goodfellowe MP

by Michael Dobbs

  He decided to walk the three miles home. He needed the fresh air and the space, time to gather in the pieces of wreckage. To relieve the heaviness of his hangover. It was only as he reached Covent Garden that he remembered Elizabeth and began to quicken his stride, feeling a sense of urgency, ignoring the new blister he could feel swelling on his heel.

  As he hurried into Gerrard Street he half-expected to find a posse of newsmen camped out on his doorstep but the street was empty. They hadn’t caught up with his change of address. As he bounded up the stairs the blister burst and he found his hands shaking so uncontrollably that he had trouble getting the key in the lock. Mercy, at last he was home.

  The volume of Yeats was lying on the kitchen counter. Elizabeth was gone.

  SEVEN

  He had tried to telephone Elizabeth but got only her answering machine. She had surrounded herself with an electronic wall of silence. He thought of rushing round, then held back. Perhaps she needed a little time. In any event, his feelings towards her had grown confused, anger mixing with apprehension. She had jumped to conclusions, like all the rest. No benefit of the doubt, no time to listen. And he had other pressing matters to deal with. He telephoned Jya-Yu but the phone was constantly engaged, scarcely surprising, so he phoned the apothecary. He got Uncle Zhu. In the background he could hear the noise of chaos and Goodfellowe wondered whether in response to the publicity the police had decided to raid the premises after all. Zhu was curt, evidently harassed, and didn’t want to talk, putting down the phone before Goodfellowe even had a chance to say sorry.

  He took his own phone off the hook, made himself a cup of strong black tea and took it to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. The face staring back at him seemed to have withered. On occasions recently when middle age had pressed upon him he had found himself studying old men, imagining what he himself would look like in twenty or thirty years, if he lived that long. They all looked the same. Bent, helpless, unkempt, and his reflection told him he was catching them up. Many also had rheumy, dissolving eyes, he had noticed, as his own now were. Tears fell. He soaked in the bath for a long time until his mangled feet stopped hurting, trying to wash away the rest of the pain.

  As he towelled himself down he made a mental list of all the people he needed urgently to contact – the Press Complaints Commission, a reliable lobby correspondent, a libel lawyer perhaps, the Chief Whip (no, why bother? Undoubtedly the Chief was already trying to contact him). But first priority was to telephone Jya-Yu once more. He put on his bathrobe and reconnected the receiver, but no sooner had he done so than the telephone rang of its own accord.

  ‘Daddy?’

  He was flooded with remorse. The very first call he should have made, with not a second’s delay, and she wasn’t even on his list. She was away, not a daily part of his life, and part of him still thought of her as a child, to be protected and kept apart from problems. How twisted his values had become.

  ‘We knew you were going to be on television this morning. We all sat down to watch you.’ Humiliation hung on every word. He could hear her tears. As he could feel his own.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my pet. Please believe me. None of it is true.’

  ‘Who is she, Daddy?’

  ‘A neighbour here in Chinatown. A young lady I scarcely knew.’

  ‘But you made time for her. You were kissing her.’

  ‘She was embracing me. In gratitude, nothing more.’

  Great Buddha, not even Sam believed him.

  ‘There are reporters and photographers at the school gates. They asked me what it was like to have a father who goes with Chinese prostitutes.’ She had grown suddenly breathless as though she were having another of her childhood asthma attacks.

  ‘Jya-Yu is not a prostitute …’

  ‘They asked if you took sex drugs, too. They started asking me if I had ever taken drugs. Or read the Kama Sutra. If I had a boyfriend. Whether I was allowed to bring him home during the holidays. To sleep with him.’

  She couldn’t continue. The brazen, even defiant young woman of recent months had disappeared, in her place was a frightened child whose emotions and resolve were melting, all because of him. He had failed her more than he could ever have feared.

  She gulped, summoning her courage. ‘I think I know now why you sent me to boarding school.’

  ‘Why was that, darling?’

  ‘You wanted me out of the way so you could be free to do these things. You sent me away not to help me, but so you could help yourself.’

  ‘Please let me …’

  ‘I don’t mind that so much,’ she cut across, determined to force her point through. ‘In a way I can even understand. But do you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know why I hate you so much?’

  ‘Sammy …?’

  ‘I hate you, Daddy, because you’re such an awful bloody hypocrite. That’s it.’

  I hate you, Daddy. He had never wanted to live to hear those words, never dreamed even at his darkest moments that he would. Then Sam was gone, had fled, abandoned him, and in her place another voice. It was Miss Rennie.

  ‘I require a frank word with you, Mr Goodfellowe, if you please.’ The tones were Edinburgh prim, brooking no debate.

  ‘Headmistress, let me explain …’

  ‘I think there are many other people who require an explanation ahead of me, Mr Goodfellowe. What I require you to do is to listen.’ Bare rock was showing through the heather. ‘Poor Samantha is in a most wretched state and normally I would suggest she return home for a few days. However, in this case I suspect we might both agree that sending her home would be the last thing to bring her any comfort. So, unless you have strong objections, she will go to the home of her art teacher, Mrs Ashburton, for a few days.’

  ‘You’re taking her out of school?’

  She took it as an accusation, which perhaps it was. ‘Mr Goodfellowe, let me tell you what you have done. Even as we speak reporters are invading the school grounds, accosting my pupils, trying to bribe information out of them.’

  ‘Truly, Headmistress, you can’t blame me. This is all a misunderstanding. Let me explain …’

  ‘I have only one interest, Mr Goodfellowe, which is in the good name of my school and its pupils, to both of which you are causing immense damage. Heavens, man, they’re even sifting through the dustbins! This must stop. You must stop it. Otherwise I shall have no option other than to ask you to take Samantha away from this school in order to protect the others.’

  He could scarcely believe it. He sat stunned.

  ‘I hope I have made myself perfectly clear, Mr Goodfellowe.’

  He sighed, a blue-black sound of immense despair. ‘In all this, Miss Rennie, I can find only one consolation.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That matters cannot get any worse.’

  Yet already he was out of date.

  Machines, even the great machines of state, have at their heart some small and seemingly insignificant part, a simple spring or a ballbearing perhaps, without which nothing would run. The Downing Street switchboard was such a part, that vital component which kept the channels of government open by being able to get hold of anyone on any occasion other than during seduction or surgery, it was said, and even then they had a better than evens chance. Lillicrap discovered it was a reputation thoroughly deserved. He had tried every number he knew to find Corsa, but either the phone rang unanswered or the janitor who picked it up had little idea who Mr Corsa was, let alone where to find him on a Sunday morning. In desperation he had tried the Herald’s editor, but ran into the stone wall. He had tried to pull a little rank but was brusquely reminded how little rank a Junior Whip had to pull. Corsa valued his privacy. So it was not until Lillicrap had greased the ballbearings and asked with an uncharacteristic lack of bluster for the assistance of the Downing Street girls that he made any form of progress. Within ten minutes they had not only got Corsa but, by the sounds of things, even got him
out of bed. There was a distinctive ‘I don’t want to be ready for this’ tone in the proprietor’s voice, and another voice in the background, female. Traditionally Whips were trained to assume that everyone was sleeping with the vicar’s wife and beating his dog, although nowadays it was just as likely to be the other way around. At least Corsa was clear about his orientation. And his annoyance.

  ‘Lionel, this had better be important.’

  ‘Important enough for you to splash it all over your front page. What the hell was that in aid of? And why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘I didn’t wish to compromise your principles.’

  Lillicrap failed utterly to grasp the sarcasm. ‘Was it truly necessary? To go public?’

  ‘There speaks a man used to dark corners and shadows.. I have only the straightforward ways of a press man. A spotlight and my front page.’

  Lillicrap thought he heard a giggle and the sound of bare flesh being slapped. ‘You told me you wouldn’t use the photograph.’

  “I had no choice.’

  ‘No choice?’

  ‘He must be destroyed. Whatever it takes.’

  Lillicrap’s heart caught. The candour was unmistakable, he thought they were the most sincere words he had ever heard Corsa use. That frightened him.

  ‘Hold up, Freddy, you’re getting this out of proportion.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing out of proportion. This Bill is everything. It must go through.’

  ‘And it will. I’ll deliver.’

  ‘And you’ll deliver the Opposition too?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you know that Goodfellowe has been taking tea with that harridan Betty Ewing? Planning how they can frustrate you. Delay the Bill.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I have friends in low places, lower even than the Government Whip’s Office.’

  ‘In the Opposition?’

  ‘Know thine enemy, Lionel. And he is the enemy. Plotting in the bloody Tea Room, for God’s sake. He’s not even trying to make a secret of it.’

  Lillicrap was flustered. This was getting out of hand, he was losing his hold on circumstance. And a Whip who loses his hold on circumstance soon finds it tightening around his throat.

  ‘Even if we take a drubbing in Committee we’ll get it all back later. Might delay us a couple of months, three or four at most.’ Lillicrap attempted to generate some enthusiasm in his voice but every part of Corsa remained shut away.

  ‘I don’t want later, I want now. No risks. No delays. All I want is what the Government promised me. What you promised me.’

  ‘I can fix him. Without all this publicity. I promise. He won’t cause any more trouble.’

  ‘If the Bill goes down, Lionel, you go down with it.’

  ‘I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But I do, Lionel. And so should you.’

  It was near the summer solstice and the shortest of nights, but it had come as little comfort to Goodfellowe who slept not at all. He was shaking inside, every particle of him at odds, his sense of guilt doing warfare with his sense of grievance and twisting him about as though he were being stretched on the rack.

  He had tried calling Jya-Yu several times but she wasn’t answering her phone. Maybe it was a blessing. If he couldn’t get hold of her, perhaps no one else could. Elizabeth wasn’t answering, either. He thought of going on a hunting expedition for Jya-Yu then prevaricated. The press had finally sorted out his change of address and there was a pack of them outside his door. They might follow him, which would only mean more photographs. Better to stay. Perhaps.

  Sooner or later, however, he would have to make an appearance. He couldn’t hide, didn’t want to hide – hell, he’d done nothing wrong. Or had he? He was no longer certain about anything. So at around nine he made his way down the cold stone stairs to his front door and opened it with the best smile he could find.

  ‘Good morning. Gentlemen.’

  The pack closed in on him, thrusting at him with their tape recorders and cameras. And their questions.

  ‘Got a statement for us, Tom?’

  ‘Only that I have never had any form of improper relationship with Miss Jya-Yu. Therefore the implication of the story in yesterday’s Herald is entirely incorrect. I shall be taking professional advice to see what redress I might have.’

  ‘So were the facts in the story inaccurate, Mr Goodfellowe?’

  ‘Facts are like bricks. You can build a house with them or use them to mug an old lady. It’s the way you use them that matters.’

  ‘Why did you choose to come and live in a red-light district?’

  ‘Chinatown is not a red-light district …’

  ‘It’s spitting distance from Soho. So have you ever paid for sex, Tom?’

  ‘That question is a disgrace.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to look nonchalant, in truth wanting to ensure they didn’t reach out and throttle the bastard.

  ‘Was that a yes or no?’

  And the impromptu press conference had rapidly degenerated as he was asked whether he would sue, what he knew of Oriental positions both philosophical and physical, if he would be resigning, had he spoken to the Prime Minister, did he like Indian tea, too, until it all began to be lost in a sea of innuendo and aggression. Then, as though from a scene in a Hornblower film, the stormy seas parted and through their midst under awesome sail came a battleship. It was Beryl. She was wearing a dress of bright floral motif and as she advanced she looked like two stray mongrels having a scrap inside a hydrangea bush.

  ‘Mr Goodfellowe, a word please.’

  By her manner it seemed as if at least two would be necessary. But it gave him an excuse for turning his back on the press. He took her inside.

  ‘Care for a cup of tea, Beryl? I’m sure I can find some English Breakfast.’

  ‘No thank you.’ She also refused his invitation to proceed up the stairs to his apartment, clearly under the impression that it was a den of depravity from which lady visitors were fortunate to emerge with either honour or underwear. She stood resolutely on the doormat, one hand wrapped around the latch to effect a rapid departure. ‘What I have to say is very brief.’

  ‘A relief to us both. You could have phoned.’

  ‘I tried. The phone was off the hook. Anyway, some things one prefers to do face to face. As a matter of honour.’ She made it sound as if he would have no personal experience of such things. Her cheeks flushed. ‘Is it your intention to resign your seat?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve done nothing wrong. I shall stand for re-election as we discussed.’

  ‘Not,’ she emphasized, ‘as we discussed.’ The hydrangeas rustled in the quickening winds. ‘That was before. If you are not going to resign and insist on standing at the election, then I have come to tell you that I will be opposing your nomination as the official candidate and I feel certain that a majority of my Executive Committee will support me.’

  ‘You’re going to throw me out?’

  She had already begun to open the door. ‘You’ve thrown yourself out. You’re arrogant. You show no loyalty. And you spend far too much time inside police stations.’

  ‘You’re trying to destroy my life.’

  ‘You are the one destroying it, Mr Goodfellowe. No one else.’ She turned for one final, defiant glare and found it returned.

  ‘You know, Beryl, when they handed out the milk of human understanding, you got the sterilized skimmed.’

  In its haste to deliver its cargo of newspapers the Transit van veered sharply as it came off Trafalgar Square and made a dash into Whitehall. Its wing mirror brushed Goodfellowe’s shoulder; another couple of inches and it would have had him off his bike and wrapped around the railings. He shouted a protest. The newspaper van responded with a black cloud of noxiousness as the driver accelerated away, leaving Goodfellowe too busy coughing even to curse.

  He was still coughing from the effects of the exhaust as he passed the diminutive statue of Sir Walter R
aleigh outside the Ministry of Defence. He’d always thought the two of them had much in common. Raleigh had been another West Country MP, an adventurer who had sailed off into the unknown in search of El Dorado and came back instead with potatoes and tobacco. Something, at least, to show for the effort. But instead of reward, a fickle nation had lodged him in the Bloody Tower, dragged him to a scaffold in Old Palace Yard beside Parliament and, in front of a large audience, struck off his head. Much like breakfast television, Goodfellowe reflected.

  As he cycled into New Palace Yard he noticed the duty policemen looking in his direction, conferring and nodding, as they might have done when Raleigh’s tumbril passed by. Goodfellowe sighed, guessing it was going to be one of those days. He stared them down and with determined step made his way directly to his office.

  ‘Where’s the post?’ he demanded, as Mickey walked in. His desk was preternaturally bare.

  ‘You don’t want to see it, believe me. A yard-high pile of righteous telephone messages, abusive faxes, notes scribbled on pieces of card and toilet paper, you name it and you’ve got it.’

  ‘You all right?’ He noticed the uncharacteristic grey smudges under her eyes.

  ‘Only if you are.’ She gave a brave, defiant smile which didn’t quite convince. ‘Don’t explain, I know it’s not true. If only it were, at least you could have gone down with a grin on your face. What are you going to do, Tom?’

  ‘Dunno. Keep trying to fool myself that it can’t get any worse. The constituency wants to dump me, Elizabeth has walked away. And I am in the most dreadful trouble with Sam.’ Quickly he brought her up to date. ‘Whatever else happens, I must keep Sam. Without her, there really wouldn’t be much point in going on.’

  ‘She’ll come back. Don’t worry.’

  ‘How can I not worry? Tell me, what do you think she would want me to do about this mess? Should I pack it in? Become a librarian?’