Goodfellowe MP

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘As serious as … I was going to say, as serious as sin. After all, if Beryl gets her way I’ll have no choice.’ He had slumped in his chair, like a punch-drunk prize fighter between rounds. ‘Maybe I should just accept it and give in.’

  ‘Sam wouldn’t. The reason she’s upset is because she idolizes you.’

  ‘Me?!’

  ‘Of course. You’re her father. She thinks you’ve let her down, let yourself down. She would want you to prove yourself, to carry on what you’re fighting for. Not to hide away amongst boring books.’

  ‘But she says she hates me. As hell is hot I just can’t figure her out.’

  ‘Sixteen-year-old girls can’t figure themselves out. Life happens too quickly for them. She still needs you to help show her the way.’

  ‘Are you sure she would want me to fight?’

  ‘Absolutely certain. And for what it’s worth, so do I.’

  He hurt all over, bruises everywhere, but in spite of his trepidation he began to haul himself off the stool. The bell was ringing for the start of a new round.

  ‘Well, I can’t afford to sue and I’ve got no money for one of those PR crisis managers to arrange pretty photographs of me with my family. Even if I had a family. But I think we may be close to the truth. Is that enough?’

  ‘Truth isn’t one of my specialities, Tom. But I could give it a go.’

  Limbs that had felt numb, that had stopped shaking simply because he no longer had the energy to tremble, began tingling again. ‘You see, it’s all commercial. The Herald attacks a company or an industry or a pressure group, and in the shadows someone is laughing all the way to the bank. One of them may be Di Burston. We need to know who the others are.’

  ‘How?’

  He began pacing back and forth, the enthusiasms returning. ‘Try your computer thingy. The Internet. Look at all the dates of the Herald exclusives for the last three months, and see if anybody’s share price benefited as a result. It may not provide the full picture but it could give us a damn good idea.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Meanwhile, Fate has dealt me an interesting card.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’ve got Question Number Three to the Prime Minister tomorrow. So I shall go right to the top. Time to see who holds the aces. And … why, Miss Ross, you’re smiling.’

  ‘Why, Mr Goodfellowe, you’re fighting.’

  ‘I don’t pay you to sit around smirking. Go back and dump all those wretched letters in the bin and get on with what I’ve asked. After you’ve made me a cup of tea.’

  ‘Get your own bloody tea,’ she responded, retreating with a laugh.

  And he did. He decided to spend only a little time around the House that day, enough to be seen so that people knew he wasn’t hiding, but it was a disillusioning experience. It felt as though he had a large placard hung around his neck with a Government health warning proclaiming he had contracted an incurable social disease. Colleagues found excuses to shuffle away, even many he regarded as friends discovered a litany of reasons for rushing off and being unable to talk, or to support. He hadn’t the stomach for a parade around the Dragonaria. There were a few people, seemingly mostly from the Opposition, who had a moment for genuine sympathy, yet none believed his association with Jya-Yu was innocent. But, he tried to console himself, what the hell did most of them know about innocent association? The only people who displayed genuine eagerness to talk with him were lobby correspondents from the national press. Several offered sympathetic coverage in return for exclusive details of the inside story. Not one would accept his word that there was no inside story.

  So Tuesday had dawned and he had prepared himself for his part in the pantomime of Prime Minister’s Question Time. In the normal course of events Downing Street would have contacted him beforehand, eager to find out what he would ask, anxious to ensure that the answer appeared as spontaneous as it did authoritative. But not today. Silence. Perhaps they assumed he would not be bothering. Or perhaps their answer was already prepared, no matter what he asked. He did not have long to wait. The House was crowded, as usual, and he had to squeeze along the narrow morocco leather benches to find a place. Members were usually jealous of their territory but, as he sat, those on either side seemed to retreat and allow him a few extra inches. Like measuring out no-man’s-land. No smiles, none of the customary greetings. Further along the House, from the bench immediately behind the Prime Minister, the Parliamentary Private Secretary leaned forward to touch his master on the shoulder and whisper. The Prime Minister looked round, noted the presence of Goodfellowe, and returned glassy-eyed to his briefing book.

  Robin Chissum had a style in answering prime ministerial questions which reflected his non-political, safety-first approach to government. It could be summed up as tedium relieved by occasional flashes of arrogance. Not for him the sweeping ideology which condemned whole classes at a stroke; if he didn’t know what to say he would talk about consensus, knowing that the issue would have moved on by the time those who struggled to reach that elusive harmony had argued themselves to a standstill. It caused those in his party who regarded themselves as keepers of the ideological flame to stamp in frustration, but it meant he could pick his enemies selectively. And deal with them ruthlessly. For the House is like a great carved wood sailing ship, with its crew under orders and a captain who stands visible on the quarterdeck. The weather may be unpredictable, the seas often violent and the ship reluctant to handle, yet it is built to survive all perils but one. That of a mutinous crew. Against that danger the officers and coxswains guard with ceaseless vigilance, and the response to rebellion is automatic. Retribution.

  ‘Number Three,’ Madam Speaker cried. ‘Mr Goodfellowe.’ The time had come. He rose, calm. Too tired to shake. Anyway, he thought he knew what to expect.

  ‘Will my Right Honourable Friend turn his attention during his busy day to the problem of the treatment meted out by the press to people in public life? Not just politicians but Royalty, judges, generals – why, even soccer managers. How many times has the press twisted the facts, indulged in deliberate exaggeration and invention, for no better reason than to sell their products? It amounts to nothing less than wholesale pollution of public life by the press. The destruction of people for profit.’ He paused. A trifle pompous, he reflected, but a useful sound-bite. ‘Is he aware that no other industry in the country – no asbestos factory, no chemical plant, no sewage facility, no nasty little waste tip – could get away with what they get away with? So will my Right Honourable Friend now agree to amend the Press Bill in order to give proper protection to innocent people against this growing menace of the media?’

  He had wanted to say so much, yet had so little time. He hoped at least he’d made the point. He was about to find out. The Prime Minister rose thoughtfully, looking down at his red briefing book in the manner of a captain consulting his charts. Then he dispensed with it, closing it abruptly as though he already knew which course he wished to steer, and placed both hands on the Dispatch Box for support. Goodfellowe, from two rows behind him, was having difficulty seeing clearly but Chissum seemed to be displaying a rueful smile.

  ‘It’s a novel proposal for winning elections, I must say, to suggest we lead the press to the slaughter. Can’t imagine why it’s never been tried before. I’m always looking for new ideas, Madam Speaker, but I’m not sure I’m the man brave enough to attempt such a – how shall I describe it? – an exuberant approach to winning friends and influencing electors. Something like fourteen million newspapers are sold in this country every day. Wish I had as many friends as that.’

  Quickly he had captured the mood of the House. Members chuckled, waiting for his next words. ‘I am a firm believer in freedom of speech, Madam Speaker, particularly in the run-up to elections …’ That was cheeky. He clearly thought it cretinous to consider tangling with the press when he was looking for every ounce of support. Even the Opposition responded with laughter to his nerve. ‘�
� and I appreciate the advice and the support which members of the press have offered me. May it long continue.’ He leant on one elbow, turning from the body of the House for the first time towards Goodfellowe. ‘I must also tell my Honourable Friend that I am suspicious of calls for reform which are generated in the heat of the moment. Such calls frequently lack wisdom or objectivity.’ Ouch. ‘And while I am talking to my Honourable Friend …’ – he gave the word a gentle ripple of emphasis – ‘let me tell him that I am a great believer in the bonds of friendship. Friendship is a two-way street.’ He was staring directly at Goodfellowe. ‘And some people seem to have trouble identifying who their friends are.’ Goodfellowe could hear the collective breath of the House being drawn in at the public rebuke. With carefully timed drama Chissum turned his back on Goodfellowe. ‘Sadly, Madam Speaker, in politics you never know where the opposition is coming from.’

  Those immediately around Goodfellowe cringed with reflected embarrassment; others at a little greater distance sucked their teeth nervously, like seamen witnessing a Sunday keelhauling. Opposition Members jeered. The Prime Minister resumed his seat with a grim satisfaction. He wasn’t going to have any bloody nonsense this side of the election, and anyone foolish enough to step out of line would be handled without pity. The others deserved a little encouragement.

  The Government at its highest level had set its face against Goodfellowe. He was bait for barnacles. To be tossed aside as the great ship of state sailed on. Yet as the tide of chatter began to flow once more around him, leaving him like bones on a beach, he found it hurt less than it might. He had been expecting it, there had been plenty of signs along the way, but he’d had to make certain, to find out exactly where he stood. Now he knew.

  Alone.

  ‘Good news.’

  ‘The boy stood on the burning deck when all but he had fled, and you think there’s good news?’ Goodfellowe eyed Mickey with more than a dash of scepticism.

  ‘Something to fight the flames with. I’ve run the check of share prices against the Herald stories you wanted. There’s a match. Not in every case, but in enough to make a damn fine liverwurst. The Wonderworld fiasco sent the share price of its only real rival soaring. That’s Hagi Entertainments. It’s a Japanese number. And the only ones to benefit from the attack on Killer Coal seemed to be the nuclear industry, no specific firm but there are only a handful anyway and one of those, Nuclear Reprocessors, has been getting a lot of favourable coverage in the Herald recently.’

  As they huddled closely together in conference, Goodfellowe became aware of an unusual hush. The eyes of the Dragonaria were upon them, the man of marked morals and his altogether too young, too attentive and too impertinent assistant. Suspicion sat in every stare. He straightened up and waved an extravagant arm. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. My apologies for not greeting you all personally as I came in. Are you well? Would any of you care to join me and Miss Ross for tea?’ Instantly heads dropped and the noisy clatter of typewriters and correcting tapes resumed.

  ‘What about Diane Burston?’

  ‘More difficult,’ Mickey replied. ‘No direct correlation, but the environmental groups like Greenpeace and The Earth Firm have been a pain in her purse for years. The Herald has certainly taken some of that pressure off.’

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘I think we can show a link with one of the drug companies.’

  ‘What a tangled web he weaves. But perhaps not quite twisted enough.’ He sat close beside Mickey for an hour, watching intently as she brought up information on her screen and demanding more, promising that one day he’d gather up his courage and take that computers-for-muddled-Members course himself. It all made him late for the start of the Standing Committee, and when he arrived Betty Ewing was in full swing. He slipped into his seat and was spreading his papers when a voice whispered in his ear.

  ‘I did warn you. You’re playing in the big boys’ league.’

  Goodfellowe examined Lillicrap as though he were a debt collector asking directions, then went back to his papers.

  ‘For one last time, Tom, don’t turn away from us,’ the Whip persisted. ‘You need us. Don’t reject the hand of friendship.’

  ‘The Prime Minister’s hand of friendship just shoved me overboard, Lionel.’

  ‘There’s still time to climb back on,’ the Whip insisted. ‘But the way you’re going, they’ll even take your lifebelt away.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I told you this was the big league, Tom. No walking wounded. Outside groups don’t normally like their parliamentary consultants splashed all over the front pages of the newspapers. They want advisers who can work within the system, not Members who wander round this place like a dose of salmonella.’

  ‘As you say, Lionel, we are all big boys. After all this I was scarcely expecting your help to find another consultancy.’

  ‘I’m talking about your existing deal. The Caravan Park Owners’ Federation.’

  ‘So you’ll take that away, will you?’ The light was beginning to dawn.

  ‘Not my call, Tom. They may insist.’

  Goodfellowe grunted in defiant understanding, then returned to the study of his papers as proceedings droned on around them.

  Lillicrap bit his lip in exasperation. ‘You’re a bloody fool, Tom. I’ve given you every chance. So now you listen, and listen damned well. You were in trouble a couple of years ago and we bailed you out. Arranged a loan so you could take care of Elinor. I was happy to do all that. But you never knew where the money came from, did you?’

  ‘Didn’t it come from you? You gave the very clear impression it did …’

  ‘How the hell can I afford to throw around fifteen thousand pounds on a Whip’s salary, for Christ’s sake? Look at my frayed cuffs.’ He shook a sleeve in front of Goodfellowe’s face, to whom the cuff and the rest of the suit seemed to be in perfect order. ‘Be real. This job is costing me a fortune. Overdraft Alley. I can scarcely afford the water for the whisky any more. No, it wasn’t me, old chum. The loan came from a wealthy supporter, someone who wanted to help the party. I was merely the channel. The honest broker.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You’ll never know. That’s the way to keep the system smelling sweet. Blind bail. We get you out of trouble, you owe us, yet you can’t be accused of selling favours to the real donor.’

  ‘But now I know he exists.’

  ‘More to the point, he knows you exist, too, and what you’ve been up to. A slip-up in the system, I’m afraid. Shouldn’t have happened … And he wants his money back.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Goodfellowe gasped in surprise.

  ‘He wants the loan repaid, Tom. He says he intended to help the party, not – and I quote – a freeloader.’

  ‘This is nothing short of blackmail.’

  ‘It’s business, Tom. Satan’s teeth, can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? Pull back. Stop. Even now it’s not too late.’

  Betty Ewing had sat down, her denunciation of the Bill for the moment completed, and a vote on her amendment was about to take place. ‘As many as are in favour say Aye!’ the Chairman was demanding – ‘Aye!’ the Opposition benches responded in ritualistic chant – Those to the contrary?’ – ‘No!’ the Government supporters shouted in their turn – ‘Division!’ the Chairman declared.

  They would wait a few minutes for stragglers before locking the doors, but the Opposition was already present in full number. If Goodfellowe insisted once more on abstaining it would be another drawn vote, another pothole on the road to progress. As the minutes dragged on Lillicrap spent the time fretting, nibbling at his nails.

  ‘You’re not as tough as you pretend, Lionel.’

  ‘You think I enjoy this? I’m your friend.’

  ‘Really? And when friendship collides with your conscience, Lionel, which would you choose?’

  ‘Don’t preach conscience to me, Tom, it’s little more than an excuse for prevarication, for doing nothing. For letting ot
hers take the blame.’

  ‘You accuse me of allowing others to take the blame? I seem to have piled a mountain of it upon my own back.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with your type of conscience. You can’t control it.’

  ‘And you can’t buy it, either.’ Goodfellowe’s tone had grown sharp.

  ‘Tom, I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘As I am trying to do mine.’

  ‘And it will dance you all the way to the scaffold.’

  Their exchanges had grown rapidly more heated, but now Goodfellowe held back, taking stock. ‘I see how little we understand each other, Lionel. I thought we were friends, but perhaps our friendship was nothing more than idleness.’

  ‘For friendship, for self-interest, for loyalty to the party – whichever speaks loudest to you. Listen to it. Just don’t sit on your brains and abstain, Tom. Vote.’

  ‘A wise old Chinaman once said that if you sit by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float past.’

  ‘Sit by the river long enough and you become fish bait. For God’s sake start playing the game.’

  ‘Lock the doors!’ the Chairman instructed. The attendants complied and the Clerk began calling the vote in alphabetical order. Sheila Fagin and Barry Gedling had voted, now the Clerk was looking towards Goodfellowe, pen poised.

  ‘Lionel, I think you’re right. It is time to start playing the game.’

  The Whip sighed in relief. ‘You won’t regret it, Tom.’

  ‘I dare say. But you will.’

  With that, Goodfellowe voted against the Government. The Opposition amendment was passed. The Bill was grinding to a halt.

  Corsa had telephoned at six thirty the following morning, twenty seconds after spotting the report in the final edition. It was only a small item tucked away on the Herald’s parliamentary page, but even a short piece about a Government defeat in committee had been enough to curdle his enthusiasm for breakfast. He didn’t know that Lillicrap had been working until two, and even if he had he wouldn’t have given a damn.

  ‘Lionel, dear boy. You and I must meet.’