Authors: Michael Dobbs
‘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 Raleigh 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?’
‘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.