Goodfellowe MP (18 page)

‘Mr Breedon, with your permission I would like to speak in support of the amendment which stands in my name on the Order Paper …’

Goodfellowe didn’t follow the proposed revision and the detailed argument being put in its support, his attention remained focused on the earnest young man who was now sitting in the public seats, nodding with authorial approval as the Member read out every carefully crafted phrase.

The Member had resumed his seat when, without warning even to himself, Goodfellowe found himself standing. ‘On a Point of Order, Mr Breedon.’

‘Point of Order, Mr Goodfellowe,’ the Chairman intoned, accepting the interruption.

‘Before this amendment is put to the vote, indeed before any other votes are taken in this Committee, could I draw your attention to the extraordinary degree of interest being shown in the Bill by outside groups? Although I know by convention we never recognize the presence of anyone seated in the public gallery, if we were to do so we would see that most of the seats set out for the public aren’t occupied by the public at all, but by paid advocates.’ From the public seats came a self-conscious shuffling; several copies of
PR Week
slipped from agitated knees to the floor. ‘I don’t complain,’ Goodfellowe continued; ‘such interest is inevitable. This is a major piece of legislation which will result in fundamental changes in who controls our newspapers. It’s only right we should hear outside advice and opinion. But there is always a danger, particularly with such considerable commercial concerns at stake as there are in this Bill, that those outside interests grow too – how can I put it diplomatically? – enthusiastic, aggressive, in putting their case.’

Breedon interjected, drumming his fingers and barking loudly. ‘Is the Honourable Member trying to make a speech under cover of a Point of Order, or does he actually want the Chair to do something? If so, what?’

Goodfellowe stared fractiously. ‘Yes, I do want you to do something, and every other member of this Committee. So often we are accused of being no more than parliamentary pawns who get pushed around the board by powerful outside interests, be they pressure groups, trade unions, big business, or even the professions. We need to show this is not the case with this Bill. In order to demonstrate we have nothing to hide, I would like to suggest that each Honourable Member of this Committee records for the benefit of the public at large how much money or other benefit he or she has received for articles written for the press over the last two years. Only in this way shall we be able to show that …’

Breedon launched himself like a dog deprived of a bone. ‘The Honourable Gentleman will proceed with great care,’ he instructed. ‘Far greater care than he does at present. His point is completely out of order!’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tom,’ Lillicrap sighed, burying his head in his hands. ‘Cretin,’ a further voice echoed from his left. ‘There’s the Register,’ another added.

‘The Register all but avoids the issue of newspapers…’

At the mention of the Register, the Chairman’s voice rose an octave nearer ignition. ‘Is the Honourable Gentleman trying to impugn the integrity of this Committee?’

‘Absolutely not. The integrity of the Committee is precisely what I wish to establish.’

‘Does the Honourable Gentleman have a shred of evidence for his insinuations?’

‘I make no insinuation, only observation.’

‘It seems to me he insinuates, he accuses, by raising the issue in the first place.’

‘All I seek is transparency, to ensure public confidence …’

‘Public confidence?’ Breedon all but squeaked. ‘The Honourable Gentleman is taking a sledge-hammer to public confidence by suggesting that the judgement of any member of this Committee might conceivably be influenced by money. Can he give me one example of such influence, just one?’

‘My hope is to prove that such influence doesn’t exist.’

‘Then the Chair is left all but speechless by the manner in which the Honourable Gentleman goes about trying to gather his proof. Rather like slitting the throat of a witness to ensure there’s no chance of them committing perjury.’ Breedon’s chest inflated as though it might burst, a match for his bulbous eyes. ‘Because that’s what you’re doing, you know, with these wild allegations.’

Parliamentary etiquette had slipped badly as Breedon took the intervention as an assault on his personal authority and, perhaps, integrity. Goodfellowe tried to respond but Breedon was having none of it. ‘I think I speak for the entire Committee in deploring the Honourable Gentleman’s actions
and judgements, which frankly leave open to question his motivation.’

Growls of approval came from all sides. From her position opposite Betty Ewing looked on in sympathy, but she had seen the way the wind was blowing and discretion dictated she should not get caught out in the gale.

Breedon was on his feet, pointing. ‘I will not accept this Point of Order. The Honourable Gentleman will resume his seat.’

Goodfellowe looked around. Lillicrap was staring straight at him. The Whip made no sound but the mouthed obscenity was unmistakable.

‘The Honourable Gentleman will resume his seat!’ Breedon demanded yet again.

Goodfellowe shrugged. ‘Or maybe not.’ Ostentatiously he gathered up his papers, tucked them under his arm, and walked slowly past Lillicrap. ‘I’m going out, don’t try and stop me. I may be some time.’ With that he went out through the Committee Room door. The quorum was broken, the day’s business lost.

Goodfellowe had made no friends, he had certainly kissed goodbye to his career as a columnist before it had even started, but he had discovered a new role. How to be a bloody-minded backbencher. It was a role he thought he rather liked. He had no idea of the terrible consequences that awaited him as a result.

Sam changed in the tiny cloakroom. The floor was cold on her bare feet but she didn’t mind. The whole prospect still gave her a thrill, a sense of challenge
and discovery, but there was more to it than that. She was good at modelling. She was a natural, could hold almost any pose for as long as most artists wanted, thirty minutes or more. They all wanted her back.

She had found the ability which comes to only a few, that of relaxing and being totally at ease with her body, and it was an ease which communicated itself to others. Her life at school was penned in with restriction and regulation, what she should do, what time she should do it, what she should wear and even the length of her hair. At home it was worse. Don’t swear, don’t drink, double standards which would never be part of her life, now she was an adult. Yet still they refused to treat her as one. When it came to it, she controlled nothing in her life. Except her body.

She looked at herself in the small, cracked mirror above the wash basin, admiring what she saw reflected. How they would fuss if they knew, just as they had shrieked about her pierced navel. Yet it was her body, hers to do with as she chose, not as they directed, and nobody could change that. She felt at home in her body. It had grown unmistakably feminine, a transformation in her that artists recognized even if the school and her silly father refused to. She noticed the looks of appreciation which some of the younger men gave her before they got down to the serious work of drawing, and she enjoyed it, felt – to be honest, she couldn’t describe precisely how she felt. A sense of fulfilment? A sense of danger, perhaps, of discovering herself and of getting her own
back on all those who tried so unfairly to control her life. And how she enjoyed it.

The money was great, too.

She stepped out into the room, to where they had set up the lights. They wanted a pose which required her leaning against a wall, stretching, showing off the muscle tone. She felt needed, and very grown up.

The cotton gown fell from her shoulders and the cool air of the hall rushed to meet her body, spilling over it at every point. She thrilled. What a fuss there would be, she smiled to herself, if only they knew.

‘Tom Goodfellowe, you show all the loyalty of an earl at an orgy.’

He had known the confrontation must come. Where there was an angry Whip, retribution could never lag far behind. Lillicrap had caught up with him later that evening in the ‘Aye’ lobby, the book-lined hall which runs along the west side of the House and through which Government Members were trooping to vote. Goodfellowe had hoped to sneak through unnoticed in the crush, but the division lobbies are like military encampments with eyes everywhere. Lillicrap had lain in wait and had brought along Stalybridge for solidarity, another Whip of excessive girth with the grin of an alligator, a man noted for his physical approach to conversation. The pair had intercepted their prey as he had waited in line to register his vote, and now propelled him to the more secluded reaches of one of the great bay windows.

Without preliminaries, Lillicrap launched straight into him. ‘We’ve got little enough time for this Bill as it is without you flouncing out of Committee.’

‘I didn’t flounce, I walked.’

‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’

‘Lionel, I have a genuine concern. I don’t like the smell of this Committee.’

‘I don’t like the smell of pigsties but they have their uses. Anyroad, we didn’t put you on the Committee because of your delicate nostrils or your exotic insecurities. You’re a member of the Government Party and we want the Bill, so your job is to hold your nose and play the sodding game.’

Lillicrap’s index finger was stabbing repeatedly into his chest, forcing Goodfellowe to retreat. He found the solid edge of a writing desk at his back, no place to go, and Stalybridge was closing in. They had him surrounded.

‘Why is Breedon’s mind so firmly closed, Lionel, can you answer that? Might it have anything to do with the slightest twinge of guilt caused by his taking expensive trips courtesy of Freddy Corsa?’

‘You accusing him?’

‘No.’

‘You accusing Corsa?’

After the slightest hesitation: ‘No.’

‘Then what’s your problem? Breedon has no imagination. He has a mind like a rusted biscuit tin, he’s achieved bugger all for the last twenty years and his sex life keeps not only his women awake at nights but half the Whips’ Office awake as well. Yet he’s a loyal Government supporter. A fine parliamentarian. One of us.’

‘And Corsa?’

‘Didn’t you see what he did for us over that Earth Firm business? Between you and me, old chum, he timed the whole story for our convenience.’

‘Is that what we’ve come to? Government policy dependent on finding some wretched environmentalist with morals as loose as a beer-drinker’s bowels. Who cares? Did it make the slightest difference to the principle of the thing?’

At the mention of principle, both Whips gave an automatic and disparaging sigh. ‘Have you forgotten what it was like to stand at the Dispatch Box with all guns aimed at you?’

‘You’re beginning to remind me,’ Goodfellowe replied. He could smell Stalybridge’s dinner.

‘Breedon occasionally writes for newspapers. And occasionally the newspapers pay him for it. Happens to a lot of backbenchers. Seem to remember you’ve shown an interest in precisely the same thing with Freddy Corsa. Doesn’t make you corrupt, Tom.’

‘It might do.’

‘Then that’s your frigging problem. Corsa is a friend of this Government and we don’t put friendly media magnates in the dock. Hell, we put them in the House of Lords.’

‘We put helpful backbenchers in the House of Lords, too, when they retire,’ Stalybridge added. ‘At least, some of them.’

‘I’m not planning to retire.’

Lillicrap dusted a speck of imaginary dust from Goodfellowe’s shoulder. ‘In the meantime there’s always a knighthood, which many of your colleagues seem to find … well, helpful. Particularly if they’re looking for an additional consultancy or outside interest to ease their financial problems.’

‘The black arts.’ Goodfellowe smiled as though
sucking lemons. ‘The Chief Whip will be proud of you, Lionel. You’re making your point extremely well.’

‘Look, Tom, don’t rock the boat. You’re the only one who’ll get soaked. It can be a lonely voyage out there on the backbenches, without friends.’

‘And without a licence,’ Stalybridge growled.

‘I value you as a friend, Tom. Don’t push me away.’ Lillicrap took his arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze, while Stalybridge withdrew. All smiles.

It was only as Goodfellowe was filing past the clerk’s desk, having his name scratched on the voting register, that it came to him. A simple point, one which didn’t mean much, probably, but which nevertheless nagged at him.

He’d never told Lillicrap about Corsa’s offer. But somebody had.

The British still do it best, Lillicrap mused, as he nestled into the softened Connolly hide at the back of the Silver Dawn. Pedestrians and drivers stared, craning necks, trying to catch a glimpse of who was in the back seat. Somewhere, deep down, old class instincts still stirred, forcing that innate snatch of deference to the surface before it was replaced within seconds by lingering resentment. Rather in the manner they elected politicians.

He had lunched with Corsa in Jermyn Street, the newspaper man’s shout, with the offer of a week’s Christmas skiing from the chalet in Gryon thrown in as a digestif. Corsa had emphasized that the week involved no measurable cost to himself so it was difficult
to argue there was any measurable pecuniary benefit to Lillicrap. A gesture of friendship, between the two of them, nothing more. Take it or leave it. Not the son of thing the Register should be interested in, any more than they would be interested in the bill for lunch. In the circumstances it would have seemed an act of churlishness on Lillicrap’s part for him to have refused. So instead they ordered another armagnac.

Corsa had insisted on driving the Whip back to the House, but even for a Rolls-Royce the traffic in Piccadilly wasn’t parting. Lillicrap was in no hurry. He sat back and let the stares tickle his ego.

‘What’s all this trouble I hear about the Standing Committee?’ Corsa enquired, staring out of the window as if it mattered less to him than the weather prospects at Wimbledon.

‘No trouble really,’ Lillicrap responded, a stirring of unease beginning to dispel the after-effects of the armagnac. ‘It’s simply that your friend and mine, Tom Goodfellowe, has been screwing around. Being difficult. So the Opposition are beginning to treat him as a semi-detached samurai and have withdrawn his pair.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Effectively it means that, if he decides not to turn up for a vote, we lose our majority and have to rely on the Chairman’s casting vote. An inconvenience, no more.’

‘And if he were to vote against on any matter?’

Lillicrap examined his shirt cuffs, trying to imitate Corsa’s accomplished air of insouciance. ‘That would
be more of a problem. It would delay matters.’

‘You mean you might not get the Bill through?’ Corsa’s tone had not changed and he was smiling ruefully, for all the world as if it were a game, but the lips were pulsating like a stretched membrane, as though something of great menace were trying to escape from within.

Lillicrap hesitated, ill at ease. ‘No. In the worst case we could always bring the matter to the Floor of the House, get any Committee vote overturned there. Inconvenient, no more.’

Corsa reached across and placed his hand on Lillicrap’s, adopting the manner of a doctor reassuring a worried patient. Lillicrap shuddered. The hand was freezing cold. To him it was more like the gesture of a Victorian surgeon about to operate, without the benefit of anaesthetic and caring none too much about the patient’s chances of survival. ‘Lionel, let me spell it out for you. I’m a friend of this Government, you know that. A very good friend. None better. I’m also a businessman. Business can’t thrive on uncertainty. Doubt is like a dose of clap or a Royal exclusive, highly contagious, does the rounds. Can infect the whole neighbourhood. I wouldn’t welcome that, neither would any other newspaper. The Government has said it will push this Bill through, and that’s precisely what it must do. No delays. And no damned excuses. Seems to me a Government that allows itself to get screwed by a single backbencher is scarcely a Government with a future. A Government due for one hell of a ducking at the next election. That’s what the editors would say.’ The hand
withdrew and he sat back to admire his handiwork, debating with himself whether it was necessary to cut deeper still. ‘There. I appear to have made a little speech. Forgive me, I don’t have your training in the arts of oratory. But I hope I’ve been able to make myself clear.’

‘Perfectly. You don’t need to worry. The Bill will be law by the end of this session. Have no fears.’

‘But I do, Lionel. I lie awake at night, worrying about my shareholders. And about you, Lionel. I think it’s unfair that everyone should be put to so much trouble by a parliamentary fossil like Goodfellowe. God, the man’s practically unemployable outside of politics.’

Lillicrap had half a mind to object on behalf of his kind, but decided this was not the moment.

‘Lionel, we can’t have you and the Government being held to ridicule. Wouldn’t you agree it’s time to give Mr Goodfellowe some – how might I put it? – gentle encouragement to remind him whose side he’s on?’

‘I’m trying, believe me.’

‘You’re not trying hard enough.’ Corsa’s voice had filled with scalpels. ‘You need a little help. My help. And I think I may have just the right thing.’

‘Your help is always appreciated, Freddy.’

‘Can you meet me in my office at about six this evening? I think I’ll have what you need.’

Lillicrap bit his lip. ‘Six? Aahhh. Touch difficult. Conflicting duties.’

‘More important than nailing Goodfellowe?’

‘Good point. Can I use the phone?’

Corsa lifted the leather-bound armrest to reveal the car phone inside. Lillicrap punched out the number.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he announced with a clandestine air. ‘Something’s come up. I might be a little late for our appointment.’ He looked at Corsa. ‘Perhaps about an hour?’

Corsa nodded in agreement.

‘That’s fine with you? Great. See you then.’ He handed the phone back. ‘A party contributor,’ he smiled. ‘Wants to offer us more help for the next election. We have to keep ’em sweet.’

‘My political editor tells me you need all the help you can get.’

Lillicrap didn’t contest the point. They were drawing into Parliament Square and the evening newspaper boards were already announcing another Ministerial squabble, this time one the media hadn’t invented. They exchanged farewells, Corsa waving his habitual salute, like a general inspecting his troops in the trenches, bidding them good fortune while he withdrew. Until six.

Not until Corsa had crossed the river and left Westminster behind did he pick up the phone again. He pushed the redial button, making a mental note of the number which appeared in the display.

‘Hello, Jennie Merriman,’ a voice replied.

Corsa offered no more than a brief smile of triumph before killing the call. Next he rang the editor’s number at the
Herald
. He didn’t bother with introductions. ‘A Jennie Merriman …’ He gave the telephone number. ‘I want to find out more about her.
Who she is. What she does. Put a ferret down the usual holes, will you. Apparently she’s of considerable service to the Party, and I’d like to find out more about what sort of services she provides. A little insurance policy.’ He moistened his lips. ‘And while we’re discussing insurance, there’s another task. You’ll remember Tom Goodfellowe, the Honourable and Upright Member for Shanghai? He’s becoming inconvenient. I want a full set of those pictures on my desk within an hour. Then I want to find out all there is to know about him. Usual form. Money. Mistresses. Mistakes. Where he buys his underwear, where he leaves it. Run through his bank accounts and credit cards. Then run a hand over his friends. And of course his family. If I need to, I want to be able to barbecue the bastard. In a hurry.’

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.