Goodfellowe MP (30 page)

‘Perhaps you should’ve spent less time worrying about whether you were my adopted dad or my natural dad and just got on with the job of being any sort of dad.’

‘That’s cruel.’

‘So was reading about your Chinese girlfriend in the newspaper. You seem to have plenty of time for her.’

It was turning into another one of their sessions. In spite of himself his irritation rose.

‘She wasn’t a girlfriend and I was only doing my job.’

‘Great. Do I have to wait to get a vote before I get your attention?’

‘Have you any idea what I’ve been going through for you?’

‘How could I? The only way you ever talk to me is through the newspapers.’

That’s when Goodfellowe remembered the memory box tucked away in the back of her drawer. All the clippings she had collected. And what they meant. In the reflected light she watched as he physically struggled to find the words.

‘Saying sorry isn’t really good enough. I have not been very good at being your father. But I have tried, believe me, tried so hard. And I’ve missed you. I’m very glad you came.’

‘I just wanted to talk.’

He sighed, a cupful of sorrows drawn from the deepest well. ‘I’m afraid we have more to talk about than you think.’ He switched on the desk lamp. It threw a pool of light onto the leather top, and in the middle of the pool he placed a folder. ‘This is what Corsa would have published, if I hadn’t supported his Bill.’

Cautiously she stepped forward to the desk and sat opposite him, opening the folder and beginning to read.

‘It’s about your sex life, Sam. Or are you going to deny what it says?’

She looked up. ‘Why should I? I’m not silly, I’m not a tart. I’m just growing up.’

He struggled to get his emotions around her admission before moving on. ‘And what about
the drugs? You think doing drugs is growing up, too?’

‘For a little while I went out with a creep who smoked dope. Nothing heavy. I tried it once. When I realized what a creep he was I dumped him. I haven’t touched anything since.’ She sounded very matter-of-fact.

‘I never believed you would try drugs …’

‘Dad, look at me and tell me you’ve never in your life tried drugs. Swear it to me.’

‘I … It …’ His sudden stumbling gave its own answer. ‘But that was at university. A long time ago. In the Sixties.’

‘And because it was so long ago that made it better? You must have been – what – all of eighteen? Very grown up.’ She forced herself to bite back the sarcasm once more, this was not why she had come. ‘You know, we may not be flesh and blood, but in many ways we are very alike.’

Across the lamplight their eyes met and made contact. She meant it as a peace offering, he could see, but it wasn’t going to be that easy.

‘I’d like to think so, Sam, that we are alike. But not in all ways.’ He indicated that she should dig deeper through the file, to the photographs. They slipped into her hand and she placed them under the light, like exhibits. Goodfellowe looked away as she studied them, very carefully, one by one. If he had expected exaggerated emotion, harsh denial or despairing tears, none came. It was several moments before she spoke and when she did her voice was soft, matching the dark atmosphere of the room.

‘I model at life classes, and these photographs were sneaked, you can tell. I’m angry about that. But I’m not ashamed. I draw at life classes every week. Men and women, old and young. It’s been a fundamental part of any artist’s training since Michelangelo. So why is it supposed to be all right to draw a model, but not to be one?’

‘Because, because, because … if they had published those photographs and their story it would have done you great harm, no matter what the truth. You would probably have been sent away from school, and I couldn’t have stood that. It happened to me, being thrown out of school, because of something my father did. I could never live with it happening to you for something I had done. That’s why I have voted for this wretched Bill, done things I would never have done for any other reason, because you are the most precious thing in my life. And I’m terrified I might lose you.’

‘You’ve never said anything like that to me before.’

‘I always assumed you knew.’

‘You can’t assume love.’

‘Sam, I’ve had to lock my feelings away … bury them so deep over the last few years. To block all the pain. Selfish of me, perhaps. Doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you, not for a moment. And if ever I let you think that, then I have failed in everything that matters in my life.’

‘Dad?’

That one awesome word.

‘Yeah?’ He was choking.

‘I’m very glad I came to talk.’ She reached across
the pool of tight, across the folder and the photos which separated them, to take hold of his hands. They sat like that for a long time, neither wishing to let go.

Eventually Goodfellowe spoke. ‘Sam, is there anything you want? Anything I can do?’

‘Perhaps one thing.’

‘Name it.’

‘Dad, can you kill this bloody Bill? Can we get our own back on Corsa?’

He groaned, his elation slowly sinking to the frosthard ground. ‘If only I could. But it’s too late. The Standing Committee finished its work this afternoon, it’s as good as over. That’s why I was hiding here. In shame.’

‘You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about, Dad.’

‘I wish you were right. It’s not true. But it is too late.’

Chance found Goodfellowe and Lillicrap entering the Chamber side by side.

‘The final act of our little play, Tom.’

‘I am sure you will go on to still more stunning performances, Lionel. Forgive me if I’m not around to applaud.’

‘It hurts me that we’ve had such misunderstandings. I hope we can put them all behind us, remain friends.’

‘Somewhere I seem to remember being instructed to forgive our enemies. It said nothing about forgiving our friends.’ Goodfellowe ignored the proffered hand and turned away. Lillicrap, with a reluctant
shrug of his shoulders, crossed to his appointed place at the end of the Front Bench.

The final act, as Lillicrap had described it and for which they had gathered, was the Third Reading of the Press (Diversity of Ownership) Bill. With Goodfellowe’s capitulation, the Bill had made rapid progress through Standing Committee and was now to be brought for its concluding vote to the Floor of the House of Commons. The end of the line for the Bill, and for Goodfellowe. His colleagues might forgive him, he’d never forgive himself.

The House was crowded, as were the galleries above. The Chamber was quietly bustling, like a concert house before the curtain rises. Up in the gods Goodfellowe could see Corsa and, beside him, Diane Burston, come to witness their victory and the
coup de grâce
. Goodfellowe could not hide an acute sense of humiliation and Mickey had encouraged him to stay away. ‘What’s the point in turning up?’ she had asked. ‘A bit like staying away from your own execution,’ he had replied. ‘Somehow you just have to be there.’

The House was finishing off a half-hearted discussion of a Private Member’s Bill – some twaddle about the need to regulate the size and sharpness of stiletto heels to which no one except the proposer was paying any particular attention – as Goodfellowe claimed a seat on the benches. He found himself directly in front of Frank Breedon, who pointedly ignored him as he continued with an animated discussion about plans for the forthcoming summer holidays. The House was growing distracted as the
Private Member’s proceedings droned on until, through the general clutter of noise, came a determined interruption. An Opposition MP had taken exception to the tedium of the Private Member’s Bill and decided to liven up proceedings with an injection of remarks that were gratuitously sexist. Madam Speaker intervened to demand an immediate return to order but he continued undaunted to barrack and to press his spurious point, arousing both annoyance and amusement amongst Members on all sides. Over his shoulder Goodfellowe became aware that Breedon was holding his arms out as though firing a shotgun, with his sights trained on the interrupter.

‘You shoot, Frank?’ Goodfellowe turned to enquire of his Chairman.

‘As often as I can. Glorious Twelfth almost upon us, can’t wait. Going to blast away at a few on the Tullymurdoch estate this year. Alongside our beloved Committee Whip.’ He fired another imaginary volley across the floor as those around him egged him on.

Goodfellowe felt his stomach churn, a sudden wicked turbulence that was a warning of still worse to come. Something was moving inside him, something unpleasant that left him ill at ease, as though he had been invaded by some angry parasite that was trying to force its way through his system. He turned once more to Breedon.

‘Costs a fortune, doesn’t it, Frank, the fishing and shooting game?’

‘No problem,’ he answered cheerily. ‘Lionel gets us a very good deal. A very good deal.’ He chuckled
in satisfaction. ‘Bright lad, young Lillicrap. He’ll go far.’

But Goodfellowe had already gone. Even as Madam Speaker announced the start of proceedings for the Third Reading, the Member for Marshwood was hurrying back out of the Chamber.

The parasite got the better of him as he sat at his desk. It had entered his head, sending the blood rushing through his ears and agitating his thoughts to the point of incoherence. He was having difficulty catching his breath and seemed quite unable to find what he was looking for in the Register of Members’ Interests that lay open in front of him. He summoned Mickey.

‘You all right?’ she enquired, anxious.

‘Don’t worry about me.’ He waved in the direction of the telephone. ‘There’s a hunting estate in Tullymurdoch. That’s Perthshire. I want you to try and book me a week’s shooting and fishing. From August the twelfth.’ The parasite was multiplying, he thought he was going to burst. ‘Do it. Please. Now.’ He waved at the telephone again. He was visibly trembling.

Mickey perched on the edge of the desk and dialled. First directory enquiries, then another number, to which she chatted for several minutes while Goodfellowe could do nothing but suffer. Eventually she replaced the receiver and turned to him.

‘There’s good news and bad news,’ she announced thoughtfully. ‘The bad news is that you need to be
in a party of eight and a week all-in at Tullymurdoch will set you back at least four thousand pounds a head, nearer five if you want the salmon fishing and other extras thrown in as well.’

‘And …?’

‘The good news, for you at least, is that they’re fully booked. Always are at this time of year. A corporate reservation. And I don’t know whether the rest of the news is either good or bad.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s booked in the name of a Michael MacPherson.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Apparently he’s from the Granite Corporation.’

Goodfellowe sprang from his chair like a beaten grouse and flew straight into her arms. ‘Mickey, you are the most wonderful woman on my staff,’ he enthused, planting a kiss full on her lips before rushing out of the door. The parasite had vanished.

When Goodfellowe returned to the Chamber the Minister was on his feet, defending himself and his Bill from the final desperate charge being mounted by the Indians of the Opposition. It was good sport. The result was already known, the Minister would escape with his scalp, the white men in grey suits would win. They always did. They had more guns. Goodfellowe bowed to Madam Speaker and sat down, not this time on the leather benches but on the carpeted steps of the gangway that cut across the middle of the Chamber. It put him directly alongside Lillicrap at the end of the Front Bench. Lillicrap was consulting the notebook which lay open on his lap,
a small volume in which duty required him to record not the words but the performances of those who spoke from the Government backbenches, awarding them mysterious acronyms in the manner of military decorations, the meanings of which would be shared only around the Masonic brotherhood of the Whips’ Office. MM: Ministerial Material. VC: Virtual Chloroform. MIA: Malice In Action. DFC: Destined For Catastrophe. And so on. He was scribbling when he noticed Goodfellowe’s face appear at his elbow.

‘Who is Michael MacPherson, Lionel?’

‘Michael? We were at university together. Leicester. Why?’ Goodfellowe gave the impression of a friendly retriever squatting on the floor beside him; Lillicrap, busy with his notes, had no sense of alarm.

‘An old friend?’

‘Sure. What’s all this about?’

‘What does he do at Granite?’

In an instant Goodfellowe had all of Lillicrap’s attention. The Whip bent low in order not to raise his voice. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Lionel, tell me what he does at Granite. I can find out with one telephone call.’

Lillicrap’s brow knotted. ‘He’s something in the Finance Department. The Director, actually. So what?’

‘Tell me, why does he pay for your hunting trip to Scotland every year?’

The pen Lillicrap was using escaped from his fingers and rolled to the floor. Lillicrap’s lips were moving, but no sound emerged.

‘You’ve been going every single year, yet you can’t
afford that sort of money, you told me so yourself.’

With evident pain Lillicrap rediscovered his vocal cords. ‘He’s a friend, Tom. We go as friends, together. It’s a friendly arrangement.’