Goodfellowe MP (24 page)

At the time of her arrest the vice girl, instead of calling for a solicitor, telephoned Goodfellowe. Police sources indicate he was at the police station within fifteen minutes of the call being made, missing a series of vital House of Commons votes to be there. He was also present at her side when she returned to answer bail.

Goodfellowe describes himself as a friend of the attractive teenager, who is only two years older than his own daughter. Our exclusive photograph, taken outside Charing Cross police station on the public street a short while after her arrest, suggests their friendship will come as a grave embarrassment to the Government in its attempts to rebuild its image on family values after other recent sleaze scandals …

Constituency sources in Marshwood indicated this latest scandal, coming on the heels of Goodfellowe’s own arrest and conviction for drunk driving, could result in his being thrown out by his local party.
‘We wanted an MP. Instead we seem to have got a jailbird,’ one senior local official commented.

Last night the Member for Marshwood was not answering his telephone and was believed to be in hiding.

Only the shivering of the newspaper in his hand revealed that Goodfellowe had not turned entirely to stone.

The executive coughed timorously. ‘What can I say? I’m sorry. I suppose you won’t want to go on with the show, not after this. Perhaps you’d like to go straight home, I’ve kept the car.’

Goodfellowe turned, with the eyes of a wolf in winter. ‘I’ll go on.’

‘You will?’ The executive brightened.

‘An entire division of Hitler’s Waffen SS couldn’t keep me off your bloody programme. This is evil.’ He flung the newspaper away from him, across the room, where the pages divided and settled like falling snow. ‘I want to be straight on there so I can tell everyone what a miserable piece of filth this is. I demand you let me on!’

‘Yeah, sure. Great. Really great,’ burbled the executive. ‘Would you like make-up first?’

As preparations for the programme rushed around him, Goodfellowe had difficulty controlling the anger that was causing both hand and voice to tremble. He practised breathing exercises to calm himself as sound-men and make-up women fussed around, wiring him up and attempting to keep the eruptions of hair battened down. Maxine the make-up woman
stepped back from him to pass a professional judgement on the result, sucking her teeth. ‘Would you like eye-drops,’ she offered, ‘to get rid of some of the red?’

But it was too late, he was on. He was seated on the sofa opposite Jeremy, the show’s host. They hadn’t turned on the full studio lights yet but already he could feel the beads of perspiration gathering along his hair line. Too much wine, too much anger. Maxine rushed to give him a final despairing wipe. Then it began.

‘We start as ever with our review of the morning papers, and our guest today is Tom Goodfellowe, Government MP and former Minister. And a man much in the news himself. Eh, Tom?’

‘It’s filth.’ Suddenly so many thoughts were scraping around inside his head that he found it difficult to slow them down sufficiently to express them. ‘It’s filth,’ he was reduced to repeating.

‘For those who don’t know what he’s referring to, the
Sunday Herald
has this front-page story devoted to our guest this morning. Never say we’re not timely.’ He held up the
Herald
for the inspection of the watching millions. Goodfellowe felt his muscles tighten with tension. He was screaming at himself to relax, to take control, but the commands seemed to be being issued by a voice from an entirely separate body.

‘So, what about it? Is it true?’

‘It is a collage of innuendo and lies,’ Goodfellowe replied, scowling. Relax, you fool! the voice insisted, but Goodfellowe ploughed on. ‘This is a most shameful article.’

‘But you do know this girl?’ Jeremy interrupted.

‘Of course.’

‘She’s not a constituent?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘A very good friend, it would seem from the photograph. Is the photograph false, have they doctored it in any way?’

‘Who can tell? But it is certainly …’ – last night’s indulgences were clouding his mind as he struggled for the phrase – ‘unrepresentative.’ What a bloody stupid word, the voice argued with him. ‘It implies we have a relationship way beyond the reality.’ The voice groaned.

‘OK, let’s deal with the facts one by one. The story states that this young lady, your friend, was arrested on suspicion of prostitution and being in possession of drugs, and assaulted the arresting police officer. Is that true or false?’

‘It was all a mistake. She’s a very decent girl.’

‘But she has, according to the story, accepted a caution for possessing a controlled substance.’

‘Yes, but …

‘A sex drug. An aphrodisiac, I suppose you might call it.’

‘The case is not what it seems.’ He felt heated, in more ways than one. The perspiration was beginning visibly to trickle and he knew his eyes looked puffed and blotchy. Damn, he could feel his hair springing up in defiance, pushing through the pavement of lacquer. He would look like a Christmas turkey. Behind the cameras Maxine winced. This wasn’t going to be one for her portfolio. ‘This is nothing
more than a newspaper’s disgraceful attempt to distort a confused personal situation in order to damage my reputation,’ Goodfellowe continued. ‘The young lady in question is a sweet girl. Not involved in vice.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about that. She’s involved with sex drugs and I suspect that many people would accept the description of vice girl as fair comment. But if she’s not a constituent, why did you feel the need to help her? Not once, but repeatedly?’

‘Because she asked for it, she was being arrested and was frightened. There doesn’t have to be any other motive.’

‘Fair enough. I can understand that from your position, since as the article points out and many people know, you’re not a total stranger to the problems of being arrested yourself. But is it true that you missed important Commons votes to rush to her side? Was she that – what’s the word? – significant to you?’

‘At the time I scarcely knew her.’ Try not to look so stiff and guilty, the voice whispered, but it was pointless, his hands were clenched to stop them shaking.

‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to doubt your word, but the photograph suggests something entirely different. You were kissing her, that’s correct, isn’t it?’

‘It was no more than a gesture of gratitude on her part.’

‘It was her fault, then?’

Goodfellowe struggled. ‘No. Don’t twist my words. It was nothing more than gratitude, I tell you …’ The voice was suggesting it had a train to catch.

‘Then she’s obviously a very grateful type of girl. So what is your relationship with her?’

‘It is tea. I buy my tea from her.’ The truth sometimes sounds so damnably inadequate. And unconvincing.

‘I won’t bother asking whether you take it with one lump or two.’

‘Really …’ His anger was beginning to show, binding his tongue. The interviewer was quick to take advantage.

‘And remember, folks. That’s something you heard first on the Morning Programme. Tea for two. So let’s recap. What about the story is inaccurate?’

‘The whole wretched thing.’

‘But we’ve just gone through the relevant details and you’ve pretty much confirmed them.’

‘They have disfigured the facts and come up with a completely false and possibly libellous conclusion.’

‘Oh, so you’ll sue?’

‘I … I haven’t had time to consider.’ It was too evasive, and too late. He could hear the sound of a closing door as his judgement and its voice gave up and left. ‘This is not a situation of sleaze, it’s only an example of the kind of support politicians provide every day. It’s been deliberately distorted.’

‘The road to Hell, it would seem, is littered with used tea bags. Well, I want to thank you, Tom, for coming in this morning and clearing up the confusion. You’ve been a sport.’ Jeremy reached across and extended a hand to thank him. Only then did Goodfellowe become aware of how wringing damp his own had become.

Jeremy turned back to the camera, his interest in Goodfellowe obliterated. ‘And as you enjoy your morning cup of tea, friends, remember – keep practising safe sipping.’ Someone on the floor crew sniggered. ‘Our next guest this morning refuses to become involved in politics and knows nothing of vice. She’s a missionary who has recently returned from …’

And it was over. Finished. Before millions of viewers. His reputation ruined. He’d had a wealth of experience at dealing with the media and defending every aspect of policy in the teeth of the storm but this had not been politics, it had been all too personal. And he had been too angry, too emotional, too uptight. Taken by surprise. Even had he handled himself less than disastrously they would have congratulated him on his performance yet still assumed the truth of the story. A man of his age, a politician no less, and a young girl. Obvious, wasn’t it?

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.

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.’