Whispers of Betrayal (13 page)

And the man who, several years before that, had rebuffed her passions.

It shouldn’t have been a moment for resistance. The occasion was an executive committee meeting, shortly before Trevor Fairbanks appeared on the scene. Beryl had swept all before her, all because of the drains.

Local politics is often about drains, and those at the Marshwood constituency office had always smelled a bit. Then they had become stubbornly blocked. A plumber was called, who had summoned a surveyor, who announced that the drains were overflowing because the foundations had decided to take an extensive and extremely expensive holiday. They weren’t where they should be. The cost of their relocation would inevitably be crippling. Even by the standards of local politics the plight of the Marshwood party was dire, but all agreed afterwards, Beryl had been magnificent.

Estimates for the remedial work had been obtained and the executive committee had gathered in the mood of missionaries facing the pot. Faith can only stretch so far. There was no money, and a repair and restitution order had arrived that morning from the Environmental Health Officer giving them a month to fix it. Had anyone any ideas?

Beryl was the most junior member of the committee, invited because they needed a woman … well, even in these modern times, somebody still has to make the tea. Yet three weeks after they had first met she had stood before them, her blouse heaving as though filled with ferrets, and she had produced Mr Gupta. Mr Gupta proved to be their salvation, a local businessman with a cautious smile and a pinkish wart on the end of his nose who craved three things: his secretary, planning permission for a site he owned near the by-pass, and an invitation to Downing Street. He suspected that achieving the latter would assist him greatly in obtaining the planning consent which, once granted, would enable him to elevate his secretary to the position of office manager and
en passant
to leverage himself into her bed.

Not that the executive committee of the local Marshwood party was able to peer into the dark convolutions that marked Mr Gupta’s soul. All the members knew was that the man wanted to be helpful, and how much more did they need? So Goodfellowe had arranged the invitation to Downing Street, a reception for several hundred, nothing of great import, but enough to guarantee Mr Gupta a photograph
alongside Bendall’s predecessor and wife and sufficient, during the course of the following week, for Gupta to underwrite the local party’s overdraft with an interest-free loan.

Beryl was triumphant. And rampant. As the other members of the committee drifted into the night, exhausted from their repeated rounds of commendation for her efforts, Goodfellowe had discovered himself with Beryl in the tiny kitchen of their sinking office. She was clearing up the biscuit crumbs and emptying tea slops into a galvanized bucket. He, too, had wanted to express some form of admiration for her efforts but had always found words with Beryl difficult, so instead he had placed a congratulatory hand upon her shoulder.

This had caused her to turn and face him. In the confined space, and with Beryl built like a medieval siege machine, he had suddenly found himself trapped. It must have been like this at Stalingrad. There was crimson in her cheek and a weird, acquisitive glint in her eye. Before he knew it, he was under direct assault, those lips advancing and closing in on him like a sea fog.

It was not that he had rejected her that caused her passion to turn into undying enmity, it was more the manner of his rejection. The fact that he had retreated so instinctively, a look of abject terror twisted across his face, his innermost feelings laid bare. Revealing the things he truly felt about, and for, Beryl. The sort of emotion that no man should declare. There was no time for the diplomacy of muttered condolences or passing excuses about his wife, nothing that might help reestablish their precoital relations, nothing but an upturned galvanized bucket, a banging door and a car disappearing hastily into the night.

Every time Goodfellowe looked out of his window thereafter, the siege machine was waiting, looming darkly on his doorstep, ready to exploit any weakness in his defence. Their relationship had degenerated into warfare, during which Trevor had been his staunchest ally. Now Trevor was gone. Goodfellowe was on his own, and the rumblings about deselection that had surfaced before the last election would sound like drums of war before the next.

So Goodfellowe was distracted as he crossed the Members’ Lobby on his way to take a seat in the Chamber. So distracted, in fact,
he even signed the Early Day Motion that someone thrust in front of him. Early Day Motions are parliamentary billboards on which backbenchers scribble their names to protest about something, or someone. If there were enough names to show genuine grievance, the Speaker might even allow them a debate, but more frequently EDMs amounted to little more than graffiti. Jimmy’s a Wanker, Tessa’s a Slag, Down With Fat Cats. That level of sophistication.

This particular Motion implored the House ‘to take note of the recent call by the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer for increased subsidies to the textile industry’, while drawing attention ‘with surprise and disapproval to the fact that the Right Honourable Gentleman habitually wears nothing but Italian suits’. In truth the EDM had stuff-all to do with the plight of beleaguered weavers and dyers, and everything to do with the fact that for the past twenty-three years the Shadow Chancellor had enjoyed the comforts of an Italian mistress. And let no one forget it! Tommy’s a Double-Dealing Dog! A Wop Shagger!! The Motion was about as subtle as a can of spray paint.

Normally Goodfellowe would have passed by on the other side and would not have been tempted, let alone inhaled. But he was distracted. So he signed. Added his name to the parliamentary scribble. Anyway, he wanted to become a team player once more; he had to begin to show a little willing.

Goodfellowe was forced to push his way through, jostling to find a seat in the busy Chamber as Members gathered for Prime Minister’s Question Time. They sat in long and rowdy rows, in the manner of crows crowded along a telephone line waiting for roadkill. Over many years Question Time had proved a more profound test of Prime Ministerial mettle than most of the nation’s leaders cared for. Macmillan, for instance, had been a true professional, acting his way through his premiership with the aplomb of a seasoned performer at the Old Vic, but before entering upon the stage for Question Time even SuperMac had been overtaken by anxiety. On occasion his aides had found him bent over a sink, throwing up.

Now, thanks to live television and the blow-by-blow coverage it gave to this hugely devalued occasion, the entire country could throw up.

Before he’d even started, Bendall had made trouble for himself.
Members were distressed by the attack on the water supply, not because they cared particularly about the circumstances of Bendall but because it amounted to an attack on the heart of government, an attack on them all. Hell, this wasn’t just a matter of water but an incitement to terrorists and germ warriors everywhere. It was one of those occasions when their concern was genuine and to meet their concern Bendall should have granted them a full parliamentary statement, an open and frank exchange, but his instincts were otherwise. He considered the time he spent in the House of Commons as wasted and he’d become accustomed to ducking and diving rather than delivering. Anyway, he had so little to say, knew so little of the real reasons behind the attack, so he covered his ignorance in insult and evasion. From their perches, the crows began to squawk their displeasure.

‘When will he make sure our water is safe?’

It was a simple enough question. Too bloody simple. He hadn’t a clue about what he was going to do, except pass the buck.

First he laid down a smokescreen. He used words like ‘deprecate’ and ‘wanton act of violence’, he adopted a tone that was selfless and a pose that was statesmanlike, but being noble wasn’t enough. So, ‘I have instructed the Home Secretary to mount an immediate inquiry …’ – in other words, let me make one thing perfectly clear, folks.
Any shortcomings in security are the responsibility of Bloody Hopeless
.

‘But what about the water?’ a plaintive voice insisted from somewhere across the Chamber.

‘The specific issue of water quality is a matter for OFWAT, the water regulator …’

What are they going to do, then?

‘As I have just explained, that is a matter primarily for the independent regulator …’
How the hell do I know? OFWAT is independent. I don’t control them
.

So how much?

How much what?

How much is it going to cost to make the water safe enough to put in the whisky?

‘These are early days …’
I’ve got no damned idea. But whatever it
costs. What else can I say? Would someone ask me a different question? How about the upcoming summit meetings, for instance? Anything but bloody water!

Oh, but damn the Papacy and all its wicked works, if London is to get better water, doesn’t the same apply to those most loyal citizens of Ulster, too?

Bendall’s shoulders almost sagged. ‘The Honourable Gentleman has made an interesting point …’ –
Well … I suppose so, with reluctance, yes
.

The whole country, in fact?

Yes.

So how much is all that going to cost, then?

‘Allow me to repeat what I said to the House a moment ago …’ –
I’ll spell it out to those who are simply too thick or too inattentive to have got it first time around. Whatever. It. Costs
.

You could almost hear the thunder of lobby correspondents’ hooves as they rushed to instruct their brokers to sell water shares. Water companies operated down deep holes. And that’s precisely where their business was heading.

The House was in fractious mood. The Prime Minister had rubbed against them like sandpaper. A feeling hung throughout the Chamber that he must bear
some
responsibility for the situation. After all, it had been his bloody bathtub.

It was at this point that the Father of the House rose from the Opposition benches. Sir Bramble was the longest-serving Member of Parliament who, although well into his eighties, still carried a sardonic smile and a chestful of medals for gallantry from ancient wars fought in his youth. He also possessed wandering hands, if secretarial gossip was to be believed, or perhaps it was only a rumour that he himself propagated. In any event his hands were now well in evidence, grasping his lapels as he turned in the direction of the Despatch Box and the early evening news.

‘Is the Prime Minister aware that we on this side of the House applaud his determination to ensure the security of the country’s water supplies? Even if in the circumstances it appears a trifle belated …’ The firm angle of his mouth implied that this was no more than a ranging shot. He was simply gauging distance. ‘But wouldn’t he accept that there is one way above all he can ensure
such security? That’s not to put a rocket up the Home Secretary, as much as I wish him well in his endeavours. It’s certainly not to cast shareholders of the water companies into penury. The only way he can deliver on his promise is to apprehend the villains. Who are these wretches? What does he know about ’em? When’s he going to catch ’em? Eh?’

Sir Bramble was an old duffer but it was an excellent point. A growl of enthusiasm rippled out from those around him until it had infected the entire House. Bendall stood isolated, a mariner facing the storm.

‘The entire country will understand, indeed Britain expects, that this Government will not cease in its efforts …’

More heckling. They knew he was bluffing. ‘Answer the question! Who are they? What does he know?’ The Opposition benches became agitated, like a sea hurling itself against a foundering ship as Order Papers were waved in protest. Bendall gripped the Despatch Box with both hands, determined that he was not to be swept from his position.

‘Does the Opposition want to listen? The country is listening. And watching their efforts to score cheap points from a matter of great national concern. They’re pathetic!’

He pointed at the baying ranks opposite. Behind him his own side were at last rallying to the cause.

‘That isn’t an Opposition,’ Bendall continued, jabbing his finger across the Chamber as though trying to gouge out their eyes, ‘it’s nothing more than a rabble!’

The tempest struck and for many moments the noise became intolerable, making it impossible for him to be heard. He’d won his respite. It took several moments of considerable parliamentary indignity before the storm had subsided sufficiently to allow the Leader of the Opposition, Oliver Creech, to take his place at the Despatch Box.

‘Isn’t it clear,’ Creech began, loading every word ‘and clear beyond any question, that the Prime Minister has lost control? He’s lost control of the economy, and quite obviously of his colleagues …’ – Government backbenchers bayed like imbeciles, and Creech paused extravagantly to allow them to make the point for him – ‘but isn’t it clear above all that he has now lost control of the country? It’s bad
enough that he’s put Britain on the breadline, now he can’t even guarantee us
water
!’

The sound bite had been delivered, tomorrow’s headlines guaranteed. Above their heads the Sirens in the press gallery were composing frantically while below them the ship of state seemed all but dismasted.

But Bendall hadn’t stood at the helm for four years without learning to master his fear.

‘I am a fortunate man, Mr Speaker …’ –
Hang in there, guys, I’m not finished yet
. ‘The entire country can now see this Opposition for what it is. A gathering of hypocrites – hypocrites who will sink even to embracing environmental terrorism in order to score cheap points.’ He waved his arms theatrically, his cufflinks glinting in the lights. His forelock had fallen across his face and a blue messianic glint appeared in his eye, a look much practised by Bendall in private and held in reserve for just such a time. Now his voice deepened, more vibrato, booming across the Chamber without need of amplification. ‘Over recent months in their increasingly desperate quest to find some group who will support them they have backed every strike. Supported every abuse. Climbed into bed with the eco-hooligans and wreckers, those who have strangled our streets, blockaded our power stations, undermined our motorways. They shout about water, yet they lie on their backs for those yobs who want to cut off the power supplies to pensioners.’