‘he’ was.
Goodfellowe made it there five minutes early and commandeered a table with a good view of the window. They arrived holding hands. ‘Dad, meet Darren. And so forth.’ She waved the two together.
Darren’s hand was firm, his eye steady, his hair neatly trimmed, indeed everything that one might expect of a graduate student at the Business School, as Darren turned out to be. He was amusing, ambitious, evidently a young man of the world. Holding hands with his daughter. Touching. Brushing against her. Being almost proprietorial.
Goodfellowe decided he’d have to be adult about that. Trouble was, he wasn’t always very good at the ‘grown-up’ thing when it came to his daughter. Every time she produced a new boyfriend it was always the same, that initial feeling of panic and distress. Like sitting in the dentist’s chair watching the needle approach, knowing it was likely to hurt.
‘It’s been too long, Sam,’ he smiled, extracting the teabag from his mug. There was nowhere to put the dripping mess. That’s how they made tea in a coffee shop.
‘S’pose it has,’ she offered, trying to bend her youthful mind around the elusive concept of Time. ‘Almost like when I was younger. You remember? Those years when I only ever saw you on television?’
It wasn’t intended to make him feel guilty. She succeeded nonetheless.
‘Not quite the same, I dare say.’ He made a fuss over his hot tea, as though his lips were burning rather than his cheeks. ‘But since we’re discussing seeing each other at a distance, did I catch sight of you the other day? At Trafalgar Square?’
She beamed. ‘Sensational, wasn’t it?’
‘Bloody inconvenient. But I got your point.’
‘You should have joined in, Dad.’
‘I did. No choice. But for what it’s worth, I agree, something has to be done.’ He bit into a croissant, the pleasure of which was considerably devalued by the avalanche of flakes that was sent tumbling down his chest.
‘That’s not quite what I expected to hear from a politician, Mr Goodfellowe,’ Darren interjected.
‘My party bosses frequently tell me that I’m not what they expect from a politician,’ he responded, picking crumbs from his tie.
‘I don’t understand … You agree something ought to be done. Everybody seems to agree. So why doesn’t it happen?’
Goodfellowe rubbed the motif on his tie, wondering whether it was a stain or the design. ‘Because I am a humble backbencher. Parliamentary pond life. If I speak sense no one will hear it above the noise of the rabble. If I shout loud enough for anyone to take notice I simply make myself part of the rabble.’ Damn. Stain. ‘Anyway, it’s all very well setting yourself up as Robin Hood, rushing around trying to right all those wrongs, but I can tell you it gets damp and very cold out there on your own in the forest.’
‘You’re saying parliamentary politics are pointless?’
‘No, not at all. But if you really want to make things happen – as you put it – you need to have your hands on some of the levers. Be a Minister.’
‘So it’s being a backbencher that is pointless?’ Darren pressed, before realizing the unintended slight. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Goodfellowe …’
Goodfellowe laughed, wondering how Darren managed to keep his tie so straight. Did he use a different knot? Somewhere he’d read there were seventeen different ways of doing it. ‘Call me Tom. And, no, being a backbencher isn’t entirely pointless. It only seems that way at times.’ Most of the bloody time, actually, but he didn’t want to take honesty too far. Might scare the children.
‘But I thought you rather enjoyed being Robin Hood,’ Sam joined in. ‘You know … the independence. The free life. Getting out among the serfs.’
‘Sure, but … It’s one of the things I wanted to chat with you about, darling daughter. Get your view. Of course I enjoy playing Robin Hood. It’s just that at times – perhaps too many times – you feel about as much use as a fly on a windscreen. That’s why I’m thinking of becoming – trying to become, at least – a Minister once more.’
‘You? A Minister?’ Sam sounded startled.
‘Bit like you at Trafalgar Square the other day. In fact, just like that. You know, wanting to make a difference.’
‘You want to become a Minister?’ The question was repeated, very slowly, the breath rattling hoarsely in her throat, with every syllable emphasized as though the words were being constructed from first principles.
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t believe you.’
‘Why?’
‘You want to join the most bankrupt Government since …’
‘The economy’s a mess, sure, but …’
‘I’m not talking money,’ she bit back, her voice raised. ‘Whatever happened to principle? To all those promises that Bendall conned us with at the last election? About education? About the environment? About the future?’ She was trembling, her half-drunk cappuccino spilling into the saucer. ‘I thought you cared about all that. And now you want to climb into bed with those sleazeballs?’
‘It’s precisely because I care that I want to help. Make changes. Push the system along from the inside.’ He had been taken aback and was grasping for suitable words to explain. ‘A wise old Tibetan once said that a single drop of rain upon the desert …’
‘Dad, this isn’t sodding Tibet,’ she butted in, shoving her way past his words. ‘You’re selling out.’
‘I’m not. Be reasonable, for God’s sake. There has to be a bit of give and take.’
‘What – like last time?’ There were tears brimming in her eyes, now they were tumbling down her cheeks. ‘Haven’t we given enough? Mummy? Stevie …?’ She could say no more, choking back the pain, scrabbling for a tissue from the bottom of her bag.
Goodfellowe found himself utterly lost in the midst of this sudden blizzard. Hadn’t he given enough, too? What was he supposed to do, give up his ambition, his desire? Turn his back on the new life he had embarked upon, with its influence and its authority? And with Elizabeth? Simply because the Prime Minister had the scruples of a timeshare salesman?
‘Sorry, Darren,’ he apologized for the family scene. ‘Politics are all about passion.’
‘I agree.’ His voice had remarkable authority for his years. ‘That’s why I voted for Bendall. He talked about all the things I feel so passionately for.’ He shrugged. Broad shoulders, athletic. ‘But perhaps I’m naïve. I agree with Sam. Above all politics should be about principle. And for Bendall to take a stand on principle is about as likely as Scunthorpe hosting the next Olympics.’
‘That’s a little harsh …’
‘A very flexible man, is our Prime Minister. He promised us the earth at the last election. Trouble is, we’re still waiting for it. Bit like a drunk in the bar who promises
