Michael Dobbs - The Buddha of Brewer Street

His feelings of distaste, at first generalized and unfocused, now took on physical form. Lucretia – he didn’t know her real name and didn’t care to know, but the name fitted like a corset – Lucretia had managed to get her elbow into his stomach and was using it like a jemmy to force herself between him and his companion, a fine-featured man in his early forties who possessed the glossiest of ebony faces. Lucretia was of a similar age but the gloss was evidently applied.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ she offered in a narrow voice that matched her artificially pinched waist, addressing the black man. Dig . She slid in the jemmy a few more inches. ‘I do so enjoy such occasions. The opportunity to meet interesting new people?’

She now had her back fully towards Goodfellowe. He wasn’t used to being ignored, usually he was a centre of attention, but maybe his reclusive body language betrayed him tonight. Anyway, he’d better get used to it. Dig . Her buttock was now brushing against him, forcing him back; he could almost feel what was left of her ovaries rattling. Yes, definitely the ley lines, he concluded.

Her hand was clamped firmly onto the black man’s sleeve in a manner that implied – no, screamed – it would take either a court injunction or unrestrained coitus to effect his release. There was no doubting Lucretia’s preference. ‘And tell me, is it hot back home?’

‘Mild. For the time of year,’ he replied, attempting a noncommittal smile. His words bore only the slightest trace of an accent. Probably an educated African, she decided.

‘I have such a fascination for the Third World.’ Dig. Dig . The parting of the ways between Goodfellowe and his companion was clearly intended to be permanent. ‘And of course for its people. Such fascinating cultures, such tremendous challenges. Tell me, Your Excellency, is there much poverty in your country?’

His eyes widened. They caught Goodfellowe’s only briefly before returning to Lucretia. ‘A crushing issue, where I come from,’ he admitted. His tone implied it was all but a matter of mass starvation. Her fingers made their way from the sleeve to his hand in sympathy. They were very large hands, she noticed, powerful, but soft for a man of his age. Educated hands, she hoped, with just the necessary touch of native roughness.

‘And tell me, where is it that you come from? No, let me guess, do,’ she insisted. ‘But you must give me a clue. Does your country play cricket?’

‘Candidly, not as well as it might. The world does not truly regard us as a great cricketing nation,’ he acknowledged with remorse, as though she was ripping his conscience bare. ‘Although personally I have always taken the sport very seriously.’

‘Then it is definitely not Caribbean,’ she declared in triumph. Her first instincts were right. African. And she was a woman of exceedingly strong instincts. ‘So tell me, you are the High Commissioner for which country? Nigeria? Ghana?’

‘No, Cricklewood.’

‘Where?’

‘I come from Cricklewood, madam. In North London.’

‘But Cricklewood doesn’t have a … You’re not a High Commissioner?’

‘No.’

‘Then you are …?’ She was unable to find the social courage to finish the sentence.

‘Matthew O’Reilly, madam. A government driver. I drive Mr Goodfellowe here. Have done for years.’ Matthew beamed and Lucretia, on the brink of devastation, turned.

‘Mr … Goodfellowe?’ At last, he existed. She withdrew her hand rapidly from Matthew’s and considered offering it to Goodfellowe, but could find no appropriate words and instead waved it in the general direction of the throng. ‘Such interesting people,’ she declaimed, and without a further word launched herself into their midst.

‘I do hope the bloody cricket improves.’ Matthew smiled in her wake.

‘You could have kept up the pretence. She is obviously a serious collector of …’

‘Colonial conquests?’

‘High Commissioners. Men of elevated position.’

‘Then both of us are safe.’ Matthew chuckled. He examined Goodfellowe more critically. ‘You ought to go mix.’

‘Do I look as if I want to mix?’

Matthew shook his head.

‘Then you’ll have to do, O’Reilly.’

‘Sure thing, bwana,’ Matthew joked, but it fell on stone. ‘So, how is it on the western front?’ he enquired, picking up the threads of their conversation.

Goodfellowe considered the point. ‘Splendid,’ he suggested, but the eyes remained cold and untouched.

‘Bad as that, eh?’

The drowning of Goodfellowe’s teenage son Stevie in a holiday accident seven months earlier had been the cause of genuine sympathy in Westminster. Colleagues could see the loneliness in Goodfellowe’s features; those who knew him better could also detect the flecks of guilt. And it had got no better.

‘How’s the family?’ Matthew enquired quietly.

Matthew had driven Goodfellowe and his wife, Elinor, and their daughter Sam to the church, not just as a close work colleague but also as a friend. He had seen the bewilderment in young Sam’s eyes and noted with concern the vacant, almost detached look in Elinor’s, as though the funeral was merely another tedious official obligation that got in the way of all the private joys she would once again share with Stevie as soon as she returned home. When her longest day was over and at last she had walked back through her front door, past his new jacket that still hung on the rack and the polished boots that still waited for the new school term, she had taken herself to bed and hadn’t appeared for a week. Waiting.

‘I thought Elinor was getting a little better, but …’ Goodfellowe shrugged his shoulders. That’s what men do. Shrug. Never admit to pain. ‘And it’s tough on Samantha.’

‘It would be on any twelve-year-old. I’m very sorry, Tom.’

‘Thanks. But we’ll survive.’ Sure they would. At least, that’s what he’d thought. Though now he wasn’t quite so confident. Nor were Elinor’s doctors. There was talk of a nursing home.

Matthew could sense the loneliness. ‘You fancy coming round for a curry one evening? Flo-Jo would love to see you.’ Matthew and Goodfellowe had shared many snatched meals during their time on the Ministerial tour together and Goodfellowe had taken a particular fancy to the food that Matthew’s wife always seemed able to produce at a moment’s notice. Green chicken curry was his favourite. With extra chilli and plenty of plump, sweet sultanas.

Mind-blowing. Flo-Jo wasn’t her real name, but a pet name insisted on by Matthew. ‘From the first night I met her she’s never hung around,’ he once explained; ‘the fastest woman I’ve ever known.’ And Goodfellowe assumed he wasn’t referring simply to her cooking.

‘Be great. Love to.’ And meant it. But not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood to do justice to either the cooking or the company. Lucretia, bloody Lucretia, had offended his manhood, ignored him, and after painful months being denied proper female companionship such insults were especially wounding. He had to leave, before he began to find Lucretia – or someone like her – almost desirable and made a fool of himself. He glanced at his watch. ‘Got places to go.’

Matthew knew this was a lie. He had his own copy of the Ministerial diary. ‘Then I’ll take you.’

‘No, old friend. I need some time on my own.’

‘Then as an old friend I’ve got to tell you that’s the last thing you need.’

‘It’s a big day tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’ And with that Goodfellowe left one of the few reliable friends he had ever found in politics.

Goodfellowe decided to slip out quietly. He hadn’t met the guest of honour, and to leave without exchanging some form of greeting would unquestionably be regarded as rude. But the guest was besieged by admirers and Goodfellowe had had enough of crowds and impatient elbows for one evening. Anyway, an audience was included in Goodfellowe’s diary of official duties towards the end of the week – although by that time it would scarcely matter. Nothing seemed to matter very much any more.