Whispers of Betrayal. Michael Dobbs
hurricane, and visited most of the storm centres in between. They had never fully trusted each other, since they were two people who found considerable difficulty in trusting themselves, particularly Goodfellowe, who had battled for what seemed half a lifetime to come to terms with his guilt and anger. His guilt arose because he was married to Elinor, his anger, even greater than his guilt, because Elinor was no longer, and could never again be, his true wife. Poor, tormented Elinor, locked away within the darkness of her starved mind and confined to a nursing home since the death of their son, Stevie. Not her fault. Perhaps not his fault either, but enough torment to have laid a trail of confusion upon his love for Elizabeth.
‘It’s Amadeus,’ he announced, placing the newspaper to one side as he accepted the proffered tray. ‘I know him. Or knew him, to be precise. At school. Didn’t know him well, but pleasant enough. Very intense for a fourteen-year-old. Not a name you forget in a hurry.’
‘You didn’t enjoy school much, did you?’
‘Not that school,’ Goodfellowe agreed. Not any school, in truth. ‘Got expelled.’
‘You? Expelled?’ she burbled in surprise. She perched on the edge of the bed, intent on discovering more.
‘The headmaster and I suffered from fundamentally differing viewpoints.’ He rallied, tore his eyes away from her body, knowing he would have to finish the story first. ‘Hoare – unfortunate name for a headmaster, don’t you think? Left him rather distracted, I suspect. Christened his daughter Amanda. Can you imagine her school register? Anyway, during a dull interlude in one of his lessons when perhaps my attentions were drifting, Old Hoary thought it was in order to throw his stick of chalk at me. Which is where our fundamental disagreement came into play. Because he didn’t think it was appropriate for me to pick it up and throw the bloody stuff back. Caught him smack on the bridge of his spectacles. Knocked ’em clean off. Smashed. You could hear the noise all over the school.’
‘So he expelled you? For throwing chalk?’
‘No, not for the chalk. It was for my artwork. As he was shaking the hell out of me for breaking his glasses, one of my illustrations fell out of a textbook.’
‘Illustrations?’
Goodfellowe looked reflective, painting in the air with a piece of toast as he refreshed the picture in his mind. ‘An amateurish but highly annotated illustration of a woman. Entitled “Martha”.’
‘Naked?’
‘Of course. Vividly so. Accompanied by a brief but entertaining sexual history. One which was highly accurate too, according to fourth-form rumour. To which the headmaster, even without his glasses, took great exception on the quite narrow-minded grounds that Martha was also the name of his wife. Copped merry hell for that. Not to return after the end of the term, my parents were told. Copped a packet from the old man, too.’ Goodfellowe bit into a corner of the toast, trying to avoid the thick smear of butter that clung to its surface. ‘Amadeus was in the year below me. Came to say goodbye when he heard I was being thrown out. Asked for a copy of the drawing. Offered me a shilling for it. Damned decent gesture, I thought.’
Goodfellowe pulled a face.
‘Unpleasant memory?’ she enquired, concerned.
‘No, unpleasant toast. How can you ruin toast, for pity’s sake?’ He dribbled crumbs onto his bare chest, which she brushed tantalizingly with the tips of her fingers, tracing the fragments of scorched bread down towards his navel.
‘Why do you think I own a restaurant? It’s the only way a girl like me can get a decent meal. Either that or joining an escort agency. Come to think of it, an escort agency would offer much better hours. The overheads would be lower, too.’
‘In my opinion, which is anything but humble, the chaotic hours of running a restaurant are ideal for you.’
‘Why?’
He beamed wickedly, pulling her back towards him. ‘Because they precisely match my own.’
‘You selfish bastard, Goodfellowe,’ she cried, picking up his newspaper and beginning to hit him around the head.
‘Don’t do that! I want to keep Amadeus’s letter. Invite him for a drink, perhaps. When you’ve put your clothes on.’
She began to laugh, like wind chimes disturbed by a summer’s breeze. She was remarkably unselfconscious about her naked body, and with good reason. Even in her thirty-somethings it was still finely crafted with, as Goodfellowe had once put it, ‘excellent long-term potential’. She had thought it a clumsy phrase, while he thought it summed her up exactly. So they fought a lot, misunderstood each other, had to compromise. But, as they fought, he learnt, about himself, and about that other half of humanity they called Woman. He liked learning as he neared his fiftieth, almost as much as he’d done in the fourth form. As for compromise, he found it easy when he was in her bed. Elizabeth de Vries. Excellent long-term potential. A body. Brains. A superb Russian restaurant thrown in, too. What more could a man want?
Except for an uncreased copy of the Telegraph. He grabbed it back.
‘Anyway, what does he say in his letter, your friend Amadeus?’ Elizabeth asked, conceding.
‘That the Government is crap. He’s probably right.’
‘But it’s your Government, poppet.’
She sounded the words slowly, with a smile of saccharine, as though she were lecturing a small child, but he wasn’t in the mood. Nowadays he was rarely in the mood. He had developed a fundamental humour loss when it came to this Government. His Government. A Government that was deep into its menopause and now so bereft of ideas that it had all but run out of things to leak.
‘That’s naïve,’ he responded, he hoped softly enough to smother the sounds of his own imploding frustration.
‘You vote for it every day of the week.’
‘Like all women, you don’t understand …’
‘What’s the matter, Goodfellowe, the only place you discover your balls is in bed?’ She laughed, claiming victory.
‘Ridiculous female logic.’
‘Typical male inadequacy might be closer to the mark.’
‘Elizabeth, you’re being emotional,’ he protested, knowing already that his banners were in tatters and the field was hers.
‘I know I’m nothing more than a weak and wanton woman, but you aren’t. So why don’t you do something about it?’
The coup de grâce. A single blow. Delivered with unerring accuracy.
‘Do something? Do something?’ he repeated, as though the question was struggling to penetrate the wits of a drowning man. ‘I can’t! I wish I could but I can’t. I’m a miserable backbencher with no power and a bike that’s going rusty while these bloody Ministers …’ He clenched the rescued newspaper in his fist as he spoke, unaware that he was crumpling it beyond redemption.
‘Most of them are cock-ups scuttling around Whitehall in search of an occasion,’ he continued. ‘They sweep past in their Ministerial limousines, their spin doctors strewing rose petals and whisky in their way, while we are expected to stand idly by in the pouring rain and wave them onward. And, to hell with it, look what you’ve done to my newspaper!’ he howled in the manner of some Dickensian villain.
‘No, Goodfellowe, you did it. And it’s my newspaper. My toast.’ She picked up the tray. ‘And my bed. Time to get out of it. The second shift arrives in half an hour.’
He looked at the disappearing tray with a sharp edge of hunger. Damn the diet. The toast didn’t look that bleak after all. ‘You know what I really want, Elizabeth?’ he called after her, his imagination full of the sight and succulence of a full English from the Connaught.
She turned at the door. ‘I know exactly what you want, poppet,’ she said with a certainty that for a moment