‘My concerns have to be wider than one individual girl. There are others to be considered. As headmistress I am responsible for making sure that the buildings are refurbished and the equipment replaced – and that I’m able to honour your salary cheques. I can’t do that if Mr Goodfellowe doesn’t honour his cheques.’
‘I hadn’t realized.’
‘This is the fourth term in a row that his term fees have been late,’ the headmistress added in a confidential tone frequently adopted in the drawing rooms of her native Edinburgh. ‘Last term’s fees are still outstanding, let alone this. Goodness knows what he does with his money. And Samantha can be so disruptive. So badly dressed.’
‘Do you know what she does, Headmistress? While all the other girls are buying magazines and CDs and new clothes? Sam buys her clothes at The Discount Store, then comes back and cuts out the labels in secret. So no one will know. And in the holidays while most of the other girls dash off to the ski slopes or a sandy beach, she takes a job waiting on table in a local pizzeria.’
It had begun to rain, a gentle drizzle which was excellent for youthful English character but not for greying hair. The headmistress sought shelter beneath the branches of a magnificently gnarled oak. ‘You seem to know a great deal about the girl.’
‘She’s the most talented artist we have in the school. She uses her art to express herself in a way she can’t elsewhere. An emotional outlet. I think it’s a form of therapy, for all her other problems.’
‘I can’t have her problems affecting the other girls. Or her father’s problems, come to that. Do they get on – Samantha and her father?’
‘I think it’s difficult. He’s away so much of the time. And no mother …’
‘Yes, I suppose we should have known what we were letting ourselves in for when she arrived.’ She frowned in the direction of a group of girls who chirruped ‘Good afternoon, Headmistress,’ and ran off giggling.
‘Sam’s very talented,’ Mrs Ashburton insisted, trying to steer the conversation onto more positive grounds. ‘And also very well intentioned. I know she gets into scrapes with some of the other girls, but that’s no more than frustration. Look at her other side. The charity fashion show, for example. It was her idea and she’s doing most of the organization. Beneath those dark eyes there’s a huge heart.’
‘It’s those dark eyes that will get her into trouble, mark my words. I get reports of the sort of boys she sees in her town time.’ Miss Rennie pulled her cardigan defensively about her bosom. ‘We are responsible for bringing our young ladies into contact with the finer values in life, not the sort of boys whose concept of culture is to spend their evenings bragging through their beer about under-age conquests.’ Her voice carried the hint of November wind blowing through the girders of the Forth Bridge.
‘She’s sixteen,’ the arts mistress responded in mitigation. ‘Anyway, I think she’s very much her own woman. Not easily led.’
Too committed, Miss Rennie reflected once more upon her colleague. A pity. Well intentioned, a gifted teacher. But too committed. It didn’t do, not with young girls, who required above all a tight rein. The headmistress sighed; she had already spent more than enough of her day worrying about one problem child, she had other responsibilities to attend to. The hot-water system had broken down yet again; it might require replacing, at whatever cost. ‘The fees must be paid,’ the headmistress responded, ‘I owe it to the other girls. Otherwise – well, perhaps Mr Goodfellowe’s neglect will relieve us of any further responsibility in this matter.’ And with that she strode purposefully in the direction of the boiler room.
Late-night votes. Endless hours of tedium during which the parliamentary bars remained open while parliamentary minds grew ever more fixedly shut. Get through the business, don’t delay, don’t digress. Just march and vote. Then, at last, it was over and the exhausted representatives of the people could be released into the custody of the community. Goodfellowe, without wheels, had been forced to join the queue of numbed men and women who waited for taxis, and it was well after one before he clambered up the narrow stone stairs to reach his studio flat overlooking Gerrard Street. The place was pleasant enough, as small flats go, nestling in the eaves of the old Regency house with a mezzanine platform for his bed and a pine-clad ceiling that stretched up into the loft space. Once, a lifetime ago, he had lived in Holland Park. In those days he’d been able to afford a little style and a lot of stucco; now all he had was his parliamentary allowance for second homes which had to cover everything: rent, heating, taxes, insurance, the lot. Not that the heating bills were heavy, not with the meat kitchen on the floor below, where they hung the char-sui and duck on long rows of curing racks, forcing the warmth and their sweet-sour aroma upwards. It would make summer a struggle. But the location was convenient and he needed the distraction of something different, somewhere that bustled well into the night and helped fill all those sleepless hours. Chinatown never slept, not until dawn.
They had regarded him with some suspicion when he moved in, the gweilo who had come to intrude upon the different families and clans that made up the Chinese community, but he’d made a point in his first week of going to see Madame Tang at her coffee shop and introducing himself, and slowly the word had got round. Minister Goodfellowe, a man who moved in circles of power, a man of contacts, a neighbour who might one day be useful. The Chinese understood that. They insisted on giving him a title and he had never been able to convince them that he was no longer a public figure of any eminence although, in truth, he hadn’t tried too hard. It still hurt.
He had just kicked off his shoes and begun brewing a pot of light green tea when there came a persistent buzzing from the intercom. ‘Minister Goodfellowe! Minister Goodfellowe!’ He was tired like a lashed horse but almost welcomed the intrusion, his emotions still restless, his bed as always cold. The buzzer sounded again. He looked around for his shoes then decided he couldn’t be bothered, relishing the cool stone stairs as he padded down two flights in his socks.
He opened the tall door to find Jya-Yu and Uncle Zhu standing on the step, silhouetted against the green neon of the Jade Palace across the street. Uncle Zhu was wearing a suit, carefully buttoned, and his hair was slicked down against his scalp. Jya-Yu was smiling nervously. ‘Sorry, very late. We wait until we see your light.’
‘Waiting all night? What for? Not more trouble?’ he asked, exhaustion leaving his words sharp with accusation.
Immediately he felt a louse as he noticed she was holding a plate on which were six assorted Chinese honey buns. ‘Cakes from cousin’s bakery. For you, Minister Goodfellowe. For thanks.’ She held the plate forward.
A noise whose origins lay somewhere deep within Uncle Zhu’s throat began. To Goodfellowe it was utterly incomprehensible but the Chinaman was also holding something, offering it up. Goodfellowe found himself being presented with a construction of chrome and cables and rubber which, on inspection, transformed itself into a lightweight collapsible bike.
Uncle Zhu’s head was bobbing effusively.
‘Also for thanks. Minister Goodfellowe,’ Jya-Yu chirped.
‘This is … so unexpected. Most kind,’ Goodfellowe responded, his tired judgement juggling with the implications. He was growing accustomed to the mercantile Chinese mind. ‘But how much will this cost?’
‘No cost. For thanks. To replace old one.’
The bike was surprisingly lightweight, he could hold it in one hand. ‘It would be very useful,’ he conceded, ‘but I can’t accept something so valuable. It could get me into trouble.’
He tried to offer back the bike, but Uncle Zhu refused and began an animated exchange with his niece.
‘Uncle Zhu says he get bike in payment from poor customer. Uncle Zhu not ride bike. You take it, no problem.’
‘I think I would like such a bike,’ Goodfellowe responded, turning the neatly folded package over in appreciation,