He squeezed in beside Miss Rennie onto one of the familiar coccyx-crushing chairs which breed in the storage rooms of every place of learning. She was sitting ramrod straight, as though on guard. A no-nonsense pose. He decided not to flannel.
‘Miss Rennie,’ he muttered, ‘thank you for your patience, but I think you’d like to know that I’m seeing my bank manager next week. I feel sure the problem with the fees will be resolved then.’
That is kind,’ she nodded thoughtfully, staring ahead. ‘Kind. It’s been worrying.’
‘There’s no need for you to worry, Headmistress.’
‘Oh, but I do, Mr Goodfellowe, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but – well, this isn’t the first time. I’ve often wondered why you don’t do what I understand many other politicians do and take on a consultancy, perhaps, some outside interest which would help you with the school fees. Relieve the pressure.’
He sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I do have one consultancy as it happens, with the CPF.’
Miss Rennie raised an eyebrow.
‘The Caravan Park Owners’ Federation.’
The eyebrow, a tiny tangle of heather, rose still further.
‘But I’ve always thought,’ he continued, ‘that – how can I put it without sounding too pompous? – the job of an MP is in the House of Commons and his constituency. Not around boardrooms and lobby groups.’
‘But term after term, Mr Goodfellowe. And we all share in your pain, truly we do.’
He doubted that, but decided this was not the time to argue the point. ‘I’ll think about it. I promise. But I must remind you. Not a word to Samantha. I don’t want her to worry.’
‘Mr Goodfellowe, I shall breathe not a word but it would surprise me if she didn’t have some grasp of the situation.’ He could see the genuine concern in her grey eyes. ‘Samantha is a very talented and resourceful girl. We would be sorry to see her go …’
‘I trust there’s no question of that, Headmistress. As I said, next week …’
‘It’s not entirely a matter of money, Mr Goodfellowe, but what is best for Samantha. To be honest, in spite of the excellent work of which she is capable and her initiative in organizing the fashion show, she doesn’t seem happy here at Werringham. Surely you must have noticed?’
‘Well, I … hadn’t noticed, to be honest. She’s going through a phase, of course. But most teenagers do.’
‘She’s a lonely girl, Mr Goodfellowe, with few friends.’
‘Oh,’ he responded, deflated. ‘I suppose it doesn’t always help having a politician as a father. She must get ribbed about that. My fault.’
‘It’s more than that. She doesn’t want to fit in. I’ve never been sure she ever wanted to come to Werringham.’
‘It’s true that she was very happy at her old school. But after her mother … well, I’m in London all through the week. It had to be boarding school. There was no other choice.’
‘I’m not unsympathetic, you understand, but I must bear in mind what is best for Samantha. She has considerable ability, of that there’s no doubt, and her artistic skills are exemplary, but at times she seems to be easily distracted. Even stubborn. She flatly refuses to participate with the other girls at team sports. Goes off on her own during her town time – I suspect going to places I would regard as altogether undesirable. And with older boys.’
‘What are you suggesting about Sammy?’ Lurid pictures were beginning to float across the parental mind.
‘Nothing. I am merely expressing concerns. Samantha is unhappy. And, I fear, not altogether the best of examples to the other girls. I have them to consider, too.’
The conversation had been blown into poorly charted waters. Suddenly he found himself wishing for a return to the more familiar if equally hazardous ground of his personal finances but, before he could respond, a splash of Live Aid music had showered upon them and, through a fog of dry ice, the fashion show had begun. Down a catwalk built from the centre of the stage emerged a parade which combined exuberance, propaganda, Viyella and vivid colours, hats, sequins, satin, yards of youthful thigh and a measure of naive taste.
Then there was Sammy.
He could not stifle a sharp intake of breath. The clothes themselves, designed by Samantha and made up by other more skilled seamstresses, consisted of carefully flared trousers which began three inches below her navel and had laces down the thigh. Her shoes had huge heels which made his blistered feet weep in sympathy. Three inches above the navel began a crop-top which outlined a figure that had become undeniably soft and feminine. At that moment and for the first time he realized that his little girl, so innocent in school uniform and shapeless jeans and jumpers, was growing up all too fast. It made her unfamiliar; he was suddenly afraid he was losing her. A large waistcoat of patchwork velvet finished off the clothes. Above, around her neck, was a gap where her mother’s locket might have been.
So far, none of this was exceptional apart from the effervescence and simple sense which had gone into the effect. What caused further intakes of breath from all around – not just from himself but most noticeably from Miss Rennie – were the deeply personal accessories. The spikes of brilliant orange where before had been soft auburn hair. Purple lips. The bared left shoulder from which sprouted the tattoo of a rose in bloom. And another gap, between halter and hipsters, where a gilded chain encircled her hips and threaded up to an all too obvious gold ring that had been pierced straight through the flesh of her navel.
The cameras were beside her now, following her confident strides up and down the catwalk. She appeared heedless of the stir of unease from parents in the audience, perhaps even relishing it. Yet in the farther recesses of the hall something else stirred. Approval and applause began to break through like spring daffodils, cautiously at first, then more abundantly and with greater confidence until they had spread inexorably through the carefully planted rows of chairs and were swirling around the foot of the stage. The cameras turned on the audience, which began to respond, elders matching the enthusiasm of their offspring.
But not Goodfellowe. He remained immune to the infection sweeping through the hall. This was his little girl, barely out of braces and bobby socks. Or was it? She seemed strangely unfamiliar, unknown to him. ‘What on earth do you call that … that …’ – words failed – ‘grunge?’
‘You’re out of date, Mr Goodfellowe. That’s definitely post-grunge,’ Miss Rennie offered without a trace of humour, but joining in the applause as the cameras panned towards her. It was the only way. Apparent enthusiasm. The honour of the school was at stake.
Cameras appeared to be everywhere that week.
It was Friday, mid-afternoon, and Goodfellowe was driving – more correctly being driven – back to Marshwood. One of the few blessings of being stripped of his licence was that the Member for the neighbouring constituency, Lionel Lillicrap, was a colleague of long standing and had been more than willing to help with lifts. In fact, Lionel was the only blessing which arose from that sorry episode – apart from the fact that he could drink without damnation for at least another eight months.
Goodfellowe and Lillicrap had entered the House together, twelve years earlier, sharing in the early days both ambition and a Commons office, yet it had been Goodfellowe on whose brow the laurels of early promotion had fallen. Indeed, he had been the coming man. He was granted grudging respect by his civil servants and, more grudgingly still, by