The Buddha of Brewer Street

Characteristically, Goodfellowe had screwed up the system and bought nothing. Couldn’t afford it, not at any price, not nowadays. Anyway, Elinor no longer had an appreciation of such things. Of anything, come to that, in those weeks when she climbed into her pit of depression and pulled the roof in on herself. It affected Goodfellowe, too. Despair would snap at his heels like a Black Dog, determined to pursue him. He called them Black Dog days – Churchill’s expression, and so apt; the initial effect was like hearing a dog growl, from very close behind on a stormy night. And recently there had been more of them. That’s why he’d had to get out. Before he was pulled down in the same way as Elinor.

He dragged his attention back into the room. Madame Lin was nearing the end of her homily. Something about her Government’s desire to ensure that the contents of this protest be communicated directly to the highest levels of the British Government. A matter of the most considerable significance. Her sadness that the Secretary of State himself was abroad, unavailable. The strong implication that she was deeply dissatisfied at being able to see only Goodfellowe. A mere Minister. Here today, a has-been tomorrow. She didn’t use those words, but the sense hung heavily in her tone.

That hurt. Of course the snub of offering up only him to hear the complaint was deliberate, the British Government getting its retaliation in first, but it served to emphasize that already he was a man of overwhelming unimportance. Thomas Goodfellowe. A sensation when at the Home Office. The rising star of the FCO. A man who with fortune might eventually have gone all the way. But not any more. Politicians never came back. There were too many colleagues to trample on the fallen. It was over. He was nothing. She knew it and was making it part of her official complaint. And he had to sit there and take it.

Then it was over and he was handed a formal copy of the complaint, like an irresponsible driver receiving a speeding ticket. A pity, he thought. She was new in her post and, on the couple of occasions they had met, Goodfellowe had warmed to Madame Lin. Sad to end on such a sour note.

He didn’t waste much time with his official response; they both knew the script by heart; indeed the details had been discussed beforehand by their underlings and advisers. The Dalai Lama was visiting Britain privately, not in any official capacity. Any contact he had with Ministers was in his role as a religious leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner, not as a political figure. And platitudes about there being no intention of Her Majesty’s Government to interfere in China’s internal affairs. After all, thought Goodfellowe, they were making enough of a mess of it on their own; they scarcely needed Britain’s help to add to the chaos.

And then it was over. Madame Lin rose, bowed and made for the door. His last formal visitor as Minister of State was leaving. He thought the occasion should have been marked in some way. A little ceremony, a short speech, a small dedication, even a bottle or two. But already his private office was preparing for a new master. The contents of his red boxes for the last two days had dwindled to nothing but personal matters, letters from colleagues, an invoice from the office for expenses that couldn’t be claimed. He’d get that drink eventually, but on his own. He was drinking too much on his own.

It was as Goodfellowe’s private secretary was showing out the visitors that she turned. Both the private secretary and the interpreter hesitated, wanting to stay, but Madame Lin ushered them onward. The private secretary stood his ground, reluctant to leave his Minister alone with the diplomat, fearful of the damage that might result from an unguided discussion. Yet Goodfellowe didn’t care for his private secretary, Maurice, nor the bureaucratic games he played. Like handing him speaking notes so late that Goodfellowe had no chance of considering them, let alone altering them. Or hiding all the important papers that Maurice didn’t want the Minister to study too carefully in the middle of the pile. And stuffing Goodfellowe’s diary so full he didn’t even have time to break wind. Should have got rid of this wretched man months ago. Now was his very last chance.

‘Don’t you have some papers to shuffle? Or spies to catch, Maurice?’

Maurice smiled, lips parting like the drawer of a well-oiled filing cabinet. ‘Did all that last week, Minister.’

‘Do it again, will you? Can’t be too careful. Not about paper.’

Maurice hesitated. ‘Yes. I’m sure we have a few last items of yours to clear, Minister. Wouldn’t want to miss any.’

The door was closed as though on a lepers’ ward. They were alone.

‘Thank you, Mr Goodfellowe.’ Madame Lin was smiling, the dark eyes open and amused. ‘Now the formalities are over, I wondered: the opportunity for a private word, perhaps?’

‘So long as you have finished chastising me.’

‘It was never my intention to be unkind to you. Nor about you. I wanted to make that clear. I am deeply saddened by your loss of office; it was not my wish to refer to it in the official remarks. But my masters in Beijing insisted.’

‘As we thought they would.’

‘Which, of course, is why you did it.’ She laughed, a throaty, surprisingly masculine sound.

‘It’s kind of you to wish me well,’ he responded, trying to divert the conversation. She was unusually direct for a diplomat, astonishingly so for a Chinese.

‘I have enjoyed our meetings, no matter how brief. We could have done business together. Perhaps we shall in the future.’

‘A pleasant thought. But, as we both know, not very realistic.’

She crossed slowly to the old globe that stood in the corner of his office, by the window that overlooked the great Horse Guards Parade. The globe was an artefact of considerable value, if not of the greatest age. 1910. And about forty grand at auction. Her finger tracked slowly through the continents of Europe and Asia.

‘Life often comes full circle, Mr Goodfellowe. It changes. Then it changes again. Look at this globe. No Soviet Union, just a collection of nation states. As it was then, and as it is once more. Don’t give up hope. Life is a turning wheel.’

‘Funny. The Tibetans agree with you about that. The Wheel of Life turns. Uplifting. Turns again. Crushing. Your point of view depends on whether you are pushing the wheel or strapped beneath it, I suppose.’

‘I did not stay to continue the argument about Tibet.’ The eyes clouded in warning, then relaxed. ‘Merely to express my sincere condolences. To sacrifice office for your family is an act of honour. And of courage.’

‘You are very kind.’

‘I know the power of family, Mr Goodfellowe. I have but one daughter, no sons. Rather like you. And of all the many hopes I have for myself, my greatest ambition is to be a grandmother. I would like many grandchildren.’

Strange, Goodfellowe thought. The Chinese pursued the most ruthless birth-control policies of any power on earth. Compulsory abortions. Enforced sterilization. Infants, particularly daughters, left to die. Literally discarded, thrown away. In China, population control was nothing more than a crude numbers game. Yet undoubtedly she meant what she said.

‘Ah, I read your brow. You are wondering how I as a representative of the Beijing Government can favour large families?’

Extraordinary, thought Goodfellowe. Diplomat. Grandmother. And psychic. ‘May I speak personally?’

She nodded.

‘They’re barbaric, your Government’s policies on birth control. I understand the practice is often to inject the unborn foetus directly in the head to induce a miscarriage. Nothing short of barbaric. If I may speak personally.’

He had expected an animated response, but she remained collected. ‘I do not have to agree with all the acrobatics of my Government’s policies. Not here in my heart. Any more than you do, Mr Goodfellowe. But I hold my office with pride, and office brings with it responsibilities. But also certain … what is the word? Privileges. If one of those privileges is the opportunity to ensure I can have many grandchildren, don’t expect me to apologize or feel shame. Above all, my family comes first. Which is why I understand the sacrifice you have made.’ She turned the globe slowly. ‘I think we are much alike.’

‘Except there is a difference between us, or at least between our systems. We both wish to protect our families. In your system, that means you must retain your office. Yet in my system, it seems, I have to give up my office. A curious contrast.’

Her fingers began to drum in agitation, the sign of a chain-smoker denied her support. ‘I must go. My staff will be getting inquisitive. It does not do in these testing times to be out of step with one’s Government, or out of earshot of others. They become suspicious.’

‘I appreciate your staying on.’

She held out her hand. This time her grip was firm. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’

‘Me too.’

And with that she was gone.

Rain. Brutal. Belligerent. Yet the Dalai Lama left the car window open. He wanted the wind on his face, the same monsoon wind that, once it had poured its heart out on this side of the Himalayas, would climb into Tibet and quarrel its way around the dusty plains. For that reason he envied the wind. And blessed it. The wind spoke to him while he in turn whispered prayers that would be wrapped within its folds and carried all the way to his homeland, slipping clean through the outstretched fingers of the People’s Propaganda Unit.

The rain smothered the landscape in a relentless khaki shroud, turning the world to mud. Crops bent and were borne away, man and his beast stood miserable under dripping trees. The highway that had guided them away from the airport at Delhi was, ten hours later, little more than a track, and in some places not even that. Water rushed down the mountainside in great brown corkscrews, gouging and chafing at everything in its path. It was said in the state capital that at least a quarter of the road leading up into the hills from Kangra was waiting for repair; it was also said that the rest waited only for God.

The car wheels spun before finding their grip and climbing out of yet another pothole, and the Lama sighed wearily, comforting himself that after his long trip to Europe he would soon be home – or at least what passed for home in a life of exile. As the small convoy of cars with its Indian police escort began the last stretch of the journey, the drivers were tired, the road grew more tortuous and the cascade of floodwater swept ever more implacably across their path.

Trouble was inevitable, so they said. Afterwards.

Inevitable.

The Indian Army captain who conducted preliminary forensics at the scene was meticulous, and reported indications that some sort of explosion might have caused the landslide that carried away two of the cars.

His colonel, who was in charge of the investigation and up for promotion, emphasized in his own report that these traces of explosion were indistinct and inevitably ambiguous.

Meanwhile, the general in receipt of the colonel’s report weighed up the carefully worded ambiguities and found them wanting. He took advice on the matter, and as a consequence omitted all mention of explosives in the summary that was laid before the Cabinet.

The advice not to mention any explosion came from the Minister of Defence. His logic was clear. There was only one enemy of the Dalai Lama. China. But China was India’s powerful neighbour and not its enemy, not for the moment at least. And to rush into confrontation with China through uttering accusations they couldn’t support would be distinctly prejudicial, quite possibly to national security, most certainly to the accusers, be they military or Ministerial. Best say nothing, he had suggested. Not even a hint. Not until they were certain. Which, on the rain-soaked road leading up from Kangra, they never could be.

So, for want of an explanation, they simply termed the accident ‘inevitable’. An act of God. And in India they had gods galore on whom to lay the blame.

However, this explanation did not satisfy the Dalai Lama himself, who had an enquiring and almost scientific mind, and who in any event as an atheist did not believe in God.

It was common ground that there had been a landslide. It was also common ground that the landslide had tossed the car carrying his private secretary and interpreter sideways into a ravine two thousand feet deep. There was still more common ground that such a landslide could have been caused by the incessant rain, as the official report suggested.

But rain, no matter how heavy, couldn’t explain why the Lama’s own car was thrown not sideways, but backwards. Neither could rain explain the sharp stench of burning that filled his nostrils for days afterwards, nor the rock that was thrown with great force through the windscreen, striking him high on the right-hand side of his face. And rain would never explain the extraordinary blue-white light that filled his head as a result, blazing with an intensity of a kind he had never experienced before.

And, when the light had finally flickered and died, would never experience again.

The rock had damaged the optic nerve. He was blind.

But what is blindness to a man who had spent a lifetime, indeed a whole succession of lifetimes, seeing beyond this world? At least, that is what the Dalai Lama told those who tried to commiserate with him. He could accept his blindness.

But what he could never accept was that he had now become a target, and as a result of being a target he had become a threat to the lives of all those around him. His own death was something his religion required him to contemplate daily and which he had never feared. Death was an achievement, in its own time. But killing, the taking of life, was as repulsive and as abominable as any act he could imagine. And now his very existence threatened to inflict precisely that on those who were closest to him.

The darkness that fell across his life as a result made blindness the lightest of his burdens.

TWO

Defunct Ministers generate surprising attributes. Such as becoming invisible. The female lobbyist who only a few weeks before had pestered him to the point of exhaustion now passed him in the crush of Parliament Street without even a fleeting sign of recognition, let alone remorse. Goodfellowe had also developed what appeared to be a case of infectious incontinence. Although he noticed no change in his own personal habits, he had become aware of the large number of people who in his presence seemed suddenly to find the need to rush away. This was particularly so in the case of the Whip who informed him that, as he was no longer a Minister, he would have to hand over possession of his large office in the House of Commons and move immediately to less salubrious surroundings. At least the Whip had the decency to appear embarrassed before rushing off. Well, perhaps it was his prostate, thought Goodfellowe kindly. But there were no kind thoughts for Maurice who, to the end, to the very end, remained the complete uncivil servant. As a final gesture Maurice had taken great delight in handing him a small plastic bag that contained all the mementoes Goodfellowe would never have wished to see again. The name card from his Ministerial door. An ashtray from some banana republic engraved with the image of its fat-jowelled president-for-life. Even a half-eaten tube of mints wrapped in a packet of tissues that had been found hiding down the back seat of his Ministerial car. Or rather, his ex-Ministerial car.

Yet perhaps the most distressing circumstance was that concerning his House of Commons secretary, Veronica, a single lady in her early forties who had been a model of efficiency, ambition and detachment. In this instance it was the second quality of ambition that led to the third, detachment, for she basked in the reflected glory of her employers and had no time for lingering in shadows. Within a month of his resignation Veronica had followed suit and thrown in her Tippex. But her prime quality of efficiency was never to be doubted; she had already found alternative employment with a Cabinet Minister.

So it had fallen to Goodfellowe to find a replacement secretary, not the easiest of tasks in the middle of a parliamentary session. They told him he would have to look outside the system and indeed he had, interviewing a succession of spinsters and matrons whom he had found to be ‘just right for the job’ – like Veronica. Yet he was still getting used to the role of the Invisible Man; he was lonely, at times despondent, in need of … well, doing something different for a change. Something unexpected. Unpredictable. Then in walked Mickey Ross. Quite literally.

He had been in the Central Lobby one afternoon chatting to Gladstone. Gladstone was a tramp. He slept in the doorway of a gentleman’s tailor in the Strand and frequently came to the Central Lobby to exercise his democratic right to comfort and a little companionship. He’d become something of a celebrity fixture. Although he was homeless he managed to dress himself in an orderly fashion and possessed a wit as polished as his shoes were scuffed. No one knew his real name but he held court at the foot of the statue of the great nineteenth-century Prime Minister and night stalker, after whom he was affectionately known. One ‘senior backbencher’ – the parliamentary term usually reserved for someone who had achieved very little and had stretched it over a great period of time – had once indulged in the folly of seeking Gladstone’s removal from his place of comfort. A waspish article in that day’s Evening Standard had ensured the request was hastily withdrawn and Gladstone informally offered tenure of the end of his leather bench. And Goodfellowe rather enjoyed his company, for the tramp was a great observer of people and life. It was while they were chatting away contrasting the qualities of Bulgarian Riesling and surgical spirit that he felt a hand on his sleeve.

‘Excuse me. Do you work here?’ It was a young woman, handsome and earnest.

‘I suppose I do.’

‘It’s just that I’m looking for a job. Don’t know if there’s any going, do you?’

He stared hard. She had a raw energy and an almost combative presence that he found immensely appealing. And a touch of East End in her elocution. No nonsense.

‘What sort of job?’

‘Secretary, I guess. Or personal assistant. I’ve got GCSEs.’

‘Happens I might know someone. Care to talk about it over a drink?’

‘Champagne?’

‘No, only tea, I’m afraid.’

‘Then you’re on. My mother told me never to drink champagne with a man until you know his name.’

‘Tom Goodfellowe,’ he offered.

‘I’m sure you are,’ she replied, holding out her hand. ‘Mickey Ross.’

And he had taken her down to the Terrace of the House of Commons, which overlooks the Thames. There was a gentle breeze and the sun played on the bow waves of the tugs and pleasure cruisers that plied back and forth. It also shone on her hair, auburn, which had been brushed to perfection. She was meticulous about her appearance. Women with large breasts such as hers could sometimes look so untidy, but every part of Mickey Ross looked as though it knew what it was about.

‘As it happens, I’m looking for a secretary.’

‘Who are you then, Tom?’

‘The Member of Parliament for Marshwood.’

‘Whoops. Never figured it, not with you talking to that tramp.’

‘That is not a tramp, that is Gladstone.’

‘Gladstone was a randy old sod who spent his days making great moral statements while he spent his evenings wandering around the streets of London picking up women of doubtful virtue. I’ve always wondered if that’s why he didn’t manage to get the relief column to Khartoum in time to rescue General Gordon. You know: too many distractions.’

He bowed his head in deference. ‘You are remarkably well informed.’

‘As I said, I’ve got my GCSEs.’

He chuckled in admiration. Several Members who passed by took note, staring just a little too long. A Whip frowned and raised an eyebrow, rather like a warning flag on a beach. Treacherous Bathing. Do Not Enter These Waters. He was right, of course. She was far too young, lacking in the long years of experience that would allow her to dominate the job. And she was also far, far too obviously feminine for Goodfellowe’s comfort. And Jewish. He had made a mistake.

‘This can be rather a dull job at times,’ Goodfellowe suggested, deciding he should let her down gently.

‘It would be different. I might be willing to give it a go.’

‘A lot of dusty procedure.’

‘That’s no problem. I work extremely hard.’ She smiled, two large dimples appearing on her cheeks. ‘And I pick things up easily.’

Her eyes held a glint of dark mischief which Goodfellowe decided could so easily turn to mayhem. He concentrated on his tea.

‘But why do you want to work in Westminster?’

She paused, considering her reply. ‘I could tell you of my fascination with politics, my respect for the great institutions of state. Or do you want the truth?’

‘This is the House of Commons. But let’s start with the truth.’

‘A bet. I did it for a bet.’

‘You what?’

‘I was bored with my old job in the City. And my boss and I fell out. We had very different ideas about holiday entitlement. He seemed to think he was entitled to take me on his holidays, or at least his weekends away.’

‘You disapprove of such goings-on?’ Goodfellowe nodded in rather avuncular fashion, then despised himself. He knew he’d like nothing better.

‘To Grimsby, sure I do. If he wants the seaside, what’s wrong with Venice? Anyway, it was time for a change. I was at a hen night. A girlfriend bet me I couldn’t get a job in the Palace. I think she meant Buckingham Palace, but I couldn’t work in a place filled with all that museum furniture. And far too many divorced men. So I decided to try the Palace of Westminster.’

‘Doesn’t sound like high motivation, Miss Ross.’ He found himself sounding pompous.

She retaliated. ‘I thought of joining the Army. You know, all that foreign travel. But have you seen the footwear?’ She studied her hands. ‘And what would it do to my manicure?’

‘Sorry. I get the message.’

‘Seriously, I’m twenty-two. I’m not sure what I want to do. Whatever I do is going to be a leap into the unknown. What matters to me is the people I take that leap with. Whether we’re right for each other.’

‘A fair point. You ought to know that my personal circumstances aren’t easy. I’m not flavour of the month. I’ve just resigned from the Government. My family life is difficult, intrusive.’ He sighed. He really must dissuade her. What the hell, he knew he was trying to dissuade himself. She couldn’t possibly work out. This isn’t the most glamorous post in Parliament.’

‘Now I remember. You’re that Goodfellowe. The one who resigned because of his family. I read about you. I admire what you’ve done. Is it all right to say that?’

This was impossible, he decided. Ankles and admiration. He was hiding in his tea again; she resolved to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Anyway, I’m not certain I want the job yet. I need more information about the perks and conditions. Do I get Jewish holidays and my mother’s birthday off? Is there a Face Lift Fund?’

‘A what?’

‘A Face Lift Fund. Insurance. Like a pension plan. A girl’s got to look ahead, Mr Goodfellowe.’

Goodfellowe began wriggling, trying to suppress the laughter, and failed. The Whip turned to stare from his nearby table, the flag hoisted and warning of storms, damn him. It had been such a long time since Goodfellowe had laughed.

He wiped an eye. ‘I needed that. Cheering up.’

‘Hey, then I’m your girl.’

He took a deep breath, felt a touch of vertigo, then dived in. ‘You know, Miss Ross, I think perhaps you are.’

* * *

The mouth of the cave was well concealed. Although the boy thought he knew every boulder and crevice on this side of the mountain, he hadn’t discovered this cave before, and wouldn’t have discovered it now had it not been for the curious old monk. Every day at dawn for almost two weeks Lobsang had watched the monk make his solitary way up the path to the point beyond the shrivelled fir, disappearing behind the great temple-sized slab of granite, from where he didn’t return until last light. Lobsang was rather afraid of this monk with the strange, twisted hands and sad face, who seemed to know more about Lobsang’s playground than the boy did himself, but he was of an age when in the end curiosity inevitably overcame caution. Today Lobsang had followed.