CENTRE POINT
Without an Arnold Goodman, government is one long slither to a fall
SIMON JENKINS
Ionly once saw Lord Goodman's guard drop. It was three years ago, when he gave a small dinner at his club, which improba- bly was Buck's. There was a lull in the con- versation, which a lady filled by asking who was the greatest person he had ever known. Caught unawares, Goodman's massive frame gave a heave, as if the process of cog- itation was itself digestive. 'My mother,' he replied. Total silence greeted this announcement, which Goodman, conscious of his role as host, felt obliged to fill by explaining his choice. He did so with a moving tribute to the Goodman matriarch. He stopped. There was another silence, so he had to continue. With every pause there was further silence followed by an attenua- tion of the eulogy which continued until the end of the evening. Goodman intensely dis- liked talking about his private life. For once he was trapped into self-consciousness and the revelation was endearing.
Lord Goodman, who died last weekend, was a charmer and a bully. I first knew him in the latter role. He had no truck with newspaper lawyers, aware that any editor would take his call. 'I think it might be of concern and benefit to you to know' — his parlance was menacingly archaic — 'that a young person in your employ has outra- geously defamed a good friend of mine by the name of Mr X. I would greatly appreci- ate your looking into the matter and com- ing to an appropriate arrangement.' I remember once impertinently suggesting that a rogue on whose behalf he had called surely did not merit such distinguished advocacy. 'For that, sir, you will be sorry,' was the cutting rejoinder.
For Goodman, a client was always a client. He was apotheosis of the profession of solicitor. The OED definition of the word might have had him in mind: 'one who urges, prompts or instigates; one who conducts, negotiates or transacts on behalf of another; one who entreats, requests or petitions, a pleader, intercessor, advocate.' Though he fought for the fusion of solici- tors and barristers and was himself an effective orator, courtroom theatricals were not for him. His stage was a West End flat at midnight, a nocturnal telephone call, emollient phrases punctuated by the crack of legal rifle-fire. For Goodman, a case gone to court was wormwood and gall. To have to brief silk was like a colonial gover- nor calling in the navy. It marked the fail- ure of the backstairs deal. In the 1970s Goodman became embroiled in a wretched wrangle with Michael Foot over legislation enforcing a journalists' closed shop. I recall his brain in feverish activity, mapping out not the rights and wrongs of the legislation but the sequence of telephone calls by which a bar- gain might be struck. Goodman was the Great Fixer and became Mr Tulkinghorn to the Wilson regime. While Lord Franks was assigned lofty tasks as moral sanitary inspector of the British Establishment, Goodman did the tricky overnight jobs: sorting out the television and music unions, fixing a dodgy rent law, seeing off a bel- ligerent editor, knocking sense into Ian Smith. Franks worked en clair, Goodman in code. Franks held hearings, Goodman held breakfasts.
Charm is an underrated quality in public life, as is humour. Goodman had both, as this week's festschrift of Goodman stories has indicated. There was the famous vote that went against him one to 12, 'which means we have deadlock'; the reply to a woman complaining of the Arts Council's age: 'It's the light, my dear;' the meeting arranged for one o'clock, 'the other one o'clock'. The 'late' Lord Goodman. The `two dinners' Lord Goodman. His appetite was massive. I once watched him consume three plate-loads of sausages, eggs and bacon in an orgy of self-abuse. Goodman revelled in the triumph of charm over phys- iognomy. He hated the camera and refused to appear on television. He was never a man for the masses. Yet time spent in his company was never dull.
Where most successful men grow averse to the trivia of their profession, Goodman never did. Like a compulsive tycoon, he thrilled to a deal, any deal. An opera com- pany in distress, a property salesman in dis- tress, the Arts Council in distress, the Observer newspaper in distress, Harold Wil- son in distress, they were all the same to him. They were supplicants to his skill. Defeats came his way, most publicly his failure in Rhodesia. That deal had to await `Celebrity shall chat unto celebrity.' his equal in charm, Lord Carrington. But they were professional defeats. The clock was always ticking and the fee was not financial. It was that quartet of Sirens: con- tact, access, network and power.
Though never a Labour supporter — he sat on the Lords cross-benches — Good- man amounted to a feature of the constitu- tion under the Wilson and Callaghan gov- ernments. His mentor from army days was that shadowy fixer, Lord Wigg. He mas- tered the courtier's art of trading gossip for influence. Goodman understood that in law as in finance the manipulation of publicity is as crucial as the manipulation of argu- ment. His relationship with the press was unscrupulous and effective.
But business was often blurred with plea- sure, and each put at the service of the other. Goodman's passion for art was gen- uine, perhaps his one relaxation. He shamelessly used his influence as Arts Council chairman to gain status and riches for its cause and added vastly to its resources. On his late-night visits to Down- ing Street to offer comfort and advice, the fee was seldom payable to Goodman, Der- rick and Co. of Fetter Lane in the City of London. A small canal from the stream of public expenditure was deftly diverted to the cause of the moment. To harassed min- isters this must have seemed cheap at the price.
The present denizens of Downing Street believe they can do without Goodmans. Graduates of the Thatcher charm school believe that government by 'one of us' can get by with no such creatures. The result is that when they hit trouble, as all govern- ment does, they turn to merchant bankers, Cabinet secretaries or judges, whose talents tend to be investigative, judicial and expen- sive rather than conciliatory. Lord Arm- strong, Sir Robin Butler, Sir Richard Scott and Lord Nolan seek out what is right, not what is negotiable and deliverable. They dump the ordure of politics back on the ministerial desk.
Faced with Spycatcher or Matrix Churchill, with a Ritz hotel bill or nurses on strike, Goodman would have gone off quietly into the night and not resurfaced until a deal was done. He was no politician, but he offered politics a talent it sorely needs. Without a Goodman, government is one long slither to a fall.
Simon Jenkins writes for the Times.
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