A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  Diana had never been so bored, or so miserable. A year into the war, the excitement and happiness of the first four months of marriage seemed like a distant memory. Her father was deeply disgruntled, having failed to obtain a job at the War Office, and dissipated his energies by berating just about everyone who came into his orbit; and her mother had joined the WVS, partly to keep out of the house and her husband’s way. She urged Diana to join too but spoilt as she was by amusing London society, the bossy and overbearing ladies of the county were not Diana’s idea of desirable companions. So, like her father, she moped about the house, rode a lot and fretted over Johnathan, both his safety and the fact that she had failed him with his grief over Piers. It was not the only way she had failed him, she knew, reflecting rather sadly on the first year of her marriage. She was not his intellectual equal in any way; and her scanty education had been no preparation for his sophisticated range of interests. Yes, they had lots of fun together, but he also loved to read, liked going to art galleries, adored music and opera was his great love.

  Not much of this had emerged during their courtship, and Diana felt, with a completely illogical resentment, that he should have made it all clearer. She supposed, since most of the time they spent together that first year had been taken up either with the events of the London Season, then the engagement, meeting Johnathan’s vast circle of friends and visiting his family, that the opportunity for such leisurely occupations hardly arose.

  They bought a pretty little mews house in Knightsbridge, exactly what she had dreamed of, and she had the greatest fun decorating and furnishing it and then settled into what seemed at first a perfect life as London continued to ignore the fact that there was a war on. She enjoyed looking after Johnathan and being a good wife; she ran the house beautifully, was a wonderful hostess, entertaining his clients as well as their friends, never overspent on her admittedly generous household budget, and even cooked some simple meals herself when they were alone at home, which he liked very much.

  But gradually she had to face the fact that they didn’t have very much in common. His mind was far more serious and analytical than hers and she was horribly aware that very often her responses to his observations and indeed conversations were a disappointment to him. The only time she really felt at one with him was when they were in the country, either at her parents’ home or at Guildford Park, riding, hunting, accompanying him on shoots.

  Then there was the worst thing: sex. She did not enjoy sex. It was a shock, for she had been easily aroused before they were married, as he kissed and held her close to him, but their wedding night had been a disappointment and they both knew it. She was, of course, a virgin, and there was a certain amount of discomfort and anxiety involved, but neither of them worried too much about it, assuming things would swiftly improve. They did not, although she pretended to him that they had and that she was enjoying it, but actually she found it an increasing chore and was relieved when she had the curse as an excuse.

  Her lack of enjoyment distressed her and he seemed to have very little awareness of what she wanted; on the rare occasions when something pleasurable did begin to happen, he would suddenly have his orgasm and roll off her, thanking her dutifully and leaving her close to tears of frustration and disappointment.

  There was no one she could talk to about it. Her mother had said, unusually frankly, when they had what she called a little chat one day shortly before the wedding, that it was all rather nice and she hoped Diana would enjoy it as much as she did. So confessing to her mother that she didn’t in the very least would make Diana feel even more of a failure. Maybe, when they were consciously making babies, it would be more fun – although she couldn’t quite think why. They had agreed that babies must wait. Neither of them wanted her left alone with a child while Johnathan was away for months at a time or worse.

  ‘Time to reproduce ourselves when the war is over,’ Johnathan said, kissing her, ‘and that will be wonderful, won’t it, lots of jolly little things running about.’

  Diana said very wonderful, and indeed she liked children, was already a godmother several times over. She found children fun, loved reading to them and playing games like Snakes and Ladders and Ludo, and invented the most wonderful games herself. But that was rather different from full-time care of a baby; they were, from her observation, demanding, exhausting and frequently smelly. So it was as well, she thought, that for now there would be no question of having one – although such was her boredom that she occasionally thought wistfully that the decision might have been a mistake. At least it would have given her something to do.

  Ned was throwing up. He threw up relentlessly, day after day; he tried to think of it as something nobler than run-of-the-mill seasickness, as his war effort, but that didn’t help. He had thought he would get used to it, get used to the sea and its horrors – it was always said you did and it was wrong. It was awful. Someone had described the progress of one of the Motor Torpedo Boats – the MTBs as they were known – as being like driving a sports car with no springs along a bumpy road while being shot at. These had been his chosen vessels, once he had obtained his commission, but he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of it.

  He thought, as he tried uselessly to control the vomiting, of how he could have been on dry land, very dry land, on the wards at Barts. Still useful, possibly in less danger – although that was dubious as long as the Blitz endured. Why had he done this insane thing, leaving a reserved occupation? It had made his father angrier than he had ever seen him – although beneath the rage was a fierce pride – putting himself literally into the firing line. And of course he knew. He knew that it wasn’t so much courage as buying off fate, of keeping people from finding out, or even suspecting; it was brave beyond anything, what he had so unnecessarily done. He would probably have been called up anyway, for he would have been qualified, no longer a student, and the exemption had only been on the grounds of his student status.

  He had joined the Y Scheme, which took public-school boys – and some of them were literally straight from school, nineteen years old – the idea being that after six months on the lower deck as an ordinary seaman, you progressed automatically into the officer class and training.

  He left London with great bravado, seen off by a huge drinking session with his fellow medics, and arrived at the barracks in Portsmouth with a sinking heart and a rising sense of terror. He was right; it was one of the worst periods of his life. The petty officers loathed and tormented him and Crispin Steele, his only compatriot in the Y Scheme, and did and said everything they could to make their lives as difficult as possible. Well, who could blame them, he kept telling himself, as he tried to find some comfort and explanation for their behaviour; a pair of toffee-accented lads, wet behind the ears, being trained to rise to become, theoretically, their superiors.

  Ned had looked at Crispin with misgivings when he met him for the first time: a pretty boy with brown curls, a history graduate, who looked as if he might burst into tears any moment. He would greatly increase the chances of their both being labelled as mummy’s boys, probably fairies. At least, Ned thought, feeling a rare stab of gratitude towards his parents, he had a sensible name. Crispin, for God’s sake.

  It was evening when they arrived, and they were given their kit and sent below, away from the danger of the constant bombing of the docks, where, allotted bunks, they were told to get undressed. Crispin, Ned was grateful to see, was on the other side of the room.

  He had just removed his trousers when a huge tattooed man appeared at his side and said, ‘Well, who the fucking hell are you? What’s your fucking name?’ He pushed his face into Ned’s, then studied his almost naked lower half, his expression a sniggering leer. Ned felt he was probably about to be raped.

  ‘Well, come on, posh boy. Lost yer tongue?’

  ‘Welles,’ said Ned, trying to keep his voice strong and steady, ‘Ned Welles.’ The man stood back, and after a short silence, spat on the ground and then laughed.

&
nbsp; ‘Welles,’ he said. ‘What a fucking stupid name.’

  And he moved on.

  Ned got into bed; he was longing for a pee, but he was too frightened to leave the comparative safety of his own area. Hours later, when the petty officers had gone, with cheery promises that all forty of them would soon wish profoundly never to have been born, he managed to locate the toilet block. As he left, Crispin Steele came in; clearly he had been crying. Ned pretended not to have noticed, nodded to him briefly and hurried back to his bunk. He felt ashamed of that moment for the rest of his life.

  After a couple of days they were moved in the middle of an air raid to Collingwood, a naval training base near Portsmouth; the next six weeks were spent square bashing, climbing ladders and ropes to terrifying heights – and even worse a huge mast – the petty officers shouting abuse at them from below. It was a nightmare. As he lay in his bunk at night, exhausted, sickened by the brutality, the ceaseless profanity, Ned marvelled at his stupidity in subjecting himself to this misery. Sometimes he was actually frightened by the sheer vindictiveness of the whole thing.

  ‘You want to watch it,’ his first tattooed tormentor, who turned out to be a butcher in civilian life, warned him one night. ‘You annoy somebody once too often, you could go overboard in the middle of the night. No one would ever know – we’ll get rid of you and good riddance, you fucking filthy poncey snob.’

  There was no apparent reason for this threat. Ned had committed no crime, had neither said nor done anything to offend anyone; the only possible response was silence. Once, when he was loading up shells, his hands raw with cold and bleeding, he was made to continue for a double shift; there was no redress, no hope of reprieve. The only thing was to endure it and survive it – although he was not sure what for.

  After a few weeks they were transferred to a newly built destroyer; he had hoped it might be better than the endless square bashing but it was worse. Crispin got pneumonia, nearly died, and was finally shipped home to hospital, never to return. Ned envied him from the bottom of his heart. He, however remained stubbornly healthy; and the destroyer was sent to the North Atlantic on the Murmansk Run, taking supplies to Russia, one of Churchill’s obsessions at this stage. And then, finally, it was over and he was posted for officer training at Hove.

  It was truly, he often said afterwards, like finding yourself in heaven after a very long spell in hell.

  ‘Hello, Mr Pemberton.’

  Mr Pemberton looked up, failing just for a moment to recognise Tom: a different, thinner, more grown-up-looking Tom, in uniform. Then he smiled: a tired, delighted smile.

  ‘Tom,’ he said. ‘How very nice to see you. Do come in and sit down – Mrs Foxton, look, it’s Tom Knelston, come to pay us a visit. Cup of tea, Tom?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’

  ‘My word, you’ve grown up,’ said Betty, beaming at Tom. ‘Suits you, though, you look like a real man. And more handsome than ever. Like a piece of cake with your tea? Looks like you could do with some feeding up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘That’d be lovely.’

  She disappeared; Gordon Pemberton sat back and studied Tom.

  ‘So – Royal Engineers, eh? You enjoying it?’

  ‘Yes, very much. I can drive now – well, I can drive a jeep. And build a Bailey bridge.’

  ‘Can you now? Well done. That’ll stand you in good stead when this is all over. You got a posting yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘yes, I have. Somewhere very exciting. But we’re not supposed to tell you where. Off at the end of the week. I’m on my way home, but we were dropped off here, so I thought I’d come and see you.’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’ Gordon Pemberton was clearly genuinely touched. ‘I’m delighted you did. You know Nigel’s somewhere overseas now?’

  ‘Well, I assumed so,’ said Tom. ‘What regiment is he in?’

  ‘The Royal Artillery,’ said Pemberton, and his voice was thick with pride. ‘He went straight in as an officer, of course. Second lieutenant. Apparently he could be a captain before very long. His commanding officer thinks the world of him.’

  Tom wondered how Mr Pemberton knew, but said, ‘Really?’ in a tone that he hoped was convincingly awestruck.

  ‘He joined up immediately. Wouldn’t hear of waiting. Very brave, my son. But – what am I thinking of? You don’t want to hear about him. Let’s talk about you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘I’m a corporal now.’

  ‘Already? Well done. And decent lot of chaps you’re with?’

  ‘Very decent, yes. My sergeant’s a really nice bloke.’

  ‘Is he? Nigel had a brute while he was doing his basic training. Treated him like some sort of idiot, humiliated him on the parade ground, that sort of thing.’

  ‘They all do that,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘That’s how they lick us into shape.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but it’s most unnecessary. Especially with someone like Nigel. He writes regularly, very brave, cheerful letters. Mind you write to your parents. Makes all the difference.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘yes, I do. I must go, catch the next bus, or I won’t be there for tea. Mum’s so excited.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. Well, thank you for coming, Tom. It was very nice of you. It’s meant a lot to me, it really has. You take care of yourself. And come back to us …’

  Laura was away until the next day, at a teachers’ training course in Southampton. He didn’t know quite how he was going to wait. He had a very small box in his breast pocket, which contained a ring bearing a very, very small diamond; he was going to place it on Laura’s finger tomorrow and ask her to marry him.

  Chapter 7

  1943

  Tomorrow, tomorrow, she would see him. It seemed impossible; for not only years, but a complexity of emotions stood between them. The grief of their parting, the aching loneliness, the gnawing ongoing anxiety about his safety, the impatience for letters, all the things she had thought were bad, had been crushed into insignificance over the past few months. The terror at the news of his injuries (brought to her by his mother, waiting white-faced outside the school for her) the struggle to determine exactly what and how bad they were, the dread that he would not recover. These were the new and dreadful demons, increased by lack of news, and when that came, the impatience of his long, slow convalescence. Now at last he was home, still clearly frail, in the military hospital at Aldershot, and she was permitted to visit him. Tomorrow. After three years. It seemed scarcely possible.

  He had been extremely ill; stationed with Montgomery’s forces at El Alamein, he’d survived two years of it, but then he’d caught a mine. His left leg was badly injured, and he’d also sustained serious damage to his chest; infection set in, turning to pneumonia and septicaemia. He’d very nearly died, but he had survived, written to her from the hospital as soon as he was well enough, making light of it all, praising the American nurses. ‘They’re fantastic, so kind and so efficient and brave.’ He complained only of his frustration at missing the Big Battle, the one that had been such a turning point in the war. Laura could only offer up fervent thanks to the God she didn’t believe in that he had.

  The thought of seeing Tom, of being physically near to him again, able to touch him, hear him, smile at him, was so extraordinary, so dazzling, that she could only allow her mind to contemplate it occasionally, otherwise she would not have been able to function at all. As it was, she would still find herself struck unawares by it from time to time with a force so strong it made her physically dizzy, and she would stand, smiling foolishly at the children, unable to remember their names, what lesson she had been teaching, even. She had received two letters from him in three days, telling her how he was longing to see her too, begging her not to be late – as if she would be – and warning her that he wasn’t looking quite the fellow she’d last seen leaning out of the train window as it pulled out of Southampton. He had told her once again that day, before they left for the station, that he loved her more
every day, ‘more than you could ever believe possible, Laura Leonard’, and the minute the war was over they would get married; she had had to live on that moment with its heart-catching sadness for three years, watching his face grow smaller until it was unrecognisable, and even his waving arm, lost in a forest of other waving arms, stilled with the distance.

  It had been truly dreadful; she had gone home and, refusing to cry, had sat staring at the wall of her sitting room, willing him back there by the sheer force of memory, his smile, his eyes, his arms round her, his hands on her, his voice, telling her he loved her and for a very little time that was sufficient, it soothed and eased her, but soon the void he had left, the blankness before her, bore him away more finally than the train and she gave in to grief and wept for hours.

  She had heard that when a limb was amputated, you could still feel it, feel pain in it; she felt the same, as if the part of her life he had filled was a huge, savagely painful void.

  But while Tom was in deadly danger, day after day, so for much of the time was she, volunteering at weekends under the aegis of the Co-operative Women’s Guild, to work in Southampton. During the Blitz the city endured nights as harsh and as cruel as those in London. For fifty-seven nights it went relentlessly on, and the firestorm of the worst of the raids could be seen from France.