A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I’m very well, thank you. I’m meeting Ludo and Cecily Manners. And—’

  ‘Love him, so bored by her,’ said Wendelien, interrupting him. ‘Every baby’s made her duller. And as he’s now got four …’

  ‘Wendelien, one of these days that tongue of yours will get you into real trouble,’ said Ned. ‘So unkind to poor Cecily.’

  ‘No, just truthful. I’m very nice to her face, of course. Oh look, there they are. And there’s Michael Southcott and lovely Betsey. Look, why don’t we all have a drink first before dinner? Michael, Betsey, over here, look who I’ve found …’

  ‘Ned, my dear old chap, what a treat,’ said Michael, slapping him on the back.

  ‘Darling Ned,’ said Betsey, kissing him repeatedly. ‘How are you? It’s been much too long.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all been working much too hard,’ said Ned. ‘That’s the truth of it. I especially had a lot of time to make up after the war. My father breathes fire and brimstone about getting me an honorary at Pete’ s –’ this referred to St Peter’s Chelsea – ‘unless I pass every single one of my papers with distinction.’

  ‘Well, you’ll do that easily,’ Michael said. ‘You always were brilliant. And still keen on doing the old paediatrics, are you?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Ned. ‘It’s something that really fascinates me. Father is still hoping I’ll do general surgery, but I think specialisation is the big thing, especially with all these reforms coming up.’

  ‘What, bloody Bevan’s?’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes. Not that I think they’ll make that much difference to us. In the hospitals, I mean. The hospitals were all nationalised during the war – we’re already giving our services free to them.’

  ‘Ned! Didn’t think you were a pinko. Of course it’ll make a difference. We’ll lose our independence before you can say “scalpel”. Get told what to do, how long to work, how to do it, quite possibly.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Ned, ‘and I’m not a socialist, of course I’m not. But he’s been pretty generous to us, old Bevan. You heard what he said, he was going to stuff our throats with gold. And he is. And we’ll still have our consulting rooms, to do our own work—’

  ‘Oh, stop, stop it,’ cried Betsey. ‘God, am I tired of the subject of the National Health Service. Let’s find a lovely corner and order some cocktails.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ned, ‘that’d be fun.’

  ‘So when are you and Michael getting married?’ Ned asked Betsey, as they settled at a table.

  ‘In the spring. We thought of sooner, but Princess Elizabeth would steal our thunder a bit, we think. Goodness, now there’s a handsome man, that Philip. So attractive. I met him briefly at a ball at the Docklands Settlement – you see, we do do our bit for the working class – and, well, the old knees went quite weak. Michael’s been quite boring about sticking to the knife-before-wife rule, but now it’s over, I’m quite pleased – it’s been worth the wait. He’s got some marvellous rooms in Welbeck Street, he’s an honorary at the London and we’ve bought just the dearest little house in Kensington.’

  ‘Kensington?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the new place, my dear,’ said Betsey, her huge blue eyes dancing. ‘Much more exciting than Knightsbridge – and of course Mayfair is just all hotels now. Kensington is full of young people. Now tell me, Ned, any wedding bells on your horizon yet?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Ned quickly. ‘Far too busy at the moment. Plenty of time when I’m settled in my career. Anyway, like you, I’d hate to steal Princess Elizabeth’s limelight …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Wendelien, laughing. ‘Very unselfish of you. The only thing I can’t understand is why she’s chosen November. Such a dreary month.’

  ‘I know, but the whole idea, I have on the best authority, is to cheer the country up, and I do believe it will.’

  ‘We’re told she’s having to produce coupons for her dress, just the same as everyone else,’ said Betsey.

  ‘Oh, darling, really, you can’t believe that nonsense. With the dress being made by Norman Hartnell! And something like two and a half thousand guests! I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I do actually, and I think it’s all lovely,’ said Betsey. ‘And it’s been such a wonderful long romance. Imagine, she first fell in love with him when she was thirteen. And I thought what Sir Winston said about it being a flash of colour on the hard road we have to travel or something romantic like that – exactly right. You see, every single person in the country will come round in the end. It’ll be a wonderful day.’

  She was right. Certainly, the juxtaposition of a currency crisis, a cabinet reshuffle and the scheduling of an emergency Budget did not bode well for the occasion; nor a formal protest by a group of Labour MPs to the Chief Whip about the extravagance. But love – or at least romance – carried the day, and into every echelon of society.

  Indeed, the night before the wedding Tom came home to find Laura poring over the Daily Mirror, which carried a map of the procession’s route thoughtfully printed for its readers, and the news that people were already staking out places in the Mall.

  ‘Laura, really,’ said Tom. ‘I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘I’m a bit surprised at myself,’ said Laura, ‘but I do like Princess Elizabeth –’

  ‘You can’t like her – you don’t know her.’

  ‘You know what I mean. She’s so sensible, somehow, did her bit in the war, joined the ATS …’

  ‘Laura, what has got into you? That was a work of fiction. More or less.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. There were lots of pictures of her doing work with vehicles. And she was in uniform. I mean, Princess Margaret, she’s different. Always at nightclubs and things –’

  ‘Laura! I think being pregnant must be affecting your brain. I would never have believed you could even read such rubbish, never mind believe it.’

  ‘Well, it probably is,’ said Laura placidly, ‘but even your Mr Bevan seems to approve of it.’

  The point was, it seemed, that a young and handsome prince and a beautiful and radiant princess proved in the end irresistible; there was a need for a fairy story, and that grey November day provided it with delightful aplomb and, as it proved, perfect timing.

  Chapter 13

  1948

  It was quite – no, it was extremely – no, so far it had been unbearably painful. Or was she just a coward, making a fuss about nothing? In which case, how was she to cope with childbirth itself? The doctor – not the empathetic young woman she had imagined would be caring for her, at this mecca for care of women by women, but a tough, hard-faced, middle-aged creature with rough, probing fingers – was approaching her again, followed by what seemed like a crowd of young women.

  ‘Gather round,’ she said, ‘and listen carefully. This woman, aged twenty-eight, has a history of three spontaneous abortions. Consequently, we make a diagnosis of cervical incompetence.’ Well, that made her feel a real failure, Laura thought and how she hated that word ‘abortion’, her mind cringing from it as her body cringed from the assault it was about to receive. She knew it was the medical term for a miscarriage, but it was so ugly, sounded so harsh. ‘Therefore she would seem a good candidate for cervical cerclage.’

  ‘Miss Curtis, would you care to define for us precisely what that is?’

  Miss Curtis, who was more the sort of doctor Laura had imagined she would find here, young and sympathetic, and who looked terrified, cleared her throat and said, ‘A stitch, Miss Moran.’

  ‘A stitch.’ Miss Moran looked at her witheringly. ‘And where would we be placing this stitch, I wonder? In her arm? Her cheek?’

  ‘No, Miss Moran. In her cervix.’

  ‘And how would we describe this stitch? In medical terms? Miss Kennedy?’

  ‘A suture, Miss Moran.’

  ‘Ah. Well, that didn’t take so long. Congratulations. I hope none of you are hoping to qualify too terribly soon. Yes, we shall be placing a suture in Mrs Knelston’s c
ervix, and this will give her a better chance – I do not say a certain one – of carrying to term. I shall of course perform the procedure myself, but one of you may examine her before and afterwards in order to note the placing. Now, Miss Curtis, would you tell us the date of the first cervical cerclage?’

  ‘I – think – that is, 19– no, 1890.’

  ‘Incorrect. Anyone else?’

  A girl who looked a good option to replace Miss Moran in a dozen years or so said, ‘1902.’

  ‘Correct, Miss Burne. And the success rate is fair. You do realise that, I hope, Mrs Knelston? That this is not a guarantee of successful delivery, six months or so hence?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘It was explained to me on my first visit.’

  ‘And tell me, Miss Scott, when do we, or rather the midwife or obstetrician, remove the suture?’

  ‘At the onset of labour?’ said Miss Scott, her voice hopeful rather than confident.

  ‘Correct. It is crucial therefore that the midwife is aware of its presence. Otherwise there could be unfortunate consequences, such as tearing of the cervix. Why unfortunate, Miss Kennedy?’

  ‘I – I – well, it would make future conception less likely.’

  ‘Correct. Or even impossible. Now – get her prepared, please. I shall be ready in ten minutes. ‘

  If there had only been one word of kindness from Miss Moran, Laura thought. One hint that her permission might be sought, for what seemed to be a multiple assault by the students on her already tender person, what followed might have seemed less dreadful. She was moved to an operating theatre, told to climb onto a table, swabbed down, shaved, her legs thrust into stirrups, and a brilliant light shone up her vagina. When Miss Moran arrived, only Miss Curtis had the consideration to whisper, ‘I don’t think it should be too bad.’

  But it was much too bad. The double internal examination, first by Miss Moran and then Miss Kennedy, and then the barked instructions from Miss Moran to keep completely still as she advanced on her with needle and suture thread. She managed to keep still, but she did cry out – twice. Almost worse than the rest was when she was finally released from pain, Miss Moran instructed not just Miss Kennedy, but also one of the other girls to examine her.

  On her release from the stirrups, she managed to say thank you. Then, with a sudden infusion of her normal spirit, she said, ‘I would just like to say something. When I read of this procedure, Miss Moran, I gathered there would be some kind of anaesthesia available. It would have been easier to bear when I was confronted by the reality had I known this was not the case.’

  ‘Anaesthesia!’ said Miss Moran. ‘This is a free hospital, Mrs Knelston, not some expensive nursing home. If you found that painful, then I would suggest you need to confront the reality of childbirth before it is too late.’

  She pulled off her surgical gloves, nodded at the girls.

  ‘Take her back to the recovery room,’ she said. ‘You may stay for half an hour, Mrs Knelston, and then you may leave. Providing you are not experiencing any pain, of course. Do make sure you rest for the next few days – don’t go racing back to your domestic chores at home, or you could regret it.’

  ‘Miss Moran,’ said Laura, ‘I am experiencing considerable pain already, but that is entirely due to your ministrations. And what I shall be racing back to, as you put it, are not domestic chores, but my position as head of a primary school. I shall tell any girls who show an interest in studying medicine that a little kindness might not go amiss during painful procedures.’

  The girls surrounding her drew back a foot or two, as if to disassociate themselves from such heresy, until Miss Moran had gone. Then they followed her: all except Miss Curtis, who whispered, ‘Well done. She’s a brilliant surgeon and obstetrician, but I wish she would be a little kinder. I certainly intend to be – if I ever qualify, which is a bit unlikely, I’m afraid. Can you walk?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Laura, wincing as she eased herself off the surgical table. ‘And thank you so much for your consideration.’

  She felt dizzy suddenly and sank down again. ‘I’ll get you a wheelchair,’ said Miss Curtis. ‘And then some tea. Just wait a moment.’

  She sat with Laura while she drank the tea. ‘You look better already, Mrs Knelston,’ she said.

  ‘I feel it,’ said Laura, ‘And thank you again. I’m Laura, by the way.’

  ‘Jillie. Jillie Curtis. I don’t know if I’ll ever make a surgeon.’

  ‘Well, I hope you do,’ said Laura, grinning. ‘I hope you’re chief surgeon here and you can sack Miss Moran for unkindness, or even brutality.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s a bit unlikely. She really is top of her tree. Where are you going to have your baby?’

  ‘Hilchester General,’ said Laura. ‘Little town near Winchester.’

  ‘I hope it goes well.’ Jillie Curtis looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘You should really go somewhere that’s a centre of excellence, you know. With your history. I’m just wondering –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My uncle is one of the chief obstetricians at St Thomas’. I wonder if we could arrange for you to have your baby there – he’s a complete sweetie.’

  ‘But why on earth should they take me? What right would I have?’

  ‘Oh, Laura,’ said Jillie Curtis, smiling her sweet, gentle smile, and shaking her head in mock reproof. ‘Medicine’s exactly like everything else – it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Look, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll ask him and write to you. Give me your address. Quick, I can hear them coming back.’

  A week later, a letter arrived for Laura from Jillie. It said she was afraid it might be rather difficult for her uncle to find room for Laura in his ward, but if she was really worried, he would of course do his best. It’s all to do with the new National Health Service, she wrote. There’s so much more pressure on beds. Let me know, Laura, and if you are really worried I know my uncle will find a bed for you somehow.

  Tom read the letter and looked at Laura, his face incredulous.

  ‘I can’t quite believe this, Laura.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you should be considering having your baby in some hospital where, should you go there, it would mean pulling strings, jumping the queue, in a way I couldn’t possibly condone. Surely you can see that would be totally against the principles of the National Health Service? I couldn’t possibly allow it.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ said Laura. ‘You wouldn’t allow it? And what right do you have, Tom Knelston, to allow or not allow me to have my baby at one of the best hospitals in England?’

  ‘I’m its father,’ he said. ‘And that gives me the right.’

  ‘It does no such thing. And you,’ she added, ‘should just listen to yourself. You get more and more like your own father every day.’

  ‘Laura, it’s just not right.’

  ‘If it’s right for our baby, it’s right,’ said Laura firmly. ‘And I will be the judge of that. You may have an extensive knowledge of the law, Tom, but you have none of obstetrics, as far as I know. Now, I have work to do.’

  But even as she shut herself in the bedroom and threw a couple of Tom’s books at the wall, she knew he was right. She should not be taking the place of some woman who had a right to it; on the other hand, if it did give her a better chance of delivering a healthy baby, she felt she should take it. She finally decided to see what the antenatal clinic had to say, how familiar they were with the process of cerclage. If she felt they were competent she would stay with them. But she would not be told whether or not to do so by her husband.

  Diana looked at Wendelien across Victor Stiebel’s salon, with a kind of desperation in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Wendelien, this is all so wonderful,’ she said and burst into tears.

  ‘Darling, darling Diana, why are you crying then?’

  ‘You know as well as I do.’

  She had come down to London to purchase an outfit for her brother Michael�
�s wedding: a blessed break from the flat dullness of her life in Yorkshire.

  ‘Of course I do. Well, I did tell you not to go up there.’

  ‘It was hardly sound advice,’ said Diana fretfully.

  ‘If you’d followed it, you’d be much happier now.’

  ‘Maybe. Only I wouldn’t have Jamie; he almost makes it all worthwhile.’

  ‘Only almost?’

  ‘Well, no, completely. I couldn’t imagine life without him. And Johnathan – well, he is so sweet and he loves me very much. So I’m lucky, aren’t I?’

  ‘No,’ said Wendelien, ‘you’re not. Well, only a bit. Other people have babies and husbands and enjoy their lives as well. And don’t have wicked witches to contend with. Is she really no better?’

  ‘Worse. Hates me. Won’t let me help, won’t let me do anything. Johnathan just can’t see the problem. Says I’m making a marvellous job of it all. You know, I’m President of the WI now and—’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Wendelien.

  ‘Oh, shut up. And I’m on the committee of the Royal South Yorkshire show.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Guess. And Johnathan’s Deputy Lord Lieutenant of the county now, and there’s a lot of stuff to do with that. I could become a school governor, if I wanted. Last week, he asked me if I thought I’d like to learn about sheep. You know. Four-legged, woolly things. ‘

  ‘What is there to learn about them?’

  ‘Oh, all the different breeds, and so on. He’s thinking of introducing a new breed and he suggested I might like to investigate that, take responsibility for it even.’

  ‘Diana,’ said Wendelien firmly, ‘you cannot spend the rest of your life introducing sheep to one another.’

  Diana giggled, then suddenly burst into tears. ‘Don’t mock me. It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I know, and it’s not enough.’

  ‘And now he’s talking about a little brother or sister for Jamie. If he says once more how jolly that would be I’ll scream.’

  ‘Right,’ said Wendelien. ‘That does it. We have to act fast. Before you get preggers again.’