‘It’s not terribly likely,’ said Diana. ‘He’s always so tired.’
‘Well, that’s something. Now stop crying, and I’ll think of something. He will be coming up for the wedding, I presume?’
‘Yes, of course. Mummy and Daddy have asked the wicked witch and Sir Hilary obviously, but I don’t think they’ll come. He is more and more lost to us, completely batty really, so she couldn’t bring him and I don’t see how she could leave him.’
‘Oh, I do hope she does come,’ said Wendelien. ‘I’ll have a few words to say to her.’
‘Wendelien, don’t even joke about it.’
‘I’m not. Now come on, are we settled on the blue? What about the hat? Shall we get it here, or look further afield? You know who dresses here quite a lot, don’t you? Moira Shearer – you know, the divine red-headed ballerina. God, she’s beautiful. Have you seen The Red Shoes, her film?’
‘No, of course I haven’t,’ said Diana irritably. ‘The only thing I’ve seen for months is the local dramatic society’s performance of Private Lives. It was frightful.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, Victor was saying something about Vogue being here the other day, choosing dresses for her.’
‘Oh, dear, don’t tell me any more. You are so lucky, Wendelien, you’ve just no idea.’
‘Well, it beats introducing sheep,’ said Wendelien. ‘That’s for sure.’
Laura looked so lovely, Tom thought; with her ripe, full belly, her skin more peach-like, her curls shinier. She was seven months pregnant now, justifying the torture she had endured at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital, although it had left emotional scars. She had decided, after some exhaustive questioning, to remain at Hilchester General, but she took her time telling Tom. He had a long way to go yet, she feared, before understanding the place of the modern husband.
It had been a lovely summer, and since temporarily leaving St Joesph’s, she had spent as much time as she could sitting in the sunshine either in the local park, or in her sister’s garden, where she went more than once to stay for a few days.
She was serious about going back to teaching; though she had promised to see how she felt when Miss or Master Knelston arrived. Tom was very keen for her to devote herself entirely to the baby, and then to several more besides. Asked by Laura how he thought he would support this new, large family, and indeed where he would house them, he said that Mr Pemberton had already promised him a substantial raise, and had hinted at a loan that would enable them to put down a deposit on a little cottage on the outskirts of Hilchester.
‘I didn’t like to ask quite how much,’ he said to Laura, ‘but he seemed to be talking about a hundred pounds. Which would be about a quarter of the price. The rest we should be able to get a mortgage on. Imagine us, Laura, owning a house.’
Laura said briskly that she had no difficulty in doing any such thing, and that Tom’s loyalty to Mr Pemberton came close to feudal at times, but when she told her mother the amount being discussed, Edith told her she didn’t know how lucky she was.
‘I’m not saying it’s not right, and of course Tom has been very loyal to Mr Pemberton, but it’s not usual. So if you’ve got half the sense I hope you have, you’ll tell him how grateful you are. Nothing demeaning about showing good manners, Laura.’
Mr Pemberton seemed very excited about the imminent baby. Having no grandchildren of his own to look forward to, it had given him quite a new lease of life. Mrs Pemberton had succumbed entirely to her depression and was in a nursing home. Living alone, surrounded by ghosts, he took great comfort from the youthful energies and patent happiness of the young Knelstons. He did have to admit finding Laura’s visits, or rather her burgeoning physical presence, rather embarrassing, and had a little trouble finding somewhere to fix his eyes when she was in the room, other than on her. Tom had asked rather anxiously if he would mind her visiting, since she would very much like to thank him for his great kindness to them both, and once he had adjusted to her shape and size, he found himself looking forward impatiently to each visit – especially as she invariably brought a large cake she had baked herself.
Laura had returned from one of her visits to Mr Pemberton, and was slightly wearily climbing the stairs to the flat, when the door burst open and Tom, looking as if he might explode himself, appeared through it.
‘Now what?’ said Laura, smiling at him. ‘Don’t tell me – Aneurin Bevan has heard about the baby and wants to be its godfather.’
‘Almost,’ said Tom. ‘Almost as good as that. Laura – I’ve been asked to be one of the two delegates from the branch of the HLP at the party conference in Blackpool this September.’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Laura, pushing past him, and lowering herself carefully onto the sofa. ‘That really is exciting, Tom. Let me see the letter.’
‘Here,’ he said, handing it over with great care as if it was fashioned from fine china and might break. ‘Here, look, can you believe that?’
‘I can, yes,’ she said, having read it, and smiling up at him, thinking that one of the reasons she loved him so very much was his inability to perceive his own value. ‘I think it’s wonderful just the same, completely wonderful, just like you are, Tom Knelston. Oh, I’m so proud of you. If only I could come too.’
‘Well, maybe you can,’ said Tom. ‘I’ ll – I’ll ask.’ It was a measure of the enormity of his achievement that he would even consider such a thing. ‘I’ll talk to Mr Roberts tomorrow. See what he says. You never know.’
‘No, you never do. Mind you, the size I’m getting, I’ll need two seats rather than one …’
The next day brought more exciting news still; Mr Roberts, the chairman of the Hilchester branch of the Labour Party, said that there was to be a debate on the subject of the plight of the ex-servicemen. ‘I’m going to put you forward to speak on the subject. Just at one of the fringe meetings, naturally, not the main conference. We’re very proud of you, Tom,’ said Mr Roberts, suddenly rather pink in the face. ‘You’ve done very well. If only your father was here to see all this.’
‘If only,’ said Tom.
There was a silence; then Tom said, ‘Er, Mr Roberts, I was wondering if – that is – whether – if – I mean –’
‘Come along, Tom, spit it out.’
‘Well, whether Laura could come. To the conference.’
He was so sure Mr Roberts would say no, that when the reply came, he said, ‘I didn’t think it would be possible.’
‘And you thought wrong. She can come. She’s a member of the party, after all. Of course, she’ll only be able to be there as an observer, and won’t be able to speak. Although –’ he cleared his throat, looked at Tom rather awkwardly – ‘I would have thought, in her condition, she must get rather tired. Of course, it’s your decision but with most of the delegates being male … Well, you will I’m sure consider your decision very carefully as to whether she will feel comfortable there.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tom. ‘Thank you for your thoughtfulness. She does get tired, yes, but if I am to speak, she will want to be there and to hear me. And I will want her to be there.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘I just wouldn’t want you to be distracted, by worrying about her, you know.’
‘I won’t be,’ said Tom. ‘She won’t let me be. She is a very committed member of the party. Thank you so much, Mr Roberts. For everything. I won’t let you down. Will Mrs Roberts be attending?’
‘No,’ said Mr Roberts, and a very quiet sigh escaped him. ‘She will not. I fear she has never shown the interest in politics Laura does. She feels they are not for her. Mind you, with the five children, she has quite enough to occupy her. But I regret it just the same.’
Yes, I expect you do, Tom thought, remembering the attitude of the men towards the female members at his very first meeting, when Laura had confronted them over the washing-up. Possibly Mrs Roberts would be a devoted party member now without that attitude. Well, he had been lucky. And now he could go home and
tell Laura the news. She would be so pleased.
* * *
They struck lucky with their B&B. Anne Higgins, whose house was only a fifteen-minute walk away from Blackpool Sands, supplied not only a very pretty double room right next door to the bathroom, but a large and comfortable double bed. ‘Looks like I knew you were coming,’ she said, smiling at Laura’s stomach, protruding from her carefully buttoned navy woollen coat. The coat had been the subject of a brief but quite fierce argument between Tom and Laura; she had wanted a red one, but Tom, mindful of Mr Roberts’s clear concerns about Laura’s condition and people’s possible attitude towards it, had urged her to buy the navy. She had told him she knew perfectly well why he preferred it, and anyway, red would be a more suitable colour given that they were not attending a Tory conference. Then, suddenly and uncharacteristically, she gave in. He was not to know that for perhaps the first and only time in her life, she had decided to put her wifely duties before her most deeply felt attitudes.
The days of the conference passed in a complete blur. They travelled up by train, together with Mr Roberts, who gave them a lift in his taxi to Mrs Higgins’s guest house.
Having settled in and with a couple of hours’ daylight to spare, they made for the seafront, and walked along the huge, sweeping beach, gazing up awestruck at the famous Blackpool Tower. ‘You know,’ Tom said, reaching for Laura’s hand and smiling happily, ‘I really love it here.’
Laura too liked the heady bracing air, replacing the gentle southern breezes of Hampshire, the apparently limitless landscape, the grey sea reaching out to infinity. It was cold and she liked that too; her head felt very clear, her energies increased.
‘Maybe one day, you might be an MP for some northern constituency, and we could come to live up there with the children. I like Mrs Higgins too, I like her bluntness. I’ve heard this about northern folk, how they call a spade a spade, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, well, what we can definitely do,’ said Tom, ‘next summer, we could all come, bring the baby up for a holiday, let him – her – ride on the donkeys, show her how to dig sandcastles. It’d be so lovely.’
‘It would,’ said Laura, reaching up to kiss him. ‘Although not many babies nine months old can ride a donkey. I know she’s going to be a genius, but …’
Next morning – after Mrs Higgins’s magnificent breakfast of bacon, eggs, black pudding, mushrooms and fried bread, followed by hot toast and marmalade and as much tea as they could drink – they walked down to the ballroom and enrolled; then they attended their first session, followed by another and another and yet another. It was a heavy schedule; they had not expected to be so fully occupied. Some of the speakers were inspiring, some brilliant, some frankly dull.
There were a great many drinks parties and dinners as well, to most of which they were not invited, hosted by legendary names and bodies: the BBC, the great unions, the newspapers. The most impossible party to get into, unless you were a truly great name, Mr Roberts had told them on the train as they travelled up, clearly eager to show off his knowledge, was the Daily Mirror bash.
‘Hugh Cudlipp – you’ll have heard of him, brilliant chap, been editing the paper since he was twenty-six. He’s Welsh, so you’ll approve, Tom. Commercial traveller’s son, bit like your Aneurin. They’re friends, of course. Keep an eye open for him. He’s not very tall, crinkly fair hair, always in a rush, never stops talking. Or drinking,’ he added, slightly disapprovingly.
A great deal of drinking went on. After every major speech, which meant after every session, people gathered to pass opinions and drink. Tom saw Bevan several times, beaming benignly, a glass of beer in his hand; and he did catch sight of the great Cudlipp, recognisable from his photographs, pushing his way impatiently through the crowds. They were all there, the great names, Attlee, Herbert Morrison, Ernest Bevin, Stafford Cripps, Denis Healey and of course, making Laura’s entire week, the glamorous redhead, Barbara Castle. Tom felt he had strayed into some new, magical kingdom, where anything was possible.
Bevan’s speech was inevitably the highlight for Tom; he stood on the platform, his wonderful voice turning his vision of free healthcare for all into poetry, a kind of anthem, utterly at ease, yet filled with his extraordinary energy, his unique style; it was said it was almost unreportable, his ability to mix – as Michael Foot famously put it years later – fire and ice.
And, of course, Tom spoke. At a small hall, outside the main conference area; the meeting was sponsored by the Lest We Forget Association founded to support the ex-servicemen. Tom was an active and loyal member of the Hilchester branch. He was so nervous beforehand, he was completely unable to eat all day; but as always, as soon as he began, his passion for the subject and his concern for the cause absolutely overtook him and filled his head and his heart and his voice. There was more than one quite seasoned delegate at the meeting who felt that a part of the future stood before him. He spoke, most touchingly, of an event he had attended at Stoke Mandeville Hospital where many paralysed patients were cared for and helped as far as was possible in rehabilitation. ‘I went to an archery competition in the grounds, and every entrant was in a wheelchair. It was wonderful to see the spirit of competition and excitement experienced by men who a year or so ago must have felt their lives were quite over.’
When the meeting ended, he and Laura went out into the dusk and walked for over an hour along the sands, silent at first; Laura had been taken unawares by the pride she had felt in Tom that evening, and perhaps something more than pride. Looking at him on the platform, with his considerable height, and a little weight put on, she saw how physically impressive he was, even with his limp, and extraordinarily good-looking, pushing back his wild auburn hair, his green eyes blazing from his expressive face. He wasn’t merely Tom to her any more, not merely the husband she loved so much. He was something else, something special: promise, integrity, the future.
They went back to Mrs Higgins’s guest house and climbed the stairs to their room, where they lay in the big bed in silence, holding hands, contemplating, in their different ways, the new future they felt they had discovered and indeed begun.
Chapter 14
1948
‘Excuse me – Miss Curtis?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’
Jillie smiled at him, such a nice young man, tall, good-looking, with amazing green eyes, although he was very pale and almost gaunt-looking.
‘I hope so. Yes. I’m Tom. Tom Knelston. I wrote to you, asked if I could see you and you said to come today.’
‘Oh, of course. Yes, do please forgive me. I’ve been on duty nearly all night, I’d forgotten – only temporarily – you were coming. Shall we go and have a cup of tea somewhere? There’s a good café down the road.’
‘Yes. That might be nice. Thank you.’
His voice was attractive, she thought: deep, almost musical, but again, very weary-sounding. Well, if his wife had just had her baby, he would be weary.
It had been such a nice letter, very brief, simply saying his wife had been seen at the hospital in the spring, for ‘a cervical stitch’ and had told him how kind she’d been, and he’d be very grateful if she could find the time to see him. He had a few questions she might be able to answer. Jillie hoped she’d be able to help. Six more months in the company of Miss Moran had left her uncertain of her own name.
They set off down Grafton Way; it was very cold. Struggling for small talk, Jillie remarked fatuously, she felt, upon how seasonal it was.
‘Perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas,’ she said. ‘Although we had one last year, of course, and that should have cured us all of wanting another for a long time. Did you get snowed up, Mr Knelston?’
Tom said he did, yes, although not till after Christmas. He didn’t expand upon the subject.
‘Right,’ said Jillie, pausing in front of a rather cheerful-looking café, its door hung with paper chains. ‘I quite often come here, it’s very nice. In fact, I’m meeting an old
school friend here later for lunch; we’re going to the pictures this afternoon.’
‘That sounds nice,’ he said, and she realised that between everything she said and his answer there was a pause, as if he was digesting with great difficulty what she had said and how he should reply.
She pushed open the door, leading the way into the warm, steamy room. ‘Is that table all right?’
‘Yes, fine. Shall I take your coat?’
‘Oh, thank you.’ She unwound her long scarf, handed that to him too. ‘There’s a coat stand over there, by the door.’
She waited till he sat down, then said, ‘Do you want anything to eat? They do lovely iced buns here.’
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘just tea for me.’
‘Right, well, I think I’ll have one – I’m hungry. And Alice won’t be here for ages.’
‘Alice?’
‘Yes. She’s the friend I’m meeting. We were at school together. She’s a nurse at St Thomas’. You’d probably have met her if your wife had been able to have her baby in London. She was so interested in Laura’s story.’
‘Yes, I see,’ he said.
‘Such a pity about that. Anyway, what can I help you with? Or rather, what do you think I might be able to help you with?’
‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘Very difficult. But I read something and – well, I just thought it worth asking.’
‘Right. Well – fire away.’
He looked down into his tea, stirred it rather helplessly. ‘It’ s – difficult,’ he said, again, after a long pause.
‘Let me ask you some questions, then. That might help. I presume it’s to do with your wife. And the baby?’
Another very long pause; then, ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘How – how are they? Was it all right, did they look after them well at the hospital?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t say well, not well at all, no.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. But she’s all right now, I hope? They both are? Was it a girl or a boy?’
A Question of Trust Page 15
