‘Sometimes I quite dread it,’ he had said, only that morning. ‘He is so sympathetic, but I could do with a bit less of hearing about how lonely I must be, and how sad.’
Mr Pemberton had even taken to suggesting they went to the pub together for a drink after work on Fridays. ‘I can’t refuse, of course, but we sit there, not talking much, and always, when he thinks it’s time to go, he says, “Well, Tom, what would we do without each other these days.” ’
He had had some special news for her that day; that he was about to be admitted as a solicitor, fully qualified, an incredible achievement, the result of so much work, so much determination. It hurt to tell her, thinking how proud she would be, how joyful, how full of admiration; but at the same time, knowing those things gave him a kind of pleasure. And at the same time, pain; and even as he thought he must be getting back, leave her for now, as he kissed his fingers and ran them over her name, the letters were blurred with tears. He stood up, then, forcing a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Laura. Sorry.’
And then he heard his name called; and a few yards away from him he saw Diana standing there.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, hello.’ And stood, not sure what to do or say further; but in a moment of extraordinary and unexpected gentleness, she stepped forward and reached up and kissed his cheek and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. So very sorry. I didn’t know, or I would have come to find you before.’
He was astonished by it; by the gentleness, and even more by her courage in coming to him. So many people avoided him, pretended they hadn’t seen him; he had even known them cross the street as he approached rather than confront his grief. It was a mystery to him, this behaviour. What could they fear should they approach him and say how sorry they were? That he would break down, or even turn away from them himself? Was his pain really of so little importance to them, less than their own embarrassment, that they were not prepared to risk it, to risk some kindness, some concern?
But he had grown used to it; and had anyone asked him how Diana Southcott might behave, he would have expected her to be the worst of them, of the avoiders. Proffer him the cold shoulder rather than the sweet kiss, the gentle words, the obvious sorrow on his behalf.
She drew back, then said, ‘I’m sorry, you probably want to be alone. Or with Laura. Is that her grave?’
He nodded.
‘May I – may I see?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and she stood there quietly, reading and rereading the words, and then turned to him, and said, ‘How lovely, and how lovely that they are together.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, well, I wanted that. It was important.’
‘So important. Oh, Tom. How unhappy you must be.’
‘Well – I am,’ he said, and then, ‘but I try not to be. She wouldn’t have wanted that.’
‘You’re very brave. I never met her, I wish I had. She must have been a very special person.’
‘She was.’
There was a silence. Then she said, clearly feeling there was nothing more that she could usefully say, ‘Well, I must be getting back. But I’m so glad I found you today. And so very sorry I didn’t manage it before.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely that you came today. Thank you.’ And then astonishing himself, ‘May I walk you back to the house?’
‘Of course. I’d like that.’
And they talked on the way of a few important and a few unimportant things; she was clearly afraid to talk about Jamie, but he asked about him. ‘I met him when he was very young, remember?’
‘Yes, of course I do. Well, he’s a real boy now – and his lovely blonde baby hair is now quite, quite dark.’
‘And – do you like it any better, up there in Yorkshire?’ he asked and she stared at him and laughed and said, ‘I’d forgotten I’d told you that. No, I still hate it.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh – so many things. It’s cold, it’s bleak, even in the summer it’s bleak. The people are odd. I don’t have any friends, not that I would call friends. I miss London, I miss my family. Goodness me, I must stop. It’s not all bad.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he said and his green eyes boring into hers were genuinely interested.
‘Mostly,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid it is, but you are not to tell anyone I said so. Ever.’
‘Of course. And your husband, does he like it up there?’
‘Oh, he loves it. Absolutely loves it. But then he comes from there – it’s different if you do. It’s another country.’
‘Of course. I sometimes think,’ he added, amazed that he should confide in her, ‘that I would do well to move away, to live somewhere quite different.’
‘Really? To do what?’
‘Well, I have become very interested in politics. It’s the only thing I can imagine taking – or partly taking – Laura’s place in my life. Giving me something to care about again.’
‘I can understand that,’ she said. ‘You mean you’d like to be an MP?’
‘Yes. Ultimately. Meanwhile to work for the party in some way. The Labour Party,’ he added, with a smile.
‘Yes, well, I didn’t see you as a true blue Tory,’ she said, smiling back. ‘It would be wonderful for you, I can see that. And Laura would have liked it,’ she added, astonishing him with her perception.
‘Indeed. And of course, it would be better than another woman,’ he said and she actually laughed and he laughed too. They had arrived at the Manor House. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you, Tom. I’m so glad I was here today. I’d ask you in,’ she said, after a pause, ‘but you wouldn’t like it, would you?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘And nor would they. Although I’d like to meet your husband.’
‘He’s gone back to Yorkshire, his father’s not well. We were only here for Michael’s wedding – my brother, you know …’
‘Yes, of course I know. I like your brother. He was always very friendly to me at village cricket matches. I suppose he’s an important doctor now?’
‘Very important. A surgeon. Oh, now there’s Mummy watching us out of the window, wondering what on earth’s going on. I’d better go in. Take care of yourself, Tom. Goodbye.’ And she reached up and kissed him again on the cheek and then turned and walked up the drive towards the house.
* * *
‘Diana,’ said her mother as she walked in the door. ‘Diana, you really can’t stand about in broad daylight kissing people like Tom Knelston.’
‘Oh, really, can I not?’ said Diana, and there was real anger in her eyes as she looked at her mother. ‘You wouldn’t have minded if it was one of Michael’s friends, would you? Ian Bellinger, for instance, or Ned Welles. I’d like to know the difference. Only of course I do.’
‘Diana—’
‘Now, have I missed lunch? Shall I go and eat it in the kitchen, with Cook, or up in the nursery with Jamie? That would be better, wouldn’t it, more acceptable.’
‘We haven’t had lunch,’ said Caroline. ‘You can eat it in the dining room with us. Nanny has taken Jamie for a walk.’
‘She seems to have taken leave of her senses,’ Caroline said later to Sir Gerald, watching Diana playing with Jamie in the garden. ‘I do hope her situation in Yorkshire isn’t making her so unhappy she’ll do something silly.’
‘Of course it won’t,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘That pretty head is screwed on quite firmly. She knows what she’s got up there, even if she doesn’t like it very much. Sherry, darling? Or rather another sherry. We seem to have been drinking it for hours, waiting for her.’
‘Do you know I think I might?’ said Caroline.
Chapter 16
1950
The conference was dreadful. He had missed the previous year’s, unable to face it, but Laura haunted this one still, a shining-eyed, excited ghost, her baby sticking out through her navy coat, filled with the wonder that they were actually there. At least it wasn’t in Black-pool this time. Every day hurt more than the day before.
And
yet he knew he must go. It was what he most cared about now, the party and his politics, and the new future he wanted. As always his hero, Aneurin ‘Nye’ Bevan, did not fail him. For Bevan, it was a good conference. He had had a bad two years; first there was the infamous speech when he had proclaimed the Conservatives to be ‘lower than vermin’ and unleashed a row of gargantuan proportions, causing himself and his party immeasurable harm. Then another row over a demand for an extra £52 million for the National Health Service, and the consequent accusations of improvidence. He still managed to emerge as the author of a new, glorious socialism for the years ahead.
Listening to his speech, Tom felt his heart lift; that alone would have justified his decision to come. But he was rewarded for it personally too, for his courage. It led him into his new future, in a way he could never have expected.
‘Tom Knelston, isn’t it?’ A booming voice spoke out of the din, as he waited to go into a session. Looking round, he saw the huge figure of Donald Herbert bearing down on him. Donald Herbert was one of the big names around the party, a power behind the throne. He ran a hugely successful delivery business: dozens of lorries and vans bearing his name wove their way round the country every day. His employment of hundreds of drivers and his reputation as a generous and infinitely fair boss made him both popular and influential within the TGWU. He had stood for a couple of seats, but failed, rather more spectacularly than his large ego could endure. Now he contented himself with having a large circle of political friends – many of them hugely influential and rich, like Lord Stansgate and Lord Longford and, perhaps even more importantly, prominent journalists – giving large dinners for political friends and acquaintances, drinking in the bars at the House of Commons and eating in its restaurants, and generally having access to many of the heavyweights in the party. He was a favourite with the press, being a colourful character, and was known to have dined with Cudlipp several times.
This afternoon, he was certainly living up to his sartorial reputation, the suit a brown and beige houndstooth check, and the bow tie a brilliant yellow. Tom stood up, stammering his greeting.
‘I came to your meeting when you spoke last year, no, it was the year before that. Bloody good, I thought. Meant to congratulate you at the time, but had a drinking engagement. How’s that pretty wife of yours? In the family way, I seem to recall.’
‘I’m afraid she died,’ said Tom who had learned that raw, painful statements were infinitely preferable to stumbling euphemisms, in terms of getting such moments over.
‘Oh, my God, how awful.’ Herbert spoke with the unmistakable accent of the public-school boy; Tom was always amazed to meet the few who had crossed the playground (as he had heard it expressed), to become socialists and prominent ones at that. ‘I’m so sorry. Christ, how ghastly. I feel dreadful now. Look, let me buy you a drink. I wanted to make contact with you anyway. This session’s going to be pretty dull, you know, won’t hurt either of us to miss it. Let’s go and find a bar.’
Tom, shocked that anyone should choose to miss a session, but flattered beyond anything that Donald Herbert should want to speak to him, nodded and followed him obediently to the nearest bar.
‘What’s your poison then, young Tom?’
Tom longed to ask for a whisky but was fearful that he might have to buy Herbert a drink in return. ‘A pint of bitter would be very nice, sir.’
‘Might join you in that. No need for the sir stuff. As I said, I thought your speech was bloody good. You have a flair for it. Can’t be learned, that sort of thing. What did you do in the war?’
‘I was out in the desert with the sappers,’ said Tom. ‘With Monty.’
‘Were you, by Jove. So was my brother. Said it was pretty bloody tough!’
‘It was. Wouldn’t have missed it, though. And you?’
‘Air force. One of the lucky few who didn’t get shot down. What’s your job out on Civvy Street?’
‘I’m a solicitor.’ He was still mildly amazed he could say that.
‘Interesting. So is my brother. You two seem to have quite a lot in common. He’s a bit older than you, of course. He’s got a practice in Islington. You?’
‘Oh, I work for a firm in Hilchester,’ said Tom. ‘Near Southampton,’ he added. ‘I’ve been very lucky. The senior partner’s helped me enormously. I’d never have made it without him.’
‘Oh, you probably would. You should be a barrister, with a gift for speaking like yours.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom, smiling at him. ‘I’ve got the opposite of a private income for a start.’
‘What’s your background then?’
‘My dad was a village postman,’ said Tom. ‘I went to the grammar school.’
‘Did you? And now you’re a solicitor. Bloody well done. And what a good example for the rank and file. Marvellous story for the press. I must ponder on that one. Want another one of those?’
‘Oh – oh, let me,’ said Tom.
‘Don’t be so bloody silly. I might switch to Scotch. Fancy one?’
And Tom found himself looking at a double.
‘Right. So do you have political ambitions, Tom?’
‘Oh, I most certainly do. It’s all I want now.’
‘Is it indeed? Well, with your background, or rather what it says about you, and your gift for speaking, not impossible. But you won’t get far sitting in a country solicitor’s office in a cosy town near the south coast. You want to meet a few relevant people. Christ, I must go. It’s been good to meet you, Tom. I’m sorry about your wife. And remember what I said, get up nearer the action.’
As if it was that easy, Tom thought, looking after Donald Herbert’s huge figure as he lumbered out of the bar. He was sure he’d never hear from him again.
He was wrong.
This was when he missed Laura so much. When she wasn’t there to tell things to. Or advise him. Or be pleased for him. Or all three.
‘I’ve had this letter,’ he’d have said, still staring at it in disbelief. ‘From a solicitor in London, Donald Herbert’s brother. He’s asked me to go and see him, says he could have a job for me.’
And of course she’d have said go. But then what would she have said?
‘He’s offered me a job, in his practice in Islington,’ he’d have said. ‘He does a lot of work for the Labour Party. Pro bono. Really a lot of it.’
‘Well, you must take it of course,’ she’d have said. ‘It sounds a wonderful opportunity to me.’
‘But how can I leave Mr Pemberton? It would break his heart.’
‘Tom,’ she’d have said. ‘You either break Mr Pemberton’s heart and get nearer the future you want, or you stay with him and keep him happy, and forget all about everything else.’
Alice was in love. Inevitably with a doctor. A house surgeon, to be precise, newly qualified, idealistic, fiercely ambitious. He worked tirelessly round the clock, with not a single free weekend, stumbling sleepily from one of the small rooms allocated to him and his colleagues in the hospital whenever required, to perform an incredible range of operations. His name was Philip Jordan, and he was tall and very skinny, with rather untidy brown hair and very bony wrists. The other nurses teased her about her claims that he was good-looking. She supposed, if she was honest with herself ‘pleasant’ would have been more accurate. He had blue eyes and a wide, if slightly lopsided, smile, and as she said to Jillie when she was describing him, anyone who looked good in scrubs was hardly ugly. He was, as he stressed to her on their first date, ‘a pretty junior member of the firm’ which consisted of the consultant surgeon, the assistant surgeon, the registrar and him.
‘But my God, am I learning a lot, and fast! During the past four months, I’ve done twenty-six appendectomies, nine varicose vein operations, three haemorrhoidectomies and an umbilical hernia repair. Oh, and two above-the-knee amputations.’
As chat-up lines went, it wasn’t exactly polished but Alice sat entranced.
She had enjoyed midwifery throughout her time
at St Thomas’, and one of her proudest moments was when, after assisting at a difficult birth, she was accorded the honour of having the baby named after her.
‘But I didn’t do much,’ she said, settling the mother finally back into bed, handing her the baby to nurse.
‘Yes, you did,’ the girl said, smiling wearily at her. ‘You made me feel I might just survive.’
Above all, Alice loved the drama of the operating theatre. She was entirely unfazed by the gore, or the surgeons barking out orders, the more temperamental ones literally hurling instruments across the room if they were not what they’d asked for. The surgeons were the most arrogant and the most revered among the honoraries, holding as they did literally life or death in their hands. But Alice also never failed to marvel that even they had to defer to Sister on their ward rounds.
Alice and Philip became a couple of sorts. They enjoyed the same things: going to the cinema, walking across Hampstead Heath, listening to traditional jazz on the gramophone, and dancing to it occasionally at Humphrey Lyttelton’s club at 100 Oxford Street. Such outings were rare; mostly they were confined to snatched hours in the hospital, long conversations over meals in the canteen, much of it about his work – rarely hers – and rather intense occasional snogging sessions in the junior doctors’ rooms. Alice didn’t mind. She was completely in love and very, very happy.
She was in her third year now, and a qualification as a state registered nurse was in sight; but she had decided to do a fourth and get her Nightingale badge, prized and recognised everywhere in the world.
Alice loved nursing as much as she had instinctively known she would. She loved its order, its sense of purpose; she saw it as charting a course across difficult terrain, taking intense pleasure as her patients recovered, while slowly learning to remain philosophical when they did not. The first few deaths had upset her, of course, but the probationers were well prepared for them; although the death of a baby or a child shook her dreadfully. The very first one, a baby, born dead with the cord round its neck, was completely incredible as well as shocking, so great was Alice’s faith in her profession and its powers. She fled to the sluice and stood leaning on the sink, sobbing and shaking, not merely at the death but the mother’s grief. It was Sister who found her, and was oddly gentle with her, explaining that acceptance of their limitations to prevent such things was important, and should only serve to reinforce a pride in what they could do. Alice took that philosophy with her for the rest of her working life. The comradeship of the other nurses was also a huge help; people who had gone through it too, experienced the pain, the grief. She learned from Philip that the banter, as he called it, the cheerful comradeship of the other doctors, the acceptance of death as a fact of life, was essential.
A Question of Trust Page 18
