A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  She was frustrated, of course, by what could not be done. There was no known treatment for so many things, the worst it seemed to her being heart disease and of course, childhood leukaemia and the worst excesses of polio. They were at the most famous and respected hospital in the country, or so they had been told, and knew that no one, and no other hospital, could do more. That gave her confidence too.

  As a less serious by-product they knew of course that they were, as Nightingales, the most socially superior. Indeed, the junior doctors and students had a saying: ‘Barts for tarts, Guy’s for flirts, Thomas’ for young ladies.’ It might not have been relevant to their nursing skills, but it was something to enjoy. Besides, behind her wide blue eyes, her apparent unremitting sweetness, there was a steeliness to Alice; her seniors recognised it, and appreciated that it was very much part of her armoury in becoming not just a good nurse but an excellent one.

  So, successful and happy in her work as she was, she was also, at the age of nearly twenty-two, still a virgin. Hardly a unique state of affairs; the spectre of pregnancy hovered over every unmarried liaison. She had never been remotely tempted to risk such a horror: had never loved or even fancied anyone enough. She had had boyfriends all her life, from the tennis club days onwards. It wasn’t just her prettiness; she was sparkly and fun, and possessed of great energy. She had been very fond of some of the boys, had wished herself, and even at times fancied herself, in love. And she enjoyed what limited sexual experience she had had. But the fact remained that in her world, girls remained virgins until they were at the very least engaged, and for most of them, married.

  Philip Jordan, however, had plans to change all that.

  Wendelien Bellinger had a new friend, Blanche Ellis Brown, a fashion editor on Style magazine, a fashion glossy recently launched which its backers hoped would in the fullness of time rival Vogue. Blanche had been poached from Vogue, and was a rising star in the magazine firmament. Sharply chic herself and ferociously ambitious, she also had an eye for the new look in fashion and fashion photography, which she transferred with considerable style to her pages.

  And there was very much a new look; largely due to the fact that a different breed of camera, small and portable such as those made by Rolleiflex and Leica, were replacing the cumbersome variety, which had confined fashion shots to the studios. Suddenly models were being photographed on beaches and boats, on the streets and at the wheels of cars. The great and inventive photographers, most notably the Americans Richard Avedon, Toni Frissell and Irving Penn, were creating the most exciting images.

  Blanche was loving her new job, and the circulation of Style was climbing slowly but steadily northwards.

  ‘But what I need now, above all,’ she said to Wendelien as they lunched at the Connaught one day, ‘are some new faces. There just aren’t enough models. Good ones, that is. Many of them will only work for Vogue anyway – ridiculously loyal.’

  ‘Can’t you just offer them more money?’ said Wendelien, who had a severely practical streak.

  ‘Doesn’t work. It’s the cachet of Vogue, you see. Where one goes they all follow. They’re like a flock of beautiful sheep: Fiona Campbell-Walter, Suzy Parker, Anne Gunning and Barbara Goalen. It’s so hard to tempt them away. The Fords have just been over – Eileen Ford’s agency is number one in America – and they’ve done a tie-up with Lucie Clayton here. I’m hoping that will bring a few new ones in.’ She giggled. ‘The Fords actually stayed here for a couple of days, and were asked to leave, as all the models heard they were here and were bombarding the switchboard. Didn’t quite go with the Connaught image. You know it’s the only hotel in London that takes guests on personal recommendations only. Anyway, they were asked to leave. So –’ She suddenly sat back and looked intently at Wendelien across the table.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ said Wendelien, laughing.

  ‘Just wondering if you’d do – you do wear clothes awfully well – but sorry, darling, no offence, but you’ve not got quite the bones.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But if you have any beautiful friends, ideally of an aristocratic persuasion, steer them in my direction, would you?’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ said Wendelien.

  ‘Welcome home, darling,’ Wendelien said to Diana over the lunchtime menu at the Ritz a week later. ‘You look marvellous. How did you escape this time?’

  ‘It’s Mummy’s birthday. She’s having a little party at the weekend. Not big enough to warrant Johnathan coming down, but I made it an excuse. I really don’t think he minds much if I’m there or not, he’s so busy.’

  ‘How is life generally up there? Any better?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Diana flatly. ‘My only comfort is Jamie, who is adorable. I thought he was the beginning of a new marriage for us both but I’m afraid the farm is more important to Johnathan even than Jamie. I’ve brought him and Nanny down with me – Mummy loves to spend time with him. She complains endlessly about him being her only grandchild, but of course Betsey’s pregnant now, so she’ll have a bit more to do.’

  ‘But you’re not preggers?’ asked Wendelien, her voice carefully casual.

  ‘No, not yet. Thank goodness. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, well, Ian is getting quite keen and actually I wouldn’t mind one myself now – all one’s chums are at it – so watch this space.’

  She patted her flat stomach gently.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ wailed Diana. ‘You all have each other – it’s so lonely having a baby up in Yorkshire.’

  ‘You must have found one friend, surely?’

  ‘Not really. They all hate me. No matter how hard I try with the wretched WI and everything.’

  ‘Well,’ said Wendelien, ‘I’ve got a little idea for you. A little idea that might make your life seem a bit brighter. How long are you here for?’

  ‘About four days.’

  ‘That should be long enough.’

  ‘For what?’

  Wendelien told her.

  ‘Wendelien, I couldn’t. Even if they thought I was good enough, and had the bones –’

  ‘Which you do.’

  ‘How could I, when I live all the way up there? They’re not going to bring their cameras and clothes up to Yorkshire, are they?’

  ‘But that’s the whole point, it’s not a full-time job. No one’s going to ask you to come and live down here permanently. It’d just be an occasional break for you.’

  Diana looked wistfully into her cocktail. ‘Well, it sounds wonderful. I don’t want you to think I’m not thrilled and flattered. I am. But Johnathan wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be very often. And the wicked witch would love it, give her something else to hate you for.’

  ‘Now that is true!’ said Diana, laughing. ‘Oh, Wendelien. How – how amazing it would be.’

  ‘So, will you at least meet my friend Blanche?’

  ‘I’d love to. That’ll solve everything straight away, as she’ll just say I haven’t got any bones. How is it going to work, are you going to march me into her office?’

  ‘By a happy chance, she’s going into Hardy Amies this afternoon, and I thought you’d like to have a look at the suits.’

  ‘Wendelien, I’m really not in the couture league any more,’ said Diana. ‘My allowance from Johnathan is quite modest.’

  ‘Diana,’ said Wendelien patiently. ‘Blanche doesn’t need to know that. We’ll go to Amies and look at the suits.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But nothing. Stop fussing and order your lunch. Only don’t eat too much, your stomach might stick out.’

  ‘No, all right,’ said Diana humbly.

  And thus it was that much later that afternoon, Diana found herself in the studio of one Kirill (christened Cyril) Bell, being posed and unposed, and given what seemed to her ridiculously extravagant positions to strike, and then told to act naturally – as if such a thing were possible – having what they called test shots done, which Kirill pr
omised to Blanche by first thing next day.

  And first thing next day, Blanche rang Diana and said her pictures were ‘absolutely divine. I’m amazed, the camera really likes you, so rare,’ and she had exactly the look she wanted for a feature on tweed suits for the October issue.

  Diana said she was very flattered and pleased, but she’d have to talk it over with her husband, as she lived in Yorkshire, and had a small child. It would all mean quite careful planning, and when was Blanche thinking of for the session?

  The next day, Blanche said, and she’d need Diana to come up that afternoon to try on some of the clothes. ‘Maybe get your hair cut and styled. It’s a bit long.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ said Diana. ‘I thought you said the October issue.’

  ‘It takes three months to get an issue together,’ Blanche said patiently. ‘Here we are, mid-July, bit late already. It’s not a problem, is it?’

  Diana’s sense of yearning for this wonderful new world was tempered by panic. ‘I really do need to talk to my husband. He might not like the idea.’

  Blanche’s voice grew slightly impatient. ‘I hope he does – we’ve wasted a lot of time and effort otherwise. When can you get back to me? Shall I make an appointment for your hair this afternoon anyway? Oh, and we can’t do the pictures in town obviously – the photographer wants some woods, and the art director’s found what will pass for some on Hampstead Heath. It’s a very early start. We can meet here, about seven. What’s your shoe size? I’ll get you those. Normally models bring a selection of their own, but obviously you can’t do that at this sort of notice.’

  ‘I’m staying with my parents in Hampshire,’ said Diana, rather helplessly. ‘So I don’t think—’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could stay with Wendelien,’ said Blanche, her impatience clearly increasing by the moment. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Can you sort all this out and let me have an answer by twelve? I need to know if I can rely on you or not. There is a lot hanging on this feature.’

  Getting hold of Johnathan was clearly an impossibility. In the summer he was out on the farm until darkness. So it was her mother she had to win round. Diana put the phone down and went to find her.

  Caroline was rather excited by the whole thing. Diana carefully presented it as a one-off, and said she would of course ask Johnathan the minute she could get hold of him.

  ‘I should think he’d be rather proud. It’s not as if you’re going to be away longer than you said or anything. My goodness, how thrilling. And Jamie will be fine here with us. So yes, of course you must go and get your hair done! Ring this woman back, and don’t worry about anything.’

  It was only when Diana heard her mother boasting on the phone to one of her friends when she went home to collect Jamie, that she realised that, for rather suspect reasons, her mother could become a great ally in this great new adventure she seemed to have tumbled into.

  Chapter 17

  1950

  Biggles? Just William? The Boy’s Own Annual? Whatever did boys of nine like to read? If anything. And what about boys of six? Here she was, thinking Foyles would solve all her present problems. This was her last chance to shop before Christmas.

  Jillie sighed, heard a similarly heavy one to her left and realised that a man was studying the girls’ line-up equally distractedly. She gave him a sympathetic smile and then realised he was rather familiar.

  ‘Oh! Hello! It’s Mr Knelston – Tom – isn’t it? What a nice surprise. You look as desperate as I am.’

  ‘Oh, yes, hello,’ he said and as she advanced towards him holding out her hand, he promptly dropped an armful of books on the floor.

  She bent down, retrieved a couple and then said, ‘I’m Jillie – Jillie Curtis, from …’ She faltered, afraid she had stumbled into territory too painful for Tom to contemplate. ‘From the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson – we met last year.’

  She waited for him to turn and walk away, but he did neither; he smiled his wide, oddly generous smile and said, ‘Yes, of course, I remember you. How are you, Miss Curtis? Thank you,’ he added, taking the books from her.

  ‘Jillie, please. I’m very well, thank you. Although I’d feel better if I knew what little boys liked to read. Do you know? Age nine and six. Just William, would they like that?’

  She realised she was gabbling, just to fill the awkwardness, but he smiled again and said, ‘Oh definitely. And perhaps that boys’ album –’

  ‘What about Biggles?’

  ‘Bit grown up. And for the six-year-old, well, how about Thomas the Tank Engine?’

  ‘Oh, lovely! Of course. I’d never have thought of that, thank you.’

  ‘Pleasure. Maybe you could help me. With two girls, aged eight and nine.’

  It must be so hard for him, Jillie thought.

  ‘Oh, at that age I loved What Katy Did. And Anne of Green Gables. And A Little Princess. They’re all ideal.’

  ‘Look, they’re all here, in the same section. Thank you very much. Well, that’s me settled. Are you done?’

  ‘I am. Now, I warn you, they have the most complicated system for actually buying a book here, but there’s no help for it.’

  ‘I’ll follow your lead then,’ he said. After they had stood in at least two more separate queues, they emerged into the Tottenham Court Road and, after a rather long hesitation, Tom said, ‘If you’ve got time, can I buy you a cup of tea, to say thank you?’ They went off to the rather grand Lyons Corner House on the corner of Oxford Street.

  ‘So what are you doing up here?’ Jillie asked after they had ordered tea and toasted teacakes. ‘It’s a long way from Southampton?’

  ‘I’ve moved up to London. I’m working for a solicitor in Islington and we do lots of legal aid work. Do you know about legal aid? People who can’t afford solicitors can get financial help from the government. It’s very different from my last job.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, that was all about farm and small estate sales, lot of probate work, conveyancing of course, all very –’ He hesitated. ‘Respectable? Yes,’ Tom said and grinned. ‘It was dreadful leaving my boss, of course. He’s been so good to me, saw me as a sort of second son. But I knew Laura would have told me to move on and start again. So I moved to Herbert & Herbert. Sometimes the clients are anything but polite, but then they’re desperate, being evicted from their homes without reason, domestic violence even. It’ s – well, it’s a lot more interesting and much more – lively. I do enjoy it.’

  ‘Good. I’m so pleased.’

  ‘And then I also do quite a bit of work for the Labour Party.’

  ‘Legal work?’

  ‘No. Dogsbody work. Pounding pavements. Delivering leaflets. Putting stuff in envelopes. Speaking at meetings, sometimes. We’re gearing up for the next election.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jillie. ‘My parents have been talking about it quite a lot. They’re great socialists. Or think they are.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, not knowing quite how to react. ‘Anyway, Islington North is pretty solid Labour. I think we’ll get in again.’ He stopped talking, took a bite out of his teacake, then looked at her awkwardly. ‘Sorry, probably the last thing you want to talk about.’

  ‘No, actually my cousin, who’s a political journalist, was talking about it the other night when he came to supper.’

  ‘What paper is he on?’

  ‘The Daily News.’

  Tom was momentarily stunned into silence by this piece of information; the Daily News was a paper of huge importance.

  ‘Which party does he think is going to get in?’ he asked.

  ‘The Tories. Sorry, Tom. So where do you live – have you got a house or what?’

  ‘I’ve got a flat. In Islington, just off the Angel. Part of a house, very small. Property’s much more expensive than it is in Hampshire. I live alone. So – what about you? Are you an important doctor now?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Long way to go, about two more years till I take my finals. I’ll probably fail,’
she added. ‘I’m pretty hopeless. But I have to keep trying.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t fail. So where do you live?’

  ‘Oh, with my parents. Who live rather conveniently in Highbury. I told you, my parents are socialists.’ She grinned at him. ‘Not that you’d recognise them as such. So are most of their friends. To be quite honest, it makes me cross. They live in huge houses. Give lots of dinner parties. Employ domestic staff, make endless excuses for sending their children to expensive schools, say they’d be much happier if they were at local schools, but the education just isn’t as good and why should their children and their chances in life be sacrificed because of their principles? Anyway, I must go. I have to buy lots of cheese and olives and stuff like that. My parents are having a party on Saturday. They said I could invite a few friends of my own, so I said I’d get some of the food.’ She looked at him. ‘You – you wouldn’t like to come, would you? You’d be very welcome.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I don’t really like parties. Laura loved them,’ he added. ‘She made me go to them with her. But I hated them, even then.’

  ‘Well – if you change your mind … Anyway, I expect you’re busy, Saturday before Christmas.’

  ‘Not really. Although the local Labour Party are having a sort of party that night. I shall have to go to that.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why do you have to?’

  ‘Because,’ he said, very seriously, ‘it would look bad if I didn’t. You have to do these things if you want to make your way in politics. It’s what I’ve got now. Instead of Laura. It’s not enough, of course. But it helps.’