‘Not quite the rebound, I imagine. You weren’t engaged?’
‘No, no, of course not, but – I’d decided.’ She laughed. ‘And of course –’
‘Of course. Now we both know, don’t we, about Ned. No need to spell it out.’
‘No need,’ said Diana, accepting the glass of champagne the waiter had brought and raising it to Persephone.
‘It all makes me so sad,’ said Persephone, raising hers back. ‘Condemned to a half-life, just because of some stupid attitudes. Anyway, we can live in hope. There seems to be a little at the moment. Although poor John Gielgud, booed and hissed when he came on stage – did you hear about that? The courage of the man, walking onto a London stage when he’d just been convicted of – what’s it called?’
‘Importuning?’ said Diana helpfully.
‘Yes, exactly. How can people who call themselves civilised behave like that? And his own profession, not much better – a minority tried to get him expelled from Equity, so that he wouldn’t have been able to act at all.’
‘Do you know him?’ asked Diana curiously.
‘I met him once or twice. The man I left Ned’s father for was a distinguished painter, he did a lot of theatricals. He didn’t paint Gielgud, but one went to parties, of course, met people.’
‘What a life you’ve had,’ said Diana, smiling at her.
‘Anyway, back to Ned … the thing is, he’s desperately lonely. He’s terrified of being – challenged. Especially since breaking the engagement to that lovely Jillie. Do you know her?’
‘No, I don’t. And if you want me to take him out, show him a good time, I’m afraid it wouldn’t work. He’d be suspicious and wary, would refuse any invitations, I’m afraid.’
‘Really? How disappointing. But I do have one idea. There’s to be a big ball, in early December, fundraising for the hospital, St Luke’s Chelsea, and he’s agreed to take me. He more or less has to go, but I shall tell him this evening that you’re joining us – I’m sure there’s some man you can bring. One of those photographers, perhaps, or are they all queer too?’
‘Some of them,’ said Diana, laughing, ‘but not all. Anyway, I wouldn’t bring one of them.’
‘No, Ned might think you were matchmaking, which would be quite dreadful.’
‘I can find someone of a most unremarkable make-up. And I could also ask Wendelien Bellinger and her husband: they’d love to come.’
‘You are a splendid girl!’ cried Persephone, and she got up and flung her arms round Diana, kissing her rapturously and almost knocking the champagne from her hand.
Ned arrived, clearly exhausted. ‘Sorry, no dinner jacket, Mother, but I thought better to come and disgrace you like this than be another half-hour late.’
‘Darling, it’s fine. Have a glass of champagne quickly and tell us what you’ve been doing.’
‘I don’t think that’d be at all a good idea,’ said Ned. ‘It would put you off your dinner. Just let’s call it emergency surgery. Anyway –’ He took the glass gratefully. ‘Hello, Diana, so nice to see you.’
‘Just seeing her – or rather looking at her – is extremely nice,’ said Persephone. ‘More than nice, she looks amazing. You should hire yourself out just to be gazed at, Diana, only I suppose that’s exactly what you do do.’
‘Sort of,’ said Diana, smiling at Ned. He smiled back warmly, clearly happy to be with her, and more important still, at ease.
‘Only don’t go hanging out of any more helicopters, Diana,’ he said. ‘It was the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Not you too!’ said Diana. ‘My mother and my ex-husband are both nagging at me about it, and telling me to be more careful. It was just – fun. And such a good photograph, you must admit.’
‘Quite possibly. But no photograph would be worth risking your life for, surely.’
His expression as he looked at her was genuinely anxious. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘It’s all right. I won’t do it again. I promise.’
‘Good,’ he said, smiling.
In spite of everything she knew and understood and had learned of him that evening, it was really rather lovely to have him so concerned about her.
Dinner was fun – in a charmingly random way. Persephone talked about her youth in the thirties and the wilder aspects of the war: ‘Marvellous evenings at the dear old Dorch, goodness it was fun, champagne cocktails, things like grouse which one might have thought were extinct, salmon –’
‘It sounds quite disgraceful to me,’ said Ned, but his eyes smiled into his mother’s.
He had always had the ability to combine rather engagingly a strong moral code of his own – certainly when it came to more minor transgressions – with an easy acceptance of the lack of one in others.
‘Well, of course it was,’ said Persephone, ‘but we enjoyed it.’
‘And that makes it perfectly all right, I suppose?’
‘Not perfectly, but better. I mean, no point drinking champagne and thinking what a nasty taste it had, now would there be?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Oh, Ned, of course not!’ said Diana impatiently. ‘I mean, suppose I stole some jewellery and then looked hideous in it. What a shame that would be.’
‘I can’t think you’d ever look hideous in anything.’
‘Well, thank you, but you’re dodging the moral issue.’
‘Nothing moral about that issue,’ said Ned, grinning.
‘Oh, OK. You win. So,’ she said, ‘how is the practice doing?
‘Well – the private one is slow, but paediatrics is a new field, more like orthopaedics in a way, knock knees and so on. Lot of tonsils, of course. God, there can’t be many tonsils left in London. However, the NHS practice is going extremely well, orthopods glad to get some help – and then, more to the point, it’s led me to what I have decided is my real cause in life. Something I care passionately about, where I can really make a difference, I think.’
His face was very serious.
‘Darling! So solemn! Whatever is it about?’ said Persephone.
‘It’s about the human side of medicine. Nobody seems to be aware how wrong it is, what’s going on at the moment – actually bad medicine, in my view. And I’m determined to change it.’
Chapter 39
1954
‘You should be ashamed of yourself! I promised Jean I wouldn’t say anything to you but I have to do something about it.’
‘Look, Mr Miller – Alec – I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ said Tom on the other end of the phone.
‘Well, you should. Do you remember your wedding day? You’ve broken those promises. To love, cherish and honour her. She wouldn’t look – and behave – the way she does if any of that applied. I’ve never seen a woman look less cherished.’
Tom finally understood what was being said to him. And why. He opened his mouth to reply, but Mr Miller was talking again. ‘Well, I’m not having it. She’s staying here until she’s recovered a little. She’s very against it, said she was going home, but as she was leaving this afternoon, putting Lucy into the car in her carrycot, she just – passed out. Have you seen the size of her? I can’t believe you have, or you’d have done something about it. She’s a wraith. She’s not eating, says she can’t, and yet she’s feeding that baby – words fail me. Her mother’s worried sick about her. Look, I won’t mince words – she’s pregnant again, isn’t she? It’s disgraceful in my opinion. You should be leaving her alone – that’s what any decent man would do, give her some peace.’
Tom put the phone down. He couldn’t reply without being intensely rude. He was angry, angry beyond anything at Alice, for running to her parents, complaining about him, whining behind his back. It was absolutely disgusting. Where was loyalty, where was love in this? She was even clearly implying that the new baby had been conceived against her will, practically turning him into a rapist. What could he do, how could he live with th
is level of disloyalty? It was not to be borne.
He was just rather half-heartedly tidying the kitchen that evening, thinking at least he’d have an unbroken night, when the front door opened and Alice stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a sleeping Lucy in her arms.
‘Can you bring Kit in, please? I can’t manage them both.’
‘You should have brought your father with you to help,’ he said, his voice raw with rage. But he strode out into the street, reappeared with Kit and carried him upstairs. When he passed Alice on the landing he didn’t even look at her.
Coming down again, he found her slumped on a chair in the kitchen.
‘Apparently, I’m starving you. That’s what your father implied. I could make you a sandwich, would that help? I’m afraid a three-course dinner, which he clearly thought was your due, is beyond me.’
‘Tom?’
He bustled about, rather ostentatiously cutting bread, grating cheese, boiling the kettle for tea. He didn’t speak.
‘Tom, I’m so sorry my father rang you and said all those things. It was terribly wrong of him. I didn’t even know he’d rung until Mummy told me, after I – I –’
‘Fainted? Very dramatic. And what did Mummy think you should do about it all? Sue me for divorce? Leave me? Do tell me, please.’
‘Tom! I didn’t go there to complain, truly I didn’t. I just thought a day with them would be nice. Restful. Mummy’s very – helpful.’
‘And I’m not, is that right? Well, Mummy doesn’t have to pay the bills as well, does she? Doesn’t have to go to work, just potters about, saying what can I do now, darling, apart from keeping your nasty brutish husband away.’
‘Tom! You know I’d never, ever say anything about that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t think I do know, actually. Otherwise how did your father have such a clear picture of my behaviour? Which is not that of any decent man, apparently. I should be leaving you in peace. Dear God, Alice, if you wanted that why not say so?’
‘Tom, I hadn’t told them about the baby. It never seemed the right time. And you know how seldom we – I – see them. It came as a shock.’
‘A shocking shock. Poor Mummy and Daddy. No wonder they want to take you in, give you shelter.’
‘I was going to ring you later, ask you if you’d mind if I stayed the night. Just the one. Then when I heard what Da— my father had done, I was so upset I just left.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘And what about this poor wraith-like creature I am supposed to have created – how did they know about her? About how I never give you any food, watch you starve.’
‘Tom, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course I am very thin, everybody says so, but I don’t feel like eating much of the time, I’m still being sick. When this little one is born, I’ll be better straight away, you know I will.’
‘Yes, and you can be sure there won’t be any more. You’ll find yourself living with a very decent man.’
‘Oh, Tom, please.’
‘Well – it’s disgraceful, peddling that sort of rubbish about.’
‘I wasn’t peddling any sort of rubbish. I – I love our sex life, you know I do –’
‘I could be forgiven for not knowing recently, but I’ll let it pass. Does Daddy know that?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Alice wearily. ‘As if I’d say anything like that to him. I suppose it was just a conclusion he jumped to – that generation, you know, they see it all differently.’
‘And you made no attempt to put him right?’
She sighed, sipped at her tea. ‘How could I?’
‘Very easily, I’d have thought. I’m disgusted at you, Alice, absolutely disgusted.’
‘Yes, I’ve got that message,’ said Alice wearily. ‘Look, I am very tired, it’s been a very long day.’
‘Not my fault.’
‘I didn’t say it was. But I’d like to go to bed – we’re not getting anywhere.’
‘As you wish.’
She got up, threw the uneaten sandwich in the bin.
‘Hey,’ said Tom. ‘That’s a terrible thing to do, throwing away perfectly good food. The children would have eaten that.’
‘Strangely enough, the children don’t really like very stale sandwiches,’ said Alice and then with a sudden return of her old spirit, ‘Perhaps you’d like to take it out and offer it to some poor deserving person on the street.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Tom irritably. ‘I only said it was terrible to throw food away. You do it a lot.’
‘Well, if you can suggest what I do with it, I will.’
Tom glared at her. ‘I don’t know. It’s not my department. You could make stuff into soup or something. I would have thought,’ he added just a little too quickly. Alice felt the familiar flood of jealousy and for once converted it into words. ‘Oh, I see. Is that what Laura did, make leftovers into delicious soup? Difficult with a cheese sandwich, I’d have thought, but I’m sure she’d have managed.’
‘Oh, Alice, for Christ’s sake, grow up.’
Lucy started crying. Alice fled upstairs, crying too.
In bed, still hoping to make amends, she reached out tentatively for Tom; he ignored her. She tried again. He turned over. It was a very clear message. Well, she’d given it out herself enough times, she supposed. Suddenly she was aware of how undesirable she must be, with her droopy breasts and flabby body. She started to cry. She couldn’t help it. Tom turned over sharply.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘You’ve done that to me often enough.’
‘I bet you never refused Laura,’ said Alice. It came out in a rush, stupidly vitriolic. She hadn’t meant to say it.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Tom. ‘Alice, you’ve got to get over this absurd obsession with Laura. It’s extremely tedious.’
Anger shot through her. ‘Well, I’m sorry about that. It’s a hard act to follow, you know, the perfect wife.’
‘You are being bloody ridiculous. I’ve listened to quite enough garbage for one day. I’m going out. I’ll come back when you’ve pulled yourself together.’
‘You can’t go out now. Where are you going?’
He didn’t reply.
Tom had no idea himself where he was going; he walked all the way to Shepherd’s Bush, where he found a lorry drivers’ café. He bought a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and sat down in the window, staring gloomily out at the green. He felt very depressed.
Life seemed reduced to screaming babies, shouting toddlers, a house that seemed to permanently carry the whiff of dirty nappies, and a wife who did nothing but criticise him. And then go running to her parents, complaining about his brutish behaviour. Which was so unfair. He did what he could, an awful lot more than his father, or even his contemporaries; but she seldom said thank you, seemed to regard it as his duty. She turned him down in bed, and had this bitter jealousy both of the Labour Party and of his first wife. Who had frequently turned him down in bed, he remembered, telling him she was too tired – and almost smiled at the memory. The difference was that she had said it cheerfully, confidently. But it would do no good to tell Alice that. Her jealousy of Laura was impossible to deal with; there seemed no solution. Except to leave Alice, and that was unthinkable; he loved her far too much.
He felt something close to tears at the backs of his eyes, and put his hand in his pocket to pull out his handkerchief.
An envelope came with it, addressed to him by hand at Herbert & Herbert. It had come days ago and he’d stuffed it in his pocket, vowing to tear it to shreds and put it in a litter bin on the way home. Only he hadn’t. Of course. He read it now.
Diana Southcott has moved
to 17 Berkeley Court, Lower Sloane Square, SW3. Tel SLO 1274
He had rather liked the ‘Southcott’. It sent out a clear message that she was no longer a Gunning.
Underneath she had written by hand, If you ever need a friend …
Of course it was
unthinkable. Of course he wouldn’t ring her. And certainly not now. It was half past ten.
Diana met him at the door of her flat, wearing cropped jeans, a huge yellow sweater, very little make-up and a cloud of Dior perfume. Half an hour earlier, when he had rung, saying, ‘I think I need a friend,’ she had been dressed in a black cocktail dress and very high-heeled shoes. She had given the metamorphosis a great deal of thought.
‘Come in, Friend Tom,’ she said. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you. Some coffee would be nice.’
She made a pot of it, and set it on the coffee table in front of them.
He looked round. The large drawing room was filled with furniture that exactly echoed the style in her parents’ house; the only difference being that all the pictures were stylised coloured prints of birds, their names written underneath in cursive writing, and the fireplace, clearly never to hold a fire, had a huge urn of flowers in it.
‘I’m looking for a house for me and Jamie. I think I’ve found one, in Kensington, but it all takes such an age. It’s lovely, bit more room than here, perfect for when I’ve got him. Which isn’t that much, even though I got custody as you said I would. I mean, he’s away at school and then he has half each school holiday with Johnathan.’
‘Doesn’t sound much, certainly.’
‘Well – he seems happy enough. He should be, we’re both spoiling him rotten. And it means I can concentrate on my career … So – why do you need a friend tonight, Tom?’
He realised he would have to tell her, having arrived so dramatically, but it sounded rather petty when he did.
She disagreed. ‘It does sound rather awful. What a ghastly chap. Ticking you off for claiming your conjugal rights, so to speak. God, I’d have been furious.’
Tom said he had been. ‘I don’t really think Alice went running to her parents, complaining. It would be very out of character. So I feel bad now for shouting at her about it. Leading to the worst row we’ve ever had. It was – bad of me.’
‘Not at all. Maybe she didn’t do that, but you’d had this awful pasting from her old man. You should stop trying to be perfect, Tom, none of us can be. I should know,’ she added, and smiled at him. He looked away; there was an invitation in that smile that he couldn’t quite ignore. ‘Tom, do have a drink. You’ll feel better. Just a tiny glass of red, maybe, or a very small whisky?’
A Question of Trust Page 37
