A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  Tom’s only thought these days, apart from his chances in winning his seat, was how he could end the relationship with Diana. It was a nightmare; he woke to it, worked with it, talked to his constituents with it and went to sleep with it. Twice, he had arrived at her house, resolved to tell her, and twice he hadn’t got half a sentence out before she was at him, her lovely mouth on his, her perfume surrounding him, her desire driving his – and twice he had left again, desperately remorseful. The election had not yet been called – but he knew it couldn’t be long and he had to be free of her by then.

  He was also distracted over the political shenanigans of his idol, Nye Bevan. The Health Service long set aside, Bevan had a new obsession, his involvement with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. He was tearing the party apart, defying his own leader, as well as the bulk of its members, to such an extent that he was, in that pre-election spring, expelled.

  Tom, naturally peace loving, had gone twice to some of the great CND rallies and stood with his like-minded colleagues, feeling a profound sense of pride and commitment to be part of them.

  The whole thing had inspired some of Bevan’s greatest speeches in the House aimed directly against many of the most powerful members of his party, which included his leader. Tom managed to get into a few of the speeches and sat entranced, listening to what was to him music, watching the famous gestures, the arm waving, the sweeping hand movements.

  Donald Herbert, half amused, half anxious, begged Tom to keep his opinions to himself. ‘Most of the party is against him,’ he said, ‘and much of the country. You cannot afford to be a rebel, Tom, not at this stage; you must give people what they want.’

  Which did not include an adulterous MP, Tom thought; and rang Diana from his office next morning, to tell her he needed to see her urgently.

  The Knightsbridge evening with Josh had been fixed for the session in Diana’s smart little house; ‘I’ve got a photographer’s assistant for you,’ she said on the phone to Josh. ‘Feisty little sod, quite prepared to spill the beans, and if that doesn’t work, a young actor. Who, actually, you can see anyway, another evening, if you like.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘We agreed it was safer for him if you didn’t know it.’

  ‘But I would never, ever use it.’

  ‘I know that and you know that but he doesn’t. You’re to call him Nick.’

  ‘Right. So – which evening?’

  ‘Thursday,’ said Diana.

  ‘I’m going to be very late this evening,’ Tom said. ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. I’m whizzing down to Purbridge for a meeting.’

  ‘It’s all right, I understand, you know I do. But don’t expect me to be awake and all agog to hear about it, because I’ll be well into the Land of Nod.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Tom, giving her a kiss. The Judas kiss, he thought, shame reaching deep into him.

  * * *

  ‘Nick’ did indeed excel on the gossip: meeting places Josh was amazed by, clubs that looked like ordinary houses, a coffee bar, the Mousehole in Swallow Street, the Spanish Bar in the depths of Fortnum & Mason.

  ‘You should visit it, Josh, it’s wonderful, all embossed leather. And the Grenadier Pub, behind Hyde Park Corner, it’s near Knightsbridge Barracks, of course, which is an absolute hotbed. The police are dreadful, of course, they set up honey traps in pubs and so on; and then fix their prey. I had one friend who was living with someone very quietly, and he had some drunken maniac driving through his front garden. He called the police, but before that they had to make up the spare-room bed; they knew they’d be checking for such things. Your trade behaves pretty badly, I might add. If you are going to do something for us, it’s none too soon.’

  He picked up the vodka Martini Diana had made him.

  ‘Another one?’ she asked Nick. She had begun by stationing herself in the kitchen, but could find nothing to do, so had ended up joining them.

  Josh, feeling his task almost done, accepted too. She made them, but as she poured them into fresh cold glasses, said, ‘Now look, you two, I want you out of here at eight thirty at the latest. I’ve got someone coming to see me at nine, and I don’t want my drawing room awash with dirty cups and glasses, all right?’

  She was beginning to regret agreeing to see Tom the same evening as Josh; but he had sounded very stressed.

  ‘The worst thing, in a way,’ Nick said, ‘is the waves of panic after a high-profile case – like the Montagu one. I have friends who destroyed suitcases full of letters and photographs, most of them harmless, for fear of discovery, and made bonfires of keepsakes. It’s dreadful, the terror. Lots of the rich just move abroad; Robin Maugham, for instance, sails his yacht permanently. Some move to places like Tangiers and Rome. But if you’re an ordinary man, trying to earn a living, you just have to get on with it and live with the fear.’

  Diana thought of Ned; living with the fear, all his life. A half-life, really. It was almost unendurable.

  ‘Of course, I’m lucky,’ Nick was saying. ‘I live in a tolerant bit of society, but if you don’t, then …’

  ‘Sorry, chaps,’ said Diana, ‘this has to come to an end.’

  It was only eight thirty but Diana wanted to have a bath before Tom’s arrival.

  ‘Nick, thank you so much,’ said Josh. ‘And you, Diana. Would you like me to help you clear up?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Diana quickly. ‘I’d rather do it myself.’ She was a bit on edge, Josh noticed: maybe her visitor was a new boyfriend. Whatever the reason, they owed it to her to leave her in peace.

  Nick left first, kissed Diana, and said, ‘See you next week, lovely lady.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten. That lovely pleats idea. On location, aren’t we? Hope so.’

  ‘We are. Off to Winkworth Arboretum. Leaving at dawn. Well, seven. Don’t be late.’

  ‘I’m never late,’ said Diana indignantly, and it was true, she was not. Punctuality was as essential a quality in a model as height, slenderness and good hair. Many was the lovely young thing struck off her agency’s books for keeping an important photographer waiting.

  Tom had misjudged the time of his journey; he arrived in Buckley Mews at eight fifteen. He was foot-weary, and his head ached. Surely to God she would let him in now. Well, all right, maybe not quite now: he’d wait for a bit then ring her doorbell.

  God, he was tired, tired and terrified. Feeling wretched; apart from anything else, he knew how much he was going to miss her in his life, not just the sex, but the fun, the glamour, the danger. It was all such a far cry from the little house in Acton. He needed to sit down. There had been some seats in the square that led to the mews and he went back and sank gratefully onto one, put his head between his knees for a moment, then sat raking his fingers through his hair in an effort to tidy it, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. He thought how dreadful he must look, and then, hopefully, that she would find him so distasteful she would just let him go.

  He looked at his watch again: twenty-five to nine. Just five more minutes and he’d only be quarter of an hour early.

  * * *

  ‘Diana, thank you again,’ said Josh. ‘Marvellous stuff, and he’s given me another lead as well. I’m so grateful to you. Martini wasn’t bad either.’

  ‘Good. I enjoyed it too. Now look, I really am going to push you out. I hope we’ll meet again. I think it’s fantastic what your paper’s going to do.’

  ‘Night, Diana, thanks again.’

  ‘Night, Josh. My pleasure.’

  He walked slowly down the mews; the houses were all brightly lit, with outside lights. It looked like a film set.

  She really had been in a hell of a rush: almost flustered. Probably one of her many lovers was coming. Not that he knew how many lovers she had; but he couldn’t imagine anyone as gorgeous and fun as she was leading a nun-like existence.

  He kept remembering things Nick had said that he hadn’t written down, and paus
ed to make notes. It was so easy to forget tiny details and they were what brought a piece alive. He had interviewed a minor Tory cabinet minister once for the paper, exceedingly dull he had been too, except that whenever Josh asked him a question he didn’t want to answer, he cleared his throat loudly. It clearly gave him time to think, but it also gave Josh clues about what the areas were. Harry Campbell had actually praised the piece. Josh couldn’t remember him doing that since. Finally satisfied, he put his notebook back in his pocket and walked briskly towards the square.

  A man was sitting on a seat next to a lamp post. He was clearly waiting for someone, kept looking at his watch. There was something familiar about him … He was signalling to taxis as the man stood up, turned round into the full flood of the lamplight: he was very tall, with – wait a minute – dark red hair. It was Tom Knelston. What on earth was he doing here? A taxi with its ‘for hire’ lights on came towards him; Josh put down his arm, shook his head at the driver.

  Tom was walking now quite slowly towards the mews. He took one last look at his watch and then speeded up, as if he had made some decision or other. Josh followed him, cautiously slow, afraid Tom would see him, fearing now, dreading what his destination might be. Surely not, please, dear God, not Diana’s house. Not Tom, the perfect family man, married to his cousin’s best friend. Must be someone from the Labour Party, they were half of them filthy rich, lived in places like this.

  But Josh stood stock-still now that Tom had arrived at his destination, terrified that he’d see him. And indeed Tom did turn round, furtively, checking the mews. Josh ducked behind a car that stood outside one of the houses. And then Tom raised his hand and rang Diana’s doorbell and – Christ, there she was, dressed in a silky dressing gown, bare-footed, her cloud of hair loose around her shoulders, signalling to Tom to come in quickly, raising her face for a brief kiss.

  And then she closed the door, leaving Josh with questions he would have given anything not to be asking, answers that he desperately shied away from even as he found them.

  Chapter 45

  It was talked about everywhere for those first few days, in drawing rooms and pubs, bedrooms and clubs, and even the bars and dining rooms of the House of Commons. In tones that moved from delighted to shocked and every variation between; it formed debates, inspired gossip, and at best, gave rise to much sober thought.

  The piece was not run under Josh’s byline, but as a leader in the paper. ‘It’ll have more authority that way,’ Harry Campbell said. ‘The paper’s view, rather than that of one single person – but good work, Josh. I’ll rework it myself, I’ll enjoy it. Haven’t written a leader for months.’ Josh sighed, but he had been half-expecting this.

  Headed ‘Living with the Fear’, the article called for an urgent review of the laws regarding homosexuality, in order that men of all sexual persuasions may live quietly at home, with a chosen partner. That is all we would ask of those that create and then vote upon the laws of this country. We do not condone the excesses, the more unsavoury aspects, of the homosexual lifestyle; but the vast majority of these men do not indulge in any such practices. These are law-abiding, worthy citizens, who live out frequently lonely lives in the shadow of blackmail and the constant fear of arrest. We have in this country what amounts to a witch hunt, an echo of McCarthyism. It is not an attractive sight. There are encouraging signs: MPs on both sides of the House are of the same opinion, and indeed a change in the law is, we are told, under consideration, at least by the Home Secretary.

  It took some courage for Harry Campbell to give the final go-ahead to the article, that time which another great editor was later to call the lonely hour. He knew the uproar it would create, that at worst the proprietors of the Daily News would call for his resignation. He had to persuade them of the rightness of his decision to run the piece, and that had been difficult enough, but he knew that if public and official opinion went against the paper, they would demand his head on a plate without a second thought. But he took the risk: and he was right. On balance, it seemed to be agreed amongst his readers that the paper’s view was a not unreasonable one. There was the inevitable soar in circulation figures on the day of publication and the few following, as letters poured in, many from that most famous scribe ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, but many too from supporters in the establishment professions: solicitors, teachers, even the Church, mainly anonymous, but a few signed.

  A few weeks later, there were signs of a small but steady climb in circulation, as the readership welcomed the paper’s thoughtful, liberal attitudes.

  ‘Yes, of course I read it,’ said Ned to Diana; she had requested his company for dinner the week after the article came out. ‘I thought it was very good.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll help?’

  ‘Maybe, a bit. Any easing of public opinion is welcome.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Oh, Diana, I don’t know. Look, I’d rather not talk about it here, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Here’ was the Caprice, her choice. Ned didn’t really like it very much; the food was good, but the pink tablecloths always made him feel faintly bilious.

  He looked at her closely. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’

  ‘Me? How could I have? How’s it all going at St Luke’s? Are you happy there?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m fighting a bit of a battle at the moment. Well, quite a big battle. It could turn out to be a war.’

  ‘Goodness. Who with?’

  ‘Sir Digby. Your friend from the ball.’

  ‘Oh, him. Nasty piece of work. What on earth are you fighting him about? I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ned.’

  ‘You sound like my mother – she really took against him.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Diana, her voice over-casual.

  ‘Yes, said he was a pompous old fart and she wouldn’t trust him further than she could spit.’

  ‘I’m with her there. I really wouldn’t get on the wrong side of him, Ned. Anyway, what are you fighting with him about?’

  ‘My new crusade. Allowing mothers into hospital with their children.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s such a good crusade. Well done you; I suppose he’s totally opposed?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He positively enjoys seeing these wards full of listless, miserable children. And what makes it worse, if one of the mothers does come in, if there’s a crisis of some sort, they become terribly upset when she has to go again, crying, screaming even. And then all the nurses – who’ve been ingrained in this ghastly doctrine – say there, you see, he or she was much better when the mother wasn’t coming in. Much more settled. How I’ve come to hate that word. When I do my rounds at night, sometimes, at least a quarter of the children are crying, most of them silently. It’s heartbreaking.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I try to comfort them, find their teddies and so on. I’d read stories if Sister would allow it, but of course, she thinks I’m being ridiculous. Sorry, am I being boring?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Diana. ‘It’s fascinating. But you couldn’t have mothers with every child, surely? Just hanging round, getting in the way? It would be chaos.’

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t. They could help with mealtimes, washing, all the things the nurses are too busy for. And settling the children for the night. I absolutely know it would be better for everyone. Most of all, the children would be far easier to look after medically, if they were relaxed and happy.’

  ‘And is Sir Digby actively against you?’

  ‘That’s an understatement. We had a meeting about it the other day, and he said I was making a mountain out of a very small molehill, that children were in here to be made well, not mollycoddled.’

  ‘It’s a pity your father isn’t still alive, he could help.’

  ‘My father? I don’t think so, Diana. You’re talking about the man who sent me off to school at seven.’

  ‘Oh – hello.’

  It was Julius.
>
  He had phoned Jillie the Friday after Dressing Table Sunday as she thought of it and said, ‘Well, your car or mine?’

  ‘Sorry?’ she said, stupid with surprise.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed on a spin on the heath – or even a bit further today?’

  ‘Oh – yes.’

  ‘Are you not free?’ he said and his tone was so disappointed she almost laughed for joy.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m free. Oh, do bring your car, much less complicated. I can’t wait to see it.’ And then, her voice politely hopeful, ‘Will Nell be with you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘As I told you, she likes to keep Sundays for herself. She’ll be really glad to know I’m busy, and in no danger of turning up on her doorstep.’

  ‘But does she know in what way you’re going to be busy?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I will tell her, of course. You know, Jillie, I’m my own man, as I read somewhere the other day.’

  She could hear the smile in his voice, and that made her able to suddenly see it; he had a rather particular smile that she had noticed that first evening, which started as a look of extra seriousness and then slowly, almost cautiously, became the wide, delighted grin. Dear God, she was smitten with this man.

  That first Sunday had been fine; he’d turned up in his truly glorious 1935 Bentley Saloon, dark green, with swooping running board, huge chrome fog lights and a cluster of smaller ones above the front bumper.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Jillie. ‘What a lovely thing. I feel I should be better dressed to deserve it! Look at me, poor Cinderella, I shall go and change.’

  ‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Julius gallantly, for he was dressed with storm coat, leather helmet and high boots over his cream trousers. ‘You look wonderful.’ Adding, ‘You always do,’ which made her feel as if Cinderella had arrived at the ball. Nevertheless she fetched her own greatcoat, and wound a scarf round her head, leaving the ends trailing down her back. ‘Careful,’ warned Julius. ‘We don’t want any Isadora-style accidents today.’