A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Tuesday! For Christ’s sake, that’ll only give you forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t leave till then.’

  Donald put the phone down, swore briefly; and then realised that this was possibly a situation they could make capital of: in the form of publicity, a sympathy vote. No one could resist a sick child, and if it was done skilfully, stressing how Tom was putting his child before his career, he’d come out of it looking like a hero. They might even do a picture of Tom with Kit in his hospital bed. Now that was a really good idea. He’d get in touch with his agent immediately and suggest it. Silly bugger should have thought of it anyway. It was possible the PR boys at Transport House would be interested too. Especially after Tom’s triumphant day with the cabinet minister.

  If only, if only, Tom thought, he had someone to talk to. He felt weak, almost faint, physically as well as mentally, shocked at the drama of the day, the dreadfulness of Kit’s illness, at Alice’s casting aside his feelings and views as things of no import. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps if she had asked him, if they could have discussed it, properly and carefully, he might have agreed, albeit with huge misgivings, that she should take Kit to Ned. Of course, there had been no time for that, and he tried to think how frightened, how desperate she had been, but there had been nothing, not a glance in that direction, just a blind, careless lack of respect for his deeply held, lifelong beliefs, about justice, equality and the strong’s responsibility to care for the weak. They came, those beliefs, as close to a religion as anything he knew; they provided the standard he tried to live by, albeit rather unsuccessfully of late, the justification for much of what he did. It made him look very differently at Alice, at their relationship, at what he had assumed was her love for him.

  But what was even worse was her revelation about Laura. He forgave her and Jillie the lie they had told him, designed as it was to save him pain – and what would have been the point of the truth? It had comforted him, that lie, helped him through the grief and the loneliness: there had been nothing, he was able to tell himself, that anyone could have done to save her. Not he, not the doctors, not the nurses and the midwives who had checked her and smiled and told her all was well every week at the hospital and sent her on her brave, confident way. Now it seemed something could have been done. Then, just as today, he had put his principles first, holding fast to his faith, and Kit might have died, as Laura and Hope had died, and all to be laid at his door.

  It had been a dreadful cruelty that he had had to learn of it, and in the way that he had. He could tell from the expression on Jillie’s face that she was shocked. He had, to be sure, raised the matter in the first place today, and Alice could – perhaps would – have defended it on the grounds of strengthening her case. But she would not have let him have his way, would not have watched quietly as he took Kit to another doctor, to another hospital. She would have died herself before she had allowed that to happen. And so, there had been no need for that truth, that cruel, savage truth that left him helpless with pain and remorse, as if he had only lost them, his lovely wife and daughter, that very day. Grateful as he was for Kit’s life, long after he had put Charlie and Lucy to bed, he sat staring into the past, both near and distant, and weeping as if he could never stop.

  Chapter 58

  Diana picked up the phone.

  ‘Ned, darling, hello, can I come and see you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not the best night. I’m completely exhausted, had a dreadful day yesterday –’

  ‘What was so dreadful about it?’

  ‘Oh – two very complex operations. Anyway, I’ve promised myself an early night, leaving on the dot. I’m not operating, just ward rounds and admin. Then home and collapse.’

  ‘Oh, Ned, please. I’ve missed you. And I want to ask your advice about something. Something important.’

  He hesitated, then, ‘All right, but just one drink, then you’ll have to go.’

  ‘What time do you finish?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll come at six. I’ve got you a present anyway, from New York.’

  ‘How lovely. Yes, all right, six; and then you must leave at seven. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Goodness, don’t overwhelm with me with your hospitality.’

  Diana was driving up the King’s Road, had turned into Oakley Street, then realised she was very near the hospital. She could pick him up, give him a lift. He never took his car to either of the hospitals, he liked to walk, but if he was that tired …

  * * *

  It was quarter to five when she walked in; she didn’t announce herself. She sat down, deliberately screening herself behind a pillar, lit a cigarette, and picked up a magazine from the table. Five o’clock came, quarter past … so much for Ned’s idea of leaving on the dot.

  A lift came down; two men and a girl got out. One of the men was Ned, but he didn’t see her, screened as she was by the pillar; and anyway, he wasn’t alone. The girl was with him and they were engrossed in conversation; she couldn’t hear what they were saying but she could see the girl quite clearly. And recognised her. From her photograph. Recognised her pretty, heart-shaped face, her blonde hair – less curly, a bit unkempt in fact – recognised her long, slender legs. She realised she had studied that photograph rather thoroughly, after all … Tom’s perfect wife, as described in the article at any rate.

  It was odd, looking at someone and knowing you’d been in bed with her husband. Been given considerable pleasure by her husband. About whom you knew all sorts of intimate things. Very odd.

  Alice had now seen her. But she had no idea, of course, who she was looking at. That was even odder, Diana thought: like being invisible. Alice looked very tired: tired and upset. But why on earth was she here? It was hardly Knelston territory: completely the reverse, indeed. Tom would die rather than set foot over such a threshold.

  Suddenly, Diana couldn’t bear it any longer; there would be no use asking Ned what Alice was doing there, he was incredibly discreet about his patients. She walked forward, smiling, and said, ‘Ned, darling, hello.’

  She was quite safe, he had no idea about her and Tom; there would be no denouement. He looked surprised to see her, and obviously more than a little annoyed at her interrupting his conversation with Alice.

  ‘Diana, what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to pick you up, give you a lift home. I was just passing, and I thought as I was coming for a drink anyway, we could move the whole thing forward.’ She smiled at Alice, held out her hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Diana Southcott.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Alice. She smiled at Diana, but it was clearly an effort. She had a pretty voice, Diana noticed, a voice that told of an expensive education: a cut above Tom socially, then. Interesting.

  ‘And are you – one of Ned’s lucky patients? Oh, no, how silly of me, it would have to be your child, or children …’

  ‘I – no – that is –’

  ‘Diana, I’m sorry,’ said Ned, and now he was looking seriously annoyed. ‘But you’ll have to excuse us. It was kind of you to think of giving me a lift, but I’m mid-conversation with Mrs Knelston, as you see, and I’m not quite ready to leave. I still have a couple of patients to see. In fact, I think I shall have to postpone our drink.’

  ‘Perfectly fine,’ said Diana airily. ‘I’ll ring you in a few days. Goodbye, Mrs Knelston, so nice to meet you. I hope whoever the patient is recovers soon. Bye, Ned.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Alice,’ said Ned. ‘That must have seemed very rude. I’m afraid she has a hide like a rhinoceros, as they say. She’s a famous model.’

  ‘Really? She is very beautiful. She seemed to know you rather well.’

  ‘Oh, we were young together,’ said Ned. ‘Went to lots of dances, things like that. Now then, as I was saying, Kit is doing beautifully. Don’t worry about the inflammation round the wound. It’s a natural reaction. I’ll call in again tomorrow, of course. Has Tom been in?’

  ‘No,’ said Ali
ce flatly, her face expressionless, ‘he hasn’t. He couldn’t risk being seen.’

  ‘Alice,’ said Ned gently, ‘try not to be too hard on him. He’s had an awful shock too.’

  ‘Really? Ned, he was all ready to sacrifice Kit on the altar of his beastly politics.’

  ‘I don’t think it was quite like that.’

  ‘Of course it was. And I can never forgive him.’

  ‘Never is a long time. And don’t forget he had to sustain the news about Laura too.’

  ‘I know. That was bad of me.’ She sighed. ‘Far better he never knew. But it was sort of – relevant. Anyway, I’d better get back to Kit.’

  * * *

  Diana sat on her sofa, smoking, drumming her long red fingernails on the telephone table and waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the phone to be answered. If she ran a hospital she’d see callers got a better service than this. Suppose she was an emergency, suppose –

  ‘St Mary’s Private Hospital.’

  ‘Oh – hello. I wonder if you can help me. I want to send a present to one of the children there. Can I just address it to the room?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ll send it straight up.’

  ‘Right. Then I wonder if you could tell me his room number. His name is –’ God, she realised she had no idea which of the children it was. ‘The name is Knelston.’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t give out any information about our patients.’ The voice was soothing but firm.

  ‘I see. But I have got the right hospital at least? You do have a child called Knelston there?’

  ‘As I said –’ less soothing now – ‘we don’t give any information. I’m sorry. Might I suggest you check with the child’s parents?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She didn’t want anyone reporting strange phone calls to Alice. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Well, she’d only been double-checking. It was quite clear the child was there. But – in a private hospital? Why?

  The press office at Transport House weren’t terribly interested in Tom Knelston when Donald rang them next morning, or about whether or not his child was in hospital. With only a few days to go to the election, they had better things to write about.

  ‘Might be different if he was actually an MP. But he’s not. Not a big enough name.’

  Lucy had just fallen downstairs from the landing where she was rather pathetically looking for Kit, and was screaming while Tom held a cold handkerchief to the rapidly swelling bump on her head when the phone rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tom? It’s Donald. Look, we like the idea of a picture of you and Kit in the hospital for the local press. Thought it would help. They’re going through hell up there without you. Can’t Alice’s mother take over?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom shortly, ‘she can’t.’

  ‘But Tom, it’s your entire political future at stake.’

  ‘Can’t help it.’

  ‘Right, well, tell me what hospital the child is in, get down there soon as you can, and I’ll organise a photographer. Then we can do a heart-rending interview.’

  A flood of bile rose in Tom’s throat; he realised he was shaking. He set Lucy down, told her to go and play with her dolls.

  ‘I most definitely don’t want to do that either,’ he said. His voice sounded odd, even to himself.

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Kit nearly died. He’s still very sick. I’m not having him used as an accessory to some PR campaign.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Tom – what harm will it do? He hasn’t got to do anything.’

  ‘Yes, he has. He’s got to be photographed. Stranger in the room with a camera. Flashbulbs going off. He’s much too ill for such nonsense.’

  A long silence; then, reluctantly, ‘All right, Tom. Have it your own way. But let’s have a picture of you going into the hospital, carrying a big teddy or something. You can give the interview, or quote rather, there and then. How would that be?’

  ‘Donald, you don’t seem to understand. I’m at home because I’m looking after the other two and because I need to be available to be with Alice, in case something suddenly goes wrong.’

  ‘Why should it go wrong? He’s had the surgery, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and as I keep saying, it was quite major and it was only yesterday. Now please, can we stop this nonsense and let me get on with what I’m trying to do, which is take care of the other two children. I’ll go back to Purbridge on Tuesday, as I promised.’

  ‘Well, give me the name of the hospital at least, so I can—’

  But Tom had put the phone down.

  Donald was not deterred. He decided to ring a few of the news desks himself, see if he could get them interested.

  * * *

  Tom’s phone rang again, five minutes later. It was his agent.

  ‘Look, Tom, sorry to hear about your boy. But he’s OK, I understand.’

  ‘Well, he’s more or less out of danger now, but he’s pretty rotten still.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how difficult it is for us, coping with this, last weekend before polling day. Can you at least give me a statement I can put out to the local press? It would be such a help.’

  Tom thought. ‘Yes, all right, I can do that.’

  ‘OK then. Soon as you can. Ring the office, give it to them. I’m doing my best out on the stumps without you. And if there’s any chance, Tom, you can get down here sooner –’

  ‘Yes, all right. But it’s unlikely.’

  Tom returned, distracted by a lurking sense of dread, to the already miserable task of looking after Lucy who was now very quiet.

  He soon discovered why; she had climbed onto the kitchen table and was eating her way through a jar of honey, dipping her fat little fingers into it and licking them, like a small contented cat.

  Ned had woken with an unexpectedly light heart. His future was looking very interesting, he decided. He would be very sorry to leave St Luke’s, but he had his private practice still and although that was hardly going to occupy him full-time there were plenty of other hospitals – less prestigious, perhaps, but maybe that could be for the best; they were perhaps likely to be less set in their ways, to welcome new ideas.

  He had told Jillie of his resignation and the reason, as they’d talked that day; she said she had been horrified herself by the misery and fear she had seen inflicted on children in the name of order and efficiency.

  ‘I’ll tell Uncle William, if you don’t mind. I’m sure he’d be interested too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was a nice morning, very nice actually, the sun had definitely got its hat on, as his nanny used to say. And then there was the wonderful new addition to his life. He smiled foolishly into the shaving mirror as he lathered on Mr Taylor of Jermyn Street’s luxury shaving cream: one of the few rituals he had copied from his father. He wasn’t used to such happiness; it was a delightful sensation.

  A quick ward round and then he was free.

  Diana was at René’s salon in South Audley Street having her hair done. Tonight she was having dinner with Leo Bennett, and she wanted to look her very best. She had bought a black taffeta and lace dress and she was planning to wear that, with some extremely high heels and her grandmother’s ropes of pearls, so much more beautiful than the modern ones, creamy and so flattering to the skin tone.

  She had managed to book with René himself, despite it being Saturday; he was proud of her as a client, and there were several pictures of her hanging in the salon, framed pages from various magazines, mostly Style, and one of the two of them together that had been in Tatler. Of his most famous client, the Queen, there were, of course, no pictures at all. René was famed for his discretion.

  Diana was looking forward to the evening; at worst it would be huge fun, like Leo himself, and at best – well, she just had a feeling about him. There was the knee test, of course, that would be interesting.

  And then, this afternoon, she was going to make her phone call to Tom.


  ‘Josh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Clive. Look, I know you’re not working officially, but I am, and we do have an election on Thursday and … do I need to go on?’

  ‘No,’ said Josh resignedly.

  ‘Good. I’ve just had a phone call from someone at Transport House PR. About Tom Knelston.’

  Josh was silent. He felt instantly apprehensive; anything to do with Tom Knelston inevitably meant trouble,

  ‘It might make a diary piece. Apparently, he’s deserted his post in Purbridge; one of his children is in hospital having had dangerous surgery – but he’s all right now – and instead of pounding the pavements down there, Tom’s at home minding the kids and being the perfect dad. It wouldn’t be terribly interesting if it wasn’t that Purbridge’s such a close call and it’s political suicide what he’s doing. Give him a ring, there’s a good chap, try and find out what’s going on, where the child is, that sort of thing. Cheers, Josh.’

  ‘Tom? Tom, it’s Josh. How are you? I hear one of the children is ill.’

  ‘Yes – Kit,’ said Tom shortly. ‘How did you know? Jillie, I suppose?’

  ‘No. From Clive actually, Clive Bedford, my boss. It came from the PR department at Transport House, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Yes. Well, anyway, Clive thinks it could make a diary item.’

  ‘What, a sick child?’

  ‘No, you idiot, you not being down in Purbridge where every vote counts. Is Kit very bad?’

  ‘He was yesterday,’ said Tom bleakly. ‘He could have died.’

  ‘Christ. No wonder you’re at home. How is he today?’

  ‘Better, thank you. Out of danger, more or less. But Alice is with him and I want to be on hand, and anyway, there’s the other children.’

  ‘Yes, of course. So – what was it? Did it mean surgery?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  ‘And –?’

  ‘Well, it was successful and today he’s better,’ said Tom.

  ‘OK – and what was it?’

  ‘Something very rare.’

  ‘God, Tom, don’t go overboard with information, will you? Look, you can just tell me to get off the phone and stop bothering you if you like, but they’re going to go on pestering you if you don’t say something. Especially if I report failure. They’ll start to think there really is something to write about.’