Mr Hartley said he did.
‘Yes, well, Alice being a nurse clearly knows better than him. And seeing she knew this Mr Welles, who’s a specialist in kiddies’ illnesses, of course she’d take a child to him – wouldn’t you, if he was as ill as Kit – not mess about with any more GPs or even casualty, all that waiting, over two hours sometimes these days. I mean, little Kit could have died, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, I’m going to pop next door, get Charlie and the little girl too, so poor Mr Knelston can do whatever he needs to do to put this rubbish straight. Fancy us living next door to a famous politician.’
Mr Hartley said Tom wasn’t a politician, not yet, and he wasn’t really famous either, but he always had a smile and a ‘Good evening’, which was good enough for him.
Colin Davidson, being Tom’s political agent, was in despair; he sat at the breakfast table in Purbridge, staring at the papers, his jaw slack with disbelief. How in the name of heaven could Tom have been so stupid, so blind? Of all the idiotic things that he might have done, why choose the very one that went against all that he stood for? Well, it was the end of any hope of success for Tom, and the end of him, too, as an agent. Who would want such incompetence working for the party?
He knew he must go down to the office, try to put some positive interpretation on the whole miserable business; but it was with very low expectations that he drove there.
The last thing he expected to find when he got to the Labour Party office, actually sitting at his desk, was Tom Knelston.
‘I’ve come to face the music,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
The long-suffering Christine Herbert feared that Donald might actually have his much-anticipated heart attack as he worked his way through the papers like some huge, clumsy beast, roaring with rage as he came upon each new headline, burying his head in his hands at some particularly damning detail, hurling each publication onto the floor as he finished reading it, dialling and redialling Tom’s number, and cursing whatever malevolent fate had caused it to become unobtainable. Finally, through them all, he left the breakfast table and reappeared, a large glass of whisky in his hand.
‘And don’t tell me I shouldn’t be drinking it at this time of day,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Nothing else is going to get me through this. Stupid fucking young idiot. Now, where are my glasses?’
Christine said she had no idea; in fact, Donald had pushed them up onto the top of his head. It was a small but sweet piece of revenge, watching him continue to hunt for them.
Ned, who had visited the hospital early and talked to Alice, bought the papers on the way home and read them with great sadness. Josh’s article, by far the most sympathetic, would only resonate with the Daily News readers, few of whom would be Tom’s putative constituents. They would most likely be shaking their heads over the Sketch and wondering if they should vote Liberal by way of protest; and any waverers, who might have come down on the Labour side of the scales, would be stabbing at the paper with their forefingers and saying there you are, politicians were all the same, liars and hypocrites who, when push came to shove, were only interested in themselves and what they could get out of any situation. None of it was very good publicity for the hospital either, presenting it somehow as a symbol of class injustice. It was sad, too, to see the NHS presented as a kind of very poor relation to which no one would go if they had a choice.
Jillie only saw the Daily News and felt very sad and fearful for Alice, for Tom, and for their joint future, wondering if she should have directed Alice to take Kit to casualty, rather than to Ned. But no, he had been a very sick little boy, suffering from something extremely rare which only a paediatric specialist would recognise, and such beings were not always available at short notice in a large general hospital.
She was sure, however, that Alice was going through all sorts of tortuous hoops. She would ring her at the hospital, go and see her if she liked. She had nothing else to do, Patrick being away for the weekend, visiting his parents. But first she had some important news for Ned.
‘So how are we going to handle this?’ said Tom.
‘What do you mean?’
In spite of hearing Tom’s version of the story, Colin was still hostile. ‘I can see there wasn’t a lot you could do,’ he said. ‘But you could have at least given out a proper statement, about how ill Kit was, and how the surgeon was a personal friend, taken the edge off it a bit.’
‘Colin,’ said Tom patiently. ‘You haven’t even got any children, let alone a sick one, but if one of them was in real danger of dying I doubt you’d have made what you said to the press top priority. We were off our heads with worry, my only concern was Kit and whether he’d pull through. What we’ve got to do now is get across to the voters how it was. How can we do that? I don’t mind addressing a few meetings, knocking on some doors.’
Colin smiled rather feebly. ‘We haven’t got any meetings until this afternoon, but we can go knocking on doors. You might get a few rotten eggs thrown at you, but it’ll be a good way of testing the water. You had any breakfast? Because you’re going to need it.’
The door knocking was as tedious and unproductive as usual, more people irritated at having their Sunday dinner disturbed than concerned about which sort of hospital their candidate had taken his small son to. Tom got a bit of a rough reception, mostly from men who’d spent an hour or two downing pints at the pub, telling him they’d read about him in the papers and thought he was a bloody hypocrite, although more often than not their wives would then appear and tell them off for swearing before assuring Tom that any parent would have done the same thing if they’d had the opportunity. The evening meeting, however, threatened to be more difficult, and Tom, most unusually, had a pint with a whisky chaser before going onto the platform.
His audience were mostly hostile; many of them were carrying one or more of the papers, and spoiling for a fight. There were also a couple of reporters.
Tom kept his speech short, then, his heart thumping, asked if there were any questions. A pugnacious-looking man, wearing a check shirt and denims slung under his large belly, stood up, waved the Dispatch at Tom, and said, ‘So what’s wrong with the Health Service then?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tom staunchly. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘So why not take your son there then, rather than some poncey place in the West End?’
‘My son was dangerously ill, with something very rare that the GP hadn’t recognised. It was literally a matter of life and death by Friday. The doctor at St Mary’s was a family friend, he said he could see Kit immediately and having seen him, was able to operate that afternoon.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ said the man, ‘but suppose you hadn’t had this convenient family friend? Then what?’
‘Then I’d have had to take Kit to casualty where the long wait might have been just too long. Look, I admit it doesn’t sound very fair but what would you have done? Can you honestly tell me you’d have risked your child’s life?’
‘Point is,’ said another man, standing up, ‘you happened to have the contacts and the means to save the kid. I’m happy for you, and I’m glad the little feller’s pulled through, but I wonder if you’re the sort of person to represent working people?’
There was a murmur of ‘hear hear’, growing louder,
‘I believe I am,’ said Tom, his voice steady. ‘If I am elected, I can fight for the waiting times to come down, for more highly trained doctors in every local hospital. I can’t do anything if I’m not elected. I believe passionately in the National Health Service, have done from the very beginning. I want it to work for everyone. But it’s not perfect – it’s short of funds. I want to see the money allotted to it doubled, and I shall fight for that if I get in, I promise you.’
‘I’d probably have done the same as you,’ said a rather earnest, well-spoken woman, standing up. ‘Although I’d have felt very guilty.’
‘I did,’ said Tom. ‘Believe me.’
‘I do
believe you,’ said the woman. ‘But what I didn’t like was you saying that it was nothing to do with us. If you’re our MP, then it is to do with us; you seem to regard your responsibilities to us rather lightly.’
‘Which I most certainly don’t,’ said Tom. ‘I was horrified when I read that. It was a remark taken out of context –’
‘Oh, spare me,’ said the plaid-shirted man. ‘That old chestnut.’ The earnest woman ignored him.
‘Even out of context, it shows a certain lack of concern for us. We need one hundred per cent support here. Life isn’t easy, the schools are in need of investment, the housing lists are long …’
‘I’d like to say something about schools and Mr Knelston’s concern for them.’ The voice came from the very back of the hall. ‘Mr Knelston has been wonderfully supportive in that way. He’s been to two prize-givings at my boy’s school alone, and he’s a governor at the grammar school, gives up a lot of his time. I’d say his commitment overall is impressive.’
And so it went on until they’d finished. The room emptied slowly; plaid shirt was one of the first to go, muttering under his breath. One of the reporters had left, but the other came and asked Tom if he would have done anything differently, faced with the same dilemma again.
‘Yes, I would,’ Tom said. ‘With considerable misgivings, which I experienced anyway. But my son’s life was at stake. I ask you, as I’ve asked so many people, what would you have done?’
The reporter said nothing.
They walked back to Labour HQ. ‘That was very well done,’ said Colin. ‘Thank you. Sorry it was so tough.’
‘Do you know,’ said Tom, ‘I rather enjoyed it.’
Chapter 62
Julius always knew when he was seriously upset: he went off coffee. Instead of deliciously rich, it tasted bitter and heavy and nauseating. He sat and stared at the large cup of it he had just made, and after one sip, carried it over to the sink and poured it away, watching it, too miserable even to move.
What could he do? It was ridiculous, really, to overreact like this to Nell’s increasingly high-handed, almost dismal behaviour. He had always known that Nell had her own life, and she would continue to do so. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than having a wife who simply kept house and bought clothes and gave dinner parties. Jillie had an important career, of course – no, Julius, don’t start thinking about Jillie. She belonged in the past – this awful, sickly, coffee-tainted misery was about Nell, not Jillie. Although exactly what about her was making him miserable, he couldn’t quite work out.
He decided to go for a drive; driving always helped him to think. He climbed into the Bentley and set off southwards across London, down through Regent’s Park; winding down his window as he always did, the better to hear the strange medley of noises coming from the zoo, the roars and high-pitched screeches.
It was a beautiful day and he had no idea where he was going, but found himself driving across Putney Bridge, and thence onto the A30, and eventually into Guildford and then out again up onto the Hog’s Back: where he stopped with a lurch of his heart, for it was one of the Sunday drives he had done with Jillie, and he had managed to park in almost exactly the same place.
He suddenly saw Jillie absolutely clearly, her long straight brown hair, her green eyes, her narrow face with its high cheekbones, her slender body. He could hear her now too, her light, very clear voice, her delicious laugh. God, Julius, just stop it, you’re hallucinating, get back to reality – you need to see Nell, actually see her, remind yourself about her. You’re going to marry Nell, you want to marry Nell – yes, you do. He got back into the car, turned it round and retraced his steps, made for Nell’s house in Kensington.
‘Diana, it’s me. Leo Bennett.’
‘Ah! Would that be the Leo Bennett, three times divorced, no current girlfriend – married, devoted girlfriend presently sobbing into her lace-trimmed hanky?’
‘Diana—’
‘Because I have absolutely no interest in the latter, I’m so sorry.’
She put the phone down; it rang again immediately.
‘Leo, you must be either deaf or very stupid.’
‘I’m not deaf, but possibly – probably – very stupid. Look – could I come and see you later, say around six? I really can explain. And I so want to see you. Oh, and Celia doesn’t have any lace-trimmed hankies. Just embroidered.’
It was that last that made her relent. He was funny and she liked funny men. Maybe there was some kind of satisfactory explanation – although it was hard to think what.
‘All right. Make it six thirty, though, I’m going out for lunch.’
This was quite untrue, but what kind of girl had absolutely nothing to do on a Sunday? A boring one. And then she thought that if she was concerned that Leo might consider her boring, she must fancy him a little at least …
‘I’ve had the most marvellous piece of news,’ said Ned. His mother had phoned to say she was coming up to London the following week; having said that, there was a hopeful silence, which meant, he knew, that she was hoping to be invited to meet his new friend. And what an inadequate description that was for the person who had turned his life around, made him happier than he would ever have dreamed.
He determinedly ignored the silence, or rather its message. ‘It’s all through Jillie, really,’ he said. ‘We’ve managed to become friends again and her uncle is a chief consultant in obstetrics, as you know.’
‘And … ?’
‘Jillie saw him yesterday, and told him I’d resigned from St Luke’s, and why, and about my campaign to have the mothers in the wards and he mentioned they had a vacancy for a consultant paediatrician, and he and various other doctors had been discussing the care of children in hospital and holding a conference on the subject. I’ve got to go and meet him, of course, but it looks as if there could be a happy ending to all this – including for the children.’
‘Darling, I’m delighted for you,’ said Persephone. ‘Delighted and proud. Well, you deserve it, you’ve been so brave about everything. Let’s hope that from now on everything’s going to be much easier for you. Now, darling—’
‘Mother, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for my clinic …’
Persephone sighed as she put down the phone. She was so longing to meet this young man, whoever he was. Well, she supposed it would happen some time …
Patrick had arrived back in London earlier than he expected and decided that he really wanted to see Jillie. He felt that with increasing frequency. He rang from a call box on Euston Station to see if she was home; she wasn’t, but her mother assured him she soon would be; she’d gone to see a friend in hospital, but had said she would be back in time for lunch. Patrick looked at the station clock and saw that it was half past three; Geraldine Curtis said half apologetically they always had lunch at four at the earliest on Sundays and asked if he would like to join them.
Patrick said that would be very nice and hurried to the taxi rank and a very long queue.
Julius felt better now, back in London, driving up Kensington High Street; the madness that had overtaken him on the Hog’s Back had almost passed. What had he been thinking of? Dreaming of Jillie Curtis, who the last time he had spoken to her, begging her to meet him, had told him to go away and never come near her again, and then put the phone down on him.
‘You can’t marry him,’ said Seth Gilbert, lying back contentedly in Nell’s brass bed and reaching for his cigarettes. ‘You don’t love him, he irritates you to death, and besides, now you’ve got me.’
‘Well,’ said Nell briskly, ‘I haven’t exactly got you, have I? Except as a very thrilling lover.’ She leaned over and kissed him. ‘You’re married, you’ve got children, and we hardly know one another. In three months’ time we could loathe each other.’
‘Unlikely, I’d say.’
‘Be fun finding out, though.’
‘But what I really meant was, you’re not behaving too much like someone who’s about to be
married. And you must tell him, poor chap, that you don’t want to marry him. I feel quite sorry for him.’
‘Yes, I will tell him. Not about you – don’t look so alarmed. Just that I can’t marry him. But not just yet. I can’t face it.’
‘You’re a funny girl,’ said Seth, pulling her down onto him again. ‘Wonderfully funny. Now look, how about one for the road? We’ve just about got time –’ He looked at his watch. ‘Half past three, come on, you know you want to … I can see it on your face …’
Julius let himself into Nell’s house very quietly. If she was working, she got very cross if he made a noise. She would probably be cross anyway, but if he explained that he’d really had to see her and that he wasn’t going to stay, she’d be perfectly happy.
He looked into her little study, which was a shambles as always, sheets of typescript all over the desk, and one half-typed sheet actually in the typewriter. Although it was strictly forbidden, he read what she was typing; it was set in an operating theatre, tracing the heroine’s thoughts as she made her first incision into the patient’s abdomen. He was a little surprised that it stopped mid-sentence; normally she hated not completing a chapter even. Something quite serious must have distracted her: a visitor perhaps, but no, she just wouldn’t have opened the door; no one, not just he, was allowed to disturb her Sundays. Anyway, she wasn’t reading in the little sitting room with the French windows open to the tiny terraced garden, or even the dining room, with its pretty round table covered in a lace cloth and the collection of blue and white china he had given her in a glass-fronted case.
Maybe she was having a rest; it was unlike her, but she had been very tired recently. He really must speak to her, he thought, about leaving doors and windows open, positively inviting burglars in. He unlaced his shoes and as silently as he could, which was very silently, for he knew every creak in every board of that house, he went up the stairs, tiptoed along the corridor, and very, very carefully opened Nell’s bedroom door.
A Question of Trust Page 57
