‘Hello, darling, how are you? How was little Kit?’
‘Oh – pretty good, considering.’
Jillie sat down suddenly; her legs were weary and achy.
‘And Alice?’
‘In a terrible state. Talking about divorcing Tom –’
‘What! Whatever for?’
‘Oh, I told you, he was very difficult about her taking Kit to a private hospital. You know how passionate he is about the National Health Service.’
‘Oh, yes, I saw Josh’s article. Hardly grounds for divorce,’ said Geraldine. ‘She’ll get over it. They both will.’
‘I’m not sure. I hope so. Anyway, sorry if I’m late for lunch –’
‘You’re not, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Patrick to join us.’
‘Patrick! Oh, Mummy, why?’
‘Well, he’d just got off the train from some godforsaken place, and he was so disappointed you weren’t here –’
‘I don’t know why. Honestly, Mummy, I’m not feeling very sociable.’
‘Well, it’s too late now, he’s on his way in a taxi.’
Jillie sighed. ‘As long as he doesn’t start talking about the latest gastroenteric virus –’
‘Jillie, that’s unfair. He has a very broad spectrum of conversation in my experience.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d better start going out with him – no, sorry, I’m quite fond of him really, I’ll go and brush my hair and make myself look a bit better.’
Actually, she thought it would be good to see Patrick; he was so nice and steady and normal, didn’t have emotional crises every five minutes. And it had been quite a difficult few days, seeing Ned for the first time since – well, since. Yes, he definitely did have advantages. She not only brushed her hair but also put on a new dress, a blue cotton shirtwaister, and some lipstick, and sprayed herself with Guerlain’s Jicky which was her current favourite and which Patrick had admired last time they went out.
She was just walking down the stairs when there was a crunch on the gravel as a taxi drove in. She ran down the last few steps, opened the front door and, rather to her own surprise, instead of shaking his hand, hugged Patrick and gave him a kiss.
Julius was halfway along Piccadilly when he realised he had left his shoes behind; his foot slipped on the brake and he only just avoided hitting a bus coming in the other direction.
It didn’t seem to matter; nothing seemed to matter, except getting to Jillie’s house. If she was working, he would drive out to Hackney and find her there. He had to find her, be with her; that emotion wiped out any anger or humiliation at the scene that had greeted him as he opened Nell’s bedroom door, Nell pushing some man off her, and struggling to a sitting position, the sheet hugged to her chin.
Julius said nothing, nothing at all, nor did he wait to hear anything they might have to say; he just wanted to get away from them.
At Piccadilly Circus he pulled in to the side, just by Swan & Edgar’s, and pulled off his socks, bare feet being indubitably safer, and proceeded up Regent Street, and then Portland Place, and thence Camden High Street, and on northwards, until at last he was in Highbury, and there, there on his right, at long last, number five. Number five, containing Jillie, happiness, safety. He had paused, wondering how he was going to get across the gravel in his bare feet, when a taxi came up behind him and drove into the drive. And as Julius watched, a man got out, the man he recognised from the other night at the restaurant – and walked up the steps to the front door, and before he had even raised his hand to the knocker, the door opened and Jillie appeared, hugged him – albeit briefly, and gave him a kiss and then shut the great door firmly. Julius sat there for at least half an hour, trying to establish which of his emotions was the most painful, and then turned the Bentley round and drove very slowly home.
Chapter 63
‘Oh – hello,’ said Alice. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I don’t suppose you were. But I wanted to see Kit. Where is he?’
‘Playing with a new friend in the playroom. It’s down the corridor, I’ll show you.’ She hesitated, struggling to get the words out, then, ‘He’ll be very pleased to see you. He’s been asking where you were.’
Tom followed Alice to the playroom; it was big, the floor covered with toy trains, complete with railway lines, clockwork cars; a doll’s house, filled with furniture, several doll’s prams, a blackboard and chalks, a stack of jigsaws and a very well-filled bookcase, the bottom shelf packed with board games for older children. Kit had his back to the door and was engrossed in playing with a train.
‘My God,’ said Tom. ‘Lucky little blighters.’
‘Tom, don’t start,’ said Alice.
‘I’m not starting anything.’
Kit heard his father’s voice, turned from the train set, and sat on the floor, utterly still, looking up at him, his face sober and disbelieving; then he became one enormous engulfing smile, jumped up and stood hugging Tom’s knees, with yells of ‘Daddy, Daddy’. Tom picked him up and held him in silence for a while, repeatedly kissing the top of his blonde head; and then sat down, took him onto his knee, and held him very close. He looked up at Alice, and his eyes were brilliant with unshed tears.
‘I’ m – sorry,’ he said, and she could hear the break in his voice. ‘So very sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said.
A nurse appeared round the door. ‘Kit, you should be in your room, having your wash, ready for bed. And then it’s time for your favourite medicine.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘You must be Mr Knelston. How nice to see you. Kit’s been missing you, hasn’t he, Mrs Knelston?’
‘Yes. Yes, he has.’
‘He’s been so brave. We haven’t heard one single complaint.’
This wasn’t quite true, Alice thought, but he had certainly complained very little, nor had there been any tears when the needle had to go into his small veins in order to take blood each day. He was brave, extremely brave. She wondered where that came from. Tom, she supposed; he had often told her of the agony of his leg wound in the desert, the nightmare journey to the field hospital and his absolute determination not to let go and yell.
It didn’t occur to her that she was actually rather brave herself.
Tom stayed for an hour or so, reading to Kit until he fell asleep, and then said he’d better go and relieve Mrs Hartley, who had had the children since breakfast time.
‘I swear Charlie’s put on about five pounds! He drains his bottle, then bangs it to show he wants more. She’s also got him guzzling Farex at bedtime, so he sleeps much later – till six this morning. Only time he cries is when I take him from her – I could murder the little sod.’
‘Tom!’ But something that might have been the beginning of a smile crossed Alice’s face. ‘And Lucy, is she all right?’
‘Also very happy. She misses you,’ he added hastily.
‘Liar,’ said Alice. This time the smile advanced a little further.
‘No, she does. Right. Well, I’ve got to go down to Purbridge every day this week but I’ll come back in the evening – we can’t leave the kids with Mrs Hartley round the clock. So I won’t be able to come over here again. When is Kit coming home?’
‘Not sure. End of the week, I think.’
‘Ah …’
‘No, Tom, I can’t.’
‘Of course not. That’s not what I meant at all. But this must be costing a pretty penny. Could you ask Ned to get some sort of account made up for us, please?’
‘We have talked about it. He said he’d try to keep costs down, and if there’s a real problem, we can pay in instalments.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not having any favours, Alice. Kit’s here, he’s had –’ He hesitated, then said quietly, ‘He’s had superb care, and we’ll pay for it. There’s some money in our savings account.’
He half smiled at her, and there was no rancour in his voice. She suddenly felt rather tearful without knowing why.
‘All right. How –
how is it, down there in Purbridge?’
‘Oh – not exactly fun. Taken a bit of flak. But it could be a whole lot worse. It’s pretty basic stuff now, we’re down to just pounding the pavements, knocking on doors.’
‘Still?’
He looked at her as if she had asked if she should keep on breathing.
‘Of course. It’s not over till it’s over.’
‘But I thought you said there was no hope.’
‘I don’t think there is, but we have to be seen to be hopeful still, working at it, otherwise all the people who’ve worked so hard, and indeed all the people who are going to vote for us, will feel betrayed.’
Alice met his eyes. ‘I’ m – well, I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, as he had earlier. ‘I’m sorry as well I can’t come on Thursday, Tom. But I can’t leave Kit.’
‘Of course you can’t. I understand. But now I must go. Goodnight, Alice.’
The week struggled on. Things got better than Tom had hoped, never as bad as he had feared. On Monday the Daily Mail picked up the story and in a double-page spread awarding vices and virtues to the candidates countrywide, labelled Tom Greatest Hypocrite. After that the story lost its legs and another victim was sought and indeed found.
Mrs Hartley decided to take Lucy and Charlie in to the hospital the next day. Charlie was fine, but Lucy was missing Alice badly. She let herself into the Knelston house to use their telephone, as Tom had told her to, and rang Alice at St Mary’s; would that be all right?
Alice said it would be wonderful, and offered to pay for a taxi for her, but Mrs Hartley pooh-poohed the idea, and said it would be fun, they’d sit upstairs on the bus, Lucy would love it and Charlie would just sleep through it. Alice thanked her and wondered miserably if Charlie’s normal behaviour was her fault as a mother, rather than some quirk of his genetic make-up. She feared the former.
They arrived just before lunchtime. Lucy hurled herself into her mother’s arms and clung to her, kissing her rapturously; Charlie woke up, took one look at Alice, and started to cry.
‘Well, I never,’ said Mrs Hartley, ‘we don’t hear that very often. I’ll give him a bottle, he’s probably hungry. Unless you’d like to, Mrs Knelston,’ she added hastily. Alice said equally hastily that she’d rather Mrs Hartley did it.
‘And please call me Alice.’
A pretty nurse came in and offered them all lunch but Mrs Hartley had brought sandwiches; was there no end to her wonderfulness, Alice thought.
Kit, delighted by the reunion with his sister, bore her off to the playroom; Alice smiled at Mrs Hartley.
‘I don’t know what we’d have done without you,’ she said. ‘I just can’t thank you enough.’
Mrs Hartley said there was no need to thank her, it had been nice to be of use, and anyway, what a time of it they’d had. ‘So frightening for you. What an upheaval in Kit’s little life, and Mr Knelston said at one stage that you could have lost him. Doesn’t bear thinking about. And it doesn’t say a lot for Dr Redmond, does it? Not spotting something so dangerous.’
‘Well, it is very rare,’ said Alice carefully.
‘Even so. He could have died, poor little mite. He looks quite well today, though. There now, Charlie’s gone to sleep, I thought he would. My goodness, what an upheaval – there’s been a lot going on our end, as well, I can tell you.’
‘Really?’ said Alice.
‘My word, yes. Reporters on the doorstep, one of them tried to interview me, I told him to mind his own business. The nerve! And half a dozen back in the morning. Mr Knelston dealt with them very well, they were all gone by ten. And then that very smart lady, arriving in a taxi, Saturday afternoon …’
‘What smart lady was that?’ said Alice, her voice determinedly steady.
‘Well, might have been one of the reporters, but she didn’t look like them. And she came on her own. I thought perhaps it was your mother at first, but I could see she was much younger when I got a better look at her,’ she added hastily.
Alice felt as if she was falling into a deep abyss.
‘It might have been Jillie,’ she said. ‘You know, the one who took us off to hospital on Friday morning.’
Mrs Hartley shook her head. ‘No, this lady was very dark. Gorgeous dress, my goodness, bright red, and what looked like real diamond earrings, and the heels! I don’t know how people walk in those heels, I really don’t.’
Alice agreed that neither did she, and wondered how closely she could question Mrs Hartley without making her suspicious. Although suspicious of what? She felt breathless, disorientated, as if she was coming up for air from some deep, muddy water.
‘Well, I can’t think then,’ she said brightly. ‘Did she stay long?’
‘Oh, over an hour at least. Mr Knelston brought Lucy in just after this lady arrived, asked me to look after her for a short while. And when she left – I heard the taxi arriving for her, you can’t mistake that noise, can you, of a taxi – well, Mr Knelston came back for Lucy. He did seem very upset but I didn’t like to ask –’
‘No, of course not.’
Alice decided it was time to call a halt to her enquiries, and suggested they went to find the children.
She managed to banish all thoughts of the very smart lady for the rest of the day, but that night in bed the demons arrived in force. She had had this nightmare so often, about Tom and a mistress; had this been her, arriving at his house when they both knew she was out, Lucy banished – why, why else? – the description of her, dark, beautiful, clearly glamorous, in her high heels and red dress. Alice’s mind raked over possibilities of who she could be – not many Labour Party workers wore high heels and diamonds. Or even travelled about in taxis.
She began to cry, with shock and despair; she fell asleep, and then woke up abruptly with the memory of Friday evening with Ned in the hospital absolutely fresh in her mind, when that woman had appeared, with her clearly expensive clothes, and just slightly condescending manner. ‘She’s a famous model,’ Ned had said, apologising for her. ‘Hide like a rhinoceros.’
Alice remembered her name now – ‘I’m Diana Southcott,’ she had said, and the whole thing fell into place: Diana Southcott, who had been photographed at Battersea Pleasure Gardens with Tom, long, long ago, the day that Tom had proposed. Now there was an irony; maybe her latest appearance in Alice’s life might be followed by a divorce. He had obviously continued to see her; and while she had been obsessing with jealousy over Laura, it was Diana Southcott she should have been worrying about, watching for.
Bastard! Bastard, in bed with this appalling – and glamorous, and rich – woman when she had thought him trying to alleviate the plight of the working classes. It would have been almost funny, if it hadn’t been so horribly sad and ugly. And bitch, knowing as she must have done, that Alice could hardly fight back, exhausted, permanently pregnant, tied to the home. God, she could have killed the pair of them, strung Tom up by his balls, stuffed Diana Southcott’s diamond earrings down her throat until she choked. How was she going to bear this new awful pain? How could their marriage continue now?
By Wednesday afternoon, Tom was exhausted and so sick of it all that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Sick of shaking hands, of smiling at people who didn’t smile back, of hearing complaints about things over which he had no control: not just the high rates, the lack of housing, the overcrowded schools, the uncleared bombsites, the neglected parks, the state of the roads – those were things which could, given that Purbridge had a Labour council, be laid at least partially at its door. But people also complained about their dripping taps, their neighbours’ smelly dustbins, the noise their neighbours made, the Teddy Boys smoking and wolf-whistling on street corners. On and on it went, a non-stop, tedious, exhausting tirade. Some people, but fewer than he had feared, called him a bloody hypocrite for taking Kit to a private hospital; some (a very few) said they’d have done the same if they’d had the means; most either hadn’t taken in the report or didn’t want to talk about i
t.
Tom was relieved by this, but at the same time, perversely disappointed that, for most people, all that mattered in a politician was that he provided higher wages, lower unemployment and better housing. The country at large was predisposed to approve of the Conservatives, who had delivered the end of food rationing, economic growth and a younger leader.
Tom’s more thoughtful voters asked him what was going to happen about the H-bomb and why they couldn’t have a younger leader too.
‘Seventy-two, Attlee is,’ said one man. ‘Stands to reason he can’t have that much energy – at least the old bulldog had the sense to stand down.’
He then went on to say that Eden was a bit of a toff, that his wife was pretty, and that he was impressed by his going on the television so much. ‘I mean, it can’t be easy, can it, not at first anyway, all those cameras poking in your face.’
After twenty minutes of politely and patiently listening to this, Tom said he really must get on, whereupon the man said yes, well, some people had work to do, and that he wasn’t sure he was going to bother voting at all, but if he did he thought he might give the Liberals a go.
Tom decided he needed a break and made his way back to Labour Party HQ, where he was told there was a message from his wife.
‘She said to ring her soon as you could.’
Fearing Kit had had a relapse, Tom dialled the hospital number; the relief of its being answered by a clearly enunciating, courteous voice, asking how its owner could help him, was enough for a moment to make him vote Tory.
When he got through to Alice, she sounded rather cool, but reassured him there was no problem with Kit; and then, rather as if offering a cup of tea, asked if he would like her to come to Purbridge the following day.
‘I always said I would if I could,’ she said, as he sank down, speechless with shock, onto a large box of pamphlets which promptly fell over, depositing him on the floor. ‘Tom, Tom, are you there? Oh, good. Ned – rather conveniently, I must say – says Kit needs one more day in hospital. I’m a bit suspicious actually; I think Jillie might have had a word because she knew I wanted to come, and of course he couldn’t be safer anywhere than here. My mother’s coming up to visit him in hospital and to take over from Mrs Hartley at the end of the day, although I think they might actually come to blows over Charlie. Anyway, I’m at your disposal. I can be there by ten – I’ve looked up the trains – and I’m all ready to smile for the cameras, kiss other people’s babies, and have eggs thrown at me, if required. Oh, and you can stay down there tonight, Mrs Hartley’s dying to have both children to stay. I thought you could use the time. So where will you meet me? At the station?’
A Question of Trust Page 58
