A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Just a little one. I’ll have a Buck’s Fizz. The orange juice part will be good for me. And – it isn’t difficult, getting away?’

  ‘Not in the least. He just looks at me in that weirdly vague way and says, “Fine, darling, whatever you want.” He did say that when Jamie starts school next year he won’t be able to come with me, but that’s all right, he doesn’t have to, and although Mummy will miss him, it’ll be easier in lots of ways.’

  ‘And who is this session for?’ asked Wendelien.

  ‘Oh – Vogue,’ said Diana carelessly, as if such a thing was utterly commonplace, ‘with John French. I’m thrilled, he makes one looks so marvellous, not a wrinkle or a droop to be seen – it’s all in his lighting, you see, it bleaches everything out. No one can work out quite how he does it, it’s a sort of magic. And he’s extraordinary to work with. He’s queer, of course, but so gentlemanly and he just loves women. The more ladylike the better.’

  ‘He must like you then,’ said Wendelien.

  ‘He does seem to. He says I have the bones. But I’m afraid I’m absolutely not his first choice. He works most of the time with people like Fiona Campbell-Walter and Barbara Goalen. You can’t take a bad picture of either of them. You can of me, I assure you. But he directs so brilliantly: terribly painstaking, spends hours just getting a foot or a hand or the angle of the head exactly, exactly so. Never touches the camera himself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he gets everything set up, lights and angles and everything, and spends hours working out the composition and the poses with one of his little boy assistants – standing in for the model, I mean. They look so sweet in their black jeans and T-shirts, posing as if they were in ball gowns, and then finally you get called in and he tells you where he wants you to stand and how, and then after about another half-hour fiddling, he summons one of the assistants, stands back, folds his arms, and says, “Now!” very peremptorily. The assistant presses the button or the Rolleiflex lead or whatever. He’ll do that a few times, and then you have to move a fraction, or he tells the fashion editor to tweak the dress an inch, and then, when it’s all exactly as he likes, he does it again. Fascinating. Tiring, though,’ she added.

  ‘And what sort of clothes tomorrow?’

  ‘Evening. Hartnell and Hardy Amies. I’ve been told to bring lots of costume jewellery; I haven’t got that much, but as it’s Vogue they usually supply quite a lot themselves. And evening shoes. Last time I got ticked off for only having two pairs of gloves. I must do a bit of a stock-up this time. Will you come with me? Or are you too tired? I’m staying on an extra day. Just for fun, really, and to do a bit of shopping. Mummy will love it and Johnathan just won’t notice.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Wendelien. ‘It seems strange to me.’

  ‘Wendelien, honestly, I’m sure. He has absolutely no interest in what I do in London, and what’s more he doesn’t care. He wouldn’t even mind if I had a lover, I swear. God, I wish I did,’ she added, and Wendelien was quite shocked by the seriousness of her expression, the ache in her voice.

  ‘Well, I can’t quite believe that he really doesn’t care,’ Wendelien said. ‘And he must see the pictures in the magazines. It does sound a bit – odd.’

  ‘He is odd,’ said Diana dismissively.

  God, it had been a mistake. A dreadful, shocking, obscene mistake: Johnathan felt so angry with himself. How had he made it? How had he been blind enough, deaf enough even? Everything she said now drove him to distraction. How could he not have seen it was witchcraft, that she had worked some spell, confusing him with her beauty, her charm? Why had he lacked the sheer common sense to see that she was using him to get what she wanted: the fashionable life in London, the chic house, the smart friends?

  How had he thought she could possibly want what he wanted, care about what he cared about? He supposed she had tried at first; and he could see it was hard for her, the brutal weather, the harsh, forbidding landscape as it must have seemed to her – and yet so lovely when you got to know it, with its crags and waterfalls and great stretches of moorland with its ever-changing colours and vast, amazing skies.

  It was so painfully obvious that she was never going to fit in. All the women he knew up here in Yorkshire had done their best, asked her to join things and to help with things and had in the early days asked them for meals. She had given a few and they had felt bound to reciprocate. She had so clearly not enjoyed their dinners, sitting looking bored while the talk ranged from farming to county shows and county politics. Of course, it wasn’t as charming as London gossip. But it all mattered to him, and he would have hoped she would make an effort on that account. His mother wasn’t easy, he could see that, but she had tried very hard at first to be welcoming and she had so much to cope with. Not once had Diana gone over to sit with his father or take him out for a drive, amuse him just for a few hours. That, more than anything, hurt and angered him.

  As for sex, Johnathan literally couldn’t remember when they had last made love, and he was miserably aware that even there she found him a disappointment. He should have ended the whole thing immediately after the war, when he had known, could see as they sat there in that bloody restaurant in the Savoy how much she would hate it and how hopeless it would be. He could have done it there and then, cleanly, easily. He could have made her a generous settlement and they could both have begun again, for there had been no children. There he always stopped, thinking of Jamie, his beloved Jamie with the floppy dark hair and the wide brown eyes and the hero worship and the assumption that he was the source of every possible wisdom. Little Jamie, stomping round the farm after him, afraid of nothing, not the hugest shire horse, the most massive bull, the largest herd of cows – as long as Johnathan was with him, holding his small hand in his big one. He was his constant companion, sitting beside him on the tractor, following the plough with him, stomping through the muddiest field, watching, his eyes huge with wonder as the lambs were born.

  He had bought him a pony for his fourth birthday, a sweetly sturdy Yorkshire Fell pony, darkest grey, the colour of the Yorkshire crags, with the black shaggy mane and long tail that were the breed’s trademark, steady as a rock but fast, or would be one day when it was asked of him. He loved to ride with Jamie when he had time, which was rarely; but Diana had usurped him there, for she had plenty of it to fill, and he never disliked her more than when watching her riding out of the yard, Jamie on the leading rein, heading for the moors, looking back and chatting and smiling at him.

  He didn’t know what to do. He would have loved to have got rid of her but he couldn’t divorce her now. He had no grounds and besides, that could mean losing Jamie, or certainly risk losing him. The only way he could be sure of getting custody, or fairly sure, was if she could be convicted of adultery. That seemed, given her present mode of behaviour, a real possibility; but getting proof would entail sordid procedures like having her followed by a private detective, and the resulting court case would be squalid beyond belief. Maybe that didn’t matter; his mother would be delighted to be rid of Diana, she hated to be so much as in the same room as her, and it really would have no effect on their position in Yorkshire and the circle they moved in. And most people would be sympathetic, kind even; nobody liked Diana and although no one ever mentioned it, her increasingly frequent absences hardly spoke of a successful marriage.

  But then he thought again – how would it affect Jamie? If nothing else, Diana was a good mother, surprisingly patient, loving and fun, endlessly inventive with games and treats, reading to him by the hour, playing the tedious make-believe games he loved. Did he really have the right to deprive Jamie of that?

  All these things and more Johnathan pondered as he rode the tractor one long, lovely spring afternoon, when Yorkshire agreed to soften just a little and yield some blossom in the hedgerow here and an occasional cluster of daffodils in some hidden hollow there: and when he knew he would get home to an empty house after Diana had set off aga
in to London.

  Unbidden, the thought of Catherine came into his head.

  Chapter 22

  1951

  Sunday lunch with Alice’s family had been all right; a bit painful, genteel even, with sherry beforehand and a small glass of red wine with the excellent lamb, and apple pie to follow with many references to some Mrs P who’d made it; he’d liked Mrs Miller, she was smiling and welcoming and rather engagingly nervous, spilling her husband’s sherry as she passed it to him, and rushing round with a tea towel mopping it up, when it would have been better to leave it; Mr Miller he was less sure of, he seemed a bit of a tyrant.

  There was no domestic help in the dining room, but clattering from the kitchen indicated the presence of some kind of minion; Tom offered to help with the clearing away but Mrs Miller looked very shocked and told him to go and join her husband Alec in the drawing room – this was the only reference to Christian names, and it was clear that they would remain Mr and Mrs Miller for the foreseeable future.

  He had feared there would be veiled references to their relationship, and worse, its future, but none came. Later Alice told him she had been on tenterhooks throughout for the same reason. There was never any knowing what her father might say or do.

  They left before tea; Alice could see that Tom was sated with gentility and perfectly mown lawns – twice referred to admiringly by Mrs Miller in terms that made it very plain this was Mr Miller’s pride and joy. Mr Miller pumped his hand and said it had been very good to meet him and Mrs Miller smiled up at him and told him he would be welcome any time.

  ‘Alice tells me you’re going to the Festival of Britain together,’ she said. ‘Do let me know what you think of it – we’re hoping to go, aren’t we, Alec?’

  This was clearly as much news to Alec as it was to Tom. On the train he said to Alice, ‘You don’t really want to go to that thing, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do, I’d love to. Please, Tom, I think it’ll be really good.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘as long as you listen to my speech this evening. It’s to the local TGWU. Donald Herbert says it’s going to be very well attended, and Jillie’s cousin, Josh Curtis, is coming. I’m a bit unsure about parts of it. Well, most of it, to be honest.’

  This was a new honour for Alice; she flushed crimson with delight and said she’d love to and spent the next hour feverishly wondering if Laura had simply sat admiringly and listened on such occasions, or made a lot of helpful and/or critical suggestions.

  It was when he knocked his wine over that Jillie realised that Ned was in a truly distraught state, totally unlike his usual self-assured, easy self. He’d been edgy all evening, criticising the route the taxi driver had chosen, complaining about the table they’d been given at the restaurant, failing to tell her how lovely she looked. That was quite a relief – it got a bit repetitious and tedious at times. Twice he left the table to make a phone call. She assumed he must be worried about a patient, but when she asked him, he said no, everything was fine. He also rushed their dessert order, demanding the bill immediately afterwards. When she asked him mildly what was the hurry, he said he’d reserved a table at Claridge’s and he didn’t want to be late.

  Jillie said it seemed rather a shame to rush a nice dinner just to go and drink some more somewhere else, and he almost snapped at her, saying he’d planned the evening rather carefully at her two favourite places, and the idea was to please her, not him. She drank her coffee in silence; but then suddenly in the taxi, he leaned over her and kissed her and said he was sorry, he was being a brute, and maybe they should just go to his house if that would be better, and she said better for what and he said she’d find out soon.

  So the taxi was redirected to Markham Street, and the minute they arrived, he rushed into the kitchen and she heard a clinking of glasses and the fridge being opened, then a pause while he was clearly cancelling the table at Claridge’s, and then he reappeared in the tiny drawing room, bearing a tray with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He put it down on the low table next to her and she couldn’t help noticing it was Veuve Clicquot Vintage, pretty special even by Ned’s standards. She leaned back and looked at him as he reached for the bottle and said, ‘Ned, what is going on, have you got something to tell me?’

  He put the bottle down again, and looked at her very steadily and said, ‘No, ask you,’ and then he actually went down on one knee and said, ‘Jillie, will you marry me?’

  Her first thought was that he could never have done that in the champagne bar at Claridge’s so it was as well they weren’t there; and her second was of how absolutely adorable he looked kneeling there, literally at her feet; and her third was of total astonishment followed by, she was almost surprised to discover, complete and absolute joy. ‘Oh, Ned,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. Of COURSE. Thank you.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, in tones of such disbelief and pleasure she actually laughed.

  ‘Well, of course. I can’t think of anything more wonderful. I really can’t!’ And then he sat down beside her and kissed her for a long time, really rather passionately, and she responded, loving it, longing for more, and thinking that if ever an occasion was auspicious this one was, with his bedroom upstairs and the moment so perfect; but the invitation, or even the suggestion, didn’t come, although he began to caress her breasts and her stomach, and to tell her how much he loved her, and since that was clearly what he wanted, then she wasn’t going to spoil the perfection of the moment.

  ‘I am so, so glad,’ he said suddenly, breaking off, pushing a strand of her hair back, smiling into her eyes. ‘I was so afraid you’d say no.’

  ‘Ned, why? When you know how terribly, terribly fond of you I am?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not been very long – January to now, less than six months – you might not have been sure.’

  ‘Well, I am. Perfectly sure. I long to be Mrs Welles, more than anything else in the world, and I’m going to be such a good one, such a perfect wife.’

  ‘All you have to do is love me,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Then you don’t have anything to worry about,’ she said, and then, suddenly, almost hopeful, ‘Would you like me to give up work?’

  ‘Now why should I like that?’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I love that you know the world I work in and care about. And I’ll be incredibly proud of you when you qualify as a surgeon. Unless you want to, of course.’

  ‘I’m not – sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. I mean I’ve got a long way to go still. But then it would be awful to waste it. Maybe when – when we have children?’

  ‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘You are thinking ahead.’

  ‘Getting married is about thinking ahead, surely?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But really, it is your decision –’

  ‘Think of the hours, though. When I’m a houseman. And I’d have to live in sometimes.’

  ‘Well – yes. That might be hard. Oh, why are we spoiling this wonderful occasion worrying about something so relatively unimportant?’

  ‘It would only be important if you cared about it. About the implications.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t. Now let me give you some of this very special champagne and let us drink to Mr and Mrs Welles.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Welles,’ said Jillie, raising her glass to him and then setting it down again. ‘Now can we do some more kissing, please?’

  Chapter 23

  1951

  ‘How’s it going then? You enjoying it?’ Donald Herbert raised his glass to Josh.

  ‘Yes, I really am. It’s bloody tough, of course. And Bedford is a bastard – constantly spiking my stuff, saying it’s not original, not sharp enough, not political enough.’

  ‘Well, that’s his job. He wouldn’t be political editor of one of the country’s most successful newspapers if he was a kind and cosy chappie. How do you get on with Harry Campbell?’

  ‘Hardly ever see him. But I admire him beyond anything. People are always saying he’s a
bit like Cudlipp, has the same charisma, same passion. He’s certainly got the Cudlipp philosophy, that a newspaper should have a mission.’

  ‘And what’s the mission of the News?’

  ‘To support the ordinary man,’ said Josh. ‘The invisible one without a voice, who can’t make his grievances felt. He’s still having a hard time, that man – and his wife and family – six years after the war’s ended.’

  Josh Curtis and Donald Herbert were having what had become a regular chat in El Vino’s bar in Fleet Street, opposite the Law Courts, where journalists famously drank and gossiped, often all afternoon.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Josh, warming up now, ‘only a third of households in this country have a proper bathroom, and one in twenty don’t even have running water? It’s a bit of an indictment of you lot, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do,’ said Donald Herbert. ‘But the answer’s not easy. There just isn’t room for everybody. The old East End houses, for instance, are built incredibly densely. There’s just not the room to build decent homes. Either people have to be moved out of London, which they don’t want, or some of these high-rise places have to go up.’

  ‘Yes, and there’s resistance to them, of course. Old biddy called Dame Evelyn Sharp, she represents the Ministry of Housing, says people will be upset by the sight of them. I bet she doesn’t have to wash in a tin bath by the fire.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like a great story to me,’ said Herbert, ‘so why don’t you write it. Give it a strong political angle; get some interviews with these people …’

  ‘Don’t you think I wanted to? But when I mentioned it to Clive, he liked it so much he made me do all the research, then wrote it himself. Campbell loved it. See what I mean?’

  ‘Well, yes. Bloody annoying. But that’s newspaper life, young Josh. It’s not a tea party. You’ll have to pitch a story to Campbell yourself, maybe one day when Bedford’s away. Want another one of those?’