A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  In the event, Mrs Higgins, in whom she had confided about the pregnancy, said she knew exactly how Alice felt. ‘Morning sickness, poor wee girl, worst thing in the world, and you having to be all bright and chirpy and impress people. I’ll do you some nice toast, lass, and anything else you fancy, just let me know. For some reason it were brown sauce with me, I could eat anything so long as it had brown sauce on it, but I can see that doesn’t appeal.’

  In fact, Alice did really fancy something, and that was smoked haddock; Mrs Higgins said she’d cook it for her every morning.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Higgins, you are so kind. And – you don’t have any Marmite, I suppose?’

  ‘I do, my lovely, I do. On your toast?’

  And so, every morning Alice ate dry toast and Marmite-flavoured smoked haddock, and it got her through the day.

  By the last morning, Tom still hadn’t been asked to speak; he was bitterly disappointed. Then suddenly someone dropped out of a debate on education and Tom was asked to take his place.

  The Labour government had an inbuilt resistance to grammar schools; the new comprehensive ideal, of one school for all with no punishing examination at eleven and offering every kind of education, from the academic to the technical, seemed to them far fairer. There were a very few trial schools, but it was far too early to judge the system on its results.

  The debate was a hot one; Tom could see the dangers of selection at eleven, it was potentially life-wrecking, but having benefited himself so enormously from the grammar system, and being a shining example of its virtues, he spoke passionately in its defence. He had made himself felt more strongly than any of his mentors or supporters had dared hope and on the train home the next evening, reading about himself as one of the stars of the previous day in Josh’s column in the Daily News, and featuring in a rather smaller way in a couple of reports in the nationals, Tom leaned across the compartment to Alice and said, ‘Thank you for coming and making such an effort for me. I know it wasn’t easy for you, feeling as lousy as you do, but it really did pay off in spades. I’m very lucky to have you.’

  Alice was so surprised, she nearly fell out of her seat.

  Jillie had returned to the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, and the rather doubtful mercies of Miss Moran. She was working very hard, mostly to ease her new, loveless, single existence, and doing better than she ever had before. She found the practical work slowly less scary and, under Miss Moran’s fierce gaze, could now make an incision and even move into the organs beneath it without trembling with terror.

  Her hurt and her humiliation were still intense; she remained withdrawn and for several months spent all her spare time in her room, or at Alice’s house. Her personal life felt very dead; she was numb to positive emotion, had been made a fool of, she felt. She was, she reflected one night as she got ready for bed, although not for sleep (that was a luxury only awarded her by the sleeping pills she removed from the pharmacy when nobody was looking), a spinster which was bad enough, and a virgin which was worse. She scarcely recognised herself from the radiant creature of the spring and summer. Although she was too level-headed to consider taking the whole bottle of pills, she often felt her life was pointless and not worth continuing. It was not a good state of mind.

  Tom was making his name as a speaker, was asked to speak at appropriate local functions and debates, either linked in some way to health or education, in which he was also becoming something of an expert. Then he was summoned in the middle of January to Transport House, to a meeting with the national agent, who informed him that there was a by-election coming up. ‘Terence Bright, the present member for Purbridge, has just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, poor chap,’ he added piously. ‘Now this is a marginal, and your main rival, given this is a Tory-held seat, is an old codger, James Harvey, classic Tory, ticks every bloody box and I wouldn’t think you’d have a chance if it wasn’t for a new industrial estate being developed in the area, bringing in lots of Labour voters, so you could just make it. We’d like you to go for selection at least; there are a couple of other contenders, but you made a pretty big mark at the conference with that speech of yours. What do you think?’

  Tom managed to stammer out that he thought it sounded very good indeed.

  ‘Good man. Get down there as soon as you can, get to know the place and its people. The agent down there is very good, very experienced. Date’s not set yet, but you’ve got about a month. Go and see the PR people on your way out, but meanwhile –’ and he launched into a string of procedures.

  Tom walked out of the building two hours later as if on air. Alice was less enthusiastic, sick and weary as she was, but took her cue from Laura and said it was wonderful. Laura haunted her increasingly now that the honeymoon period of their marriage was so well in the past, and particularly now, when she was sick and weary from her pregnancy. Whenever Tom was cross, or even thoughtless, she never reacted simply and honestly. She thought of Laura, what she would have done or said, and tried to do the same.

  Consequently, she became increasingly confused and anxious; on bad days she felt she hardly knew what she thought about anything any more, was lost in a spiral of self-doubt and insecurity. She also became obsessed with the fact that he had never taken her to Laura’s grave. Laura lay there, in the churchyard in his village, a precious, private part of his life that Alice was to be eternally kept from. It was as if he had a mistress, but one she could not possibly fight and certainly not confront.

  Some situations were easier than others to deal with: and this was one of them. Laura would have been as excited and determined as Tom, so Alice’s path was clearly marked. Next day she found Purbridge on the map; and was so excited, she broke the rule and rang Tom in his office.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but you’ll just have to win this seat. And I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Why this sudden enthusiasm?’

  ‘Tom, do you realise what’s quite wonderfully near it? Sandbanks! If that’s not an omen, I really don’t know what could be. Our lovely Sandbanks, where this little one started her life. Clearly she has to go on living there, doesn’t she? I think she’s a girl, by the way.’

  Tom, masking the irritation with her that he increasingly felt, agreed it could be seen as an omen. Anything that was going to make her put more effort into his cause could only be a good thing.

  * * *

  The other two prospective candidates were, in theory, promisingly less suitable, one extremely left wing, the other unmarried. ‘People like a family man,’ said the national agent.

  Poor Terence Bright turned out to have a heart condition as well as Parkinson’s; his doctor said he should resign immediately, or he wouldn’t answer for the consequences.

  Alice was spared much of the practical work of a supportive spouse; even Tom could see that with one very small child and a fairly advanced pregnancy, she couldn’t possibly be expected to constantly travel hundreds of miles to appear on platforms beside him. However, one terrifying ordeal was obligatory: her interview by the selection panel. This took place at Labour Party headquarters in Purbridge; a large, ugly Victorian building, apparently devoid of any form of heating. Alice was shown into a very large room, with crumbing lino on the floor and grimy windows; a vast table was the only furniture. Three people sat at the table, a rather stout woman and two men, one of them, Richard Darrett, the chairman of the selection committee; he stood up as she entered and indicated an upright chair set several feet away from the table. She could never remember being in so unwelcoming an environment and wondered if the Conservative set-up was any better.

  She presumed she was intended to sit down, and did so, rather nervously, tugging her skirt down over her knees and hoping the very modest make-up she was wearing wouldn’t be considered tarty. They nodded approvingly on hearing that she had a small child, and would shortly have another and that, apart from caring for the family, her only occupation was supporting her husband in his political ambitions.

  ‘Now, there is one thin
g that worries me,’ said the woman. ‘It appears you attended a private school.’ She made this sound rather as if Alice had spent time in prison.

  But Alice was ready for this one. ‘Yes, but only because of the war. It was a boarding school in the depths of the country. My parents lived on the outskirts of London, and they naturally wanted me to be safe. But I believe passionately in the grammar-school system.’

  They all nodded approvingly; there were four grammar schools in the Purbridge area, two for boys, two for girls. She knew she was on safe ground; she had taken great care with her research.

  ‘And – would you be able to support your husband by joining him in the constituency at weekends? There will be a lot to do. Not just his surgery.’

  ‘You mean the school visits, the amateur theatricals, the concerts, organising help in various ways for people who need it? Supporting local charities? Yes, of course. I shall enjoy all that very much.’

  On and on it went. When Alice joined Tom and the constituency agent, Colin Davidson, in the dreariest pub she had ever been in, she was close to exhaustion.

  ‘I’m afraid I was hopeless,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Tom, I did my best.’

  Three days later the selection of the new Labour candidate for Purbridge would be made and the result announced; Tom had gone down for the occasion, desperately nervous, none too hopeful. Alice wanted to go, but he told her it would be such a depressing occasion and there was no point her being there.

  ‘You can be waiting at home for me with a consoling supper and some nice cold beer. I still can’t get over having a refrigerator.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Alice. ‘But Tom, are you really so sure you haven’t been selected?’

  ‘Absolutely. I don’t know why I ever agreed to go for it,’ he added gloomily. ‘Must have been mad.’

  Next day she was strapping Kit into the pram when the phone rang. It was Tom.

  ‘Mrs Knelston?’

  ‘Yes. Tom, you know it’s me, what’s the matter?’

  ‘You are addressing the prospective Labour MP for Purbridge. I can’t quite believe it myself. I’m over the moon, I can tell you. And a lot of it is thanks to you. So very well done and thank you, Alice. I’ve got to go now, give an interview to the local rag. God, it’s exciting. We’ll go out and celebrate tomorrow when I get back.’

  Alice couldn’t think of anything she’d like less; she was so tired she could hardly hold her knife and fork at supper at home, but she managed to express delight. They couldn’t afford to go out to dinner so it probably wouldn’t happen. But she was wrong. Donald Herbert took them out to dinner again, to the Boulestin on the edge of Covent Garden.

  ‘It’s a charming place, thought it would be slightly less masculine than Rules which I had considered, and this is your treat as much as Tom’s. You did wonderfully well, Alice.’

  They both smiled at her and raised their glasses; she smiled back, and thought how nice it was to be considered of value in her own right for once. One day, maybe, just maybe, she would go back to work …

  But first there was the election to get through.

  Ned’s practice had grown slowly over the past two or three years. Paediatricians were a comparatively new breed and it was taking time for the public to accept them. His National Health practice at St Luke’s, where he recently moved, was very busy, however; and seemed to have a purpose that the private practice lacked, insofar as he saw desperately ill children. They were often malnourished – through ignorance and laziness, rather than poverty as they would have been before the war – existing on diets of chips, sweets, and canned vegetables and fruit, and the new much-admired convenience foods like meat pies that were largely pastry, sold in tins. He began to make a name for himself in child nutrition, explaining to mothers that fresh food and plenty of milk provided the vitamins that built bones, encouraged growth, and improved their dental health as well.

  Like Jillie’s, Ned’s social life was almost non-existent, due to fear rather than lack of opportunity. He was exceedingly nervous at first that the truth would come out; but so far nothing more than the vaguest suspicions were expressed. He was desperately lonely, and missed Jillie dreadfully. His mother had become his only companion; together they went to restaurants, theatres and the cinema.

  One night in the interval of Robert Anderson’s Tea and Sympathy, waiting for Persephone to return to the bar from the ladies, he heard someone call his name, and turning, saw Diana Gunning waving at him above the crowd. For the first time in his life he was actually pleased to see her. The same applied to her; she had been genuinely saddened at the news of his cancelled wedding and in her new persona as famous top model, admired and feted wherever she went, she felt none of the old animosity.

  ‘Ned, darling, how lovely. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, Diana, thank you. I see you – or rather your photograph – everywhere. Do you enjoy your new life?’

  ‘So much. I’m just back from New York, spending a few days in London before I go home to Yorkshire. Ned, I was so sorry to hear about your cancelled wedding. I never met Jillie, but everyone says she’s adorable. All very sad. And it must have been ghastly doing it at the last minute like that, terrible decision. Jolly good for you both, though; far better than marrying the wrong person.’

  ‘Thank you, Diana,’ said Ned, realising with some surprise that she was the first person not just to actually confront the issue, but to do so in a calm and sensible way. ‘It was ghastly. The most difficult decision I – we,’ he added after an imperceptible pause, ‘have ever made.’

  ‘I should think it was. Oh – hello,’ she said to Persephone who had returned. ‘I’m Diana Gunning. Old friend of Ned’s. Well, I hope we’re friends,’ she added with a conspiratorial smile at Ned.

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘I’m Persephone. Persephone Welles. Ned’s mother.’

  ‘How lovely to meet you,’ said Diana. ‘Oh, dear, there’s the bell. I’d better go and find my friends again. The Bellingers – you know them, don’t you, Ned?’

  ‘A little. Well, it was wonderful to see you, Diana. Thank you for coming over.’

  ‘Beautiful creature,’ said Persephone, when she had gone.

  Lying in bed that night at the Bellingers’, Diana thought about Ned. He was still so sublimely handsome, and charming in that gentle, soft way. And quite old for a bachelor.

  Almost middle-aged. She wondered what could have driven him to cancel the wedding at – what – four days’ notice. Must have been something very serious. And to be at the theatre with his mother. With whom he was obviously very close. A shaft of light suddenly shot through Diana’s brain. Gentle. Soft. Bachelor into middle age. Cancelling his wedding at the very last minute – she had not missed the pause between the ‘I’ and the ‘we’. And – at the theatre with his mother.

  ‘Of course,’ she said aloud. ‘Of course. He’s a fairy. My God. Poor Ned. Poor, poor, lovely Ned.’

  She had spent so much time with homosexuals over the past few years, her instincts were very sure. Everything suddenly made perfect sense.

  Chapter 34

  1953–4

  It was the most excruciating tension Tom had ever experienced. He knew, whatever happened, he would never forget it. The huge rather bleak room, oddly quiet, only a murmur of sound, people pacing its boundaries, sometimes alone, sometimes with a companion, heads close together, engaged in important conversation. The platform, on which he would be standing when he learned his fate. The rows of long tables at which people sat, tipping the contents out onto the area in front of them, tidying them into a neat stack and then counting, endlessly. It was a crucial by-election, and Tom’s profile was high: the TV cameras were there, the first time an election had known this experience.

  This was the culmination of all the weeks of walking the streets, knocking on doors, receiving sometimes a welcome, sometimes abuse, reciting the mantra until he hadn’t the faintest idea what the words meant, handing
over, if he was lucky, posters saying Vote for Knelston for a fairer Britain.

  Tom was popular in the town among Labour supporters; he had worked so hard, made huge sacrifices, spent long weekends without Alice as he made speeches, judged competitions, awarded prizes, attended party meetings, drank horrible watery warm beer in disagreeable pubs, ate disgusting food at endless dinners, courted town councillors, and wondered occasionally why he had ever wanted to be an MP.

  Tonight, Alice was with him – Kit left with her mother – a fake smile fixed on her face, chatting up the councillors, flirting with the men she knew, Colin Davidson particularly, Tom’s agent who had worked every bit as hard as Tom; all of them pretending to be calm, assuring each other that they had done all they could. Which they had.

  The numbers made no sense at first; he couldn’t take them in. William Forbes, Liberal, five thousand, two hundred and ninety-two; Tom Knelston, Labour, seventeen thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven – that sounded like a lot – James Harvey, Conservative, seventeen thousand, nine hundred.

  Then there was a great roar of applause, and clapping and cheering, and – well, that was it, it seemed, James Harvey had won, beaten him by about five hundred votes. He had failed, he wasn’t an MP, not the Labour member for Purbridge. All that work, all that shoe leather, all those evenings, all for this – failure.

  He felt, pathetically, like crying; but he smiled as James Harvey pumped his hand, smiled at Alice as she kissed him and slipped her hand into his, smiled through James Harvey’s acceptance speech; and then stepped forward to the microphone and started to speak himself, aware of the cameras, both flashbulbs and TV. Half angry, half despairing, but fired up suddenly to speak the truth as he saw it about the Labour Party and its beliefs.

  Afterwards and for many years, people said it was the best speech he ever made. He thanked the people of Purbridge who had always treated him with courtesy and made him welcome. He thanked those who had worked so hard for him. He said he was naturally sorry that he would be unable to speak for Purbridge in the Commons, because he had so much to say; he spoke of the philosophy of the party, that the weak should have a voice, have rights.