A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Well, there isn’t. Oh, all right. Kit had something called intussusception, an obstruction of the bowel. He was operated on, and now hopefully he’s recovering.’

  ‘Right. And you’re staying at home because … ?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Josh, because the other children have to be looked after. Because I want to be near Kit just in case he has a relapse. Because I want to support Alice. Is that so extraordinary?’

  ‘Knowing you, a bit extraordinary. You’re fighting for your political life, Tom. Every hand you shake this weekend, every door you knock on, every word exchanged in every street, could make a difference, get you another vote. You must know that. You’ve waited and worked for this all your life. I can see why you wanted to be near Kit yesterday and today, but if he’s recovering, why not at least give some interviews? Maybe at the hospital? Which hospital is he in, by the way? Why couldn’t Alice give an interview?’

  ‘She’d think it was a totally inappropriate thing to ask,’ said Tom, ignoring the question about the hospital. ‘She was terrified yesterday, we both were. Our child could have died. What’s an election, compared to that?’

  ‘Nothing, of course,’ said Josh. ‘And I’m playing devil’s advocate to a degree. But I can’t see why you don’t give an interview. It would buy you lots of sympathy, and probably votes; people would understand why you weren’t there, instead of thinking you just couldn’t be bothered. Look, I’ll write it and you can vet it. God knows, you should be able to trust me by now. It’ll go in the paper tomorrow – thousands of your supporters will read it.’

  ‘I – can’t,’ said Tom. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Josh. ‘Well, don’t blame me if you get the whole bloody pack on your tail. Because you probably will, you know.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because you’re being so bloody mysterious. People will think you’ve got something to hide, if you go on refusing to talk about it to anyone. I mean, I’ll do my best but a bald statement about your son being ill in a London hospital – which one is it, by the way, Great Ormond Street?’

  ‘I wish to God it was,’ said Tom. It came out, unbidden; he would have given anything to take it back.

  Josh didn’t miss the intensity in his voice.

  ‘OK, so where then? Where is he?’

  ‘Oh – he’ s – Josh, look, just – just fuck off, will you? Leave me alone.’

  Josh suddenly felt violently angry with him. Angry and hurt. To be addressed in those terms by Tom, who he had done so much for over the years, been his best man purely because Tom couldn’t think of anyone else, written what had felt like endless articles to further his career, kept quiet about his affair with Diana – and now he seemed to be implying that he would splash any information he could elicit across the front page of his paper in twelve-point. In which case, he deserved precisely that.

  ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘I really don’t appreciate being treated like this. I’ve done a lot for you – including, I might say, not mentioning to anyone that I saw you arriving at Diana Southcott’s house the night I was there doing an interview. I’m beginning to regret that discretion.’

  He put the phone down; it rang again almost immediately. But it wasn’t Tom, as he had expected, it was Clive Bedford.

  ‘Well? Got anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, and then added, ‘But give me a bit more time.’

  By lunchtime, every National Health hospital, large and small, in the Greater London area had confirmed that they had no child called Kit Knelston in any of their wards. It was very odd. And then he thought of the agony in Tom’s voice when he had asked him about Great Ormond Street.

  In a moment of absolute clarity, he knew. Kit was in a private hospital: that would explain everything. And almost certainly, he thought, the one where Ned Welles worked. Josh hesitated a moment or two and then rang Tom.

  Tom sounded panicky to put it mildly. ‘Josh,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I – well, I can explain about – about Diana.’

  ‘Really? I can’t think how.’

  ‘Well – not explain. But make it look better.’

  ‘I don’t see how it could. Fucking about with her, when Alice was at home, trusting you, needing you. She’s just had a baby, for Christ’s sake. You really are a bastard, Tom Knelston.’

  ‘I know. Why – why didn’t you say anything before?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t bear to, to be honest. I couldn’t think of anything to say to you. I’m very fond of Alice, and she’s struggling to cope. The only reason I didn’t spill the beans is because I didn’t want her to know about it. It would have been a terrible thing to do to her. So I hope, for rather nobler reasons than yours, that she never needs to. But some other journalist might get on to it. You’re pretty high profile in a minor way at the moment, you know. Anyway, perhaps you’d like to tell me how it’s better than it looks. I’m fascinated.’

  ‘It’s over,’ said Tom. ‘I went there that evening to finish it. I haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘Well, that’s extremely good of you. And are you so sure she won’t say anything?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But she hasn’t so far. I can only hope that continues.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put money on it. She won’t like being dumped. Why did you finish it anyway? I wonder. Were you just taking the moral high ground? It couldn’t have had anything to do with an election coming up, I suppose? Adultery – not a vote winner.’

  Tom was silent.

  ‘You’ve turned out a pretty poor example of a human being, Tom Knelston,’ said Josh. ‘I used to quite like you, admire you even. Not any more. Bye then.’

  He put the phone down. He had meant what he said: he wouldn’t go public on Tom’s adultery, for Alice’s sake. But the hospital he had chosen for the treatment of his child, if it was a private one, that would also be quite damaging …

  Ricky Barnes, a young mustard-keen trainee reporter on the Daily Sketch, having been given nothing to do so far that day, decided to find a story for himself. He flipped through various notes lying on the desk, and saw one scribbled from the PR department at Transport House. It was almost indecipherable but the subject matter was one Tom Knelston. Would-be MP, sick son, interview?

  Ricky’s ambition was to be a political editor one day; here perhaps was a chance to get some insight, however ephemerally, into what seemed to him the incredibly intriguing world of politics. He called Transport House, said he was investigating the story about Tom Knelston: could they tell him any more? They could: Knelston was Labour candidate in an extremely crucial marginal constituency. On this, the last Saturday before polling day, he was not out there, making speeches and knocking on doors, but at home looking after two of his children, while a third, the eldest, was in hospital. Transport House had phoned the Sketch, among other papers, and suggested an interview but didn’t know which hospital the child was in.

  Not worth it, no interest to readers, had been scrawled over the note in the news editor’s red pencil, but in the absence of anything to do, Ricky took himself down to the cuttings library and looked up Tom Knelston. He sounded interesting: had risen from humble beginnings, had a real chance of being elected, and was a great Bevanite and a passionate believer in the National Health Service.

  Ricky decided the news editor just might be wrong; Knelston would very possibly have something to say about his personal experience of the NHS. He pulled out a pack of Woodbines – all he could afford; one day it would be cigars like the legendary Hugh Cudlipp – settled down at his desk and began on the gargantuan task of finding where Kit Knelston was. He discovered, like Josh, that no National Health hospital in the entire London area had a patient called Kit Knelston in its children’s wards. Which, if you thought about it, was quite interesting. Either Master Knelston was home, which meant Mr Knelston was lying about his reason for not being in his constituency – or he was in a private hospital. Another hour e
lapsed; the private hospitals were less forthcoming about their patients but he persevered.

  Annabel Smyth had only been working at St Mary’s for a week, most of the time in accounts. This was her first day on the reception desk, and she was only doing that as a favour for Miss Roberts who had wanted to leave early to go to the cinema.

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ Miss Roberts said. ‘Mostly people wanting to speak to their relatives. If they ask for any of the doctors, put them through to Matron.’

  A man who didn’t sound too much like most of the callers rang halfway through the lunch hour. He sounded very young and his voice was distinctly cockney, Annabel thought, but then she thought he might be calling from a florist or something; and he was extremely polite and apologised for troubling her, so she confirmed that yes, Kit Knelston was in the hospital and in room one hundred and five.

  Tom had been briefly asleep on the sofa when the phone rang. Lucy was having her after-lunch nap; it had turned into a deep, deep sleep and he was buggered, he thought, if he was going to wake her. He had tried to talk to Alice, but apart from telling him in her new cool voice that Kit was doing fine, she refused to say anything.

  He had tried to ring Josh several times to apologise, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Well, Josh wouldn’t betray him, even if he did find out where Kit was. He was far too loyal. This must be him now; he’d offer him copious apologies, and—‘Hello, Tom. It’s me. Your friend Diana.’

  His voice was gratifyingly shocked; the silence before he answered more telling still.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said finally. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just a chat. I miss our chats, Tom.’

  Further silence.

  Then, ‘I met your wife yesterday,’ she said. ‘I thought she was lovely; very pretty. We had a nice chat.’

  ‘But – but where? I don’t – understand.’

  ‘Oh, at the hospital. Where your son is. How is he today? Or is it the little girl?’

  ‘No, it’s – it’s Kit. He’s – he’s doing all right. Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Very nice hospital, I thought. How did you come to choose it?’

  ‘I – I didn’t.’

  ‘Really? Oh, I know. Through Jillie Curtis, who of course is Alice’s best friend? And knows Ned Welles? Well, you went to the right man, he’s supposed to be brilliant. I know him very well, had a huge crush on him, actually wanted to marry him.’

  Tom felt sick.

  ‘You mustn’t say anything to anyone about Kit being there. In that hospital.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try not to. It is quite intriguing, though.’

  ‘Diana, I cannot tell you how important it is that it doesn’t get out. It would be the end of me politically.’

  ‘I can see that. Well, yes, I’ll try and keep it to myself.’

  ‘Diana – please!’

  This was fun. This was high-quality revenge.

  ‘Tom, I told you, I’ll try not to talk about it. I can’t think who’d be terribly interested. Although I have got a new boyfriend –’ she reached out, touched wood; she didn’t usually tempt fate in that way – ‘who edits the diary pages of the Dispatch. He might be interested …’

  ‘Oh, God. Diana, you can’t. And – you didn’t say anything to Alice? About, well, about us?’

  God, he was a self-centred bastard. His marriage clearly came well behind his career in his concerns.

  ‘Well, a bit. Just mentioned that we’d had an affair, nothing else.’

  ‘What? Jesus Christ. And how did she – I mean –’

  He sounded close to tears; she laughed aloud. ‘Tom, of course I didn’t. I’m not that sort of girl.’

  ‘You said you – you might. That night. The last time I saw you,’ he said, his voice almost unrecognisable in his relief.

  ‘That was only to tease you. I did think of telling the press at one point. Reading all that rubbish about what a wonderful family man you are. Pretty tacky, it seemed at the time. But – I didn’t. Bit of a temptation, though. Anyway, what I’ve rung about today really was to enquire after Kit’s health, poor little boy.’

  ‘He’ s – he’s better, thank you.’

  ‘I’m so pleased. And then I did think I’d ask you about your choice of hospital. Private! What happened to practising what you preach, Tom?’

  ‘Stop it!’ he said, and now she could hear not anger, but genuine dreadful pain in his voice. ‘Just stop it. It wasn’t like that, I – I –’ And then she heard something extraordinary, his sobs, loud, racked sobs, and then his voice, breaking with pain, said, ‘If you only knew what I’ve done, what I did. God, Diana –’

  Diana knew real grief when she was confronted by it. And she had been very fond of Tom, still was, she supposed, and was distressed by his patent despair.

  ‘Tom,’ she said quietly, all the banter gone from her voice. ‘Friend Tom, what is it? It can’t just be about Kit. Or even your career. Do you want to talk about it? I’m here all afternoon, got nothing to do. I can just sit and listen. You never know, it might help. Has in the past. Or I could come over and see you?’

  ‘Diana, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t come here. That really would be madness.’

  An hour later, a taxi drew up.

  Chapter 59

  ‘Tom? It’s Alice. Yes, Kit’s fine. I’m afraid I just had a phone call from a journalist. Yes. No, not the Daily News, the Sketch. God knows. Well, he came through to the room, and asked me if I was Mrs Knelston. I asked who was calling and he told me. His name was Ricky something. He wanted to speak to you. What? Well, of course I didn’t. I said you were out at the moment. Then he asked me how long you’d be and I put the phone down. No, he hasn’t rung again, but I’m afraid he will. If he does, what do you want me to do?’

  Well, it had happened now, and there was nothing to be done about it. Or was there? Should he talk to this journalist, try to have a reasonable conversation with him, put his case – Kit dangerously ill, rare condition, knew surgeon personally – or what? Refuse to speak to him? Deny it? Could hardly do that, the man had already spoken to Alice.

  Once he could have asked Josh for help but Josh was quite possibly writing his own article, denouncing him as a hypocrite. He deserved that, Tom thought. How had it happened, how had he turned into this prime shit? Who had repeatedly slept with a woman who was not his wife. God, it would serve him right if Josh put that into his article too – this shit who told lies easily and thoughtlessly, who was foul tempered with his family, totally unappreciative of his wife. What, in the name of heaven, would Laura think of him now?

  ‘Well, let’s see if you can get hold of the bloke,’ said Bob March, news editor of the Sketch. ‘Not that much to go on if you can’t. And he’s of no great interest to anybody except his constituents. You make him sound as if he was Nye Bevan himself.’

  ‘But he wants to be,’ said Ricky. ‘That’s the whole point. He came into politics because of Bevan. He hero-worships him, never stops quoting him – he’s a bloody hypocrite.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but they all are. As I say, if you can’t get a quote from him, it’s not really worth a row of beans. Full marks for initiative, though, young Barnes. Well done.’

  Ricky didn’t want full marks, he wanted to write his story. He lit yet another Woody and dialled St Mary’s number again. This time they didn’t put him through. He tried the Labour Party headquarters in Purbridge and asked if Tom Knelston was there, and got very short shrift. And Tom Knelston’s home number was perpetually engaged. There really was sweet FA he could do.

  Unless he went to his home – it was only in Acton – and doorstepped him. It would be better than nothing.

  ‘Josh? Josh, it’s Tom. Look, I’m very sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

  ‘No,’ said Josh, ‘you shouldn’t. What do you want?’

  ‘Your advice,’ said Tom. ‘The Sketch are on to me.’

  ‘Could be worse. Could be the E
xpress. Right-wing righteous indignation is a terrible thing.’

  ‘But what should I do? What’s the best way to deal with it?’

  ‘What do you mean by “on to” you exactly?’

  Tom told him.

  ‘Give him a quote, otherwise he’ll just make it up. Don’t blame it on Alice, just say you were desperately worried, Kit was clearly extremely ill, you weren’t getting anywhere with your GP or you couldn’t get hold of him, and you knew someone at St Mary’s who could see you at once. It doesn’t sound too clever, whatever you say, smacks of hypocrisy, which it is – I know, I know – but it’ll give him something to write. Refuse to say any more, tell him you’ve got to get off to see Kit, or bath the children, anything really. Tell Alice not to speak to any of the press, obviously. I’ll write something similar if you like –’

  ‘Josh. I can’t expect you to do that.’

  ‘To be honest, Tom, it’s purely self-interest. If Clive sees this story in the Sketch and I’ve come up with nothing he’ll think I’m useless. Does Ned know about this, by the way?’

  ‘No. Not as far as I know.’

  ‘He won’t be pleased. He hates any sort of publicity and this isn’t the best sort. Inevitably his name will come into it. You’d better tell him, before you do anything else.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Tom. ‘This gets worse and worse.’

  Alice was reading to Kit; he was just growing drowsy. His temperature had gone up in the afternoon, over a hundred and one; the nurse in charge of him had called the house doctor, and the house doctor, who had never seen a case of intussusception before, and didn’t know exactly what he was dealing with, was a little alarmed and called Ned as he had been instructed.

  Ned had come at once; he was clearly in a bad mood, not entirely due to the news that the press were, as Alice put it, ‘about’.

  ‘I suppose it was inevitable,’ he said. ‘Well, as long as they don’t start trying to get into the premises. Last time something like this happened, a reporter pretended to be delivering some drugs or something, and got into a patient’s room, complete with tape recorder. They really are an appalling lot. Josh being a notable exception, of course. I sometimes wonder what he’s doing in that business.’