A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  He had turned out to be a really good friend, Diana thought. Friends really were a much better idea than lovers, much more constant and far less trouble. Who needed lovers, for God’s sake, she thought, crushing the thought of Leo and the terrible, devastating row they had had, saying the most appalling things to one another, dredged from defiance, from disbelief, from shock. After he had gone, assuring her he would never be back, she remained too angry to cry for over an hour. Then she wept, bitter, self-pitying tears; and when they had stopped, she became remorseful at the happiness she had so wantonly thrown away. Then, as the hours passed, she wondered if there might really have been happiness, if she could really have loved the man she now knew him to be, arrogant, egotistic, possessive. She half-expected him to return, to apologise, to say he understood; by the morning, she knew he never would; any more than she would go to him. It was over …

  Tom and Alice had settled into a rather strained truce.

  It was hard to make the reality live up to the wishful thinking of their future. Resolving to forgive, while utterly impossible to forget, was uncomfortable. They were polite, even nice to one another, but there it ended. As Alice said to Jillie, it needed some major event to bring them together again.

  ‘The only bright spot in the sky is that Charlie’s behaviour is improving. So life is a bit easier for me anyway. But Tom is quite depressed, more than I am; oddly, is talking about getting out of politics.’

  ‘What?’ said Jillie, genuinely horrified.

  ‘Yes, really. He says he failed to win Purbridge twice and that the business over Kit has made him rather unpopular with certain sectors of the party. Donald Herbert isn’t even speaking to him –’

  ‘Great toad,’ said Jillie.

  ‘I know. So he’s talking about going absolutely one hundred per cent into law, maybe even the bar –’

  ‘Well, that would be exciting, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  Thursday evening saw Tom summoned to Transport House – to be told the astonishing news that the Purbridge MP had had his long-predicted heart attack, and was not expected to live.

  ‘So it’s a by-election, dreadful thought so soon after the general election, but here it is, your last chance of getting hold of Purbridge. We thought of finding a new candidate, but frankly, you didn’t do as badly as we all thought, that unfortunate business with your son considered. We’ll postpone it as long as we can. He’ll have to resign anyway, can’t be more than a matter of weeks.’

  Wendelien had never, in the nearly two decades of their friendship, interfered in Diana’s life, beyond introducing her to Blanche Ellis Brown, which scarcely counted – and of course, trying and possibly succeeding to stop her telling Leo Bennett about Tom. But she watched Diana’s desperate, bright misery as she hurled happiness determinedly away and continued to pack and plan for her move to New York and knew she would never forgive herself if she didn’t try to do something to help. No use her taking on the task – the only hope lay in Ned Welles, who Diana had always regarded with enormous respect, as well as great fondness. Her hand shaking as she picked up the telephone, Wendelien dialled Ned’s number on the Thursday following Diana’s decision. There was no time to be lost: Diana flew out in eight days’ time.

  Ned answered at once; she could hear music in the background, and when she began to stammer out her request, he asked if he could ring her back, he had a friend with him. Hating herself, Wendelien said yes, of course, but could it possibly be that evening, it was very important. Ned rather wearily agreed. It wasn’t until after eleven that he rang, and said he couldn’t be very long, he was very tired and he was operating all next day.

  ‘I promise it won’t take long. The conversation anyway. It’s about Diana – I think she’s making the most appalling mistake and I just terribly want to stop her.’

  She kept it as brief as she could, horribly mindful of his weariness; when she had finished, he said, ‘Well, I don’t know,’ and she could hear the laughter in his voice. ‘Leo Bennett is a frightful bounder, she might be better off without him in the long run.’

  ‘Ned,’ said Wendelien. ‘I really think Diana is a match for any number of bounders. The difference is, she loves this one, she really does, I’ve never seen her like this, ever, and she says he loves her –’

  ‘And how many women do you think he’s said that to?’

  ‘Dozens, I daresay.’

  ‘Modest estimate.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I think this is different, for both of them, and if she wasn’t going away, I’d think it was best to let it all take its course. But once she’s gone, it really is over, and – oh, Ned, please talk to her.’

  There was a silence, then he said, ‘All right, I’ll try. You know she’ll be absolutely furious with me, probably never speak to me again.’

  ‘I know she’ll be furious,’ said Wendelien, ‘but of course she’ll speak to you again. Thank you, Ned, very much. I’m so sorry to ask you.’

  ‘That was a lovely evening,’ said Jillie, ‘thank you so much, Ned. And I am truly so thrilled by your news. He sounds perfect and it’s lovely to see you so happy. I look forward to meeting him one day soon. And although it’s frustrating, of course, not knowing a bit more, like who he is –’ she grinned – ‘I do understand. You want to take it very carefully. Especially as he wants that too. ‘

  ‘Yes, he’s nervous, of course. Afraid of losing his job … as might I be, without your wonderful Uncle William.’

  ‘Of course. It’s so hard, so wrong.’ She sighed. ‘Just the same, I wish I had someone to take it carefully with. ‘

  ‘Oh Jillie, darling, darling Jillie, you’ll find someone. I know you will.’

  ‘Ned, I have found someone. Trouble is, he didn’t seem to want to find me. Oh, well. One day, perhaps.’

  ‘One day for sure.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Goodness, it’s late, I must go.’

  ‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

  ‘No, I’ve got my car. It’s just down the street.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk you to it.’

  ‘Ned, you are such a gentleman.’

  She took his arm as they walked along the road, and just before she climbed into her car, kissed him.

  ‘Dear Ned,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for that, Jillie. Thank you for everything. I still do love you, you know.’

  She smiled. ‘As well as him?’

  ‘As well as him. You’re two very special people.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ned.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jillie.’

  As she neared the corner of the King’s Road, she looked back at him in her driving mirror. He was walking down the middle of the street, clearly lost in deep, deep thought. And saw the next thing too: a car, coming round the corner too fast, carelessly confident in the silent late street, saw him, braked too late –

  Neither Ned nor the car had a chance.

  Chapter 68

  Persephone had taken upon herself the task of organising what they were calling not a funeral, but a celebration of Ned, Ned and his multi-faceted, brilliant, and often rather difficult life. She had called upon a diffident, sorrowful Jillie to help her. ‘If I need it, darling, that is. It will be lovely to know you’re there, and he did love you so – sometimes, I think, more than anyone. Even more than me,’ she added, her great dark eyes spilling over with the ever-present tears.

  Jillie, touched beyond anything, took upon herself the immediate task of compiling a list of possible attendants.

  ‘I got to know so many of his friends and colleagues when we – we …’ Her voice shook. ‘I think that would be the most helpful thing I could do. And – it’s going to be a long list,’ she added, with a twisty, difficult smile.

  They agreed the ceremony should be held in a church. ‘I know he didn’t quite believe,’ said Persephone, ‘any more than I do, but he loved church architecture and church music, and nothing can begin to uplift you like a stained-glass wind
ow, with the sun streaming through. I shall pray for sunshine,’ she added. ‘And if it works, we shall know, perhaps, that we were wrong, and there is a God. And then we will know that Ned is there, somewhere, approving of what we are doing. Or disapproving. Oh, dear, he was often quite critical of services he went to, funerals and weddings – we must get it right for him, Jillie.’

  ‘We will,’ said Jillie. ‘Now, one thing I did think. His campaign was the children in hospital, so I think we should make a bit of a thing of that. He would have loved it. I’m sure Uncle William will talk. He was so impressed with it all.’

  ‘Wonderful’ said Persephone.

  They chose St Mark’s Chelsea, it being his local parish church. ‘And, more important, the vicar, Christian Greenfell, has a beautiful voice,’ said Persephone. ‘Some of them these days are – well – not quite what you’d expect. And a perfect name – I mean, you’d more or less have to go into the Church being called Christian.’

  Diana offered her house as a venue for afterwards, but agreed, as the list grew, it was simply not big enough.

  ‘Number five is, but it’s too far for everyone to go,’ said Jillie. ‘And we don’t want to go to a hotel.’

  ‘The Hurlingham,’ Diana said, when Persephone invited her opinion over tea one day. ‘It’s a lovely house, the grounds are gorgeous, and it’s on the river. Ned would approve,’ she added firmly. ‘So important.’

  Persephone gave her a kiss and said she and Jillie had both been worrying about Ned’s approval of everything.

  ‘So silly,’ she said, ‘when we know he can’t approve or disapprove of anything any more.’

  ‘We may know it,’ said Diana, ‘but that’s different from feeling it.’ Her voice stumbled. ‘Oh, dear. Here I go again. I’ve cried so much I’m totally parched.’

  She had postponed her sojourn in the States until after the funeral.

  ‘If it loses me the contract, I honestly don’t care. And I want to bring Jamie. He adored Ned.’

  Diana also organised the flowers: she had spent much of the past few years watching florists building displays for photographic sessions, and knew the very best of them. ‘I know a marvellous girl, Harriet Jennings, she’s terribly imaginative, makes flowers look extra graceful, extra perfect, don’t ask me how. We can take her to the church, talk it all through with her. How lucky it’s June – oh, what a dreadful thing to have said. So sorry, Persephone.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Persephone, taking the proffered hanky. ‘He died, that’s unalterable, so much worse in November for all sorts of reasons.’

  * * *

  It was becoming real, this dreadful thing that none of them wanted, yet had to create. The music was chosen by a small committee, headed by Jillie, with Ludo Manners – perhaps Ned’s closest male friend, and immensely musically sophisticated – William Curtis and the vicar, Greenfell. He had offered a full choir, but William Curtis said he thought a smaller group would be better. ‘Maybe a dozen boys. We haven’t chosen any of the big anthems, we’re keeping this as an intimate tribute; he isn’ t – wasn’ t – some distant dignitary, and most of the people who come will have known him personally. And I think, Persephone, if you agree, a quartet or quintet to play the Mozart, a little unconventional perhaps, but again it would help capture the essential personality of the man.’

  Persephone did agree; and also to Jillie’s faltering request that they might for the recessional have ‘Isn’t This a Lovely Day to be Caught in the Rain?’

  ‘I know it’s very unconventional, but he so loved all that kind of music, as well as the classical, and that was his favourite song of all. I think he’d like it, but not, of course, if you’d find it wrong.’

  ‘Not wrong at all. Very, very right,’ Persephone said.

  The obituaries had been almost elegiac: The Times pronounced Ned, one of the most brilliant young surgeons of his generation, and the Telegraph, a visionary in the world of children’s medicine. The Sunday Times ran a short article, written by Josh, referring to his academic brilliance; his unfaltering courage in the war as commander of three torpedo ships, and his mention in dispatches; and then his skill as a distinguished paediatrician and a pioneer in the reform of pastoral care of children in hospital. The article was illustrated by a photograph of Ned in a hospital ward, looking absurdly handsome, holding a small blonde girl in his arms, her mother smiling beside them.

  There had been a post-mortem and there would be an inquest, of course, but the coroner had released Ned’s body early. The night before the service, Jillie asked Persephone very gently if she would like to go and see him before the coffin was closed.

  ‘I would absolutely hate it, darling, thank you, not because I’m squeamish or anything, but because it won’t be him so what would be the point?’

  They both wondered, even to one another, about the man Ned had found so recently, and loved so briefly. Would he come forward, would he declare himself to them, or would he just come quietly and anonymously to the service? They hoped he knew about it. ‘Of course, he’ll have seen the obituaries,’ Jillie said. ‘There’s no more we can do. Poor, poor man. Oh, it’s so sad …’

  They woke to rain on the day of the funeral; Persephone phoned Jillie.

  ‘You see. No God. All those prayers …’

  She arrived at the church an hour early; Harriet, the florist, was still working. The church was a great bower of flowers, everything white and pale blue – lilies, roses, stephanotis, scabious and love-ina-mist – with huge urns, looking like seventeenth-century paintings, either side of the altar steps where the coffin would stand. Persephone winced at the supports, already in place. Small vases stood on every windowsill, with candles on either side of them, and at the end of each pew, a single lily, tied with a white ribbon.

  ‘Oh,’ said Persephone. ‘Oh, Harriet, it’s beautiful. So lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘I do hope it’s all right. I was afraid it was a bit – a bit happy, but the service is called a celebration and –’

  ‘No, no, the happier the better. That’s what we’re trying to do, you’re right. That’s what we said. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘I didn’t know Ned, of course,’ said Harriet, weaving a thread of gypsophila through the pulpit garland. ‘But I’ve built up such a picture of him, hearing you all talk, and he was obviously the most lovely man, very, very special.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Persephone. ‘Yes, he was. Very special indeed.’

  The organist arrived, came to speak to her, said how lovely the flowers were.

  ‘Aren’t they. Is it still raining?’

  ‘No, it’s stopped. Pretty grey, but not raining. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit up there in my loft and just strum away for a bit.’

  Glorious strains of Wagner and then Mozart filled the church; it didn’t sound too much like strumming to Persephone.

  She sat and looked at flowers, and thought about her beloved Ned, who she had loved so much and who had been taken from her by his father and the law when he was only four, a solemn brown-eyed little boy, his shining dark hair flopping over his brow, with a slow, cautious smile, and a laugh that bubbled and leapt out of him. But she could not entirely blame the law: most of the blame was her own; she should have stayed, not run away, kept him her own. Only – James had disliked her so much, disapproved of her so deeply. How had they got married, how could they have thought it was in any way a proper match? He had been handsome, of course, and rich, and she had been only seventeen and by the time she discovered her mistake there was Ned.

  Persephone dropped her face into her hands and wept, as she had been weeping so many times over the past two weeks.

  ‘Persephone, I’m here.’ It was Jillie. ‘Mummy and Daddy are just coming. We wanted to be early, we thought you might be here.’

  Persephone looked at her through swimming brown eyes and said, ‘Oh, Jillie, thank God for you. Please sit with me, you and your parents. Then I can be brave.’

  �
��Of course. I just hope I can be too. And you know, it’s stopped raining. So – there might be a God.’

  Persephone looked at her and blew her nose, wiped her eyes.

  ‘I want a bit better than that,’ she said. And managed to smile.

  Jillie sat next to Persephone and held her hand, very lightly; her father’s hand she clung to rather more fervently. She was dreading more than anything the entry of the coffin; that would finalise it, make it real. Make their parting truly for always: that dreadful evening when he had told her he couldn’t marry her and she had thought her heart would break was still, in part, the stuff that dreams were made of. While Ned was still alive, she could love him, even while at first she had hated him; he occupied the earth, he breathed the air, he moved, he laughed, he talked. Now that he was not alive, he was still, silent, solemn and she could love only his memory, fading with time as it must.

  The church was filling up now, rows and rows of people, all come to say goodbye. She didn’t recognise many of them: some powerful and important, some quite the reverse. There were the distinguished surgeons who had guided Ned’s early career, two of his tutors from Cambridge, the dean of the medical school at St Bartholomew’s, and Sir Digby Harrington from St Luke’s, who, as she would have expected, was looking carefully sorrowful. A row of pretty young St Mary’s nurses, and – how dare he come, how dare he – Sir Neil Lawson, who had threatened and virtually sacked Ned, made his life so wretched, looking painfully solemn.

  There was another group, she had no idea who: three or four couples, the women all in tailored black, all wearing pearl chokers, the men in what were clearly Savile Row suits, with highly polished shoes, stern expressions. And then she saw that, pinned to the lapels of their suits, were rows of medals and realised: Ned’s contemporaries in the navy. How nice that they came, after all that time. He had clearly made his mark even there.

  Then there were several obviously poor families, sitting together in the pews at the back leaving those further forward empty, clearly feeling it was not their place to occupy them; the fathers stiffly awkward in seldom worn suits, the mothers in dark Sunday-best dresses, and their children: three or four in leg irons, a couple on crutches, a pale, huge-eyed little girl coughing intermittently, several looking completely healthy but overawed just the same.