The piece was not run under Josh’s byline, but as a leader in the paper. ‘It’ll have more authority that way,’ Harry Campbell said. ‘The paper’s view, rather than that of one single person – but good work, Josh. I’ll rework it myself, I’ll enjoy it. Haven’t written a leader for months.’ Josh sighed, but he had been half-expecting this.
Headed ‘Living with the Fear’, the article called for an urgent review of the laws regarding homosexuality, in order that men of all sexual persuasions may live quietly at home, with a chosen partner. That is all we would ask of those that create and then vote upon the laws of this country. We do not condone the excesses, the more unsavoury aspects, of the homosexual lifestyle; but the vast majority of these men do not indulge in any such practices. These are law-abiding, worthy citizens, who live out frequently lonely lives in the shadow of blackmail and the constant fear of arrest. We have in this country what amounts to a witch hunt, an echo of McCarthyism. It is not an attractive sight. There are encouraging signs: MPs on both sides of the House are of the same opinion, and indeed a change in the law is, we are told, under consideration, at least by the Home Secretary.
It took some courage for Harry Campbell to give the final go-ahead to the article, that time which another great editor was later to call the lonely hour. He knew the uproar it would create, that at worst the proprietors of the Daily News would call for his resignation. He had to persuade them of the rightness of his decision to run the piece, and that had been difficult enough, but he knew that if public and official opinion went against the paper, they would demand his head on a plate without a second thought. But he took the risk: and he was right. On balance, it seemed to be agreed amongst his readers that the paper’s view was a not unreasonable one. There was the inevitable soar in circulation figures on the day of publication and the few following, as letters poured in, many from that most famous scribe ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, but many too from supporters in the establishment professions: solicitors, teachers, even the Church, mainly anonymous, but a few signed.
A few weeks later, there were signs of a small but steady climb in circulation, as the readership welcomed the paper’s thoughtful, liberal attitudes.
‘Yes, of course I read it,’ said Ned to Diana; she had requested his company for dinner the week after the article came out. ‘I thought it was very good.’
‘Do you think it’ll help?’
‘Maybe, a bit. Any easing of public opinion is welcome.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Oh, Diana, I don’t know. Look, I’d rather not talk about it here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Here’ was the Caprice, her choice. Ned didn’t really like it very much; the food was good, but the pink tablecloths always made him feel faintly bilious.
He looked at her closely. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’
‘Me? How could I have? How’s it all going at St Luke’s? Are you happy there?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m fighting a bit of a battle at the moment. Well, quite a big battle. It could turn out to be a war.’
‘Goodness. Who with?’
‘Sir Digby. Your friend from the ball.’
‘Oh, him. Nasty piece of work. What on earth are you fighting him about? I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ned.’
‘You sound like my mother – she really took against him.’
‘Did she?’ said Diana, her voice over-casual.
‘Yes, said he was a pompous old fart and she wouldn’t trust him further than she could spit.’
‘I’m with her there. I really wouldn’t get on the wrong side of him, Ned. Anyway, what are you fighting with him about?’
‘My new crusade. Allowing mothers into hospital with their children.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s such a good crusade. Well done you; I suppose he’s totally opposed?’
‘Yes, of course. He positively enjoys seeing these wards full of listless, miserable children. And what makes it worse, if one of the mothers does come in, if there’s a crisis of some sort, they become terribly upset when she has to go again, crying, screaming even. And then all the nurses – who’ve been ingrained in this ghastly doctrine – say there, you see, he or she was much better when the mother wasn’t coming in. Much more settled. How I’ve come to hate that word. When I do my rounds at night, sometimes, at least a quarter of the children are crying, most of them silently. It’s heartbreaking.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘Oh, I try to comfort them, find their teddies and so on. I’d read stories if Sister would allow it, but of course, she thinks I’m being ridiculous. Sorry, am I being boring?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Diana. ‘It’s fascinating. But you couldn’t have mothers with every child, surely? Just hanging round, getting in the way? It would be chaos.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t. They could help with mealtimes, washing, all the things the nurses are too busy for. And settling the children for the night. I absolutely know it would be better for everyone. Most of all, the children would be far easier to look after medically, if they were relaxed and happy.’
‘And is Sir Digby actively against you?’
‘That’s an understatement. We had a meeting about it the other day, and he said I was making a mountain out of a very small molehill, that children were in here to be made well, not mollycoddled.’
‘It’s a pity your father isn’t still alive, he could help.’
‘My father? I don’t think so, Diana. You’re talking about the man who sent me off to school at seven.’
‘Oh – hello.’
It was Julius.
He had phoned Jillie the Friday after Dressing Table Sunday as she thought of it and said, ‘Well, your car or mine?’
‘Sorry?’ she said, stupid with surprise.
‘I thought we’d agreed on a spin on the heath – or even a bit further today?’
‘Oh – yes.’
‘Are you not free?’ he said and his tone was so disappointed she almost laughed for joy.
‘Yes, yes, I’m free. Oh, do bring your car, much less complicated. I can’t wait to see it.’ And then, her voice politely hopeful, ‘Will Nell be with you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘As I told you, she likes to keep Sundays for herself. She’ll be really glad to know I’m busy, and in no danger of turning up on her doorstep.’
‘But does she know in what way you’re going to be busy?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I will tell her, of course. You know, Jillie, I’m my own man, as I read somewhere the other day.’
She could hear the smile in his voice, and that made her able to suddenly see it; he had a rather particular smile that she had noticed that first evening, which started as a look of extra seriousness and then slowly, almost cautiously, became the wide, delighted grin. Dear God, she was smitten with this man.
That first Sunday had been fine; he’d turned up in his truly glorious 1935 Bentley Saloon, dark green, with swooping running board, huge chrome fog lights and a cluster of smaller ones above the front bumper.