‘Yes, me too. Look, Jillie – Jillie, I wonder – could you regard what happened as a bit of foolishness? We’re such good friends, and we do enjoy our Sundays – and it’s not as if we’ve fallen in love or anything. And I thought – well, I would so like us to stay friends. Go for the odd drive. It seems silly to throw all that pleasure away.’
Either he was extremely stupid, Jillie thought, or he was a fantasist. Or he really couldn’t face life without her. Whatever the reason, she knew what she must do.
‘I mean – it won’t happen again,’ he said. ‘The – the foolishness, I mean. So what do you think?’
‘I think,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm, ‘that’s not a good idea. I really do. I’ve enjoyed our Sundays too, but – no, Julius. Goodbye.’
And she put the phone down. It had been quite horribly tempting. A reprieve at least from pain and loneliness and disappointment: but only a reprieve.
For a little while, she felt a glow of virtue and calm from knowing she had done the right thing. It didn’t last for very long.
‘Mr Welles! Glad I caught you. Wonder if you could spare me a minute of your very valuable time.’
It was the chairman of the board of governors of St Luke’s, Sir Neil Lawson, a gentle-voiced tyrant and professor of cardiology; it was said that he was the only living being who could make Matron feel nervous. Ned was certainly no exception.
‘Yes, of course, Sir Neil. Now?’
‘No time like the present. My office, five minutes?’
‘I’ll be there.’
Sir Neil’s office was large, overlooking the gardens of the hospital; every inch of wall space was taken up by framed certificates, telling of triumphs in examinations, honorary degrees of universities, international awards, and photographs of himself at what were clearly important ceremonies, or shaking hands with distinguished people from the Duke of Edinburgh downwards.
He was a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair and steely grey eyes, and wore, no matter what the season, a black worsted three-piece suit with a white shirt and a bow tie in a rather bilious green with white spots.
Ned knocked on the door, and on the imperious command of ‘Come’ went in. He knew at once he was for it; Sir Neil had his back to him, studying the gardens, and did not turn round for a full minute. When he did so, he greeted Ned with a charming smile.
‘Mr Welles, do please sit down.’
Ned sat on the chair on the other side of the desk, and waited.
It didn’t take long to begin.
‘Mr Welles, I understand you are doing the most splendid work in paediatrics; particularly in the area of premature infants and their incompetent lungs. We are fortunate to have you with us.’
Ned waited. This in no way accounted for the general aura of displeasure, conveyed by Sir Neil’s icy stare that had immediately followed the charming smile. He was right.
‘However,’ said Sir Neil, ‘I have received some – complaints would be too strong a word – criticism, about one aspect of your wards and your running of them.’
‘Really?’ said Ned.
‘Yes. I speak of what appears to be almost a fixation about the children in those wards and their mothers. You will know, I imagine, to what I refer?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Ned. ‘And if it appears a fixation, then that only reflects the depth of my concern.’
‘Which is?’
‘That the children are not just unhappy, but disturbed by the disappearance of their mothers for several days and at worst, weeks, at a time.’
‘Yet they respond to your treatment or surgery, they recover, they are reunited with their mothers and they go home healed.’
‘Apparently healed,’ said Ned. ‘Physically, yes, but I have come to believe, talking to the mothers when they bring their children for post-operative checks, that the trauma to the children of the separation is considerable. They have nightmares, they are anxious, clinging, they cry easily.’
‘Oh, please. All children cry.’
‘Not to the extent some of these children do.’
‘Could it be that they are the more difficult, over-sensitive children, hospitalised or not?’
‘It could,’ said Ned. ‘But I do not believe so. When I do my night rounds, I invariably find several of the children weeping silently, in a state of what I can only describe as despair. I try to comfort them, to reassure them, but—’
‘Yes, and it is this that various sisters have complained about.’
‘Complained? They haven’t done so to me.’
‘Well, that would be difficult for them, wouldn’t it? Your being their consultant. But I understand that other children wake, there is a general air of confusion, disarray, in the wards – and this isn’t a good thing in a hospital. Calm and quiet is what we look for in all our wards, Mr Welles. But particularly in the paediatric ones. Calm and quiet heal as much as good medicine and good nursing do.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Neil, but I would put it to you that the calm and quiet we require of these children is frequently the calm and quiet of despair, not order.’
‘And I would put it to you, Mr Welles, that in the opinion of myself and several of my colleagues you are wrong, that you disrupt and disturb the children in your reforming zeal.’
Ned was silent; then Sir Neil said, ‘I hear that you have some idea that if the mothers stayed with the children all day, then the children would be happier.’
‘Yes, and recover faster, sleep better –’
‘And do you not think the mild chaos you are causing at night would be hugely multiplied by day, wards full of ignorant mothers, getting in the way of the nurses?’
‘With respect, Sir Neil, I think the mothers could be a great help with washing, feeding, playing with their children, reading to them –’
‘Mr Welles,’ said Sir Neil, his voice heavy with distaste, ‘we are trying to run a hospital here, not some kind of children’s party. Now can we have no more of this, please.’
‘So you won’t even consider my ideas?’ said Ned. This was a mistake.
‘No, I won’t. And I don’t want to hear them mentioned to anyone. Next thing we know, the mothers will be demanding access to their children whenever they fancy and I will not have it. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Ned, careful with his words as always. ‘Quite clear. Thank you.’
‘Josh? Tom Knelston.’
Josh felt a rush of panic. He had tried very hard to forget the image of Tom on Diana’s doorstep, being greeted by what could only be described as an inviting kiss – and failed.
He had been shocked: profoundly, morally shocked. He was aware that this was scarcely a suitable emotion for a journalist to experience. But while Tom and he might not have been the close friends people assumed, given that he had been best man at his wedding, they were friends; and until then he had liked him as a man, and admired him as a politician in waiting. Far closer, though, was the other link: that his cousin Jillie was Alice Knelston’s best friend. Jillie adored Tom, she thought he was wonderful.
‘Yes?’ he said now, hearing his own voice cooler than usual.