‘Kit nearly died. He’s still very sick. I’m not having him used as an accessory to some PR campaign.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Tom – what harm will it do? He hasn’t got to do anything.’
‘Yes, he has. He’s got to be photographed. Stranger in the room with a camera. Flashbulbs going off. He’s much too ill for such nonsense.’
A long silence; then, reluctantly, ‘All right, Tom. Have it your own way. But let’s have a picture of you going into the hospital, carrying a big teddy or something. You can give the interview, or quote rather, there and then. How would that be?’
‘Donald, you don’t seem to understand. I’m at home because I’m looking after the other two and because I need to be available to be with Alice, in case something suddenly goes wrong.’
‘Why should it go wrong? He’s had the surgery, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, and as I keep saying, it was quite major and it was only yesterday. Now please, can we stop this nonsense and let me get on with what I’m trying to do, which is take care of the other two children. I’ll go back to Purbridge on Tuesday, as I promised.’
‘Well, give me the name of the hospital at least, so I can—’
But Tom had put the phone down.
Donald was not deterred. He decided to ring a few of the news desks himself, see if he could get them interested.
Tom’s phone rang again, five minutes later. It was his agent.
‘Look, Tom, sorry to hear about your boy. But he’s OK, I understand.’
‘Well, he’s more or less out of danger now, but he’s pretty rotten still.’
‘I can’t tell you how difficult it is for us, coping with this, last weekend before polling day. Can you at least give me a statement I can put out to the local press? It would be such a help.’
Tom thought. ‘Yes, all right, I can do that.’
‘OK then. Soon as you can. Ring the office, give it to them. I’m doing my best out on the stumps without you. And if there’s any chance, Tom, you can get down here sooner –’
‘Yes, all right. But it’s unlikely.’
Tom returned, distracted by a lurking sense of dread, to the already miserable task of looking after Lucy who was now very quiet.
He soon discovered why; she had climbed onto the kitchen table and was eating her way through a jar of honey, dipping her fat little fingers into it and licking them, like a small contented cat.
Ned had woken with an unexpectedly light heart. His future was looking very interesting, he decided. He would be very sorry to leave St Luke’s, but he had his private practice still and although that was hardly going to occupy him full-time there were plenty of other hospitals – less prestigious, perhaps, but maybe that could be for the best; they were perhaps likely to be less set in their ways, to welcome new ideas.
He had told Jillie of his resignation and the reason, as they’d talked that day; she said she had been horrified herself by the misery and fear she had seen inflicted on children in the name of order and efficiency.
‘I’ll tell Uncle William, if you don’t mind. I’m sure he’d be interested too.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a nice morning, very nice actually, the sun had definitely got its hat on, as his nanny used to say. And then there was the wonderful new addition to his life. He smiled foolishly into the shaving mirror as he lathered on Mr Taylor of Jermyn Street’s luxury shaving cream: one of the few rituals he had copied from his father. He wasn’t used to such happiness; it was a delightful sensation.
A quick ward round and then he was free.
Diana was at René’s salon in South Audley Street having her hair done. Tonight she was having dinner with Leo Bennett, and she wanted to look her very best. She had bought a black taffeta and lace dress and she was planning to wear that, with some extremely high heels and her grandmother’s ropes of pearls, so much more beautiful than the modern ones, creamy and so flattering to the skin tone.
She had managed to book with René himself, despite it being Saturday; he was proud of her as a client, and there were several pictures of her hanging in the salon, framed pages from various magazines, mostly Style, and one of the two of them together that had been in Tatler. Of his most famous client, the Queen, there were, of course, no pictures at all. René was famed for his discretion.
Diana was looking forward to the evening; at worst it would be huge fun, like Leo himself, and at best – well, she just had a feeling about him. There was the knee test, of course, that would be interesting.
And then, this afternoon, she was going to make her phone call to Tom.
‘Josh?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Clive. Look, I know you’re not working officially, but I am, and we do have an election on Thursday and . . . do I need to go on?’
‘No,’ said Josh resignedly.
‘Good. I’ve just had a phone call from someone at Transport House PR. About Tom Knelston.’
Josh was silent. He felt instantly apprehensive; anything to do with Tom Knelston inevitably meant trouble,
‘It might make a diary piece. Apparently, he’s deserted his post in Purbridge; one of his children is in hospital having had dangerous surgery – but he’s all right now – and instead of pounding the pavements down there, Tom’s at home minding the kids and being the perfect dad. It wouldn’t be terribly interesting if it wasn’t that Purbridge’s such a close call and it’s political suicide what he’s doing. Give him a ring, there’s a good chap, try and find out what’s going on, where the child is, that sort of thing. Cheers, Josh.’
‘Tom? Tom, it’s Josh. How are you? I hear one of the children is ill.’
‘Yes – Kit,’ said Tom shortly. ‘How did you know? Jillie, I suppose?’
‘No. From Clive actually, Clive Bedford, my boss. It came from the PR department at Transport House, apparently.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Yes. Well, anyway, Clive thinks it could make a diary item.’
‘What, a sick child?’
‘No, you idiot, you not being down in Purbridge where every vote counts. Is Kit very bad?’
‘He was yesterday,’ said Tom bleakly. ‘He could have died.’
‘Christ. No wonder you’re at home. How is he today?’
‘Better, thank you. Out of danger, more or less. But Alice is with him and I want to be on hand, and anyway, there’s the other children.’
‘Yes, of course. So – what was it? Did it mean surgery?’
‘God, yes.’
‘And –?’
‘Well, it was successful and today he’s better,’ said Tom.
‘OK – and what was it?’
‘Something very rare.’
‘God, Tom, don’t go overboard with information, will you? Look, you can just tell me to get off the phone and stop bothering you if you like, but they’re going to go on pestering you if you don’t say something. Especially if I report failure. They’ll start to think there really is something to write about.’
‘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.’