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 elapsed; 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