‘Tom? It’s Alice. Yes, Kit’s fine. I’m afraid I just had a phone call from a journalist. Yes. No, not the Daily News, the Sketch. God knows. Well, he came through to the room, and asked me if I was Mrs Knelston. I asked who was calling and he told me. His name was Ricky something. He wanted to speak to you. What? Well, of course I didn’t. I said you were out at the moment. Then he asked me how long you’d be and I put the phone down. No, he hasn’t rung again, but I’m afraid he will. If he does, what do you want me to do?’
Well, it had happened now, and there was nothing to be done about it. Or was there? Should he talk to this journalist, try to have a reasonable conversation with him, put his case – Kit dangerously ill, rare condition, knew surgeon personally – or what? Refuse to speak to him? Deny it? Could hardly do that, the man had already spoken to Alice.
Once he could have asked Josh for help but Josh was quite possibly writing his own article, denouncing him as a hypocrite. He deserved that, Tom thought. How had it happened, how had he turned into this prime shit? Who had repeatedly slept with a woman who was not his wife. God, it would serve him right if Josh put that into his article too – this shit who told lies easily and thoughtlessly, who was foul tempered with his family, totally unappreciative of his wife. What, in the name of heaven, would Laura think of him now?
‘Well, let’s see if you can get hold of the bloke,’ said Bob March, news editor of the Sketch. ‘Not that much to go on if you can’t. And he’s of no great interest to anybody except his constituents. You make him sound as if he was Nye Bevan himself.’
‘But he wants to be,’ said Ricky. ‘That’s the whole point. He came into politics because of Bevan. He hero-worships him, never stops quoting him – he’s a bloody hypocrite.’
‘Yeah, I know, but they all are. As I say, if you can’t get a quote from him, it’s not really worth a row of beans. Full marks for initiative, though, young Barnes. Well done.’
Ricky didn’t want full marks, he wanted to write his story. He lit yet another Woody and dialled St Mary’s number again. This time they didn’t put him through. He tried the Labour Party headquarters in Purbridge and asked if Tom Knelston was there, and got very short shrift. And Tom Knelston’s home number was perpetually engaged. There really was sweet FA he could do.
Unless he went to his home – it was only in Acton – and doorstepped him. It would be better than nothing.
‘Josh? Josh, it’s Tom. Look, I’m very sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’
‘No,’ said Josh, ‘you shouldn’t. What do you want?’
‘Your advice,’ said Tom. ‘The Sketch are on to me.’
‘Could be worse. Could be the Express. Right-wing righteous indignation is a terrible thing.’
‘But what should I do? What’s the best way to deal with it?’
‘What do you mean by “on to” you exactly?’
Tom told him.
‘Give him a quote, otherwise he’ll just make it up. Don’t blame it on Alice, just say you were desperately worried, Kit was clearly extremely ill, you weren’t getting anywhere with your GP or you couldn’t get hold of him, and you knew someone at St Mary’s who could see you at once. It doesn’t sound too clever, whatever you say, smacks of hypocrisy, which it is – I know, I know – but it’ll give him something to write. Refuse to say any more, tell him you’ve got to get off to see Kit, or bath the children, anything really. Tell Alice not to speak to any of the press, obviously. I’ll write something similar if you like –’
‘Josh. I can’t expect you to do that.’
‘To be honest, Tom, it’s purely self-interest. If Clive sees this story in the Sketch and I’ve come up with nothing he’ll think I’m useless. Does Ned know about this, by the way?’
‘No. Not as far as I know.’
‘He won’t be pleased. He hates any sort of publicity and this isn’t the best sort. Inevitably his name will come into it. You’d better tell him, before you do anything else.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Tom. ‘This gets worse and worse.’
Alice was reading to Kit; he was just growing drowsy. His temperature had gone up in the afternoon, over a hundred and one; the nurse in charge of him had called the house doctor, and the house doctor, who had never seen a case of intussusception before, and didn’t know exactly what he was dealing with, was a little alarmed and called Ned as he had been instructed.
Ned had come at once; he was clearly in a bad mood, not entirely due to the news that the press were, as Alice put it, ‘about’.
‘I suppose it was inevitable,’ he said. ‘Well, as long as they don’t start trying to get into the premises. Last time something like this happened, a reporter pretended to be delivering some drugs or something, and got into a patient’s room, complete with tape recorder. They really are an appalling lot. Josh being a notable exception, of course. I sometimes wonder what he’s doing in that business.’
Alice looked alarmed. ‘I hope no one will get in here.’
‘Of course they won’t,’ said Ned irritably. ‘Our security is much better now. Anyway, Kit’s fine. Possibly a minor infection, nothing serious – we might give him a dose of penicillin. It is the end of the day, temperatures often go up. Well, you should know that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Alice meekly, ‘it was just that the house doctor thought –’
‘Yes, yes, I realise that. Well, I hope you have a reasonable night with him. I’ll look in again in the morning.’
‘There’s no need –’
‘Well, you don’t know that, do you?’ said Ned, his voice distinctly edgy. ‘Hopefully not, but let’s make that judgement tomorrow. Goodnight, Alice.’
‘Goodnight, Ned. Thank you.’
She smiled rather nervously at him as he left; she hadn’t seen him anything but composed and charming before.
Tom had undressed Lucy and was about to put her in the bath when there was a ring at the door; maybe it was Mrs Hartley, returning Charlie. He wrapped Lucy in a towel, carried her downstairs, and opened the door. A young – very young – man stood there, holdall at his feet. Tom thought at first he was a door-to-door salesman, ‘Good evening, Mr Knelston. Ricky Barnes, Sketch.’
He rummaged in the holdall and pulled out a notebook.
Some kind of void opened up in Tom’s guts. He felt violently sick. He actually thought he was going to shit himself, or throw up. This, on top of a very emotional hour with Diana, was unbearable. Thank God she had gone at least. The visits could have coincided. He leaned against the door post, took a deep breath and said, ‘I have nothing to say to you, I’m sorry.’
‘Not even about your little boy? Who’s been very ill, I understand. How is he, Mr Knelston?’
‘He’s – a bit better. Thank you.’
‘I’m glad. But – still in hospital?’
‘Yes. Of course. He had major surgery yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes. At St Mary’s Hospital Chelsea, I believe.’
‘I don’t propose to discuss that with you,’ said Tom.
‘I see. St Mary’s is a private hospital, is it not?’
‘I said I wouldn’t discuss it.’
‘Interesting choice, given that you are a member of the Labour Party, and a great fan of the National Health Service, wouldn’t you say? And the general election only a few days away. I’m just wondering how your constituents would feel about that.’
And then Tom made his fatal mistake.