‘I’ve come to face the music,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
The long-suffering Christine Herbert feared that Donald might actually have his much-anticipated heart attack as he worked his way through the papers like some huge, clumsy beast, roaring with rage as he came upon each new headline, burying his head in his hands at some particularly damning detail, hurling each publication onto the floor as he finished reading it, dialling and redialling Tom’s number, and cursing whatever malevolent fate had caused it to become unobtainable. Finally, through them all, he left the breakfast table and reappeared, a large glass of whisky in his hand.
‘And don’t tell me I shouldn’t be drinking it at this time of day,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Nothing else is going to get me through this. Stupid fucking young idiot. Now, where are my glasses?’
Christine said she had no idea; in fact, Donald had pushed them up onto the top of his head. It was a small but sweet piece of revenge, watching him continue to hunt for them.
Ned, who had visited the hospital early and talked to Alice, bought the papers on the way home and read them with great sadness. Josh’s article, by far the most sympathetic, would only resonate with the Daily News readers, few of whom would be Tom’s putative constituents. They would most likely be shaking their heads over the Sketch and wondering if they should vote Liberal by way of protest; and any waverers, who might have come down on the Labour side of the scales, would be stabbing at the paper with their forefingers and saying there you are, politicians were all the same, liars and hypocrites who, when push came to shove, were only interested in themselves and what they could get out of any situation. None of it was very good publicity for the hospital either, presenting it somehow as a symbol of class injustice. It was sad, too, to see the NHS presented as a kind of very poor relation to which no one would go if they had a choice.
Jillie only saw the Daily News and felt very sad and fearful for Alice, for Tom, and for their joint future, wondering if she should have directed Alice to take Kit to casualty, rather than to Ned. But no, he had been a very sick little boy, suffering from something extremely rare which only a paediatric specialist would recognise, and such beings were not always available at short notice in a large general hospital.
She was sure, however, that Alice was going through all sorts of tortuous hoops. She would ring her at the hospital, go and see her if she liked. She had nothing else to do, Patrick being away for the weekend, visiting his parents. But first she had some important news for Ned.
‘So how are we going to handle this?’ said Tom.
‘What do you mean?’
In spite of hearing Tom’s version of the story, Colin was still hostile. ‘I can see there wasn’t a lot you could do,’ he said. ‘But you could have at least given out a proper statement, about how ill Kit was, and how the surgeon was a personal friend, taken the edge off it a bit.’
‘Colin,’ said Tom patiently. ‘You haven’t even got any children, let alone a sick one, but if one of them was in real danger of dying I doubt you’d have made what you said to the press top priority. We were off our heads with worry, my only concern was Kit and whether he’d pull through. What we’ve got to do now is get across to the voters how it was. How can we do that? I don’t mind addressing a few meetings, knocking on some doors.’
Colin smiled rather feebly. ‘We haven’t got any meetings until this afternoon, but we can go knocking on doors. You might get a few rotten eggs thrown at you, but it’ll be a good way of testing the water. You had any breakfast? Because you’re going to need it.’
The door knocking was as tedious and unproductive as usual, more people irritated at having their Sunday dinner disturbed than concerned about which sort of hospital their candidate had taken his small son to. Tom got a bit of a rough reception, mostly from men who’d spent an hour or two downing pints at the pub, telling him they’d read about him in the papers and thought he was a bloody hypocrite, although more often than not their wives would then appear and tell them off for swearing before assuring Tom that any parent would have done the same thing if they’d had the opportunity. The evening meeting, however, threatened to be more difficult, and Tom, most unusually, had a pint with a whisky chaser before going onto the platform.
His audience were mostly hostile; many of them were carrying one or more of the papers, and spoiling for a fight. There were also a couple of reporters.
Tom kept his speech short, then, his heart thumping, asked if there were any questions. A pugnacious-looking man, wearing a check shirt and denims slung under his large belly, stood up, waved the Dispatch at Tom, and said, ‘So what’s wrong with the Health Service then?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tom staunchly. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘So why not take your son there then, rather than some poncey place in the West End?’
‘My son was dangerously ill, with something very rare that the GP hadn’t recognised. It was literally a matter of life and death by Friday. The doctor at St Mary’s was a family friend, he said he could see Kit immediately and having seen him, was able to operate that afternoon.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ said the man, ‘but suppose you hadn’t had this convenient family friend? Then what?’
‘Then I’d have had to take Kit to casualty where the long wait might have been just too long. Look, I admit it doesn’t sound very fair but what would you have done? Can you honestly tell me you’d have risked your child’s life?’
‘Point is,’ said another man, standing up, ‘you happened to have the contacts and the means to save the kid. I’m happy for you, and I’m glad the little feller’s pulled through, but I wonder if you’re the sort of person to represent working people?’
There was a murmur of ‘hear hear’, growing louder,
‘I believe I am,’ said Tom, his voice steady. ‘If I am elected, I can fight for the waiting times to come down, for more highly trained doctors in every local hospital. I can’t do anything if I’m not elected. I believe passionately in the National Health Service, have done from the very beginning. I want it to work for everyone. But it’s not perfect – it’s short of funds. I want to see the money allotted to it doubled, and I shall fight for that if I get in, I promise you.’
‘I’d probably have done the same as you,’ said a rather earnest, well-spoken woman, standing up. ‘Although I’d have felt very guilty.’
‘I did,’ said Tom. ‘Believe me.’
‘I do believe you,’ said the woman. ‘But what I didn’t like was you saying that it was nothing to do with us. If you’re our MP, then it is to do with us; you seem to regard your responsibilities to us rather lightly.’
‘Which I most certainly don’t,’ said Tom. ‘I was horrified when I read that. It was a remark taken out of context –’
‘Oh, spare me,’ said the plaid-shirted man. ‘That old chestnut.’