‘Wendelien, one of these days that tongue of yours will get you into real trouble,’ said Ned. ‘So unkind to poor Cecily.’
‘No, just truthful. I’m very nice to her face, of course. Oh look, there they are. And there’s Michael Southcott and lovely Betsey. Look, why don’t we all have a drink first before dinner? Michael, Betsey, over here, look who I’ve found . . .’
‘Ned, my dear old chap, what a treat,’ said Michael, slapping him on the back.
‘Darling Ned,’ said Betsey, kissing him repeatedly. ‘How are you? It’s been much too long.’
‘Well, we’ve all been working much too hard,’ said Ned. ‘That’s the truth of it. I especially had a lot of time to make up after the war. My father breathes fire and brimstone about getting me an honorary at Pete’s –’ this referred to St Peter’s Chelsea – ‘unless I pass every single one of my papers with distinction.’
‘Well, you’ll do that easily,’ Michael said. ‘You always were brilliant. And still keen on doing the old paediatrics, are you?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Ned. ‘It’s something that really fascinates me. Father is still hoping I’ll do general surgery, but I think specialisation is the big thing, especially with all these reforms coming up.’
‘What, bloody Bevan’s?’ said Michael.
‘Yes. Not that I think they’ll make that much difference to us. In the hospitals, I mean. The hospitals were all nationalised during the war – we’re already giving our services free to them.’
‘Ned! Didn’t think you were a pinko. Of course it’ll make a difference. We’ll lose our independence before you can say “scalpel”. Get told what to do, how long to work, how to do it, quite possibly.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Ned, ‘and I’m not a socialist, of course I’m not. But he’s been pretty generous to us, old Bevan. You heard what he said, he was going to stuff our throats with gold. And he is. And we’ll still have our consulting rooms, to do our own work—’
‘Oh, stop, stop it,’ cried Betsey. ‘God, am I tired of the subject of the National Health Service. Let’s find a lovely corner and order some cocktails.’
‘All right,’ said Ned, ‘that’d be fun.’
‘So when are you and Michael getting married?’ Ned asked Betsey, as they settled at a table.
‘In the spring. We thought of sooner, but Princess Elizabeth would steal our thunder a bit, we think. Goodness, now there’s a handsome man, that Philip. So attractive. I met him briefly at a ball at the Docklands Settlement – you see, we do do our bit for the working class – and, well, the old knees went quite weak. Michael’s been quite boring about sticking to the knife-before-wife rule, but now it’s over, I’m quite pleased – it’s been worth the wait. He’s got some marvellous rooms in Welbeck Street, he’s an honorary at the London and we’ve bought just the dearest little house in Kensington.’
‘Kensington?’
‘Yes, it’s the new place, my dear,’ said Betsey, her huge blue eyes dancing. ‘Much more exciting than Knightsbridge – and of course Mayfair is just all hotels now. Kensington is full of young people. Now tell me, Ned, any wedding bells on your horizon yet?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ned quickly. ‘Far too busy at the moment. Plenty of time when I’m settled in my career. Anyway, like you, I’d hate to steal Princess Elizabeth’s limelight . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Wendelien, laughing. ‘Very unselfish of you. The only thing I can’t understand is why she’s chosen November. Such a dreary month.’
‘I know, but the whole idea, I have on the best authority, is to cheer the country up, and I do believe it will.’
‘We’re told she’s having to produce coupons for her dress, just the same as everyone else,’ said Betsey.
‘Oh, darling, really, you can’t believe that nonsense. With the dress being made by Norman Hartnell! And something like two and a half thousand guests! I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I do actually, and I think it’s all lovely,’ said Betsey. ‘And it’s been such a wonderful long romance. Imagine, she first fell in love with him when she was thirteen. And I thought what Sir Winston said about it being a flash of colour on the hard road we have to travel or something romantic like that – exactly right. You see, every single person in the country will come round in the end. It’ll be a wonderful day.’
She was right. Certainly, the juxtaposition of a currency crisis, a cabinet reshuffle and the scheduling of an emergency Budget did not bode well for the occasion; nor a formal protest by a group of Labour MPs to the Chief Whip about the extravagance. But love – or at least romance – carried the day, and into every echelon of society.
Indeed, the night before the wedding Tom came home to find Laura poring over the Daily Mirror, which carried a map of the procession’s route thoughtfully printed for its readers, and the news that people were already staking out places in the Mall.
‘Laura, really,’ said Tom. ‘I’m surprised at you.’
‘I’m a bit surprised at myself,’ said Laura, ‘but I do like Princess Elizabeth –’
‘You can’t like her – you don’t know her.’
‘You know what I mean. She’s so sensible, somehow, did her bit in the war, joined the ATS . . .’
‘Laura, what has got into you? That was a work of fiction. More or less.’
‘No, it wasn’t. There were lots of pictures of her doing work with vehicles. And she was in uniform. I mean, Princess Margaret, she’s different. Always at nightclubs and things –’
‘Laura! I think being pregnant must be affecting your brain. I would never have believed you could even read such rubbish, never mind believe it.’
‘Well, it probably is,’ said Laura placidly, ‘but even your Mr Bevan seems to approve of it.’
The point was, it seemed, that a young and handsome prince and a beautiful and radiant princess proved in the end irresistible; there was a need for a fairy story, and that grey November day provided it with delightful aplomb and, as it proved, perfect timing.
Chapter 13
1948
It was quite – no, it was extremely – no, so far it had been unbearably painful. Or was she just a coward, making a fuss about nothing? In which case, how was she to cope with childbirth itself? The doctor – not the empathetic young woman she had imagined would be caring for her, at this mecca for care of women by women, but a tough, hard-faced, middle-aged creature with rough, probing fingers – was approaching her again, followed by what seemed like a crowd of young women.
‘Gather round,’ she said, ‘and listen carefully. This woman, aged twenty-eight, has a history of three spontaneous abortions. Consequently, we make a diagnosis of cervical incompetence.’ Well, that made her feel a real failure, Laura thought and how she hated that word ‘abortion’, her mind cringing from it as her body cringed from the assault it was about to receive. She knew it was the medical term for a miscarriage, but it was so ugly, sounded so harsh. ‘Therefore she would seem a good candidate for cervical cerclage.’