Laura too liked the heady bracing air, replacing the gentle southern breezes of Hampshire, the apparently limitless landscape, the grey sea reaching out to infinity. It was cold and she liked that too; her head felt very clear, her energies increased.
‘Maybe one day, you might be an MP for some northern constituency, and we could come to live up there with the children. I like Mrs Higgins too, I like her bluntness. I’ve heard this about northern folk, how they call a spade a spade, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, well, what we can definitely do,’ said Tom, ‘next summer, we could all come, bring the baby up for a holiday, let him – her – ride on the donkeys, show her how to dig sandcastles. It’d be so lovely.’
‘It would,’ said Laura, reaching up to kiss him. ‘Although not many babies nine months old can ride a donkey. I know she’s going to be a genius, but . . .’
Next morning – after Mrs Higgins’s magnificent breakfast of bacon, eggs, black pudding, mushrooms and fried bread, followed by hot toast and marmalade and as much tea as they could drink – they walked down to the ballroom and enrolled; then they attended their first session, followed by another and another and yet another. It was a heavy schedule; they had not expected to be so fully occupied. Some of the speakers were inspiring, some brilliant, some frankly dull.
There were a great many drinks parties and dinners as well, to most of which they were not invited, hosted by legendary names and bodies: the BBC, the great unions, the newspapers. The most impossible party to get into, unless you were a truly great name, Mr Roberts had told them on the train as they travelled up, clearly eager to show off his knowledge, was the Daily Mirror bash.
‘Hugh Cudlipp – you’ll have heard of him, brilliant chap, been editing the paper since he was twenty-six. He’s Welsh, so you’ll approve, Tom. Commercial traveller’s son, bit like your Aneurin. They’re friends, of course. Keep an eye open for him. He’s not very tall, crinkly fair hair, always in a rush, never stops talking. Or drinking,’ he added, slightly disapprovingly.
A great deal of drinking went on. After every major speech, which meant after every session, people gathered to pass opinions and drink. Tom saw Bevan several times, beaming benignly, a glass of beer in his hand; and he did catch sight of the great Cudlipp, recognisable from his photographs, pushing his way impatiently through the crowds. They were all there, the great names, Attlee, Herbert Morrison, Ernest Bevin, Stafford Cripps, Denis Healey and of course, making Laura’s entire week, the glamorous redhead, Barbara Castle. Tom felt he had strayed into some new, magical kingdom, where anything was possible.
Bevan’s speech was inevitably the highlight for Tom; he stood on the platform, his wonderful voice turning his vision of free healthcare for all into poetry, a kind of anthem, utterly at ease, yet filled with his extraordinary energy, his unique style; it was said it was almost unreportable, his ability to mix – as Michael Foot famously put it years later – fire and ice.
And, of course, Tom spoke. At a small hall, outside the main conference area; the meeting was sponsored by the Lest We Forget Association founded to support the ex-servicemen. Tom was an active and loyal member of the Hilchester branch. He was so nervous beforehand, he was completely unable to eat all day; but as always, as soon as he began, his passion for the subject and his concern for the cause absolutely overtook him and filled his head and his heart and his voice. There was more than one quite seasoned delegate at the meeting who felt that a part of the future stood before him. He spoke, most touchingly, of an event he had attended at Stoke Mandeville Hospital where many paralysed patients were cared for and helped as far as was possible in rehabilitation. ‘I went to an archery competition in the grounds, and every entrant was in a wheelchair. It was wonderful to see the spirit of competition and excitement experienced by men who a year or so ago must have felt their lives were quite over.’
When the meeting ended, he and Laura went out into the dusk and walked for over an hour along the sands, silent at first; Laura had been taken unawares by the pride she had felt in Tom that evening, and perhaps something more than pride. Looking at him on the platform, with his considerable height, and a little weight put on, she saw how physically impressive he was, even with his limp, and extraordinarily good-looking, pushing back his wild auburn hair, his green eyes blazing from his expressive face. He wasn’t merely Tom to her any more, not merely the husband she loved so much. He was something else, something special: promise, integrity, the future.
They went back to Mrs Higgins’s guest house and climbed the stairs to their room, where they lay in the big bed in silence, holding hands, contemplating, in their different ways, the new future they felt they had discovered and indeed begun.
Chapter 14
1948
‘Excuse me – Miss Curtis?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’
Jillie smiled at him, such a nice young man, tall, good-looking, with amazing green eyes, although he was very pale and almost gaunt-looking.
‘I hope so. Yes. I’m Tom. Tom Knelston. I wrote to you, asked if I could see you and you said to come today.’
‘Oh, of course. Yes, do please forgive me. I’ve been on duty nearly all night, I’d forgotten – only temporarily – you were coming. Shall we go and have a cup of tea somewhere? There’s a good café down the road.’
‘Yes. That might be nice. Thank you.’
His voice was attractive, she thought: deep, almost musical, but again, very weary-sounding. Well, if his wife had just had her baby, he would be weary.
It had been such a nice letter, very brief, simply saying his wife had been seen at the hospital in the spring, for ‘a cervical stitch’ and had told him how kind she’d been, and he’d be very grateful if she could find the time to see him. He had a few questions she might be able to answer. Jillie hoped she’d be able to help. Six more months in the company of Miss Moran had left her uncertain of her own name.
They set off down Grafton Way; it was very cold. Struggling for small talk, Jillie remarked fatuously, she felt, upon how seasonal it was.
‘Perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas,’ she said. ‘Although we had one last year, of course, and that should have cured us all of wanting another for a long time. Did you get snowed up, Mr Knelston?’
Tom said he did, yes, although not till after Christmas. He didn’t expand upon the subject.
‘Right,’ said Jillie, pausing in front of a rather cheerful-looking café, its door hung with paper chains. ‘I quite often come here, it’s very nice. In fact, I’m meeting an old school friend here later for lunch; we’re going to the pictures this afternoon.’
‘That sounds nice,’ he said, and she realised that between everything she said and his answer there was a pause, as if he was digesting with great difficulty what she had said and how he should reply.
She pushed open the door, leading the way into the warm, steamy room. ‘Is that table all right?’