‘Oh, look,’ said Diana, ‘it’s Tom Knelston, isn’t it? He looks dreadful.’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Caroline. ‘Diana, I completely forgot to tell you, how awful of me. Poor, poor man, the most dreadful thing, absolute tragedy.’
‘What?’ said Diana, craning her neck to look back at Tom, who she could now see was carrying a huge armful of wild flowers,
‘His wife and baby both died.’
‘Died? Both of them? How terrible. I wish I’d known, I’d have written . . .’
‘I’m sure you would. I’ve been so distracted, this year, with the wedding and everything. I am sorry. Yes, it was just before last Christmas.’
‘Last Christmas! Oh, Mummy, that’s appalling, you should have told me! Why, how, whatever happened?’
‘Some freak gynaecological thing, his mother told me. Everything seemed fine, she was three weeks away from having the baby, and . . .’
They had reached the Manor House by the time Caroline had relayed the tragedy; Diana jumped out of the car. ‘I’m going back. I must speak to him, he must have thought none of us cared. Honestly, Mummy, I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’
‘Well, darling, I’m sorry,’ said Caroline, slightly irritably now. ‘It’s not as if he’s a friend or anything. I didn’t think you’d be so upset—’
‘It doesn’t matter that I’m upset. It’s him, for God’s sake. Anyway, I’m off to find him. Don’t wait lunch if I’m not back. And tell Nanny to make sure Jamie has his cod liver oil. I think it got forgotten yesterday in all the excitement. Oh, here, take my hat, would you?’
‘If I didn’t know it was impossible,’ said Caroline to her husband, looking after Diana as she strode down the drive, ‘I’d say she felt something more for that boy than sympathy.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘She hardly knows him. And he’s the postman’s son, for God’s sake.’
Tom was just getting up from where he had been sitting by Laura and Hope’s grave when he heard Diana’s voice. He tried to visit them most Sundays; being so near to her was comforting. He would sit actually on the grave, his hand resting on the headstone, the lovely headstone, so simple, no angels or flowers or crosses, just the words that he had spent so many hours and so much heartache getting exactly to his satisfaction. Laura Knelston, it said, beloved of Tom Knelston. And Hope, their daughter, beloved of them both, and with Laura for ever.
People had queried the wording, had said endlessly, surely he meant to say ‘beloved wife of Tom Knelston’ but he said, no, the fact that she had been his wife was of no real importance, what mattered was that she had been his beloved; had filled his life with happiness, with tenderness, with joy. It was important that people should know about Hope too, that she, although no one had known her, except him for the briefest while, was a part of him, and of Laura, and even while taking her mother away from him, she was important; she had made them a family, however briefly and sadly. For a while, she had been so very much alive; she had lain in their bed at night, a small important presence, albeit unborn, moving, kicking, making them laugh, a promise of their future, of the family they would shortly be. He would never forget, ever, he knew, the hour he had spent with her, holding her, looking at her small, peaceful face, her perfect, beautiful self; he would never know more of her than that, but he did have it, the memory of that presence, that beauty, and it was a great deal more than nothing, lying beneath the earth in her mother’s arms.
He would talk to Laura, telling her everything he had been doing, how much he missed her, who he had seen, what they had said, that without her he was only half himself. He tried, tried so hard, to live on as she would have wished. He could imagine her impatient disdain if he spent all his days grieving, spreading sorrow: ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she would say, ‘is this all you can manage for me? I’m really not very impressed, Tom.’
What he tried to manage for her was something quite different, requiring a courage he could not have summoned without her, without having lived with her and loved her and known her: the courage to smile, to talk to people, to care about all that they had shared together, the ideas, the ideals, the plans, the future, to show that she had not lived in vain. That was her legacy, through him; and he refused to squander it through grief.
He told her if he had enjoyed something, if someone had made him laugh, would give her the most minute details of political meetings, anything ridiculous, or pompous, of any new members, especially ones he thought she would like. He told her about days in the office, about how hard Betty tried to cheer him up, about how continuingly upset Mr Pemberton was.
‘Sometimes I quite dread it,’ he had said, only that morning. ‘He is so sympathetic, but I could do with a bit less of hearing about how lonely I must be, and how sad.’
Mr Pemberton had even taken to suggesting they went to the pub together for a drink after work on Fridays. ‘I can’t refuse, of course, but we sit there, not talking much, and always, when he thinks it’s time to go, he says, “Well, Tom, what would we do without each other these days.” ’
He had had some special news for her that day; that he was about to be admitted as a solicitor, fully qualified, an incredible achievement, the result of so much work, so much determination. It hurt to tell her, thinking how proud she would be, how joyful, how full of admiration; but at the same time, knowing those things gave him a kind of pleasure. And at the same time, pain; and even as he thought he must be getting back, leave her for now, as he kissed his fingers and ran them over her name, the letters were blurred with tears. He stood up, then, forcing a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Laura. Sorry.’
And then he heard his name called; and a few yards away from him he saw Diana standing there.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, hello.’ And stood, not sure what to do or say further; but in a moment of extraordinary and unexpected gentleness, she stepped forward and reached up and kissed his cheek and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. So very sorry. I didn’t know, or I would have come to find you before.’
He was astonished by it; by the gentleness, and even more by her courage in coming to him. So many people avoided him, pretended they hadn’t seen him; he had even known them cross the street as he approached rather than confront his grief. It was a mystery to him, this behaviour. What could they fear should they approach him and say how sorry they were? That he would break down, or even turn away from them himself? Was his pain really of so little importance to them, less than their own embarrassment, that they were not prepared to risk it, to risk some kindness, some concern?