Listening to his speech, Tom felt his heart lift; that alone would have justified his decision to come. But he was rewarded for it personally too, for his courage. It led him into his new future, in a way he could never have expected.
‘Tom Knelston, isn’t it?’ A booming voice spoke out of the din, as he waited to go into a session. Looking round, he saw the huge figure of Donald Herbert bearing down on him. Donald Herbert was one of the big names around the party, a power behind the throne. He ran a hugely successful delivery business: dozens of lorries and vans bearing his name wove their way round the country every day. His employment of hundreds of drivers and his reputation as a generous and infinitely fair boss made him both popular and influential within the TGWU. He had stood for a couple of seats, but failed, rather more spectacularly than his large ego could endure. Now he contented himself with having a large circle of political friends – many of them hugely influential and rich, like Lord Stansgate and Lord Longford and, perhaps even more importantly, prominent journalists – giving large dinners for political friends and acquaintances, drinking in the bars at the House of Commons and eating in its restaurants, and generally having access to many of the heavyweights in the party. He was a favourite with the press, being a colourful character, and was known to have dined with Cudlipp several times.
This afternoon, he was certainly living up to his sartorial reputation, the suit a brown and beige houndstooth check, and the bow tie a brilliant yellow. Tom stood up, stammering his greeting.
‘I came to your meeting when you spoke last year, no, it was the year before that. Bloody good, I thought. Meant to congratulate you at the time, but had a drinking engagement. How’s that pretty wife of yours? In the family way, I seem to recall.’
‘I’m afraid she died,’ said Tom who had learned that raw, painful statements were infinitely preferable to stumbling euphemisms, in terms of getting such moments over.
‘Oh, my God, how awful.’ Herbert spoke with the unmistakable accent of the public-school boy; Tom was always amazed to meet the few who had crossed the playground (as he had heard it expressed), to become socialists and prominent ones at that. ‘I’m so sorry. Christ, how ghastly. I feel dreadful now. Look, let me buy you a drink. I wanted to make contact with you anyway. This session’s going to be pretty dull, you know, won’t hurt either of us to miss it. Let’s go and find a bar.’
Tom, shocked that anyone should choose to miss a session, but flattered beyond anything that Donald Herbert should want to speak to him, nodded and followed him obediently to the nearest bar.
‘What’s your poison then, young Tom?’
Tom longed to ask for a whisky but was fearful that he might have to buy Herbert a drink in return. ‘A pint of bitter would be very nice, sir.’
‘Might join you in that. No need for the sir stuff. As I said, I thought your speech was bloody good. You have a flair for it. Can’t be learned, that sort of thing. What did you do in the war?’
‘I was out in the desert with the sappers,’ said Tom. ‘With Monty.’
‘Were you, by Jove. So was my brother. Said it was pretty bloody tough!’
‘It was. Wouldn’t have missed it, though. And you?’
‘Air force. One of the lucky few who didn’t get shot down. What’s your job out on Civvy Street?’
‘I’m a solicitor.’ He was still mildly amazed he could say that.
‘Interesting. So is my brother. You two seem to have quite a lot in common. He’s a bit older than you, of course. He’s got a practice in Islington. You?’
‘Oh, I work for a firm in Hilchester,’ said Tom. ‘Near Southampton,’ he added. ‘I’ve been very lucky. The senior partner’s helped me enormously. I’d never have made it without him.’
‘Oh, you probably would. You should be a barrister, with a gift for speaking like yours.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom, smiling at him. ‘I’ve got the opposite of a private income for a start.’
‘What’s your background then?’
‘My dad was a village postman,’ said Tom. ‘I went to the grammar school.’
‘Did you? And now you’re a solicitor. Bloody well done. And what a good example for the rank and file. Marvellous story for the press. I must ponder on that one. Want another one of those?’
‘Oh – oh, let me,’ said Tom.
‘Don’t be so bloody silly. I might switch to Scotch. Fancy one?’
And Tom found himself looking at a double.
‘Right. So do you have political ambitions, Tom?’
‘Oh, I most certainly do. It’s all I want now.’
‘Is it indeed? Well, with your background, or rather what it says about you, and your gift for speaking, not impossible. But you won’t get far sitting in a country solicitor’s office in a cosy town near the south coast. You want to meet a few relevant people. Christ, I must go. It’s been good to meet you, Tom. I’m sorry about your wife. And remember what I said, get up nearer the action.’
As if it was that easy, Tom thought, looking after Donald Herbert’s huge figure as he lumbered out of the bar. He was sure he’d never hear from him again.
He was wrong.
This was when he missed Laura so much. When she wasn’t there to tell things to. Or advise him. Or be pleased for him. Or all three.
‘I’ve had this letter,’ he’d have said, still staring at it in disbelief. ‘From a solicitor in London, Donald Herbert’s brother. He’s asked me to go and see him, says he could have a job for me.’
And of course she’d have said go. But then what would she have said?
‘He’s offered me a job, in his practice in Islington,’ he’d have said. ‘He does a lot of work for the Labour Party. Pro bono. Really a lot of it.’
‘Well, you must take it of course,’ she’d have said. ‘It sounds a wonderful opportunity to me.’
‘But how can I leave Mr Pemberton? It would break his heart.’
‘Tom,’ she’d have said. ‘You either break Mr Pemberton’s heart and get nearer the future you want, or you stay with him and keep him happy, and forget all about everything else.’
Alice was in love. Inevitably with a doctor. A house surgeon, to be precise, newly qualified, idealistic, fiercely ambitious. He worked tirelessly round the clock, with not a single free weekend, stumbling sleepily from one of the small rooms allocated to him and his colleagues in the hospital whenever required, to perform an incredible range of operations. His name was Philip Jordan, and he was tall and very skinny, with rather untidy brown hair and very bony wrists. The other nurses teased her about her claims that he was good-looking. She supposed, if she was honest with herself ‘pleasant’ would have been more accurate. He had blue eyes and a wide, if slightly lopsided, smile, and as she said to Jillie when she was describing him, anyone who looked good in scrubs was hardly ugly. He was, as he stressed to her on their first date, ‘a pretty junior member of the firm’ which consisted of the consultant surgeon, the assistant surgeon, the registrar and him.