And he was introduced to the other three as a promising young politician. ‘Works for my brother, for his sins. Enjoying life are you, Tom? Come along into somewhere quieter and tell me all about it. Jillie, there you are, my darling. Happy Christmas to you. Tell me, is young Josh here? I’d like Tom to meet him, think they’d have rather a lot to say to one another.’
And Alice, seeing that this was the end of any kind of intimacy with Tom for the rest of the evening, and that another hour had passed, slipped away to catch her bus, wondering if she would ever see him again and thinking that it didn’t matter either way, because she was never going to get over Philip.
Chapter 18
1951
‘Alice, hello. Happy New Year.’
‘Thank you. And to you.’
‘Did you – did you have a nice time?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. So you didn’t hear from – from –’
‘I didn’t hear from anybody,’ said Alice. ‘Now I really must go. I’m about to go on duty for a twelve-hour shift on casualty and I can’t be late.’
‘Of course. Alice, I’m sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about. See you soon. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ said Jillie. ‘Sorry.’
‘And stop saying sorry.’
‘Sorry.’
Jillie felt bad. Alice had been hoping, she knew, to hear from Tom Knelston. They had got on so well, or so Alice had thought. ‘Even though he did disappear to talk politics with that Herbert man and your cousin Josh, so I left.’
‘And did he say he’d like to see you again?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Alice.
‘Well, when he couldn’t find you, when he came back after all the political stuff, he asked me for your phone number.’
‘Oh, gosh. My goodness. Well – well, maybe then . . .’ Alice’s voice rose with excitement. ‘Well, I’ll let you know.’
But there had been no phone call. Christmas came and went and now the New Year and Alice thought it really didn’t look very hopeful.
Jillie had had a rather exciting evening, which made her feel guiltier still. She had been invited to a dinner party by her aunt and uncle – only, as they told her rather unflatteringly, because they were a female guest short.
They did this quite often – her uncle was a famous St Thomas’ obstetrician. He knew, since she was both pretty and charming, that she would make a most pleasing addition to their parties. The person she was to replace, she discovered, was a distinguished art historian, and against all odds, the evening had turned out to be a great deal better than she had expected. A very great deal better.
It had started rather unpromisingly. Before dinner there were twenty people in the drawing room drinking champagne, nineteen of them horribly successful. She was introduced to what seemed to be about a dozen hugely prominent doctors and surgeons, three barristers, two politicians, an architect who appeared to be redesigning the whole of London and his wife who was running some extremely high-profile charity, while raising five children. Jillie stood smiling and shaking their hands, then standing in complete silence, drinking her champagne rather too fast. Then, in the dining room, she found herself next to one of the most handsome men she had ever seen: even allowing for the flattering effect of his dinner jacket.
‘Hello.’ He was smiling at her and holding out his hand to shake hers. ‘We didn’t meet out there, which is good, I think. Nothing worse than finding you’re sitting next to someone you’ve been talking to for half an hour already. I’m Ned Welles,’ he added. ‘And you are?’
Looking back over the evening from the safety of her bed, she just couldn’t stop smiling. He had been so lovely to her, had seemed to be really interested in her and what she did and who she worked for. ‘Ah, Miss Moran, how is the old dragoness?’ Then he wanted to know about her ambitions for herself. ‘Nobody ever fails who trains under Moran, she won’t allow it. Besides, I can tell you’re clever, so why on earth should you fail?’ Then later (having returned to her after a decent interval talking to one of the barristers), ‘Goodness, that was challenging. Now tell me, do you have a boyfriend? What does he do?’ He appeared rather pleased when she said she hadn’t.
He had even, before the evening ended, returned to her from the library where most of the men had gathered, and said, ‘I’m being a party pooper, but I have a difficult day tomorrow. Jillie, it’s been lovely talking to you, and I’d very much like to see you again. Could I have your telephone number?’
It was Laura, of course: that was the thing. He really would have liked to see Alice again, just to take her to the pictures, or for a meal at a Lyons Corner House, nothing too serious. Tom found her sweet and thoughtful; she was also extremely pretty and seemed perfectly happy to hear about his political ideas and ideals, while implying that while she did agree with them she had a few of her own. He had fully intended to ring her within the next few days. Somehow, every time he plucked up his courage, he would see Laura’s face – concentrating on her work, or on something she had just said; hear her voice expressing her approval, or even disapproval, of it, see her brown eyes fixed on him; or looking up from something she was reading and wanted to discuss with him – and he would put the piece of paper back in the drawer again. Laura was still too close, her presence too vivid. He would feel disloyal, he knew, as if he was being unfaithful to her; and besides, he knew she wouldn’t really approve of Alice.
‘Spoilt,’ she would say. ‘Very nice but privileged.’
He just knew that Laura would be shocked that he was going out with such a person. Or not even going out with, just spending time with.
‘Getting ideas above your station, Tom Knelston,’ she would say. ‘I’m surprised at you. You’ll be joining the Tories next.’
So the weeks went by and he didn’t ring Alice, and then it was too many weeks. She’d have forgotten all about him, and no doubt found a new boyfriend and besides, he was very busy. Once the 1950 election had been safely won (albeit with a greatly reduced majority), Donald Herbert had been pushing him up the political ladder. He insisted on funding a dinner jacket for him, telling Tom he could pay him back when he was in the cabinet. Then Herbert made sure he heard many of the more important debates in the House, introduced him to many of the more junior MPs and took him to meet the PR people at Transport House. He also introduced him to the Marquis of Granby pub nearby, a major haunt of the press. He managed to persuade Josh Curtis to quote Tom in a couple of articles, as a representative of the new breed of young, politically minded young men.