Chapter 22
1951
Sunday lunch with Alice’s family had been all right; a bit painful, genteel even, with sherry beforehand and a small glass of red wine with the excellent lamb, and apple pie to follow with many references to some Mrs P who’d made it; he’d liked Mrs Miller, she was smiling and welcoming and rather engagingly nervous, spilling her husband’s sherry as she passed it to him, and rushing round with a tea towel mopping it up, when it would have been better to leave it; Mr Miller he was less sure of, he seemed a bit of a tyrant.
There was no domestic help in the dining room, but clattering from the kitchen indicated the presence of some kind of minion; Tom offered to help with the clearing away but Mrs Miller looked very shocked and told him to go and join her husband Alec in the drawing room – this was the only reference to Christian names, and it was clear that they would remain Mr and Mrs Miller for the foreseeable future.
He had feared there would be veiled references to their relationship, and worse, its future, but none came. Later Alice told him she had been on tenterhooks throughout for the same reason. There was never any knowing what her father might say or do.
They left before tea; Alice could see that Tom was sated with gentility and perfectly mown lawns – twice referred to admiringly by Mrs Miller in terms that made it very plain this was Mr Miller’s pride and joy. Mr Miller pumped his hand and said it had been very good to meet him and Mrs Miller smiled up at him and told him he would be welcome any time.
‘Alice tells me you’re going to the Festival of Britain together,’ she said. ‘Do let me know what you think of it – we’re hoping to go, aren’t we, Alec?’
This was clearly as much news to Alec as it was to Tom. On the train he said to Alice, ‘You don’t really want to go to that thing, do you?’
‘Of course I do, I’d love to. Please, Tom, I think it’ll be really good.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘as long as you listen to my speech this evening. It’s to the local TGWU. Donald Herbert says it’s going to be very well attended, and Jillie’s cousin, Josh Curtis, is coming. I’m a bit unsure about parts of it. Well, most of it, to be honest.’
This was a new honour for Alice; she flushed crimson with delight and said she’d love to and spent the next hour feverishly wondering if Laura had simply sat admiringly and listened on such occasions, or made a lot of helpful and/or critical suggestions.
It was when he knocked his wine over that Jillie realised that Ned was in a truly distraught state, totally unlike his usual self-assured, easy self. He’d been edgy all evening, criticising the route the taxi driver had chosen, complaining about the table they’d been given at the restaurant, failing to tell her how lovely she looked. That was quite a relief – it got a bit repetitious and tedious at times. Twice he left the table to make a phone call. She assumed he must be worried about a patient, but when she asked him, he said no, everything was fine. He also rushed their dessert order, demanding the bill immediately afterwards. When she asked him mildly what was the hurry, he said he’d reserved a table at Claridge’s and he didn’t want to be late.
Jillie said it seemed rather a shame to rush a nice dinner just to go and drink some more somewhere else, and he almost snapped at her, saying he’d planned the evening rather carefully at her two favourite places, and the idea was to please her, not him. She drank her coffee in silence; but then suddenly in the taxi, he leaned over her and kissed her and said he was sorry, he was being a brute, and maybe they should just go to his house if that would be better, and she said better for what and he said she’d find out soon.
So the taxi was redirected to Markham Street, and the minute they arrived, he rushed into the kitchen and she heard a clinking of glasses and the fridge being opened, then a pause while he was clearly cancelling the table at Claridge’s, and then he reappeared in the tiny drawing room, bearing a tray with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He put it down on the low table next to her and she couldn’t help noticing it was Veuve Clicquot Vintage, pretty special even by Ned’s standards. She leaned back and looked at him as he reached for the bottle and said, ‘Ned, what is going on, have you got something to tell me?’
He put the bottle down again, and looked at her very steadily and said, ‘No, ask you,’ and then he actually went down on one knee and said, ‘Jillie, will you marry me?’
Her first thought was that he could never have done that in the champagne bar at Claridge’s so it was as well they weren’t there; and her second was of how absolutely adorable he looked kneeling there, literally at her feet; and her third was of total astonishment followed by, she was almost surprised to discover, complete and absolute joy. ‘Oh, Ned,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. Of COURSE. Thank you.’
‘Really?’ he said, in tones of such disbelief and pleasure she actually laughed.
‘Well, of course. I can’t think of anything more wonderful. I really can’t!’ And then he sat down beside her and kissed her for a long time, really rather passionately, and she responded, loving it, longing for more, and thinking that if ever an occasion was auspicious this one was, with his bedroom upstairs and the moment so perfect; but the invitation, or even the suggestion, didn’t come, although he began to caress her breasts and her stomach, and to tell her how much he loved her, and since that was clearly what he wanted, then she wasn’t going to spoil the perfection of the moment.
‘I am so, so glad,’ he said suddenly, breaking off, pushing a strand of her hair back, smiling into her eyes. ‘I was so afraid you’d say no.’
‘Ned, why? When you know how terribly, terribly fond of you I am?’
‘Yes, but it’s not been very long – January to now, less than six months – you might not have been sure.’
‘Well, I am. Perfectly sure. I long to be Mrs Welles, more than anything else in the world, and I’m going to be such a good one, such a perfect wife.’
‘All you have to do is love me,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
‘Then you don’t have anything to worry about,’ she said, and then, suddenly, almost hopeful, ‘Would you like me to give up work?’
‘Now why should I like that?’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I love that you know the world I work in and care about. And I’ll be incredibly proud of you when you qualify as a surgeon. Unless you want to, of course.’
‘I’m not – sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. I mean I’ve got a long way to go still. But then it would be awful to waste it. Maybe when – when we have children?’
‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘You are thinking ahead.’
‘Getting married is about thinking ahead, surely?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But really, it is your decision –’