‘Of course. I know that.’ And then after a long, agonised silence: ‘So did you ever – ever have any of those treatments?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. Ghastly. You know how they work? They show you pictures of beautiful boys and then they give you an emetic first orally, then by injection. You’re not just sick, you feel ill, horrible, for hours, days. They do it again and again. Then, at bedtime, they give you an injection of testosterone and show you slides of attractive women. Again and again. They claim great success – ten out of twenty-five was one figure being bandied about. I honestly wouldn’t recommend it – it didn’t work for me. It was a loathsome experience, guaranteed to put you off sex for life. With anyone or thing.’
‘But you – you and Cecily –’
‘Look,’ said Ludo. ‘I love Cecily. I truly do. She is the centre of my life, she holds me together. I couldn’t live without her. I don’t find making love to her very difficult. She’s very attractive and I’ve always liked pretty women. The damnable thing about all this, the most damnable of all, is that what we are, different – it makes us criminals. Christ, when I think of other criminals who are considered on a par – murderers, paedophiles, men who beat up women – they’re probably thought preferable to us. At least they’re “normal”, in quotes. It’s too frightful.’
Just talking about it with Ludo, in this normal civilised way, as if they were talking about the weather, made him feel infinitely better.
‘I mean, look at your situation, a doctor! Working with children, for Christ’s sake. You’d be done for in days if it became known. No one would trust you with their children. You’d almost certainly lose your consultancy; your hospital would sack you. Your life as a doctor would be over. You could even end up in jail. It’s so wrong. So desperately wrong.’
‘Those are all the things I’m afraid of,’ said Ned. ‘But hurting Jillie, most of all.’
‘Look,’ said Ludo. ‘You love Jillie, don’t you?’
‘I adore her,’ said Ned. ‘That’s why I’m so fearful for her, as much as me. How hurt she’d be, how used she’d feel. It seems wrong to expose her to that risk.’
‘I felt the same. It was a gamble. But it paid off, it was all right.’
‘Does she –? Well, does she know?’
‘If she does, it’s never been acknowledged. I think she knows something. But she doesn’t know. She’s very . . . innocent, led a very sheltered life.’
‘Which Jillie hasn’t,’ said Ned. ‘She’s about to become a doctor, her family are rich, bohemian Londoners. I don’t quite understand why one of them hasn’t suspected it at least.’
‘Well, they’re obviously broad-minded. They like you, clearly they love Jillie, and they trust her to know what she wants. Which is you. Lucky man. She’s gorgeous.’
‘I know she is, I know,’ said Ned almost fretfully. ‘And she’ll be a marvellous obstetrician.’
‘What a team!’ said Ludo, laughing. ‘Oh, go on, old chap. Stop agonising, marry the girl. Be happy with her. Have lots of sprogs. Powerful things, children. They bind you together as nothing else can. Now, I want to be your best man. I promise not to lose the ring, or leave you naked and drunk, padlocked to a tree, as Billy Francis did to poor old Dudley Buchanan. G and T?’
‘Of course you must be my best man,’ said Ned, taking the drink gratefully.
But already the loathsome, duplicitous thoughts had begun. If there was ever talk about him, might not Ludo’s closeness to him, and the gossip around Ludo, begin again, feed people’s suspicions further? God, what a hideous world he was about to enter, with his bid for ‘normality’. Worse, in many ways, than the one where he lived now.
It was the heat, of course. Exceptional for September. She was just terribly hot, she was not going to faint. And the noise. The peculiar mixture of sounds that define agricultural shows: the band, the instructions barked endlessly through the loudspeakers, cattle noise vying with horse noise. But she was fine. This was important, the first time she had been asked to actually participate in anything at the show; Johnathan was so proud of her, she couldn’t let him down.
She had taken huge care with her appearance, and knew she was dressed exactly right: nothing showy, just a cream linen suit with the newly popular half hat in red; red shoes with modestly low, almost chunky heels; and red clutch bag. Every inch a Lady with a capital L.
An hour later, as the last contestant went clear, she felt exhausted, and actually now rather sick, and asked if she could possibly have a chair. The afternoon stretched endlessly before her; maybe once she’d presented the cups, she would be able to leave.
The president’s wife, Marjorie Harper, was walking towards her now, followed by some minions bearing a table and a large number of silver cups. God, so many: did she have to present them all? She really did feel rather odd. Hang on, Diana, hang on. Deep breaths.
Johnathan still didn’t know. She had somehow kept it from him, she wasn’t sure why – buying time, she supposed, while she decided what to do. It was no clearer now what that was than the first day she had suspected the whole dreadful nightmare.
The president’s wife was speaking now, about her she realised: ‘Mrs Gunning, whose husband Johnathan has played such a crucial part in the development of the show, will now present the cups to the winners of the Under Thirteens, the Under Fourteens and the Under Twelves. Mrs Gunning . . .’
There was clapping but it was rather odd clapping, coming in waves, the sound receding and advancing; Diana stood up, smiled at Mrs Harper, picked up the first cup, which seemed inordinately heavy, and began to speak. Then the ground began to sway and lurch beneath her feet and with infinite grace, she crumpled, sank onto the ground, somehow managing to hang onto the cup as people helped lay her out straight, proffered folded jackets as pillows, and a loudspeaker asked for St John’s to come over to the collecting ring. Then suddenly Johnathan was there, looking down at her with such infinite and kind concern, and he knelt beside her, and she said, ‘So sorry, Johnathan, so sorry, but I’m pregnant.’ Then she was on the stretcher, being borne away from the field and the shame and the remorse of the whole dreadful disaster, and into the St John’s tent.
Only it wasn’t a disaster, for as she sat cautiously up, sipping some rather lukewarm sweet tea, Johnathan appeared, with a beacon-like smile, and even as she stammered out an apology he said, ‘Darling, don’t keep apologising, it’s marvellous news. Pity you didn’t tell me before, but nobody really minds at all. Now finish that tea, and I’ll take you home in about ten minutes.’
At home, he was tender and solicitous, touched by her explanation that she had been waiting for the three months ‘safety ground’ and for the doctor to give her absolute assurance, lest it prove to be a false alarm. She didn’t want to disappoint him.