1951
She couldn’t be pregnant, could she? Not so easily, so swiftly, so terrifyingly soon?
What was she going to do? How was she going to cope with it? Who could she tell? She felt totally trapped, her mind and emotions twisting and turning this way and that, the terror as responsible for the sickness as her hormones and the tiny, life-engulfing creature growing inside her.
Alice was also pregnant: joyfully, radiantly, nervously pregnant. She was also surprised at the speed of their accomplishment. It would probably have been wiser to wait a little longer, to complete the purchase of the small house they had chosen in Acton. But Tom was so keen to start their family, and she had deliberately left her Dutch cap behind for their honeymoon. She’d hated it from the beginning, it was the opposite of romantic. She’d just assumed she should go back to it once they were home again. Which indeed she did. And when Alice, too busy to notice, passed the date of one period and when, two weeks later, she threw up horribly when she woke, she blamed the chicken she had eaten the night before. Then, finding nothing to blame the second morning, she looked a little nervously at her diary as she sat on the bus (still feeling fairly queasy) on her way to St Thomas’ and realised that, yes, the dates at least fitted perfectly.
She told Tom that night and he was overwhelmed with a beaming, almost exultant pleasure; entirely untinged – as she had feared it might be – by anxiety, or even, far worse, by thoughts and memories of Laura and Hope.
‘Now look,’ said Alice, after absorbing this joy and finding it increased her own a hundredfold, ‘we can do a test. This frog thing, you know –’
The frog thing, the Aschheim– Zondek test whereby her urine would be injected into a frog and two weeks later, if indeed she was pregnant, it would start laying eggs, was revolutionising anxiously pregnant women’s lives, reducing the two-month or so wait for certainty to as many weeks.
‘What you must do is tell Sister immediately – you need to establish your leaving date.’ Alice, who was dreading this, knew what must be done. ‘And Alice, I do want you to look after yourself, very carefully. I don’t want you working and getting overtired, which you know you do.’
‘All right,’ said Alice, recognising the first signs of anxiety in him, the legacy of the three miscarriages for poor Laura. ‘I promise.’
And the third morning of horrid noises in the loo left them both in no doubt; there was a small new Knelston on its way.
Diana felt very much in need of the frog’s services. Too afraid to go to her GP or even the local hospital, she went to an expensive private clinic in York where the smooth, rather smug gynaecologist there rang her two weeks later to confirm her pregnancy. Johnathan still had no idea; he was usually out long before she woke, and conveniently, she was usually sick mid-morning, rather than first thing.
Because she had to talk to someone, she went to London for two days, on the pretext that her mother was unwell, and stayed with Wendelien; unwise for many reasons, not least that Archie, Wendelien’s baby, was at an enchanting age. Diana loved babies anyway; she had enjoyed Jamie’s babyhood hugely, once the birth was over. Wendelien, of course, counselled termination: ‘It’s the only thing, darling, you can have it done really well in a nursing home. Only one night there, and then you can go home again, feeling fine, all over.’
‘Yes, but it might not be Freddie’s. In fact, it’s quite unlikely – it’s probably Johnathan’s. He’s been very ardent, desperate for another baby.’
‘Diana,’ said Wendelien, ‘you really can’t know that.’
‘I know I can’t know. But—’
‘And what does Freddie look like?’
‘He’ s – oh, well, he’s blonde and—’
‘Diana,’ said Wendelien severely. ‘Johnathan is dark. You are dark, Jamie is dark. Eyes?’
‘Freddie’s? Green.’
‘Yours – dark. Johnathan’s dark.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Diana irritably. ‘I get the message.’
‘And – time in your cycle?’
‘Oh, right in the middle. But then, I practically seduced Johnathan the night I got home, I felt so guilty and bad. So—’
‘I still think you can’t risk it. How on earth are you going to explain a green-eyed blonde to Johnathan? Well, look, I can help with places. It’s not a problem. So go away and think about it. But please, darling, be sensible. There can always be other babies.’
‘I know,’ said Diana. ‘But Wendelien, I just don’t know if I could do that. Just get rid of it. As if it was a bit of rubbish. It’s so brutal.’
‘And telling Johnathan you’re having another man’s baby isn’t?’
All the way back to Yorkshire, Diana sat motionless, staring out of the window. Of course Wendelien was right; a termination was the only safe, sensible thing to do. Johnathan would never know, would never have to cope with the pain of what she had done. Her marriage would be safe – he would quite likely divorce her if she told him. They could start again, immediately; probably in two months she’d be safely pregnant again. By him.
It wasn’t as if she was in love with Freddie Bateman, nor he with her. He was gloriously, wonderfully sexy and exciting and it was so flattering that he fancied her. They’d had a heavenly time, but God, how could she have been so stupid.
But she knew. It had just been too much for her; irresistibly too much. Years of boredom in Yorkshire, a dull husband she wasn’t in love with, who made the sex act about as thrilling as a bowl of unseasoned porridge. To be suddenly with someone who made her feel alive and hungry in every tiny unexplored corner of her body, someone funny and appreciative, someone who lived the dream of the new world she had just found herself in, this glorious world, all glamour and style and wit and charm, someone moreover with whom she could bring something to that world, who raised her beauty and her own sexiness to new, dizzy heights, who made people exclaim over her and adore her, and desire her. How could she have said no to him, as he plied her with cocktails and racy gossip and then flattery and dirty talk, and finally, first suggestions, then pleas, then increasingly open insistence that she go up to his room and thus his bed? Where, for the first time in her life, she discovered what sex could be for her, how she could climb and reach, and fly and soar, how she could laugh as she rode the pleasure, and cry as she came, how all her thoughts and emotions, her past and her present, could fuse into this one amazing thing. How at last she knew what she could do and be.
For Freddie, it had been nothing like that. Another lover, another conquest, no doubt all of them beautiful – some more than she – some more sensuous, some more experienced, some undoubtedly younger. They had made a little magic, no doubt of that, rather as they did when they worked together, for what did he do then than make love to her with his camera, and she, responding through his lens, drove him on? But that had been the end of it until the next assignment, the next assignation; he would recoil at what she had to tell him, if she did, and so of course she would not.
But she shrank from the sensible thing, the wise thing. She found herself in a whirlwind of distress whenever she thought about it, about tearing this tiny precious growing thing from its safe haven, abandoning it, and to what? What became of these small live creatures – were they just disposed of, flushed down the clinic lavatory, thrown into its sluice? The thought was impossible to bear. Whatever else she did, she could not do that, and long before the train reached York station, she had made that decision at least. For all the others she had, at the very least, time.
* * *
‘Oh, Alice, how lovely. How very, very lovely. I’m so happy for you.’
‘I’m pretty happy for myself.’
‘And – when?’
‘April. A spring baby.’
‘Is Tom all right?’
‘Yes, he’s very happy. I know what you mean – I thought it might make him sad or anxious, but no, he’s just delighted. With himself as well as me.’
Jillie laughed. ‘Men!’
‘I know. My sentiments exactly. Now I want to ask you something.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to be the godmother. Will you?’
‘Oh, Alice, I’d love that. Thank you. Of course I will.’
‘Good. The only one, as I’m determined it will be a boy. Actually, even if it’s a girl, I still don’t want you having to share her. Tom won’t care if we have two godparents or twenty, he’s a total non-believer, as you know – only has things like christenings and weddings to keep me and my parents happy.’
‘It’s odd, that.’
‘I know what you mean. When he goes to see Laura at the little churchyard, I wonder where he thinks she is, if anywhere. I mean, he does still go, quite often –’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Sort of. But – I shouldn’t. I’ve never asked him about it. Although he hardly ever talks about her, except to say things about her political beliefs, or her teaching methods, I don’t think he’d refuse to answer if I asked him.’
‘He never suggests you go with him?’
‘Never,’ said Alice.
‘Or that you’d like to?’
‘No. I’m not sure that I want to, but – I do wish he’d ask. It really does make me feel very – very shut out. And of course I worry about her, all the time.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, whether I’m doing well enough. Living up to her. Whether she made a fuss about being sick, or whether she complained about being tired all the time. It’s awfully difficult, competing with somebody perfect.’
‘Alice,’ said Jillie firmly, ‘you’ll drive yourself mad. You said yourself that Tom said she wasn’t perfect, and you just have to accept that. He loves you, he’s told you so many times.’
‘I know,’ said Alice. ‘Most of the time I do manage. But I still feel he’s shutting me out. And this is worse. More difficult. We’re living through what took her away from him.’
‘Yes, but you said he’s beside himself with happiness. You have to accept that, or you’ll spoil the whole thing for yourself and him. I can see how hard it is, but you just have to. Now look, I wasn’t going to tell you, steal your thunder, but I’m going to distract you. I’ve got some news.’
‘Oh, Jillie, what? What what what?’
‘We’ve sort of got a date. And it’s really good, because you’ll be over the baby, and I want you, of course, to be matron of honour.’
Alice squealed with pleasure, hurled herself into Jillie’s arms.
‘Jillie, Jillie. That is so lovely. When?’
‘July next year. I just finally put my foot down. I said June or nothing and he said not June, and I was all ready to throw the ring at him, but then he said he was delivering his paper in June, you know the one on premature babies, but how would July be? So …’
‘So that’s wonderful,’ said Alice. ‘And I’d adore to be your matron of honour.’ And then added, looking panic-stricken. ‘What on earth does a matron of honour wear?’
Every milestone made him more terrified, more amazed at what he had done. Getting properly involved with her. Realising how much he loved her. Telling her he loved her. Getting engaged to her. Celebrating it with that ridiculously excessive party. And now agreeing to a date. Why had he done this, why? Why hadn’t he listened to himself? He knew, of course: it was safety, the fading of the likelihood of discovery; respectability, a seal on his successful life.
He had resisted talking to Ludo for a long time; it formalised the folly, let the daylight in. But finally, after a particularly demon-filled night, he sought him out, unloaded his fears, sought counsel. And Ludo had been wonderfully supportive, had held out for him, tantalisingly, the example of his own happy, fruitful marriage.
‘Honestly, Ned, marrying Cecily was the best thing I ever did. She’s such a sweetheart, and without blowing my own trumpet, I think I can say I’ve made her very happy. I adore the children – you can’t beat a family, for sheer, bloody contentment.’
‘No,’ said Ned. ‘I’m sure. But – did you want – I mean, did you …’
‘Of course,’ said Ludo. ‘Well, I loved her. I wanted to be married to her. I wanted to be married. So much.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘But if you really want to know, I was also in a bit of a pickle. I’d got a bit over-involved with a rotter. There was talk. He began to threaten me and I was extremely scared. I’d have lost my job, my friends, well, most of them. Nobody who hasn’t lived through that fear can possibly begin to imagine the total horror of it.’
Ned, very soberly, said, ‘It’s all-consuming. It invades you. Fear not just of disgrace but the loss of everything you’ve got.’
‘Some people say they’re going to make a stand, and look what happens to them. End of a normal life. Unless they’re artists or actors. They seem to be all right. They have each other, they’re not sweating, alone, afraid to do anything in case it gives them away. There’s a sort of respectability all of its own. If you’re rich and famous like Cecil Beaton, fine. Society loves them, says what fun they are. Quite a cachet to have at cocktail parties and so on. But I’m a stockbroker, Ned. What would have happened to me? Clients all vanished. Off every hostess’s list. Probably have had to go and live abroad. My father would have insisted on that. Anyway, I chose Cecily. And it’s been marvellous. As it will be for you. Courage, old chap. You’re not mixed up with anyone dangerous, are you?’
‘No, no,’ said Ned. ‘I just – sometimes – still go to one of the clubs, you know. Practically throw up before and after, for fear someone sees me. Or knows me.’
‘Well, as long as it’s only the clubs. Not those pubs. They’re dangerous places.’
‘I know. But I need to feel I’m with my own kind. Just occasionally.’
‘Well, that’ll have to stop,’ said Ludo. ‘After you’re married.’
‘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.
‘It’s marvellous,’ he said again. ‘Absolutely bloody marvellous. Maybe this time, we’ll have a girl. Not that I mind which, of course,’ he added hastily.
Yes, a little girl with blonde curls and green eyes, Diana thought, wincing at this rather clear vision; but then she forced it out of her head again. She would just have to find some blonde relative in her family whose genes had suddenly surfaced. Meanwhile, she must take the happiness on offer and make the very most of it. This new little person would have to work hard, to console her from what she would be missing: no modelling for a year at least, no trips to London, no Paris. As the strain of the day added to her general distress, she started to cry. She excused herself, saying she was overemotional – it was her hormones, and if Johnathan didn’t mind she was going to have a little rest; then she went up to her bedroom and wept for hours.