It was talked about everywhere for those first few days, in drawing rooms and pubs, bedrooms and clubs, and even the bars and dining rooms of the House of Commons. In tones that moved from delighted to shocked and every variation between; it formed debates, inspired gossip, and at best, gave rise to much sober thought.
The piece was not run under Josh’s byline, but as a leader in the paper. ‘It’ll have more authority that way,’ Harry Campbell said. ‘The paper’s view, rather than that of one single person – but good work, Josh. I’ll rework it myself, I’ll enjoy it. Haven’t written a leader for months.’ Josh sighed, but he had been half-expecting this.
Headed ‘Living with the Fear’, the article called for an urgent review of the laws regarding homosexuality, in order that men of all sexual persuasions may live quietly at home, with a chosen partner. That is all we would ask of those that create and then vote upon the laws of this country. We do not condone the excesses, the more unsavoury aspects, of the homosexual lifestyle; but the vast majority of these men do not indulge in any such practices. These are law-abiding, worthy citizens, who live out frequently lonely lives in the shadow of blackmail and the constant fear of arrest. We have in this country what amounts to a witch hunt, an echo of McCarthyism. It is not an attractive sight. There are encouraging signs: MPs on both sides of the House are of the same opinion, and indeed a change in the law is, we are told, under consideration, at least by the Home Secretary.
It took some courage for Harry Campbell to give the final go-ahead to the article, that time which another great editor was later to call the lonely hour. He knew the uproar it would create, that at worst the proprietors of the Daily News would call for his resignation. He had to persuade them of the rightness of his decision to run the piece, and that had been difficult enough, but he knew that if public and official opinion went against the paper, they would demand his head on a plate without a second thought. But he took the risk: and he was right. On balance, it seemed to be agreed amongst his readers that the paper’s view was a not unreasonable one. There was the inevitable soar in circulation figures on the day of publication and the few following, as letters poured in, many from that most famous scribe ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, but many too from supporters in the establishment professions: solicitors, teachers, even the Church, mainly anonymous, but a few signed.
A few weeks later, there were signs of a small but steady climb in circulation, as the readership welcomed the paper’s thoughtful, liberal attitudes.
‘Yes, of course I read it,’ said Ned to Diana; she had requested his company for dinner the week after the article came out. ‘I thought it was very good.’
‘Do you think it’ll help?’
‘Maybe, a bit. Any easing of public opinion is welcome.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Oh, Diana, I don’t know. Look, I’d rather not talk about it here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Here’ was the Caprice, her choice. Ned didn’t really like it very much; the food was good, but the pink tablecloths always made him feel faintly bilious.
He looked at her closely. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’
‘Me? How could I have? How’s it all going at St Luke’s? Are you happy there?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m fighting a bit of a battle at the moment. Well, quite a big battle. It could turn out to be a war.’
‘Sir Digby. Your friend from the ball.’
‘Oh, him. Nasty piece of work. What on earth are you fighting him about? I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ned.’
‘You sound like my mother – she really took against him.’
‘Did she?’ said Diana, her voice over-casual.
‘Yes, said he was a pompous old fart and she wouldn’t trust him further than she could spit.’
‘I’m with her there. I really wouldn’t get on the wrong side of him, Ned. Anyway, what are you fighting with him about?’
‘My new crusade. Allowing mothers into hospital with their children.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s such a good crusade. Well done you; I suppose he’s totally opposed?’
‘Yes, of course. He positively enjoys seeing these wards full of listless, miserable children. And what makes it worse, if one of the mothers does come in, if there’s a crisis of some sort, they become terribly upset when she has to go again, crying, screaming even. And then all the nurses – who’ve been ingrained in this ghastly doctrine – say there, you see, he or she was much better when the mother wasn’t coming in. Much more settled. How I’ve come to hate that word. When I do my rounds at night, sometimes, at least a quarter of the children are crying, most of them silently. It’s heartbreaking.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘Oh, I try to comfort them, find their teddies and so on. I’d read stories if Sister would allow it, but of course, she thinks I’m being ridiculous. Sorry, am I being boring?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Diana. ‘It’s fascinating. But you couldn’t have mothers with every child, surely? Just hanging round, getting in the way? It would be chaos.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t. They could help with mealtimes, washing, all the things the nurses are too busy for. And settling the children for the night. I absolutely know it would be better for everyone. Most of all, the children would be far easier to look after medically, if they were relaxed and happy.’
‘And is Sir Digby actively against you?’
‘That’s an understatement. We had a meeting about it the other day, and he said I was making a mountain out of a very small molehill, that children were in here to be made well, not mollycoddled.’
‘It’s a pity your father isn’t still alive, he could help.’
‘My father? I don’t think so, Diana. You’re talking about the man who sent me off to school at seven.’
‘Oh – hello.’
It was Julius.
He had phoned Jillie the Friday after Dressing Table Sunday as she thought of it and said, ‘Well, your car or mine?’
‘Sorry?’ she said, stupid with surprise.
‘I thought we’d agreed on a spin on the heath – or even a bit further today?’
‘Oh – yes.’
‘Are you not free?’ he said and his tone was so disappointed she almost laughed for joy.
‘Yes, yes, I’m free. Oh, do bring your car, much less complicated. I can’t wait to see it.’ And then, her voice politely hopeful, ‘Will Nell be with you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘As I told you, she likes to keep Sundays for herself. She’ll be really glad to know I’m busy, and in no danger of turning up on her doorstep.’
‘But does she know in what way you’re going to be busy?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I will tell her, of course. You know, Jillie, I’m my own man, as I read somewhere the other day.’
She could hear the smile in his voice, and that made her able to suddenly see it; he had a rather particular smile that she had noticed that first evening, which started as a look of extra seriousness and then slowly, almost cautiously, became the wide, delighted grin. Dear God, she was smitten with this man.
That first Sunday had been fine; he’d turned up in his truly glorious 1935 Bentley Saloon, dark green, with swooping running board, huge chrome fog lights and a cluster of smaller ones above the front bumper.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Jillie. ‘What a lovely thing. I feel I should be better dressed to deserve it! Look at me, poor Cinderella, I shall go and change.’
‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Julius gallantly, for he was dressed with storm coat, leather helmet and high boots over his cream trousers. ‘You look wonderful.’ Adding, ‘You always do,’ which made her feel as if Cinderella had arrived at the ball. Nevertheless she fetched her own greatcoat, and wound a scarf round her head, leaving the ends trailing down her back. ‘Careful,’ warned Julius. ‘We don’t want any Isadora-style accidents today.’
‘I will be. But it’s not a convertible, is it? Or should I say she? A great ship of a car like this one should surely be a female. Now my parents are out, or my mother would have thanked you for the dressing table.’
‘Nothing to do with me. What did she make of it?’
‘Oh, she loved it,’ said Jillie, ‘but it was too small.’
This was quite untrue; her mother hadn’t even seen the small dressing table shrouded in its dust sheet in the garage, next to the Mercedes. If she had, she would think Jillie had taken leave of her senses. Which, Jillie thought, half sadly, half amused, was exactly what she had done. She had looked at Julius and shaken his hand, and sense had just gone in one breath, leaving her senseless, stupid with – what? Not love, of course, she had learned her lesson on that one, on love at first sight. That was what she had felt for Ned, love had flown into the room and settled on her and him; and how foolish, when one knew nothing of a person – absolutely nothing of the most important things. She knew nothing of Julius either, and so clearly this was quite, quite different; she just thought he was very – interesting. And attractive. And had dark eyes like Ned’s and a sense of style like Ned and that was all it was about really, they were a type, her type. It had been a lovely drive; out onto the heath, towards Highgate, and they had a drink in a pub there, and thus on, further than they had realised for lunch at another pub, so engaged were they with one another, talking and laughing and enjoying the day. It wasn’t until it suddenly seemed to be growing dark that Julius said, ‘Oh, my goodness, I shall have to switch the lights on, and then I think we should be going back. And we haven’t had any lunch. I meant to buy us a splendid feast. I’m so sorry, you must be starving. Next week I’ll get Mrs W to make us a picnic, she’s awfully good at them.’
‘Who is Mrs W?’
‘My housekeeper.’
‘Ah.’
Clearly, she thought, a man of means: owning a car like this as a plaything was not usual in young men, and there wasn’t a great deal of money to be had from antiques, surely.
The next Sunday it was her turn, and she turned the Austin southwards, down to Richmond and the park; where they found the Pen Ponds, twin lakes housing an amazing assortment of birds and he leapt out of the car and said, ‘Right, here we are,’ and took out the picnic hamper he’d stowed in the boot. Such wonders it contained, almost Dickensian in its bounty, half a ham, a chicken pie, cold pickles, a freshly baked loaf (only just cool), some wonderful cheddar cheese and then for dessert, a peach tart.
‘My goodness, we could feed the five thousand with this,’ Jillie said.
‘I know, Mrs W takes the feeding of me very seriously. Now look, the sun is shining. We could carry the basket right down to the lake, and eat there, I see a seat. Would you risk the cold?’
‘I would risk anything,’ she almost said, but managed to say just ‘it’ instead, adding that it would give them an appetite, and they sat in the sunshine, tossing fine scraps at the swans and ducks, and then they went for a stroll and then again, before they knew it, it was growing dusk and they had to drive home. He stayed for supper and met her parents, who were clearly absolutely charmed by him, and when he had gone her mother said, ‘Darling, what a delightful young man.’
Jillie knew what she meant, which was ‘what a suitable young man’. She explained that actually Julius was engaged to somebody who was writing a book on Sundays and was just a friend, no more, whereupon her mother said, ‘Ah. I see. But – darling, don’t get hurt again …’
‘Mummy,’ said Jillie, ‘there’s no question of my getting hurt. He’s just a friend, I told you.’
‘Who clearly admires you very much,’ said Mrs Curtis briskly.
It was on the fourth Sunday that it happened. They had been in the Bentley, taking it for its own outing to Richmond, when Julius, having parked, suddenly said, ‘Look, the Sunday after next there’s a vintage car rally in the wilds of the Surrey-Hampshire border. Bit like the Old Crocks Run. I’ve got the Bentley’s name down, so to speak – would you like to come with me? I’ve asked Nell, but she’s too busy. I’d love to have some company – would you do me the great kindness of coming with me?’
‘Oh!’ said Jillie, and it was as if someone had handed her a priceless gift (which in a way they had). ‘Oh, Julius, I’d love to.’
‘I’ll pick you up. It starts quite early – seven in Richmond.’
‘Shall I dress up? Mummy’s still got the outfit she used to wear for the Old Crocks – I could borrow that. Hat and all.’
‘Wonderful.’
Was she mad? She was mad. Quite, quite, and very immorally mad.
She went up to her room and sat down at her dressing table, staring into the mirror: wondering if her wickedness showed on her face. It didn’t seem to. Her face didn’t seem to have gained any evil lines or twists; extraordinary that it should not have, but then the whole thing was extraordinary, this half-formed, half-acknowledged, totally impossible thing. What was Julius, newly engaged, thinking about? He could submit so cheerfully to banishment from his fiancée every Sunday and not only submit to it, but condone it? And what was she doing, acquiescing to it, allowing herself to enjoy it? When the one thing she knew, knew with certainty, was that she would not be instrumental in breaking up an engagement.