Past Imperfect

by Julian Fellowes

  ‘It’s all written down, so there shouldn’t be any confusion,’ my father said, producing from somewhere near the table a plastic folder filled with typed sheets. He handed it to me as he stood up. ‘Let’s go through.’

  He led the way into the little library, which he used for most of his daily activities, and as usual I was touched by the sight of it. Unlike the characterless drawing room, the library was an exact reproduction, in miniature, of one my mother had designed for the Wiltshire farmhouse, with walls lined in red damask and fluted bookshelves in a soft dove grey. Even the cushions and lamps had been transferred intact after the move. A portrait of her, rather a good one, painted just after their marriage, in a snappy, 1940s suit, hung over the chimneypiece and my father would glance at it from time to time as he spoke, as if seeking her approval for his decisions, which I imagine was exactly what he was doing.

  In front of the green corduroy sofa, a table held a tray made ready by the indefatigable Mrs Snow, with coffee equipment for two. He poured himself a cup, nodding at the folder. ‘Funeral, memorial, it’s all there. Prayers, hymns, who should do the address if you don’t want to, everything.’

  ‘I thought you hated hymns.’

  ‘So I do, but I don’t think a funeral is a good place for a “statement,” do you?’

  ‘It’s your last chance to make one.’ Which made him smile. ‘I’ll do the address,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you.’ He chuckled gently to cover his emotions. ‘I’ve left this house to Louise, since you got the flat.’

  His words were perfectly logical and true but, irrationally, I felt a twinge of irritation. Does anyone ever feel content with the way things are arranged at these times? An only child, perhaps. Never a sibling. ‘What about the stuff?’

  ‘I thought you could split it. But I haven’t really specified.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘What? Every teaspoon?’

  ‘Every last teaspoon.’ He looked sorrowful at this. He probably wanted to believe that his children got on well, which we did, quite, but we were not really close any more and I knew Louise’s über-tiresome husband would push in and make her take anything decent if he weren’t stopped now. ‘Tom will say that they have children, and I don’t, so they must have all the family things. Then there’ll be a fight and Louise will cry and I’ll shout and Tom will look wounded. That’s unless you just write it down in black and white so there’s no argument.’

  ‘All right, I will.’ He nodded gravely. ‘In fact, I tell you what. I’ll leave your mother’s jewellery to her and you can have the rest of the contents. If you want to give her a stick or two you can. I suppose it’ll all go back to her sprogs if you don’t have any of your own.’

  ‘I imagine so. It’s not going to the cats’ home, anyway.’

  ‘I wish you had a family.’

  This was a frequent observation and normally I would have fobbed it off with a joke or an exasperated sigh, depending on my state of mind; but given the topic we were discussing, a bit of honesty felt more appropriate. ‘So do I, really,’ I said.

  ‘You still could, you know. Look at Charlie Chaplin.’

  ‘I don’t even need to go back that far.’ Why does everyone over fifty still quote Charlie Chaplin in this context? Every day, there is some demented actor in the news, saying what fun it is to be a parent in his seventies, and how it makes every day bright and new. I sometimes wonder how long they can keep up this fantasy before they succumb to rage and clinical exhaustion.

  ‘Of course…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose… what’s-her-name?’

  ‘Bridget.’

  ‘Bridget. I expect it’s a bit late for her.’

  Since Bridget was fifty-two, this was almost a compliment. I nodded. ‘I expect so. But that doesn’t necessarily…’ It was my turn to tail away. We both knew what I was saying. My father cheered up considerably, which I have to say I found a bit annoying. I’d always known she wasn’t his type, even if I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, but he’d been unfailingly polite to her and by that stage she was quite fond of him. It felt unjust to realise that he had secretly been hoping throughout that eventually she would pass on by.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well. You’re a dark horse.’ He poured himself another cup from the silver pot of lukewarm, brownish coffee’ish liquid left for our delectation. ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘There isn’t anyone, in particular.’ I gave a brisk shake of the head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I was unprepared for this, both the question and the tone, which was uncharacteristically warm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been in a funny mood since you got here.’ His comment was clearly directed at far more than my relations with Ms FitzGerald. I was taken aback because my father was not much given to introspection, either for himself or with regard to anyone else. When we were young, whenever a conversation at dinner threatened to get interesting he was inclined to cap it with the proto-English imprecation: ‘now, don’t let’s get psychological.’ I do not mean he didn’t appreciate the importance of other people’s inner life. He just didn’t see that it was anything to do with him. Gossip bored him. He couldn’t remember incidents or personalities well enough to savour the punchlines and he used to get quite impatient whenever anyone tried to intrigue him with some local scandal.

  In truth, his stance drained my mother, since she was never allowed to discuss the private affairs and theoretical activities of their acquaintance, and this inevitably made their conversation very arid. ‘What business is it of ours?’ he would say, and she would nod and agree with him, and say of course and how right he was, and thereby be silenced. After I’d grown up, I used to defend her and quote Alexander Pope: ‘The proper study of mankind is man’ and so on. The fact remained he felt uncomfortable and ungenerous delving into the murky waters of others’ personal histories and she gave up trying to change him, retaining these topics to enjoy with her friends and her children. It was all right, but I do give thanks that their later years were spent in the era of television, or the evenings would have been silent indeed. Still, here he was, showing an interest, asking for some sort of private explanation of my mood. It was so rare an event, that I couldn’t waste time on prevarication.

  ‘I have a feeling that I want to change my life.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Get rid of Bridget? Stop writing? Sell the flat? What?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. We stared at each other. Then I thought again. ‘Actually, I don’t think I want to stop writing.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  I told him about Damian’s request and how I had fared so far. He thought for a moment. ‘I quite liked him at the time, until you had your falling-out.’ He paused, but I had no comment to make. ‘Even so, I’m rather surprised to find he left such a mark on all those lives.’

  ‘Far be it from me to defend him after what he put me through, but he is the only member of that gang who went on to be one of the most successful men of his generation.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Of course that’s right. I wasn’t thinking.’ My father spoke as one who feels himself justly corrected. ‘So, what is it?’

  ‘I’m not completely clear in my own head, but I believe I’m finding it depressing to be obliged to compare what we all thought was coming when we were young with what actually arrived.’

  My father nodded. ‘To quote Nanny, comparisons are odious.’

  ‘They are also pointless, but that doesn’t prevent one from making them.’ For some reason, I felt it was important that he understood me. ‘It’s more than that. I’m not sure what we’re all doing with our lives. Damian may have made his mark, but none of the rest of us has.’

  ‘Not everyone can be a world-famous billionaire.’

  ‘Nor should they be, but everyone needs to feel they’re part of something worthwhile. That, in the last analysis, their life has some meaning in a larger context. The question is what am I part of?
What have I done?’

  But he couldn’t take this very seriously. ‘Don’t you think people have been asking themselves that since Chaucer first sharpened his pencil?’

  ‘I think there have been times when the majority felt they belonged to a culture that was working, that they had an identity within a worthwhile whole. “I am a Roman Citizen,” “God Bless America,” “The man who is born an Englishman has drawn a winning ticket in the lottery of life.” All that. People have felt their own civilisation was valuable and that they were lucky to belong to it. I’m fairly sure I believed that too, or something like it, forty years ago.’

  ‘You were young forty years ago.’ He smiled. Clearly, he was not very worried by my soul-searching. ‘So what are you asking? Do you want to sell the flat? If so, then that’s what you must do.’

  In a way I could have left then as, if I’m honest, I had really gone down there seeking his permission to do this very thing. I was taken unawares by his swift and open reaction to my complaints, as I had assumed it was all going to take much longer to get his agreement. Because I should be clear, this response on his part was very generous, more generous than an outsider can perhaps immediately appreciate. As I have said, my mother was the one who insisted on their giving me the London flat, thereby cutting down their capital by quite a chunk. He’d resisted it for a time, because he saw their standard of living would suffer, which it did, but he eventually surrendered to her pleading. Now, here I was, proposing to cash in my chips, to pocket the boodle, to take the money and run, and he wanted to make it clear that he did not mind in the least. Some months later I would learn that he’d already known he was much more ill than he had let on and that death could not be long distant, so I suppose he wanted us to be in step at the end, but to me that thought only makes his kindness more moving. ‘That’s so fantastically nice of you,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense.’ He shook his head at the very notion. Now, what about some more coffee?’

  Of course, his instinctive desire to downplay the moment was precisely what made it so poignant. Like too many of his type, my father had an absolute inability to express the love that motivated him, being always far too English to demonstrate his feelings. Even when we were little he hated kissing us goodnight and was visibly thrilled when the custom was allowed to lapse in our early teens. But there was nevertheless a silent unspoken affection in his words at this moment that makes my eyes fill now, months later, when I remember them. ‘I don’t want you to think it was wrong to give it to me when you did,’ I said. ‘It provided me with the perfect base, with a fantastic start. I was, and am, incredibly grateful.’

  ‘I know. But because something was right for you then, doesn’t mean it’s right for you now. If you want to sell it you must sell it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And the girl? Isn’t it working?’

  I couldn’t help thinking, disloyally, that Bridget would be ecstatic to hear herself referred to as ‘the girl,’ however politically incorrect that might sound. She was very good-looking and had the kind of looks that would last, but she was no spring chicken, if not quite yet an old boiler. I wasn’t sure how to answer him. ‘It’s not that, exactly. It works as well as it ever did.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘My problem is that during my searches I’ve been reminded of what it feels like to be in love. I think I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Again, you are remembering what it feels like to be young and in love. Love at nearly sixty, whatever sentimental American films may try to tell you, ain’t the same.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’m fairly sure it’s more than I’ve got now.’

  ‘Then of course you must move on.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Tell me, do you ever see Serena Gresham in your travels?’

  The question came flying out of the blue and almost winded me. On this day my dear old father was full of surprises. Could he really remember Serena? Why would he know what I had felt about her? Unless he’d had some kind of personality transplant? We hadn’t mentioned her name in thirty years at least and anyway I would never have given him credit for taking enough interest in my life to notice my romantic sufferings. ‘No. At least, barely. Sometimes. At the odd thing in London. That’s all.’

  ‘She married, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was satisfactory?’

  ‘I don’t see enough of her to have an opinion. She’s got two grown-up children and she’s still with him.’

  He considered my limp reply for a second. ‘I’m not convinced you would have been happy, you know.’

  This sort of thing is hard to take at any age from any parent, but it came so closely upon one of the kindest gestures he’d ever made that I didn’t want to snap. ‘I just wish I’d had the chance to find out’ was all I said.

  ‘You could never have been a writer. You’d have ended up in the City. To make the kind of money it would have taken to keep her.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ At this he gave a little snort. As always with a father, the assumption of superior knowledge, particularly where it concerned people I had been close to and he barely knew, was infuriating. But again, after the earlier exchange I didn’t want a fight. ‘Plenty of people nowadays live completely differently from the way they were brought up. You do for a start.’

  ‘Maybe. But my generation wasn’t given the option and, believe me, old habits die hard. I should know.’ He saw I was struggling not to join battle on Serena’s behalf and relented. ‘I don’t mean I didn’t like her, but I just never thought you were suited. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ I spoke and was silent.

  An awkwardness had entered the proceedings. My father was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he had ventured into alien, possibly even hurtful, territory. He smiled jocularly to get things back to normal. ‘Well, I hope I’m still around to meet the new girl, when she turns up.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said and I meant it. I’m very sorry that he won’t be.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing his will, which I was now allowed to read. He had, as he said, left his home to my sister and the remainder of his capital was divided between my niece, my two nephews and myself. This wasn’t quite fair, in my opinion, since for these purposes Louise and her children should have weighed as one person, but he telephoned his lawyer while I was there and dictated a codicil that gave me the entire contents of the house, so I didn’t like to cavil. Then it was done. His requests for the church services seemed gentlemanly. In fact, it was all pretty modest, more of a decorous whimper than a bang.

  We were in the kitchen, making a cup of tea prior to my departure, before my father mentioned the state of my life again. Mrs Snow had left the things laid out on the kitchen table, complete with cling-filmed biscuits. Obviously, she didn’t believe him capable of instigating even the smallest domestic operation from scratch and she was probably right. ‘I don’t think Damian is behaving correctly in this,’ he said after another silence, as he poured out two cups of builders’ brew. ‘You’ll almost certainly end by disturbing the balance of a perfectly workable life. Some man or some woman will suddenly find themselves a thousand million times richer than their siblings, richer than every relation they have in the world. Their mother will face the task of explaining to her husband that the eldest child is a bastard. It’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘And if the money should mean that a life encumbered by poverty might suddenly take wing and achieve great things?’

  ‘You sound like a novel from a railway bookstall.’

  ‘You sound like an officer from Health and Safety.’

  He bit into his digestive. Mrs Snow was not a risk taker, with biscuits or anything else. ‘Nor do I think it fair for Damian to lay this burden on you. It’s not as if he had much credit to call on.’

  ‘No.’ But I did not want to pretend that I didn’t know why I had been asked. ‘Unfortunately there really wasn’t anyone else who could have undertaken it.�
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  ‘Maybe. But I don’t believe he understood what he was exposing you to.’

  This was an odd comment, which I had not anticipated. ‘Why? What have I been “exposed to”?’

  ‘You’ve been made to go back into your own past and to compare it with your present. You’ve been forced to remember what you wanted from life at nineteen, forty years ago, before you knew what life was. Indeed, you must face what you all wanted from life, those silly, over-made-up girls and the vain, self-important young men you ran around with then. Now, thanks to Damian, you must bear witness to what happened to them. To what happened to you. Eventually, in old age, almost everyone with any brains must come to terms with the disappointment of life, but this is very early for you to have to make that discovery. You’ve been rendered discontented when it’s too late, or nearly too late, to fix, but soon enough for you to have many years ahead to live with that discontent. Damian ought to have spoiled his own life, not yours.’

  ‘He doesn’t have much of his own life left to spoil.’

  ‘Even so.’

  And of course he was right, really.

  Is it serendipity? That explanation for those strange, coincidental happenings that seem, for a moment, to create a sense of planning in our arbitrary lives? Or is serendipity more to do with accidental knowledge of things? Of chance deductions that lead to greater understanding? Either way, I believe it was serendipity that took a hand in the next stage of my Damian-led journey.

  We were staying for the weekend, Bridget and I, with a very tiresome architect and his very charming wife at a house he had purchased some years before in Yorkshire. It was an old house, a historical house, a ‘great house’ in a way and, oh boy, didn’t he know it. The architect in question was called Tarquin Montagu. I did not believe that this was a name he, or more probably anyone, would have received at the baptismal font, and I certainly never discovered any link between him and the ducal house of Manchester, a connection that he liked to imply. He came into my life as the husband of a delightful novelist called Jennifer Bond who was also with my publisher. We’d been paired for a book tour one summer a few years before, forging a friendship in the process. I was not then clear about how he came by his money, since he was never associated with any vividly spectacular building, but he lived in a way that Vanbrugh would have envied and some years before our visit he had bought a splendid semi-ruin near Thirsk, called Malton Towers.