A George IV, Gothic confection, abandoned by its family after the war, Malton had followed the sad trail of such places in those years as first a school and then a training college, and after that a home for old people, and I am fairly sure at one point a finishing school specialising in Nouvelle Cuisine. Until finally it achieved a slight, if spurious, fame in the mid 1990s as a ‘World Centre’ for some later version of Transcendental Meditation, which attracted the members of one of the manufactured Boy Bands of the era. This last incarnation was run by a dubious character who claimed the authority and support of, I seem to remember, the Dalai Lama, but I may be wrong in that. At any rate the day dawned when a red-topped Sunday scandal sheet revealed that he was not, in fact, a philosopher in touch with the higher plane, as his earnest pupils had no doubt assumed, but instead an old fraud from Pinner who had previous form for shoplifting, car theft and making false claims on his insurance. His exposure resulted in a mass exodus of the faithful, shortly followed by that of their non-spiritual leader, and for the next eight years the wind had whistled through the dusty galleries and servants’ attics and former drawing rooms of the decaying folly until, at what can only have been the eleventh hour, Tarquin showed up. I am quite sure that from the house’s point of view it was a very good thing that he did. Whether it was quite so beneficial to Jennifer’s quality of life is rather more open to question.
The continuing craving on the part of the successful to reproduce the lifestyle and customs of the nineteenth-century aristocracy must be trying for our Labour masters. They would deny this, as they deny so many aspects of human nature, but I’m sure it is so. And the life these aspirants choose to ape is from a very specific period. Not for them the casual round of the eighteenth-century aristo, sleeping sitting upright, breakfasting at noon on sticky chocolate before a ride; who wore no uniforms for his sporting or social activities, who dined at five in the afternoon, drank three or four bottles of port a night and frequently, when travelling, shared a bed with his manservant, while his wife might hunker down with her maid. This is not an attractive model for the modern millionaire. Nor, certainly, would they copy the altogether more brutish customs of the sixteenth-century toff, whose personal hygiene, to say nothing of his politics, would make a strong man faint. No, their template was developed by the late Victorians, who had such a talent for mixing rank with comfort: Majesty and deference combined with warmth and draught-free bedrooms, splendour with thick carpets and interlined curtains, where the food is hot, but there are still footmen to serve it.
Sadly, to live like this requires much, much more money than most modern copiers ever imagine. They do the sums and there seems to be enough to bring the house up to date, tidy the garden, hire someone nice to help at table and they begin. Alas, these palaces were designed to preside over thousands of rent-producing acres, to be the window display of huge fortunes in trade and manufacturing, which might have been concealed from Society but, like the mole, were working busily all the while in the dark. Because these houses eat money. They gobble it up, as the rampaging giants of the Brothers Grimm eat children and every other good thing in their path.
When the genuinely, very rich buy these palaces I am sure they enjoy them and, even if they do not often stay long, still the houses are the better for their passing. The trouble comes when they are bought by the not-quite-rich-enough, who think they can just about manage. With these, as a rule, there is a pattern. They make their fortune, such as it is. They buy a castle to celebrate. They restore it and entertain like mad for eight to ten years and then they sell, exhausted by their own poverty and the constant effort to stay afloat. While the County, those families whose fortunes were never deconstructed, and whose houses and pretensions are built on solid rock, smile, occasionally with regret, and move on to the next candidates. Tarquin Montagu was about six years into the process.
Reviewing him now, having not seen him for a while, I feel more sympathy for him than I did. That is to say that I feel some sympathy, when before I felt none at all. At that time, when we were staying with him, he must have been worried that his whole self-ennobling adventure would implode, but it was part of his personality not to admit or ever discuss his fears. He would have seen that as weakness and loss of control. In fact, his main problem was his total inability to relax control under any circumstances. I would go as far as to say that his nature was the most controlling I have ever encountered. This made him not only impossible to entertain, or to be entertained by, but also lonely and desolate, for he could not admit to anyone, least of all his wife, that events were slipping out of his grasp. I had known him as a difficult and rather ill-tempered man, who always found any conversation not centred on him, hard to follow and harder still to contribute to. But I had not fully understood the extent of his mania before we arrived at his house, tired from the long drive, at tea time on that summer Friday. We were normal people. All we wanted was to be shown our room, to have a hot bath and generally to recover in order, like the model guests we were, to come downstairs refreshed, changed and ready to eat, or talk about, whatever our hosts might throw at us.
It was not to be. First, apparently, we had to sit and listen to a history of the house and when Jennifer suggested that we might be more in the mood for this lesson after we had rested, Tarquin replied that he did not judge us yet as ‘ready’ to see the rooms he had prepared. Naturally, my almost overpowering instinct was to tell him to piss off and drive straight back to London. But looking at Jennifer’s tired and harassed face, I suspected this was an option taken by more than one guest before now, so in pity and to Bridget’s relief, I allowed myself to be led into the library, to listen to the lecture like a good boy.
‘The thing is,’ said Tarquin, getting into his interminable stride, ‘you have to understand that when Sir Richard decided to rebuild in eighteen twenty-four, he wanted both to be in the height of fashion, but at the same time not to lose the sense of historicity that his ancient blood demanded.’ He took a deep breath and looked at us as if waiting for a response though what this might be I could not fathom.
‘So that’s why he chose Gothic?’ I volunteered eventually, wondering if we were ever going to be offered sustenance. I had arrived wanting a cup of tea, but after twenty minutes of this I was ready for whisky, neat and in a pint pot.
Tarquin shook his head. ‘No. Not exactly.’ The smugness of his tone was enough to make one seize a chair and smash it over his head, like a cowboy in a Mack Sennett comedy. ‘That was why he chose Sir Charles Barry as his architect. Barry was still young then. This was before the old Houses of Parliament burned down. He was known as a designer of churches and a restorer of ancient monuments, not a maker of country houses. To have a servant of God as the master of the works gave the whole project a gravitas that ensured respect from his neighbours.’
‘Because he built it in Gothic,’ I suggested. I wasn’t going to give up easily and my boredom was making me angry. But I felt this was as challenging as I could be while still pretending to listen to Tarquin with respect. In other words I was a living lie.
‘No!’ he spoke, this time, with a harsh edge to the word. ‘The style of the building is not the issue! The style is not important! I am talking of the spiritual background with which he approached the design.’
‘In Gothic,’ I murmured.
‘Can I go to the loo? I’m bursting,’ said Bridget and, as so often in the company of women, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that myself.
‘Of course,’ said Jennifer. ‘I’ll show you your room.’ With a sharp glance at her husband she led the way out, stopping to allow us to take up our cases in the hall. During all of this Tarquin was so annoyed at having his dissertation interrupted that he remained, still and sulking, in the library, watching us in glowering silence as we made our way up the imperial, double staircase.
‘God Almighty.’ I fell backwards on to the bed, with a loud sigh, which I rather hoped the retreating Jennifer had caught as she crossed the
landing. If she did, it cannot have been a novel experience. ‘I don’t think I can manage a weekend of this.’ The bed itself was a large four-poster, at first sight grand and imposing, but in fact Edwardian export, cheap and clumsily carved, and clearly purchased by the Montagus for the overall effect, not for any intrinsic quality, presumably because they couldn’t afford the real McCoy. I had already noticed that the whole house was like this, impressive at a glance but disappointing to any further study, like a lovely stage set to be admired from the stalls but not explored too closely. In fact, the whole thing was a stage set, on which Tarquin could play out his personal fantasies of high-born and literate grace. Oi vey.
That night, matters did not improve as we gathered to eat in the gloomy and under-furnished dining room, Bridget shivering beneath her gauzy shawl. A huge Jacobethan table dominated the centre of the room and as we came in I heard Tarquin remonstrate that the places had all been laid at one end, instead of the four of us being ranged around the vast board like the characters in an Addams Family film. That, or a BBC period drama where a combination of modern prejudice and complete ignorance frequently obliges their fictionalised upper classes to adopt inexplicable customs. ‘If you’re going to give us a sermon, I’d prefer to listen and not just watch your lips move,’ said Jennifer, which brought the exchange to an end. We sat, Tarquin, needless to say, as our master at the head. He glanced at us, toying with a bottle of white wine on a coaster in front of him, a slight smile tweaking at the corners of his mouth. ‘Give them some of that wine,’ Jennifer murmured as she brought round plates of ethnic-looking broth.
‘I’m not sure they deserve it,’ said Tarquin, continuing to favour us with his twinkling, quirky gaze. ‘For better or worse, I’ve chosen this. It’s a fairly unusual Sauvignon, crisp but zingy at the same time, which I tend only to use on very special occasions. Is this one? I can’t decide.’
‘Oh, just give them some fucking wine,’ said Jennifer, voicing accurately my own unspoken response. She sat down heavily on her husband’s left, opposite Bridget, with me on her other side, and started to drink her soup. Tarquin did not answer her. Clearly, these rumblings of revolution had been getting more frequent of late. Like an unimaginative king, he was bewildered by the challenge to his authority and could not quite gauge the appropriate response. For a moment he sat in still and sober silence. Then he stood and poured the hallowed liquid into our glasses.
As he did so, I caught Jennifer’s eye for a moment but she looked away, not quite ready to acknowledge, as one does in just such a glance, that she was trapped in a ghastly marriage to a crashing bore. I sympathised with her decision, not least because I didn’t, for a moment, believe that I knew all the facts. There are many factors in a marriage or in any cohabiting arrangement, and just because someone gets too cross at dinner parties, or hates your best friend, or cannot tell an anecdote to save their life, these are not necessarily faults that outweigh the benefits of the union. That said, Marriage to a Controller is one of the hardest kinds of relationship for the outside witness to understand.
Genuine controllers are anti-life, killers of energy, living fire blankets that smother all endeavour. For a start, they are always unhappy on anyone’s territory but their own. They cannot enjoy any party they are not giving. They cannot relax as guests in a public place, because that would involve gratitude and gratitude is, to them, a sign of weakness. But they are intolerable as hosts, especially in restaurants, where their manner to waiters and fellow diners alike poisons the atmosphere. They cannot admire anyone who is more successful than they are. They cannot enjoy the friends of their partner because these strangers may not agree to accept them for the superior being they are. But since they have no friends themselves, it means they must regard any human gathering with suspicion. They cannot praise, because praise affirms the worth of the person to whom it is given and the process of controlling is built on the suppression of any self-worth in whomever they are with. They cannot learn, because learning first demands an acknowledgement that the teacher knows more than they, which they cannot give on any subject. Above all, they are boring. Boring beyond imagining. Boring to the point of madness. Yet I have known women to espouse and move in with such men, clever, interesting women, good-looking, witty women, hard-working and successful women, who have allowed themselves to be taken in and dominated by these tedious, mediocre bullies. Why? Is it sexy to be controlled? Is it safe? What?
‘Are there any plans for tomorrow?’ Bridget, almost blue with cold by this stage, looked brightly across the table.
‘That depends,’ said Tarquin.
But Jennifer could not wait to learn what it depended on. ‘Nothing until the evening, but then we thought we’d go to a charity fireworks thing at a house not very far from here. We’ve already got the tickets so we might as well. You take a picnic and there’s some sort of concert. It could be fun, as long as it’s not raining.’
‘Are we to be limited by something so slight as the weather?’ Tarquin adopted a dark and supposedly mysterious tone, by which I assume he was attempting to snatch back the conversation, but something in Jennifer’s independent response had empowered us, and we carried on as if he had not spoken.
‘That’d be lovely,’ said Bridget and the matter was settled.
We got through the evening somehow, finishing up back in the library, an apartment that must once have been handsome indeed, with really superb late-Regency mahogany bookshelves, which had somehow survived the depredations of the post-war decades. I was quite surprised that the bogus high priest had not flogged them during his tenure or after his fall. Could the Sunday papers have been unjust? Of course, the original collection of books was long gone and Tarquin had been quite unable to replace it. He had made do with those huge sets, entitled Stories from the Empire, or something similar, bound in red artificial leatherette and machine-tooled, but there were lots of them and they did at least fill the space, creating once again a reasonable impression from a distance. ‘Where is this house? Where we’re going tomorrow?’ asked Bridget, before Jennifer returned with a tray of coffee.
Tarquin raised his eyebrows, hesitating for the maximum effect. ‘You’ll find out.’
My sigh must have been audible.
EIGHT
I don’t quite know why, but it was not until we were nearly there that I began to suspect our destination. We turned off the main road at a point I did not at first recognise. When I’d known it the road had not been a dual carriageway and there was no estate of modern housing, with its sickly yellowish street lighting, near the corner. But then, as we came into the village a bell did start to ring. The peripheries might have altered but the main street was much as it had always been, unspoiled and, if anything, improved. The pub was certainly much smarter, catering no doubt for the yuppie weekend trade and not just for the thirsty farm labourers who had crushed into the bar forty years before. We passed it by and, once out of the village, it was no more than five or ten minutes before I could see the familiar little Palladian lodge, and in a loosely stretched-out line of cars we turned through the gates into the drive and enjoyed the comfortable crunch of private gravel beneath the wheels.
But I said nothing. Not even to Bridget, who did not know the place or much about my life when I was a visitor here. My reason was simple: I could not see any profit in reviving the association, given the circumstances of my last meeting, not with Serena but with her parents. I could, after all, be fairly sure they had not forgotten that dinner, since few lives boast many such evenings. Thank Christ. And there was another, weaker motive for my silence, which was that they might have forgotten both the episode and me. My worst nightmare would have been for Tarquin to talk up my acquaintance with the family to gain some local mileage from it among the assembled throng, which he was more than capable of doing, and then for me not to be recognised by any of them. This may seem like vanity. It was vanity. But it was also a reluctance to let daylight in on my dreams. Even if my career with the
Greshams had ended in disaster, I liked to think that I had been a feature of their lives in that distant era, when they had been so vital a feature in mine. And while logic told me this was unlikely, still I’d preserved the fantasy thus far and I wished to get back into the car at the end of the evening with my chimera intact. Anyway, they would not be there. I was quite sure of that when I thought more about it. They would be in London or on holiday or at any rate somewhere else when the locals and the lesser County invaded their demesne. ‘Oh, look,’ said Jennifer and there was the house, perched high on its terraces, lording it over the valley beneath, as we made our way down the winding drive. It was lit, rather gracefully, by spotlights concealed in the surrounding shrubs, an innovation since my time, and the shining beams seemed to give the cool grey stone façade a kind of ethereal beauty in the dusk.
‘What a fabulous place,’ said Bridget. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Gresham Abbey,’ said Tarquin, as if the words belonged to him and he was reluctant to allow them free range.
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