Past Imperfect

by Julian Fellowes

  ‘I never know what “cleave” means in that context,’ I mused. But nobody was interested in my query.

  The two girls, both of whom I could now see were vying for the vacant position in Damian’s mind, at least as far as this conversation went, pondered his words. ‘She certainly should, if she’s got anything to her,’ said Lucy, which gave her an immediate advantage.

  ‘It’s hard to throw off everything of value,’ countered Dagmar, but then she faltered. ‘I mean, if you think it has value.’ Damian seemed to nod, as if giving her permission to continue. ‘And it’s hard to throw off people you love, people who may deserve your love. Would your perfect woman be true to herself if she broke away from her roots, entirely?’

  ‘I am asking a lot,’ he said thoughtfully. By considering his answer, Damian was treating Dagmar with respect and Lucy thereby lost the initiative. ‘Nor am I defending my demands, which may be thoroughly unreasonable. But I am telling you what I would need to know she could do if it came to it.’

  Then Dagmar said, ‘I think she could if she had to, but I’m just pointing out it would be hard.’

  ‘I never said it wouldn’t.’

  Obviously, I missed the significance of all this at the time because, as we all now know, I was almost completely ignorant of much of what had gone on over the Season two years before, but I have since learned that this interchange was the preamble to Dagmar’s last night of fantasy that she could be Damian’s dream woman. I hope she enjoyed it.

  Over the next couple of days we drifted, getting up late, swimming, eating at long tables set out on the terrace under a line of umbrellas, and going for walks in the village – doing, in fact, what people like us do best: Taking advantage of other people’s money. But then, the following Monday, 27th July to be precise, we awoke to hear the startling news that Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, ex-Prime Minister of Portugal, founder of the Estado Novo – which, with Spain, had been the last Fascist state of Western Europe – had died in the night at the age of eighty-one.

  ‘This is incredible,’ I said as the party began to gather for breakfast on the terrace, pulling fruit from great piles set out for our delight, pouring coffee, buttering toast. I had thought the announcement would have stilled the table. Not so.

  ‘Why?’ asked George Tremayne.

  ‘Because the last of the dictators, who shaped the middle of the century, who fought the war, who changed the world, is dead. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Primo de Rivera…’

  ‘Franco’s still alive,’ said Richard Tremayne. ‘So now he’ll be the last of them to die.’

  Which was, of course, a point. ‘Nevertheless, it is extraordinary that we should be in Portugal, just outside Lisbon, when he went.’ I was not going to give up easily. ‘The newspapers say he’s going to lie in state in Lisbon Cathedral for a few days. Obviously, we must all queue up and go.’

  ‘To do what?’ said George.

  ‘To walk past his body. This is a historic moment.’

  I turned to Damian for support, but he just helped himself to some more milk for his cornflakes.

  I am not sure quite what it tells us about the battle of the sexes but in the event all the girls came and none of the other men. Naturally, they didn’t have anything suitable to wear, and they borrowed black skirts and shawls and mantillas from the furious women in the kitchen, but they all came, including Alicky, despite her continuing complaints throughout the pilgrimage about her swelling and painful throat, of which we had heard more than enough by this point.

  That said, the advantage of having Alicky with us was that she was able to be very stern with the driver, one of John’s perks from the bank, who deposited us on the edge of the huge piazza in front of the cathedral, telling him exactly where he was to wait and, no, she couldn’t give him an idea of how long we were going to be. In the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon we took up our positions in the endless line of shuffling, morose men and weeping women. Apart from anything else, I was impressed, or intrigued, or something, by the sorrow on display. I had been accustomed to think of Salazar as the last of the wicked old buffers who had plunged Europe into bloody turmoil, and here was a wide cross section of the Portuguese, from nobles to peasants (the last constituting the people who might have had the greatest right to complain against his rule), all openly sobbing at his departure. I suppose it’s always hard to give up what you’re used to.

  ‘Candida?’ The voice cut through me like a bacon slicer. I knew it as well as I knew my own without turning round, and I could not believe I was hearing it, in this ancient sea capital so far from home. ‘Candida, what on earth are you doing here?’ At this we all turned to greet Serena as she walked across the square, dragging a rather hot-looking Lady Claremont and the dreaded Lady Belton in her wake. In their party too the men were not interested in politics. Seeing all our faces, Serena let out a short scream. ‘My God! What is this? I don’t believe it! Why on earth are you all here?’ We then embarked on an explanation and it turned out that, by an unbelievable coincidence, her own parents had taken one of the other villas in the development where ours lay, that they had invited Andrew’s parents, that they’d arrived the day before and they would be staying for the coming week, and… wasn’t it amazing?

  I need hardly tell you that, as it turned out, it was not amazing. It was not in the least amazing. It was not even a coincidence. The scheme, which I did not uncover for some time after this and then only because I ran into George Tremayne at a race meeting three or four summers later, had originated with Serena, who wanted to see Damian again. Even when I heard the truth from George I didn’t understand quite why (although I do now), but it was anyway important to her. John had been asking Candida to bring out a group of friends for some time, that bit was true, and they decided that if Candida could get Damian into the group, Serena and Andrew would, by coincidence, take a villa nearby. Obviously, Damian would not come if Serena were to be in the party, nor would Andrew if Damian was, so the subterfuge was necessary, once you accepted the intention. Where the plan might be said to have gone awry was that Serena’s parents, perhaps suspicious in some way, had announced they would bear the cost of the trip and join them. This Andrew would not allow Serena to refuse, since it was such a saving. The final button came when Lady Belton suggested that she and her benighted husband also come along, as she would ‘welcome the chance to know the Claremonts better.’ I never found out what would have happened if Damian had refused when I asked him. I imagine the whole thing would just have been cancelled. However, at the time, I suspected nothing. I thought the chance meeting was genuine chance, a heavensent miracle that Serena Gresham – correction, Serena Summersby – should be standing in a sun-drenched, southern square, also wearing ill-fitting, borrowed black and waiting to pay homage to a dead tyrant alongside me. I allowed myself to wonder at her properly. ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Frazzled and worn out. Take my advice. Don’t travel with your parents, your in-laws and your two-month-old baby, in the same party.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ I looked at her. She was quite unchanged. That my golden girl was now a wife and mother seemed more or less impossible to believe. ‘How are you getting on?’

  She glanced swiftly across at Lady Belton, but the old trout was busily snubbing some tourist who’d attempted to strike up a conversation and enjoying it too much to notice us. ‘All right.’ Then, sensing that her answer had not sounded like the voice of love’s young dream, she smiled. ‘My life’s terribly grown up now. You wouldn’t believe it was me. I spend the whole time talking to plumbers and having things covered, and asking Andrew whether he’s done the sales tax.’

  ‘But you’re happy?’

  We did not need to exchange a glance to know that, with this question, I was pushing my luck. ‘Of course I am,’ she said.

  ‘Where is Andrew?’

  She shrugged. ‘Back at the villa. He says he’s not interested in history.’ ‘This isn’t history, it’s histor
y in the making.’

  ‘What can I tell you? He’s not interested.’

  To the fury of the people behind us, we stuffed Serena, her mother and her motherin-law into our group, and together we all staggered up the cathedral steps. From there we passed into the cool, shadowed interior of the great church, where the sounds of crying were more audible and, as they echoed through the aisles and cloisters, curiously haunting. Grief is always grief, whether or not the deceased deserves it. At last we walked past the coffin. The head was covered in some sort of scarf, but the hands, waxy and still, were pressed together as if in prayer, raised and resting on the chest of the corpse. ‘I wonder how they do that,’ said Serena. ‘Do you think they’ve got a special thing?’

  I stared at the body. It was dressed, as are all dictators in death apparently, in a rather nasty, lightweight suit that looked as if it had come from Burton Tailoring. ‘What I can never get over,’ I whispered, ‘is the way the moment people are dead, they look as if they’ve been dead for a thousand years. As if they were never alive.’

  Serena nodded. ‘It’s enough to make you believe in God,’ she said. Once outside again the plan was made. The Claremonts, the Beltons and the Summersbys would go home now to change, and they would all join us for dinner in a couple of hours back at the villa. Full of this pleasant scenario, we climbed into the waiting vehicles.

  I now think I must share a little of the blame for what happened later as, for some reason which in retrospect seems completely inexplicable, I never mentioned to Damian that we had run into Serena. In my defence, I knew very little, if anything, of what I have since learned had gone on between them. I knew they’d kissed once and I genuinely thought that was about it, but even so it does seem odd. I did not consciously conceal it, because when we got back Damian was nowhere to be seen. He had not, we heard from Lucy, slept well the previous night and he’d retired to catch up so as to be on form for dinner. ‘Don’t let’s wake him,’ said Dagmar firmly and we didn’t. Clearly, I should have gone to his room, propped his eyes open and told him what I knew, but I was not aware of the urgency and I suppose I imagined I would catch him before the others arrived. Then, a little later, Lucy volunteered to go and tell him, and before we could discuss it she’d vanished, leaving Dagmar biting her lip. At the time I did suspect Lucy’s ultimate purpose in going to Damian’s bedroom, but not that she would make no mention of the meeting at the cathedral, the dinner that was planned for that evening, or Serena. Which proved to be the case.

  There was one more surprise in store, on this most surprising of all days – before the Big Surprise later that is – which John greeted us with when we got back. ‘There was a call from a friend of yours,’ he said as we walked out on to the terrace. Naturally I, and presumably the rest, thought this would be from Serena, making some change to the evening’s schedule. John disabused us: ‘Joanna de Yong? Is that the name?’

  Candida was astonished. ‘Joanna de Yong?’ she said. ‘Where was she ringing from?’

  ‘She’s here. She’s staying with her husband and her parents quite nearby. They arrived today.’ He was smiling as if he were bringing us glad tidings, but the response was not what he’d anticipated.

  We all looked at each other in silence. Wasn’t this too mad? Was Estoril the only holiday destination of choice? It was developing into a Russian play. I do vividly remember the oddness of all this, which later got buried beneath the horror. Dagmar commented at the time that it seemed as if we had arranged a modest reunion, and Fate had decided to get in on the act and bring everyone of significance from that period on to the stage at once. In other words she was as innocent as I was about what was taking place behind the scenes. At last Lucy spoke. ‘What did she want?’ She was always less a fan of Joanna than some, as I remembered well.

  John was clearly a little undermined by the response to his news. ‘Only to see you all. I’ve invited her and her husband over for dinner. I hope that’s all right. She asked who was staying and she seemed to know every name, so I thought you’d be pleased.’ He stopped, hesitant, afraid he’d made a boo-boo.

  ‘Of course we’re pleased,’ said Candida. But she wasn’t very, and now I know why. The planned, and morally dubious, dinner for Serena to re-meet Damian already had to absorb Serena’s parents and in-laws, which was less than ideal. Now it was beginning to expand into a state banquet.

  ‘She’s bringing her parents,’ said John.

  Which put the tin lid on it. ‘Jesus,’ said Lucy and she spoke for most of the company.

  Naturally, as you will have surmised, the de Yong arrival had nothing to do with chance either, and I learned about this strange turn of events much sooner than I did the other. I was still changing when there was a knock on the door and without waiting for permission from me Joanna came in. Without a hello, in fact without a word, she lay down on the bed with a loud sigh. ‘I don’t know what we’re all doing here,’ she said.

  ‘Having a lovely time?’ I had not seen her since the end of 1968’s festivities but she was still a miracle to look at.

  ‘You wish.’ She stared up at me, rolling her eyes, as I waited for her to explain herself. ‘My mother fixed the whole thing without any reference to me, you know.’

  ‘Obviously, I don’t know. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’d rung Serena-’

  ‘Do you keep up with her?’

  She caught my surprise and smiled. ‘Not everyone’s dropped me.’

  ‘I’m sure not.’

  She received this with a quizzical expression, suited to humouring the slow witted. ‘Anyway, she told me she was going to Portugal with her parents. And that Candida would be here at the same time with some friends, including you and Damian.’

  ‘Really?’ This didn’t quite square with the scene we had just enacted in Lisbon outside the cathedral, but before I had time to investigate it Joanna ran on. The silly thing is I recall her remark now, clearly, but I forgot it at the time, so I still failed to add two and two and get to four.

  ‘For some unexplained and foolish reason I relayed all this to my mother and, lo and behold, a week ago she informed me that she’d planned a surprise for me and she’d taken a villa in Estoril. Obviously, I told her it was quite impossible.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But she blubbed and blubbed, and sighed and fell about, and asked why I hated her, and hadn’t she tried to help me since the marriage, and now they’d paid a fortune for the villa because they’d jumped the queue and all the rest of it, and I gave in.’ She was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola, the old, rather pretty, glass type, and she took a long, lazy swig.

  ‘I’m glad you did. It’s nice to see you.’

  She shrugged. ‘She thinks I’m bored with Kieran. She thinks she can wean me off him with all of you as bait. You’re here to remind me of the fun I’m missing. That’s why she’s brought us. She even asked if I would be glad to see Damian again.’ She threw back her head and laughed out loud. ‘Damian. Two years ago she wanted to commit suicide when she thought I was serious about him.’

  And still I didn’t put the information together: Serena knew Damian was coming all along. What was the matter with me? ‘Poor Kieran,’ I said. I had in fact met Kieran de Yong by that stage, as some weeks after the sensational elopement there was a cocktail party at the Dorchester for the newly-weds in an attempt by Valerie Langley to normalise the situation. I admit I didn’t quite get the point of him then. But I was young and anyway I don’t remember thinking any the worse of Joanna for her choice. There is, after all, no accounting for taste. ‘How is marriage?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. But then, after a pause, ‘It does go on a bit.’ Which sounded uncomfortably eloquent. I said nothing.

  ‘Have you seen Damian yet?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s still in his room. We were far too early. My mother’s impatience wouldn’t let us wait. This is the world she always wanted for me and she thinks Kieran is the reason I’ve dropped ou
t of it. According to her I’m drowning. Socially. She wants to pull me back to the shore. She wants a divorce as soon as it can be arranged.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ It’s hard to explain how outlandish this seemed in 1970. Even ten years later it would have been perfectly believable.

  ‘Oh, but I am. She thinks if I dump Kieran now, everyone will forget about him. We’ve had no kids, despite going at it like rabbits.’ She paused to register that I was a little shocked. It’s odd to think one could be by such references when they came from a woman, but lots of us were. Having registered my blushes with a blush of her own, she continued, ‘The point is, if she can prise me free now, there’ll be no baggage that can’t be safely hidden inside the identity of my second husband, whoever he may be.’

  ‘And she’d be happy with Damian?’

  ‘After Kieran, she’d be happy with a passing Chinese laundryman.’

  I smiled. Although, to be honest, in a way I was rather impressed with Valerie Langley’s commitment. I knew that in similar circumstances my own parents would just have shrugged and sighed, and occasionally allowed only very old friends to commiserate, but it would never have occurred to either of them actually to do anything about it. It wasn’t that I approved of the plan. Joanna had, after all, taken her vows and in those days that meant rather more than it does in these. But still, it certainly didn’t make me dislike her parents. ‘What does your father feel about it?’

  ‘He quite likes Kieran, but he wasn’t consulted.’

  ‘And Kieran is here?’

  She nodded. ‘And he knows exactly what she’s trying to do.’

  ‘Yikes.’ Of course, we hadn’t touched on the nub of the matter. ‘Are you going to allow yourself to give him up?’