Julian Fellowes - Past Imperfect

‘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.’

‘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.