Julian Fellowes - Past Imperfect

Eventually the plan was settled. I had rather a heavy week coming up, so the decision was made that I would return to Surrey after lunch on the following Sunday. Accordingly, I took the train and was met once more at the station by the flawlessly uniformed chauffeur, but as we arrived at Planet Damian it came as a surprise to see what looked like a village fête going on in the gardens. The cars were parked in a field further down the road, and the booths and general activity were apparently cordoned off from the upper lawn, so the event did not really impinge on the actual house, but even so it was not very compatible with my cherished image of Mr Baxter, being altogether too philanthropic for his tastes. However, in answer to my question as I got out of the car, Bassett confirmed the situation. ‘Yes. It’s held over two days in the summer, Sir. It’s in aid of the local Catholic church, St Teresa’s. In Guildford.’

‘Is Mr Baxter a Catholic?’ The thought had never occurred to me. Not that I mind Catholics. It was just strange to think of Damian subscribing to any religion.

‘I believe so, Sir.’

‘And does he do this every year?’

‘He does, Sir. Since he first came here.’ I attempted to conceal my cynical amazement as I was shown directly to the library. When I walked into the room I realised at once why I had been sent for. Damian was dying. He had of course been dying before, when I was last there on the visit that started it all, but one may be dying without having death written all over one’s face. This time it was not so much that he had a fatal illness. Rather, at first appearance, he looked as if he were already dead.

He lay back, stretched out, on his daybed, eyes shut. Were it not for the faintest movement of his emaciated chest I would have assumed I had come too late. I suppose I must have appeared shocked, as just at this moment he opened his eyes and let out a rasping, little laugh at my expression. ‘Cheer up,’ he snorted. ‘I’m not quite as bad as I look.’

‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘Since you couldn’t look worse.’

Naturally this bucked him up. He rang the bell by his chair and when the ever vigilant Bassett put his head round the door suggested, in that diffident way of his, that we might have some tea. ‘Are you staying the night?’ he asked when Bassett had gone off on his commission.

‘I don’t think so. I was planning to continue the search tomorrow, and I don’t believe I should put it off.’

‘No. For pity’s sake don’t put it off, whatever you do.’ But he raised his eyebrows to make this reference to his coming demise, into a sort of joke. ‘So, how have you been getting on?’

I told him about Lucy and Dagmar. ‘They seem very fond of you.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

Of course, that was the point. I was surprised. But I didn’t feel I could word this acceptably so I didn’t try. Instead, I repeated their separate messages of goodwill and felt glad I had delivered them faithfully. ‘I don’t think I was aware how well you knew them.’

‘You weren’t aware of a lot of things about me.’ He waited, perhaps for me to contradict, but I was silent. ‘Poor little Dagmar.’ He gave a semi-comic sigh, inviting me to join in his contemplation of her hopelessness, but after my recent visit I would have felt disloyal so I resisted. He continued, undeterred. ‘She should probably have been born in 1850, been married by proxy to some German grand duke, and just lived out her life observing the rituals. She would have done it very well and no doubt been much loved by all those loyal subjects who would never get near enough to find out how boring she was.’

‘She’s less boring now,’ I said. ‘Less boring, less diffident and less happy.’

He nodded, absorbing my report. ‘I was surprised when she married him. I thought she’d go for dull and respectable, and end up in a farmhouse in Devon, with a lot of huge, Royal portraits looking out of place and filling the half-timbered walls from floor to ceiling. I never expected her to go for nasty and successful, and end up back in a palace and miserable.’

‘Well, she’s got the portraits, anyway.’

‘Did she tell you she wanted to marry me?’ He must have caught my expression on hearing this, as he read it very accurately. ‘I’m past being ungallant. I’m nearly dead. At that point you truly can say what you like.’ Which, on reflection, I feel is probably true.

‘She did, actually.’

‘Really?’ I could see he was surprised.

‘She said she longed for it, but you weren’t interested. She said she had nothing to offer that you wanted or needed.’

‘That sounds rather peevish.’

‘Well, it wasn’t. She was very touching.’

He nodded at this, somehow acknowledging Dagmar’s generosity with a kinder tone than he had used before. ‘I never said she wasn’t a nice woman. I thought she was one of the nicest of all of you.’ He considered for a minute. ‘It was hard for ex-Royals.’

‘I agree.’

‘It was all right for the ones still on thrones,’ he added, thinking more on the topic. ‘After all the nonsense of the Sixties and Seventies was over, they were in an enviable position. But for the others it was hard.’

‘I suppose you didn’t want to take all that on. Not once you knew more about what it would entail.’

‘There were lots of things I didn’t want to take on, once I knew a bit more about them.’ He looked at me. ‘If it comes to that, I didn’t want to take on your whole world, once I knew more about it.’ He returned to the matter in hand. ‘But you’re quite sure she wasn’t my pen pal?’

‘I am.’

‘And it wasn’t Lucy either?’ I explained further about the hereditary condition of the daughter. Thoughtfully, he absorbed the detail that ruled him out. ‘So, how was she?’

‘All right.’ I tipped my head from side to side, in that gesture that is intended to signify so-so.

He was quite curious at this. ‘You don’t seem to be waxing lyrical. I always thought of you two as very thick.’

‘Her life is more her own fault than Dagmar’s.’ The truth is I did feel more tepid about the Rawnsley-Prices. The phrase about people ‘making their own bed’ is not very meaningful, since we all to some extent make our own beds and have to lie on them. We have no choice. Even so, it does have some meaning. Unlike many people, Lucy had enjoyed real options when young and she seemed, to me anyway, to have chosen none of the more creative or interesting ones.

He spoke my thought. ‘Lucy is another Sixties casualty.’

I felt it behoved me to stick up for my old friend a bit. ‘She’s not as bad as some. At least she’s not one of those sad sixty-year-old television executives, wandering around in a leather jacket and talking about the Arctic Monkeys.’

‘Maybe. But she assumed that her act as a madcap baronet’s daughter, embracing the new values, with a zany, whacky sense of fun would run and run. She was mistaken.’ He was right in this so I didn’t defend her further. ‘Besides, that particular routine is only convincing when the player is young. Zany and whacky at fifty-eight is just tragic.’

‘She has our best wishes, though.’

‘If you want. She’ll survive.’ He looked at me as I stared out of the window on to the gathering below.

‘Your fête is very well attended, I must say.’

‘I can see you’re taken aback to find me doing something for charity.’

‘I am a bit.’

‘You’re right. I am not very nice. Not really.’ He spoke quite sharply, unwilling to lie, even by being silent. ‘But I do approve of these people. I admire their ordinariness. When I was young I couldn’t deal with anyone who lacked ambition. I couldn’t see the point of a life that just accepted and had no wish to change. I was at ease with people who wanted to be millionaires and cabinet ministers and movie stars. I sympathised with any vaulting goal, no matter how ludicrous. But those with no desire beyond a decent life, a nice house, a pleasant holiday were quite alien to me. They made me uncomfortable.’