Past Imperfect

by Julian Fellowes

  Of his private life there was little information. He had married Joanna in 1969, so in this case the disputed baby had been born firmly in wedlock and the impending birth had not been the cause of any questionable nuptials. The child was a boy, as I already knew, Malcolm Alfred, but there were no further details of him on the Wikipedia entry. The divorce had come in 1983 and, to be honest, I shared Damian’s amazement that it had taken so long. The striking second wife was one Jeanne LeGrange, wed in 1997, whose name suggested a well-travelled, international life and apart from that, nothing. No more mention of divorces, nor more wives, no more children. My main point of interest was that according to Damian’s account, Joanna had continued their affair well into her marriage. It seemed to confirm that she married de Yong to escape her mama and not because of an unconquerable love, which did not surprise me, since I had never thought anything else.

  Damian’s list gave me a number for Kieran’s business which, when I first read it, I assumed would take me more or less directly to him, but now I understood the scale of what we were dealing with I wasn’t so sure. It seemed rather like telephoning Buckingham Palace and asking to speak to the Queen. But in the event I was put through to his office and eventually to his private secretary with very little fuss, and when I had reached her she was quite polite. I explained I was an old friend from many years before, and, employing a similar device to the one used with Dagmar, I explained that I wanted to come in and talk about a new charity I was involved with that I thought might interest him. She sighed, gently but audibly. I was probably the fiftieth applicant that day. ‘Mr de Yong’s charity work is handled by a different department, ’ she said. ‘Would you like me to put you through to them?’

  I decided to push my luck, since I had no viable alternative, but my confidence in a productive result was waning. ‘Well, to be honest, I’d rather talk directly to Kieran, if he’s got a spare moment.’ I thought the slightly insolent use of his Christian name would make me sound more convincing, but I am not sure this was correct. She hesitated, then asked me to spell my surname once again, and I was put on hold and forced to listen to a rather bad recording of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. This time I wasn’t sure what I would do if he didn’t want to see me. And in truth, I couldn’t imagine why he would. If he had any memory of me at all it would only be the faintest reminder of a rather stuck-up, spotty youth who had snubbed him at every turn. That, and the dreadful evening when we last saw each other. Of course, one of the great pleasures of success, especially when many people have dismissed you and your chances, is to seek out those same ignorami and force them to retract their earlier opinions. To make them acknowledge, in their eyes if not with their tongues, that they were totally and completely wrong about you. That you, in short, have made them look like fools. I could only hope that the idea of my swallowing humble pie would be amusing.

  Then, to my surprise, there was a click and Kieran was on the line. ‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ The words may have been trite, but it was easy to tell from their delivery that he had mellowed. His East London accent had softened but not in a pretentious way, and his tone was, given the facts, unexpectedly warm.

  ‘I’m surprised you remember me.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve followed your career with interest. I’ve even read some of your books.’

  I smiled with relief that my task was once more rendered do-able. ‘Enough of this love talk,’ I said and it was his turn to laugh. But when he asked me what it was about I fumbled as, naturally, I hadn’t thought I would be talking so soon to the man in question and my story was not yet quite straight in my head.

  Mercifully, he cut through my maunderings with an invitation. His lunches were taken for months to come, but he wondered if I might be free for dinner. ‘Or is it difficult for you to get away in the evenings?’

  ‘Not at all, I’m sad to say. What about you?’

  ‘I’m the same.’ So a dinner was indeed arranged, which, he suggested, might take place at the Savoy Grill since it was about to close for a couple of years of ‘renovation.’ This was unless I had an objection. Which I hadn’t. Like him, I felt that a famous restaurant of our joint youths that was about to vanish forever seemed like a good, even witty, place to revisit the past. We had a date.

  The old Savoy has left us now, that illogically impressive mixture of Odèon and Belle Epoque, which has been such a beacon in my life from childhood and growing up, when I would be taken for tea by ancient aunts past debbing days, with balls and cocktail parties in the River Room, and through the intervening years, smiling and cheering at weddings and birthdays and every kind of private celebration, right up to the present, when I have served my time at all those festival lunches and award-giving dinners, with their predictable menus and back-slapping, manufactured gaiety. Not long after my dinner with Kieran the new owner closed its doors and auctioned off the contents, and it would be a long, long time before the revelation of the reconceived hotel. And even if the team has recognised the special place the Savoy has occupied in London hearts for over a century, since Richard D’Oyly Carte first dreamed his dream, even if they have tried to serve its history as honourably as they could, still the stamping ground of Nellie Melba and Diana Cooper, of Alfred Hitchcock and the Duchess of Argyll, of Marilyn Monroe and Paul McCartney, and all the rest of that glittering crew will have joined the palace of John of Gaunt that once stood on the site, and must henceforth trust to history books and memory.

  I hadn’t visited the Grill for a while and when I got there, it was to find it had already been much altered from the fashionable rendezvous of my adolescence that lasted well into my adulthood. In the early Sixties, I used to go regularly with a disreputable cousin of my father’s who’d taken a shine to me, and who regarded the place as a sort of private club and would bring the most recent, luckless object of his fancy there for an orgy of oysters and dishonest vows. Naturally, he was a wonderfully dashing role model to an unattractive teenager with bad skin. On leaving the army in his forties, Cousin Patrick chose to live a short-term life, that is, to enjoy himself without putting down any roots or taking on any responsibilities. He was certainly very handsome and very charming, so this was more achievable than it might have been for some. My own mother adored him despite my father’s disapproval, but in the end I suppose the latter’s strictures about reaping what you sew were proved correct since our cousin’s fun-filled years of avoiding commitment left him to face a stroke and early death alone, proving once again, as if we needed any more proof, that we generally end up with lives that are the product of our choices.

  Even so, he was an inspiration to me, since he accepted no rules or boundaries and, having been brought up by my very straight and fairly strict pater, this seemed to me like an empowering paradise. I remember once being in a restaurant with him and, finding it difficult to attract the waiter’s attention, Patrick reached round and picked up a stand, one of those whatnots that hold mats and menus and salts and peppers, and flung it the entire length of the room. It landed with a crash like a nuclear explosion that silenced the full, chattering space until you could have heard a pin drop, but instead of being reprimanded or ordered out on to the street, as I fully expected, the only tangible result was that the service improved enormously. There was probably a subversive lesson tucked in here somewhere, which my father would not have wanted me to learn.

  As I walked in I thought of Patrick for a moment. I remembered him standing in that same doorway, checking the room with his lazy smile, to see if there were any pretty possibilities seated at other tables. One of the strangest parts of growing older being that ever-increasing Team of the Dead, who stand behind your shoulder and take it in turns to jump in and out of your head. A picture, a shop, a street, a clock that someone gave you, an ornament that came from this dead aunt or a chair from that dead uncle, and suddenly for a second they’re alive again, whispering into your ear. There is a religion somewhere in the world tha
t believes we all die twice; once in the normal way and the second time when the last person who really knew us dies, so one’s living memory is gone from the earth. I subscribe to that and I thought happily of my old cousin that day, if only to note that the place had changed since he was there. The murals had gone and with them much of the atmosphere, while the sleek panelling, pale and smooth, which had been installed in their place gave the sensation of sitting in a giant cigar thermidor. I suppose these things come under the heading of ‘rebranding,’ that twenty-first-century snake oil for every ailment. Kieran was already in his seat when I arrived. We waved at a distance, shook hands when I drew near and sat.

  As everyone knows, the ageing process never fails to shock when it has not been witnessed on a daily basis. The Kieran I knew had been a fresh-faced oik, with fake hair and a fake tan, who bore almost no resemblance to the elderly, senior man of affairs sitting opposite me. But if his face was a great deal older, nevertheless, as he approached his seventieth year, it was also finer than it had been in his youth, less blotchy, less puffy and infinitely more secure. The too-red cheeks were gone and the glossy highlights, taking with them the true colour of his hair, whatever it may have been, but leaving him a rather distinguished grey, like a model in an advertisement for Grecian 2000. The hair itself had stayed, the lucky stiff, and his eyes were not, as I recalled, small and piggy but curiously kind for someone who had made such killings in the savage world of property.

  ‘This is very nice of you,’ I said, as he sent a waiter off in search of two glasses of champagne.

  ‘It is my pleasure.’ He studied his menu and I studied his face. He had acquired real stature, that is the only word I can think of to describe the change. He had acquired authority and the authority of the genuinely great. He was polite, relaxed and unstudied, but with that expectation of obedience that marks the powerful apart. The waiter returned with our drinks. ‘So,’ he said, when we were alone again, ‘what’s this about?’ I murmured about my charity. It was not quite fictional as I felt that if he did wish to make a donation, there might as well be profit in it for someone, but I could see at once he wasn’t really interested. ‘I might as well cut you off now,’ he interjected with a good-natured hand raised to stop the flow. ‘I only give to about three things. I’ve had to ring-fence my interests as I find I get about a hundred applications a week these days. All of them perfectly worthy causes, of course, but I cannot cure every evil in the world. I’ll give you a cheque if you like, but not for much and that will be your lot.’

  I nodded. He was very compelling. I would have accepted this decision even if my request had been a truthful one. ‘Thank you,’ I said, but I was puzzled. His secretary had tried to tell me exactly this when I first rang and he could have finished the job without any rudeness when he came on the line. ‘Then why are we here having dinner?’ The words had not come out quite as I had envisaged and I hurried to qualify them. ‘Of course, I’m terribly pleased that we are and it’s the greatest treat to see you again, but I’m surprised you have the time.’

  ‘I have time,’ he said. ‘I have a lot of time for things I want to do.’ This was polite, but did not really answer my question, which he saw. ‘I find that I spend most of my time these days thinking about the past, and about what happened to me and the life I have led, considering, in short, how I got to where I am.’

  ‘So you always make a special case for people from that past?’

  ‘I like to see them. Particularly if, like you, I have seen very little of them in the meantime.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m amazed you remember me at all. I thought I was going to be greeted by a big, fat “who?”’

  He gave a silent, little puff of laughter and I noticed, by contrast, how very sad his eyes were. ‘I don’t think any living human could forget that dinner.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He raised his glass. His years at the top had taught him not to clink it against mine, as he would have done back then. ‘To us. Are we much altered do you think?’

  I nodded. ‘Very, I’d say. I may only be a fatter, balder, sadder version of the young man that I was, but you seem to have changed into someone else completely.’

  He laughed more heartily, as if pleased by the notion. ‘Kieran de Yong, Designer to the Stars.’

  ‘That’s the man I knew.’

  ‘God help you.’

  ‘He wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘Drink or depression has made you kind. He was ghastly.’

  I did not bother to contradict again since I agreed with him. I could see our waiter lingering nearby, waiting for a break in the conversation to step forward and take the order. Kieran gave him a slight nod and he leaned in, pencil and pad in hand. It is comforting to know that the skill of waiting well is not entirely dead even if these days you have to search, and certainly to pay, for it. I do not in any way dislike the tidal wave of Eastern Europeans whose appointed task is apparently to ask me what I want to eat. They seem cheerful and nice on the whole, and a pleasant contrast to the surly Englishman who always looks as if he is longing to spit in your soup. But I do wish someone would tell them not to barge in when the diner is halfway through a punchline.

  The man had garnered all the necessary information and made off to put it into practice. ‘What changed you?’ I asked and he did not need to be reminded of the meaning of the question.

  He thought for a moment. ‘Education. Experience. Or are they the same thing? In those days I felt I’d come from nothing, which was obviously not true, as everyone comes from something. I also felt I knew nothing, which was truer but not completely true either, and consequently I felt I had to present myself as the man who knows everything, who is in touch with the universe, embodying the zeitgeist. I imagined that I looked like a giant controlling his destiny and not a saddo with a dye job.’ He smiled at the memory and shook his head. ‘Those jackets, alone. What was that?’ I couldn’t help laughing with him. ‘And there you have the reason for why I hated all of you lot.’ Which was an unexpected change of direction.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I felt you were so much more in charge than I was.’

  ‘We weren’t.’

  ‘No, I can see that now. But your contempt for me, and everything about me, made me think you were.’

  This made me sorrowful. Why do we spend so much of our lives making blameless people unhappy? ‘I hope we weren’t as bad as that. I hate the word contempt.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course, you’re much nicer these days. I knew you would be. Anyone with any brains, gets nicer as they get older. But we were all angry then.’

  ‘You seem to have harnessed your anger to great effect.’

  ‘Someone once said to me that when young and clever men are angry, they either explode or achieve great things.’

  The weird coincidence of the words made me sit up. ‘How funny. A friend of mine said that about another chap I know, not long ago. Do you remember Serena Gresham?’

  ‘I remember everyone at that dinner.’ I raised my eyebrows to acknowledge that this must indeed be the case for all the guests who were present. But he hadn’t finished. ‘Actually, I remember her more than that. She was quite friendly with Joanna, even after she’d dropped out to run off with me. It was Serena who warned me not to explode.’

  I was simultaneously impressed at Serena’s generosity of vision in going on with Joanna and Kieran when most of the girls had dropped them and slightly disappointed, as one always is, at the realisation that what had seemed a bon mot fashioned expressly for one’s own ears is in fact just a slogan for the speaker. ‘When she said it to me she was talking about Damian Baxter, another member of the Portuguese Dinner Club.’

  ‘The founder member.’ He took another sip of his wine. ‘In a way, Damian Baxter and I were the two graduates of that year’s output from the University of Life.’

  Of course they would know each other, these Masters of the Universe. Damian had told me Kieran avoided h
im and I was curious as to whether this was really true. ‘I suppose you must run into each other from time to time, at gatherings of the Great and the Good,’ I said.

  ‘Not really.’ And there was my answer.

  ‘That evening will obviously be with us to the end.’

  He smiled, with a slight shrug. ‘Damian isn’t a friend of mine, but not because of that.’

  Naturally I wanted to know the reason but I felt it might have an uncomfortable bearing on what I intended to discover before we parted and it didn’t seem quite the right time to open that can of worms. ‘He’s certainly kept his success less secret than you have.’ In saying this I found that I already admired Kieran very much. There is always something good in knowing you admire someone without reservation. I enjoyed giving him his due. Particularly as it justified my disapproval of someone I had always disliked.

  He shook his head. ‘Damian hasn’t courted fame. He simply let it happen. I have spent who knows how much money keeping my name out of everything. Which is the more vain and self-important response?’

  ‘Why did it matter to you?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘A mixture. Part of me believed it was very grown up to avoid a public profile and part of me had had enough. I did quite a lot of first-nighting and glad-handing and the rest of it during my days as a pseudo-posh dressmaker. It was moderately necessary then, though not as necessary as I pretended. But for a property developer, fame gives you nothing that you need and plenty you don’t want.’ The waiter had arrived with a clutch of appropriate equipment and Kieran waited until the man had finished arming us for the delights to come. ‘Fame has its uses. The jumping of queues on to aeroplanes and into hospitals. It gives you good tables in restaurants that were full before you rang. You get theatre seats and tickets for the opera, and even invitations from people you are genuinely interested to know. But money gives you all these things without the hassle. You’re not besieged to open this and support that, because nobody knows who you are and it wouldn’t help if you did. The newspapers don’t comb your background and interview your school friends to see if you kissed someone behind the bicycle shed in 1963. I don’t have to put up with any of that. I get requests for large donations and I give some. That’s all that is expected of me.’