‘I don’t even need to go back that far.’ Why does everyone over fifty still quote Charlie Chaplin in this context? Every day, there is some demented actor in the news, saying what fun it is to be a parent in his seventies, and how it makes every day bright and new. I sometimes wonder how long they can keep up this fantasy before they succumb to rage and clinical exhaustion.
‘Of course…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose… what’s-her-name?’
‘Bridget.’
‘Bridget. I expect it’s a bit late for her.’
Since Bridget was fifty-two, this was almost a compliment. I nodded. ‘I expect so. But that doesn’t necessarily…’ It was my turn to tail away. We both knew what I was saying. My father cheered up considerably, which I have to say I found a bit annoying. I’d always known she wasn’t his type, even if I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, but he’d been unfailingly polite to her and by that stage she was quite fond of him. It felt unjust to realise that he had secretly been hoping throughout that eventually she would pass on by.
‘Oh, I see. Well. You’re a dark horse.’ He poured himself another cup from the silver pot of lukewarm, brownish coffee’ish liquid left for our delectation. ‘Do I know her?’
‘There isn’t anyone, in particular.’ I gave a brisk shake of the head.
‘What’s the matter?’
I was unprepared for this, both the question and the tone, which was uncharacteristically warm. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been in a funny mood since you got here.’ His comment was clearly directed at far more than my relations with Ms FitzGerald. I was taken aback because my father was not much given to introspection, either for himself or with regard to anyone else. When we were young, whenever a conversation at dinner threatened to get interesting he was inclined to cap it with the proto-English imprecation: ‘now, don’t let’s get psychological.’ I do not mean he didn’t appreciate the importance of other people’s inner life. He just didn’t see that it was anything to do with him. Gossip bored him. He couldn’t remember incidents or personalities well enough to savour the punchlines and he used to get quite impatient whenever anyone tried to intrigue him with some local scandal.
In truth, his stance drained my mother, since she was never allowed to discuss the private affairs and theoretical activities of their acquaintance, and this inevitably made their conversation very arid. ‘What business is it of ours?’ he would say, and she would nod and agree with him, and say of course and how right he was, and thereby be silenced. After I’d grown up, I used to defend her and quote Alexander Pope: ‘The proper study of mankind is man’ and so on. The fact remained he felt uncomfortable and ungenerous delving into the murky waters of others’ personal histories and she gave up trying to change him, retaining these topics to enjoy with her friends and her children. It was all right, but I do give thanks that their later years were spent in the era of television, or the evenings would have been silent indeed. Still, here he was, showing an interest, asking for some sort of private explanation of my mood. It was so rare an event, that I couldn’t waste time on prevarication.
‘I have a feeling that I want to change my life.’
‘What do you mean by that? Get rid of Bridget? Stop writing? Sell the flat? What?’
‘Yes,’ I said. We stared at each other. Then I thought again. ‘Actually, I don’t think I want to stop writing.’
‘What’s brought this on?’
I told him about Damian’s request and how I had fared so far. He thought for a moment. ‘I quite liked him at the time, until you had your falling-out.’ He paused, but I had no comment to make. ‘Even so, I’m rather surprised to find he left such a mark on all those lives.’
‘Far be it from me to defend him after what he put me through, but he is the only member of that gang who went on to be one of the most successful men of his generation.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Of course that’s right. I wasn’t thinking.’ My father spoke as one who feels himself justly corrected. ‘So, what is it?’
‘I’m not completely clear in my own head, but I believe I’m finding it depressing to be obliged to compare what we all thought was coming when we were young with what actually arrived.’
My father nodded. ‘To quote Nanny, comparisons are odious.’
‘They are also pointless, but that doesn’t prevent one from making them.’ For some reason, I felt it was important that he understood me. ‘It’s more than that. I’m not sure what we’re all doing with our lives. Damian may have made his mark, but none of the rest of us has.’
‘Not everyone can be a world-famous billionaire.’
‘Nor should they be, but everyone needs to feel they’re part of something worthwhile. That, in the last analysis, their life has some meaning in a larger context. The question is what am I part of? What have I done?’
But he couldn’t take this very seriously. ‘Don’t you think people have been asking themselves that since Chaucer first sharpened his pencil?’
‘I think there have been times when the majority felt they belonged to a culture that was working, that they had an identity within a worthwhile whole. “I am a Roman Citizen,” “God Bless America,” “The man who is born an Englishman has drawn a winning ticket in the lottery of life.” All that. People have felt their own civilisation was valuable and that they were lucky to belong to it. I’m fairly sure I believed that too, or something like it, forty years ago.’
‘You were young forty years ago.’ He smiled. Clearly, he was not very worried by my soul-searching. ‘So what are you asking? Do you want to sell the flat? If so, then that’s what you must do.’
In a way I could have left then as, if I’m honest, I had really gone down there seeking his permission to do this very thing. I was taken unawares by his swift and open reaction to my complaints, as I had assumed it was all going to take much longer to get his agreement. Because I should be clear, this response on his part was very generous, more generous than an outsider can perhaps immediately appreciate. As I have said, my mother was the one who insisted on their giving me the London flat, thereby cutting down their capital by quite a chunk. He’d resisted it for a time, because he saw their standard of living would suffer, which it did, but he eventually surrendered to her pleading. Now, here I was, proposing to cash in my chips, to pocket the boodle, to take the money and run, and he wanted to make it clear that he did not mind in the least. Some months later I would learn that he’d already known he was much more ill than he had let on and that death could not be long distant, so I suppose he wanted us to be in step at the end, but to me that thought only makes his kindness more moving.
