Past Imperfect

Reviewing him now, having not seen him for a while, I feel more sympathy for him than I did. That is to say that I feel some sympathy, when before I felt none at all. At that time, when we were staying with him, he must have been worried that his whole self-e

It was not to be. First, apparently, we had to sit and listen to a history of the house and when Je

‘The thing is,’ said Tarquin, getting into his interminable stride, ‘you have to understand that when Sir Richard decided to rebuild in eighteen twenty-four, he wanted both to be in the height of fashion, but at the same time not to lose the sense of historicity that his ancient blood demanded.’ He took a deep breath and looked at us as if waiting for a response though what this might be I could not fathom.

‘So that’s why he chose Gothic?’ I volunteered eventually, wondering if we were ever going to be offered sustenance. I had arrived wanting a cup of tea, but after twenty minutes of this I was ready for whisky, neat and in a pint pot.

Tarquin shook his head. ‘No. Not exactly.’ The smugness of his tone was enough to make one seize a chair and smash it over his head, like a cowboy in a Mack Se

‘Because he built it in Gothic,’ I suggested. I wasn’t going to give up easily and my boredom was making me angry. But I felt this was as challenging as I could be while still pretending to listen to Tarquin with respect. In other words I was a living lie.

‘No!’ he spoke, this time, with a harsh edge to the word. ‘The style of the building is not the issue! The style is not important! I am talking of the spiritual background with which he approached the design.’

‘In Gothic,’ I murmured.

‘Can I go to the loo? I’m bursting,’ said Bridget and, as so often in the company of women, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that myself.

‘Of course,’ said Je

‘God Almighty.’ I fell backwards on to the bed, with a loud sigh, which I rather hoped the retreating Je

That night, matters did not improve as we gathered to eat in the gloomy and under-furnished dining room, Bridget shivering beneath her gauzy shawl. A huge Jacobethan table dominated the centre of the room and as we came in I heard Tarquin remonstrate that the places had all been laid at one end, instead of the four of us being ranged around the vast board like the characters in an Addams Family film. That, or a BBC period drama where a combination of modern prejudice and complete ignorance frequently obliges their fictionalised upper classes to adopt inexplicable customs. ‘If you’re going to give us a sermon, I’d prefer to listen and not just watch your lips move,’ said Je

‘I’m not sure they deserve it,’ said Tarquin, continuing to favour us with his twinkling, quirky gaze. ‘For better or worse, I’ve chosen this. It’s a fairly unusual Sauvignon, crisp but zingy at the same time, which I tend only to use on very special occasions. Is this one? I can’t decide.’

‘Oh, just give them some fucking wine,’ said Je

As he did so, I caught Je

Genuine controllers are anti-life, killers of energy, living fire blankets that smother all endeavour. For a start, they are always unhappy on anyone’s territory but their own. They ca