Past Imperfect

We had nearly finished eating when Tarquin suddenly broke off his current lecture. He had been telling us about the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt or some subject equally fascinating, and we had each retreated into a kind of glazed, mental cave of our own making, when his voice altered and took on a nervous edge: ‘They’re here.’

‘Who?’ Bridget was keen to support the introduction of any new topic, never mind what.

‘The family. The Claremonts.’

As he said their name, I was amazed to find that, like a lyric in a wartime love song, my heart actually skipped a beat. Dear Lord, does there never come a time when we are too old for such foolishness? But when I looked there was no sign of Serena, only an elderly group, all in evening dress; presumably they had enjoyed a smarter, better di

This deflating suspicion was reinforced by the sad but apparent truth that my Lord Claremont had been more or less exchanged for another man. The handsome, corpulent, sexy, flirty hedonist, with his thick, wavy hair and his wavier smile, had completely vanished and been replaced by a bony, stooped individual. His nose, stripped of its flesh and unsupported by the plump cheeks on either side, had become prominent, hooked like the Duke of Wellington’s to whom he was no doubt related in some wise, while his generous lips had been shaved down, as if by a razor, and he had almost no hair left. I would not say he appeared less distinguished. Not at all. This fellow looked like someone who read poetry and philosophy and pondered the great issues of life, while the Lord Claremont of my memories knew how to get a good table at the last minute and where you could find an excellent Château d’Yquem, but not much else. For a moment he glanced my way but of course registered nothing, which was not surprising since, while I knew him in those distant days, he did not know me. Not really. Certainly, he gave little sign of being aware of that awkward, plain young man whose only use was to make up a table for bridge. Even so, looking at this stick-like figure, with a Baron Munchausen outline, I missed the man he had been and it was hard not to feel a pang at the pitiless work of the passing years.

Lady Claremont was less altered. It seems odd to think of it, but I must have known her first when some of the bloom of youth was still upon her. Serena was the eldest child and her mother had married young so she ca

The concert was cheerful rather than profound, a Hungry Hundreds medley of Puccini, Rossini and Verdi, with a bit of Chopin thrown in to make you cry. The lead-up to the interval was the Drinking Song from Traviata, which was adequately sung by quite a good tenor from some northern company, and a fat soprano over from Italy, who was supposed to be much better than him but wasn’t. It was an appropriate choice as the throats of the watching hoards were dry as dust by this time, and you could hear the champagne corks starting to pop as the couple trilled the final soaring note. Tarquin, naturally, had provided some rare sustenance, Cristal, or the like, and was lecturing us on how to savour it, when we were interrupted by a man in the neolivery of the modern butler, striped trousers and a short black jacket. There was no mistaking Tarquin as our leader and he went over to him, murmuring in his ear. Tarquin’s surprise deepened to astonishment as he pointed me out. ‘That’s him,’ he said, and the man scuttled over towards me.

‘Her Ladyship wonders if you and your party would like to join the family after the concert, Sir, to watch the fireworks from the terrace.’

I ca

Je

The man nodded with a slight inclination of his head, rather than a bow, and pointed towards the steps. ‘If you go up to the top there – ’ He stopped, looking back at me. ‘Of course, you’ll know the way, Sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘They’ll be in the Tapestry Drawing Room.’

‘Thank you.’ He hurried back to his normal duties. There was silence as the other three stared at me.

‘You’ll know the way, Sir?’ For once, Tarquin’s determination never to be impressed had deserted him.

‘I used to come here when I was younger.’

Tarquin was silent. I knew him well enough by now to understand that he was considering the facts with a view to reimposing his mastery of the situation. So far, the solution had eluded him.

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Je

‘I didn’t know where we were coming until we got here. We asked but Tarquin wouldn’t tell us.’ Je

‘Then she must have very sharp eyes, this “Lady Claremont” of yours.’ Bridget spoke in derisive, inverted commas, as she always did when dealing with any part of my past that threatened her. I knew already, without being told, that of all the aspects of this uncomfortable weekend, the present episode would prove the most uncomfortable for her. But before we could discuss it further, the orchestra struck up and we were being sprayed with a deeply accessible version of ‘Quando M’en Vo’ from La Bohème, which may be played for laughs in context but is generally more lachrymose in concert and soon had all those MFHs and lifetime presidents of the village flower show committee reaching for their handkerchiefs.