10.4: Parents: rumbles of thunder in the distance

It is perhaps curious that we weren't all of us more aware of how much the bad feeling was building up between Henry and Daphne over this period. I daresay that Caroline may have been better informed, living as she did in London. (She and David had acquired for themselves a house at 90 Eaton Terrace.) But we no longer had the occasion to discuss such issues as this, even if she had felt the inclination to do so. But the reality of the situation was that Henry in particular was reaching the conclusion that he would be happier in his home life, if married to Virginia: notwithstanding the inconvenience that she was still married to David Tennant. And Daphne was having a lively time in the company of Xan Fielding, whose interests in life were far more similar to her own. She was therefore in no mood to accept any restraints that Henry might have liked to impose upon her.

It could be that the psychology of being thus unable to impose his will upon Daphne, may have sharpened his inclination to see that his sons at least were regimented to his will. And there were particular incidents which still come to mind, making me wince, as typical of the manner in which he was transgressing beyond the contemporary limits of parental guidance and concern, with an evident inability to empathise into the position of anyone who might be receiving such instruction from him.

It was only rarely that I received a letter from Henry nowadays, and the tone in which they were couched was seldom such as to endear him to me. For example, there had been that episode when I had fallen off my motorbike in the outskirts of Shrewton, and had been given a cup of tea by Mr Smith who dwelt in the Manor House there, while waiting for Donald to come and collect me by car. Well it seems that Mr Smith approached Henry when they were at some coursing meeting together, and had enquired to hear if I was all right. I have no means of knowing precisely what kind of a conversation ensued. But in my imagination in any case, Henry may have been stoked up on whiskey by the time he returned home to Sturford, and more than a little incensed against myself for my ill manners in neglecting to write and thank Mr Smith for his assistance on that occasion. And it was probably while he was still in that mood that he had penned a letter to me at Eton, instructing me to make instant amends.

I am still of the opinion that I didn't really owe Mr Smith such a letter. I had thanked him well enough verbally, at the time, for what was after all a fairly incidental humanitarian service. Nor can I suppose that he had broached the matter to my father as a question of complaint. But Henry had seen fit to take it that way, and had perceived in it an opportunity to make me dance, just once again, to the crack of his whip. I suspect that it made him feel big that way, and perhaps fortified him against the encroachments upon his self-esteem that were currently being made by Daphne. But it wasn't worth the expenditure of energy and anxiety upon the subject. I merely dashed of the letter of belated thanks to Mr Smith that was being required of me, and placed my irritation behind me.

On another issue, I felt rather more irked. As previously described, I had broken a finger while mobbing in the Library, during my final half at Eton. And M'dame had put a splint on it, and wrapped it up in a bandage. Then she wrote to my parents to inform them that this minor misfortune had occurred, while assuring them that I was being well cosseted. Henry's reaction it seems, was to write to Miss Abercrombie to say that she ought not to be soft with me, in that I was probably malingering. And he went on to tell her how, in his view, I had faked having a broken vertebra in my neck so as to get myself transported back to Britain by air, at his expense.

The result of this misinformation was apparent to me when I next went to see M'dame. She brusquely undid the bandage, took a firm hold of my broken finger and wiggled it. I emitted a yowl of pain, which was sufficiently spontaneous to convince her that there might really be some truth in her original idea that the finger was fractured. And on subsequent visits, when the inner bruising came up to the surface, she was full of apologies for ever having doubted my word. And it was then that she explained how she was reacting to a letter she had received from my father, supposing that I might be malingering. It was all too typical of him to have taken such a line, for there had always been something deficient in his capacity to sympathise with the sufferings of others.

Then on coming up to London for the Rothermere dance, there was a note in my father's handwriting, waiting for me and Christopher in the room he had booked for us in the Cavendish hotel. And once again, it was typical of his general demeanour towards his sons, totally ignoring the fact that I had risen very well within my peer group at school, and was in fact habituated to exercising authority, rather than to be standing there to attention, in reception of such orders. He wrote:

Such was the nature of the relationship which he had long been at pains to construct between himself and his sons. I accepted it because, frankly, there was very little that I could do about it. But the years of filial obedience that might be expected of a schoolboy were now at an end. I had in fact been a very successful schoolboy. Even if Henry neglected to appreciate these matters, I had my own self-esteem to consider, and I was aware how it didn't look right within the eyes of my friends that I should submit myself to such a dogmatically marshalled existence. I knew that the time was coming when I must stand up for myself. But there was an inner dread in my heart that I might not be really fitted for the degree of independence that was required. So much had always been done for us when we were at home, and I hesitated to contemplate just how much in me might be proved wanting, when I was finally put to the test.

"Affection is a lily-livered sentiment, for lovers
and mothers. Respect is what a father should detect
in a son." Respect? One-sided, funnelled
and unrequited? Your plight deserves a smirk.
You irk me with your worthy woffle, greedily
pleading for laurels I never thought to award.
Lordly example falls far short
of the oughts and shoulds that inject filial respect.
You've checked my finger-nails are clean, and ringed
single items, enumerated on a list,
systematically patterning my conduct for a day,
rail-roaded to insignificant ends.
You regiment me till I'd like to say:
"Go stuff your rules. I'll find my own someday."

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