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9.3: Siblings: the definite position

It was during this half that Caroline finally got married to David Somerset, so that thenceforward we were to see far less of her, in that she had her own family to build. The engagement had become definite during their skiing holiday out in Switzerland during the early months of this year. But I regarded it as most inconsiderate when they all fixed the date of the wedding to coincide with the finals at Henley regatta - since it was then one of my highest ambitions to row for Eton at Henley. In the event however, I wasn't selected for the VIII, even if it was an honour that I only narrowly missed. In any case I felt marginally offended that no one should have eliminated that Saturday from the area of choice for a family wedding date, in that I might have expected to be left free to attend those finals. But the sad truth is that the best interests of the boys in the family were seldom, if ever, given serious consideration by our parents.

There was a general feeling of satisfaction within the family that Caroline should be marrying the heir to a dukedom - to no less a mortal than the Duke of Beaufort, David's cousin, who dwelt at Badminton House in Gloucestershire and was a revered counsellor to the royal family. By the criteria which existed in Henry's judgement, Caroline would be establishing herself in society at a level which might be depicted as the highest fulfilment for any girl's ambition - short of marrying into royalty, of course. And on the secondary issue of whether David would make an agreeable spouse for her, there were admittedly quite a large number of people who proclaimed him to be a shit. But one should always take such abusive comment with a pinch of salt - putting it down to their envy, or whatever. On the surface at any rate he displayed that arrogant suavity which we all recognised as being the true mark of a gentleman. And he was perfectly civil to all of us. So our general conviction was that Caroline had done very well for herself - and that she would make an excellent Duchess, to boot.

The wedding was up in London, and both Christopher and myself were ushers. Valentine was still regarded as being too young for such duties. It was a grand festive occasion, with the Queen, Mary the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret gracing it with their presence. The wedding photograph bears witness to this. But nobody managed to remember to tell Christopher, Valentine or myself that we were required to put in an appearance in the room next door to where the reception was being held, so as to pose with the assembled families for this commemoration of the event. Once again, it was significant how our presence, or the absence of it, didn't greatly matter in their judgement.

Caroline might now be venturing out upon her own path in life, so that my relationships with Christopher and Valentine were all that I was really left with on the home front. And they were friendly enough over this period. To their eyes, I was the successful schoolboy who might be regarded as setting a standard which they themselves could endeavour to attain. And I was protective, far more than oppressive, in my general attitude towards them. There were no quarrels of any significance at this time.

Chris had frequently been in trouble with the Library during the years prior to my own election. He had been beaten up on many occasions for matters of trivial indiscipline, and had in fact received a total of ninety-four strokes of the cane to date. There was much joking anticipation that he might make it a full century. But now that he had finally become an Upper, it was beginning to look as if this ambition would never be fulfilled. It was therefore in a spirit of jest that I arranged that he should be summoned to the Library, as if for a genuine beating up. There was some trumped up charge against him, of which he was accused, and then six of the softest strokes imaginable were delivered by Iain's hand, whilst the rest of the Library looked on with the usual severity of demeanour - after which we all burst into applause, and Chris was presented with the inscribed cane as a trophy.

Although the relationship between us might appear on the surface to be in good fettle, I am perhaps speaking more from the heart concerning some underlying anxiety if we interpret the short story that I had written for Graham-Campbell, as being close to the mark concerning what I really felt towards Christopher - hinting darkly at questions of paternal favouritism and a fraternal jealousy, centred upon amorous rivalry. The story was entitled The Grudge, and was featured in the summer issue of Parade. The two central characters are in quasi-fraternal relationship with one another. There is Joseph, who bears the name of that favourite son from the biblical tale, and might well be identified with how Christopher was regarded by Henry, whereas my own sense of identity was more to be found in Conrad.

Of the two, Joseph was the more likeable. He possessed a surface charm which, in his youth, had dubbed him as a lady's man. Conrad was a more sullen type. His conversation was dull and humourless, whilst his sensitivity rendered him an easy prey to the thrusts of Joseph's tongue. But they did not quarrel very often. Thus all could have been perfect in their relationship if Conrad had the ability to forgive and forget. But he couldn't. Every jest and every sneer remained in his heart like glowing embers. He never forgot, and he never forgave.

The history of the grudge itself portrays a dramatised version of my own resentment about Christopher's amorous superiority - with particular reference to his success with Nell Dunn. I describe how Conrad, in his youth, had been deeply in love.

It was a love which passionately unnerved him, leaving him a speechless stutterer in the presence of his idol: a love which kept him in a perpetual state of morbid solitude by day, and of sleepless listlessness at night. Never in his life had he been so happy as when, having overcome his fears, he had forced himself to propose - and had found his plight was not as hopeless as he had believed.

The tightening clutch of suicide relaxed its grip. His rewarded passion screamed forth in an exuberant flow of adoration and poetry. He laughed openly at the discomforts of his early life, and at all the petty sorrows which had once seemed so crushing.

But Joseph is then responsible for terminating Conrad's love affair. He does this by telling the fiancee about some dreadful piece of guilt in her lover's past. Not homosexuality, which might have been the kind of guilt I really had in mind, but the fact of him being cashiered from the army. This information was delivered quite casually, but deliberately, during the course of a dinner party, so as to better Joseph's own chances to win the girl's heart.

And then that awful silence, in which nobody knew where to look - except for one pair of shocked and questioning eyes, turned reproachfully upon his own. Yes, Joseph had gained a flirtation, but at the same time he had fired the powder trail of a dangerous grudge. A few fleeting months of sexual pleasure for him were gained at the price of turning himself into the hunted stag within the secret intrigues of a vendetta.....

In Conrad's soul, the burning fury of an unpaid grudge goaded him on. He often vowed to himself that he would exact no ordinary revenge. For until he had robbed Joseph of some true object of his own love, then the grudge would remain unpaid.

Both Conrad and Joseph eventually marry and become doting fathers to sons of the same age, who go by the names of Bruce and Philip. Conrad decides to wreak his revenge upon the latter, who is Joseph's son, so he invites them all over to lunch when he suggests that the two boys should participate within a game of hide- and-seek. By some convoluted piece of jiggery-pokery, Conrad manages to direct Philip to go and hide in the wing of the house that he himself will be searching. Then in the dark, he thinks that he has found him, and whispers that he can have a second life. And opening the lid of a heavy oak chest, he urges him to use this as his hiding-place. The boy complies - whereupon Conrad slams the lid shut, and locks it down, leaving his victim to suffocate.

"And now we'll sit back and wait," thought Conrad to himself. He relaxed himself amid the soft upholstery of an arm-chair.... He could hear muffled thuds emerging from the chest, which came as sweet music to his ears.... From time to time he glanced at his watch. "By now," he thought, "young Philip is lying unconscious in his living tomb. He still breathes, but only with short panting gasps. Perhaps he has briefly regained his senses, while he braces his puny frame for some Herculean effort. His nails bleed as they scratch unceasingly against the hostile wood. He sobs hysterically at his own insufficient strength. He screams - but realises the futility.... A shivering numbness is pervading his aching muscles.... He can think of nothing but - death."

I must assume that this is the fate that I would have liked to inflict upon Christopher, if given a free hand. But I do proceed to punish myself for such mean thoughts, when Conrad's revengefulness rebounds upon himself. He learns that this has happened when he returns to the sitting-room, and goads Joseph by saying that he is beginning to feel anxious about Philip.

"I mean - supposing Philip, not knowing the house very well, has gone and shut himself in somewhere, where he can't get out?" Joseph continued to read his paper, unconcerned. "He might even have suffocated," declared Conrad. "Oh you needn't worry yourself about that," said Joseph. "I've found Philip; he's playing next door. It's Bruce that's missing."

Fortunately, I restricted all such vengeful thoughts to my literary endeavours. The reality of the relationship between myself and both of my brothers, was far more amicable.