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Here’s a Christmas experience which illustrates how, in a well-meaning world, a kind gesture can sometimes go awry. Horribly awry, casting deep and lasting suspicion on one’s character. It’s happened to me more than once. Always appalling. This one perhaps a little delicate, don’t read any further.
Two years ago, an aged friend of means, about eighty then but since deceased, was invited the weekend before Christmas to the country house of a wealthy acquaintance. Not close friends, they’d occasionally meet at boarding school reunions, that sort of thing. The invitation half-surprised him, given it was so close to Christmas. He asked if I’d join him, drive him down. I welcomed the extended invitation, heard about this friend of his, a semi-retired business titan of old. Never met him, but did once see him leave a party. And with such panache it made an indelible impression.
I was student at the time, thirty years ago, and poor as a mouse, walking along a Dublin Georgian Square minding my own business wondering how to avoid the landlord, when, I saw him. High up above wide granite steps a hall door opened. Out walked a man in a tuxedo so poised, so confident, that I had to stop. Like in the movies, through the open Georgian door the glimpse of an elegant dinner party. My instant thought, I want to be one of them, no more boiled cabbage bedsits please, I want that life. Really want it. At this same moment a black Mercedes of large proportion rolled up, pulling to a stop. Then (and I nearly wept at the sight), out behind him stepped a wonderous creature; slim, blonde, high-heeled, about thirty five. And with the most perfect pins. He was about forty five at that time, ten years younger than me now (what happened GOD, what happened, what did I do that was so wrong!). She held out her hand adoring him. In a loose-moving way he elegantly guided her down the steps. The uniformed driver, he comes round, opens the rear door. Our man of the moment, still holding her delicate outstretched hand, guides her further, as she lowers to sit. So Manhattan. The driver then gently closes the door, walks to the other side, opens, and closes, the other door for him. And off they go, on their carpet of good fortune. Now that’s the way. A moment that stayed fixed with me for over thirty years
His business dealings, reported in the newspapers, became bigger as the years passed. From what I could see, they’d launch with great fanfare, then die a few years later on the share price vine. But somehow, he was always seated in first class. Admired his style, but I am, let’s face it, a financial simpleton. I’m no big brained financial whiz. Old school, that’s me. Look after your customers, if you’re doing it right, you earn a little. Pay the bills and the taxes. Then, with what pitifully little is left, invest and save for that rainy day (it will arrive). And if it’s a better year, give yourself a little treat, just so you can face doing it all again. No Elon Musk me, but a contented nobody nonetheless.
The weekend invitation was a gift on several levels. Many of the ideas we have of public people are made on second-hand information. It is a little unfair to judge someone on their business dealings without actually having met them, to hear their side of the story. It’s only when you break bread that some genuine semblance of a minor impression is attained. Everything else just tittle-tattle, gossip. People are complex, it takes time to reveal truth. The press profiles, the public persona, usually caricature, or propaganda. But perhaps, if you do a little business with someone, no matter how small, it will, one hundred percent, be the quickest truth serum. It all comes out when money and risk involved, the inner life revealed - the good, the bad, the ugly. And the lazy. You could know someone twenty years, think him a fine fellow. But do business together? Within the week you’ll know just how fine a fellow he really is.
Back to the weekend.
It’s Friday, 7pm. We arrive in my old Mercedes (1989 300SE, real workhorse, a tank). Golden lit fountain out front, at the end of a long tree-lined drive. We circle round to an expansive wide-front redbrick. Tall, positioned to effect, overlooking an ‘exclusive’ golf course. Two, TWO, newly registered Lexus parked out front. Same colour, same high-spec model. Unusual, for Ireland. The house ablaze with electric light shouts no need to turn the switch off here. Always good to see, not so good to have to pay the bill. Usually behaviour found in people who made their own way up, moreso in England. Perhaps a rebuttal of earlier economising or childhood experience of lack (I’ve made it, look at me I’ve made it and you can see it, I can afford this needless bill). But this man, while he’s earned in the business sphere, does come from old trade money. A good family of long business lineage, his was a prosperous childhood, he got the running start. Was he actually just showing off.
Rich people's gravel makes a special kind of scrunchy sound. We roll to a standstill.
Rouse my sleeping passenger, “Well, we’re here”.
He looks across to a putting green in the distance, “I don’t actually play golf”
“Neither do I”
“There’s a church I wouldn’t mind visiting tomorrow”
“For sure, plenty to look at around here”
Both of us interested in history, art and architecture, we were never bored. He really was an excellent travelling companion - knowledgeable, continually seeking out things to be seen, and read about. Can never understand people who say they’re bored. If they don’t know what do with themselves on a wet Sunday what would do forever in Heaven, watch Netflix?
The wide double-fronted door of this magnificent Tiger-era pile, redolent of the better parts of the Surrey Stockbroker belt, opens. The same slender man of the steps appears, his dark hair now grey, but still tall, handsome in a patrician way. His arms open, palms upwards, an exultant greeting. Such warmth. He smiles, good teeth, then walks towards the car to open my friend’s door. Not an overly expansive man my friend, he’s slightly discomforted at this over-expressed warmth, I can tell. He’s fun, sometimes, when he feels safe and in friendship, but this effusive greeting has him slightly unsettled, he isn’t much for the fawning. Like a lot of rich men, he’s fully alert to the sublime and generous 'kindness' of others, those who may have use for him. But he plays the game, looks up and says, “My old fellow, how are you?”
“Trudging along, how wonderful of you to come visit us”
“Why it’s a beautiful part of the country, haven’t been around here for years, the perfect excuse”
“So much to catch up on”
You could see straight away this fellow thrived on fawning, probably had one of those PR people on payroll to keep his name in the paper. Got the instant feeling that being known in the public eye as wealthy, the ‘show’, meant more to him than actually being so. Chalk and cheese these two. What are we doing here. All the while of course I’m the invisible man, just the hackney hire to Mr. Suave. But my friend interjects his flow of compliments to say, “And this is Mr. Matthews, a Kells man, my friend”.
Mr. Suave, Dom, replies (let’s call him Dom), “Ah, your travelling companion, well you did a fine job getting him here. I had a car like that, when they first came out”. He then turns his back to me. What can you say to a rebuttal like that. Not much it turned out, off he was again with the empty compliments towards my friend. But then, Dom glances back as I pull our bags from the old Merc’s boot, hinges creak for lack of oil. Recalibrating, he decides to offer thin friendship.
“Young man (age being relative), welcome to my home”, but said in a slightly proprietorial way. Not warm. Just making his mark I suppose. Who was I anyway, I wasn’t the real guest. But give it a another go at this being nice.
“What a lovely house, you must be very proud”
“It’s my little country getaway” (that he had more than one, he means. And bigger)
“Lovely time of the year to be here”
‘It is. Come in. Both of you”
There he was, at it again, with not ninety seconds passed. Such a let-down, actually went there wanting to like him. But consciously, in that moment of harsh judging forced myself to keep an open mind – three sides to every coin, keep the mind open. Know a business guy, absolutely minted. First time we met he listed off everything he owned, like it was a shopping list. He owned a lot. Took about ten minutes. Not kidding. Most odd, and repulsive. After the first minute just wanted away, to stand up and leave. Couldn’t, formal dinner, social suicide. But, after the first course he relaxed. We relaxed. I saw the funny side of it, made a joke about his extreme wealth and accumulation. He took it. Before you knew, we’d hit it off. Swapping yarns, having a good old time. Turned out, he was born into real depravation. Abandoned as a child he worked his way up alone. Even then, with all he’d achieved, he remained uncomfortable in close proximity to new people in social contexts. So he did, to him, the only reasonable thing he could to comfort himself, list off all that he owned! Some people couldn’t get past the listing, and dreaded, despised him for it. Few people gave him the second chance, to see what was behind the quirk. It was a great lesson to me, he was a gem, a real diamond. Later I went on a few trips with his family. Always the greatest fun, the best of the best people. And such down to earth children, mocking their dad, but in a most loving way. That was his real wealth, and he knew it. Said he brought them up the way he would like to have been. This way, he said, he got to re-parent himself. Wise man. Christmas was a special time in his house. But back to our Mr. Suave of the steps. From what I could tell, going on these first moments, he wouldn’t be one to take kindly to such mocking. No sir, he would not.
Obviously I dragged the bags in as they went chatting ahead toward the house. Mr. Suave (let’s not call him Dom) doing all the chat. Head bowed he walked and talked, owning even the air as they entered into the warm, wide, extremely well Christmas decorated hallway. There, by the double stairs, a Christmas tree one only sees on televisions. Lit warm, it sparkled its reach to the triple height ceiling.
Some entrance. Might be a little vulgar, all this neo-Palladian architecture, but it was style, had to give it that. Moneyed style. The sheer force of spend made it so. A matching shallow thought entered my head, forgot to ask on the way down if our host had any daughters. Single again at the time, the parental age math, if they had any, might make for a suitable candidate. Rolodex of brain sort of half-remembers an article about a wayward daughter. Forty or so, twice-married, once to a Frenchman. An actress/artist/poet/dancer/potter seeking her inner chakra sort of thing, the type of woman who can comfortably fail and not feel the pain. Could I? Would I? Am I? That sort of useless shallow fellow. Could I be seduced by such evidenced luxury? Well….., yes, yes. Why of course yes, what a silly question!
Just kidding, hadn’t done it the hard way, in my own small country way to lapse on my values. Don’t think so. Nope. But still, if there was spark, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to kiss in the rain. After all, who would I be to refuse such a fine maiden from such a fine stable. For sure, it would be hard to pull oneself away on a Sunday evening from such material comforts. This was, after all, high living on a grand scale.
That evening, my prospective father-in-law in his Colefax & Fowler appointed drawing room bespoke his lot. Before we sat down I foraged the table tops for family photographs. All artfully taken, all black & white, scattered about in silver frames. Where’s daughter? There she is. My Wife! Looks like there’s two brothers, but just the one girl. Blond, slim, pointy nose just like Mumsie. Is that a tattoo? Never mind, every rose has it’s thorn. Not bad, not bad. A few years old that photograph, maybe ten. Need something more recent, to make qualification. Has to be at least some present day attraction, that spark, no matter how damp, to kindle. I turn, two pairs of eyes, loaded guns, stare my way, amble across the Persian toward them.
On matching tasselled sofas we sit, face to face, to speak of pleasant things. The perfectly adorned room, Christmas decorations London bought made it a monument to the holidays. Lights of warm white garland the gilded overmantle, chimneypiece below blazes with heat. A long, low, just so, mahogany coffee table sits between us, as demure blonde wife sits, perches, directly opposite me. Her still slim legs cross, and with adoration still, looks to her lucky man to lead the conversation. He talks at my friend, getting even more words in. I really wasn’t in his lair of focus, counting as I was for so little. And fair enough. Started up a few words with Mrs. Pins instead.
“So tell me, your daughter?”
“Cassandra?”
“Yes, Cassandra, I’m not too sure if I’ve met her?”
“Most probably not, she lives in Paris now, the 6th ”
Odd that she gave the arrondissement, but Paris, my favourite city. And in the 6th.
That potent elixir, love, that most wonderful thing. When it happens it happens. Many a good evening out on the terrace of The Nautilus, right bang smack in the 6th. A bar and a wife! My second-favourite drinks spot, could she really be the one? The third one. My beloved Cassandra, entangler of men.
“Do you get over to see her?”
“Let’s just say Cassandra and I have our differences, but yes, we do get over occasionally”
Some people like a little social bluntness. Decide to take the risk, lot of ground to cover, so little time.
“In what way are there differences?”
“Well, she was a little difficult growing up, caused a lot of heartache, unsuitable boyfriends, the adopted bohemian lifestyle. All rebellion of course, but it was hard to take”
“Is she better now?” Better to me meaning, calm, can’t be doing with too much difficulty anymore. But the earlier rebelling part, I’d do exactly the same if these two were Mum and Dad.
“Much better, thankfully. And you, how are you getting on in your life?”
“I’m getting on quiet well, thankfully”
She gestures towards my friend, “So how do you know our mutual friend Geoffrey?” (let’s call my friend Geoffrey)
“Just bumped into him at the Club years ago”
“Dublin, such a small place ha ha”
“Tiny, but that's what we love about it”
“Oh, but it can be all so provincial”
Ouch.
“Second city of the Empire back in the day, can’t be all that bad”
“If one likes public bars I suppose”
Double ouch.
Lord save, a right pair of toffs, this was going to be work. Steer the conversation back to Cassandra. Might this be what she was rebelling against, this petty snobbery, could she be the sandy shore. What’s she doing now? Is she married? Does she have children? How big is her apartment? Does it have a view over a pretty Parisian square? Will we be able to see the Eiffel tower from our bedroom? All important questions.
“When do you like to visit?”
“Spring, I adore Paris in the spring, oh yes”
“The city of light and love”
“It’s where Dom and I first met, at a rugby international. And we won!”
“You sure did”, glance towards the log heaped fireplace. Christmas stockings hang from the mantle, one to one side, two to the other.
“So tell me Damien, what is it you actually do?”
“I’m a gentleman auctioneer”
“Ha ha, an oxymoron if ever one existed”
She has a point.
“It’s the best I could do, given my limitations”
“Ha ha, you are amusing, how tall are you?”
Odd question. I lie, add an inch.
“6ft 2”
“Any Children?”
“Two”
“And where are they now?”
“Earth presently, but we’re aiming for Mars, once Elon gets the rocket mix right”
She giggles, “But seriously, where are they?”
“Slane and Paris as it happens”
“How strange, but don’t you live in Kells?”
“I know, I’m confused too”
“So, two different mothers?”
“As far as I could tell”
“Ha ha, could see that”
I can’t, but think she means it in a nice way.
“And you?”
“Just our two darling boys. And Cassandra”
Beginning to like this daughter more.
“And what do they all do?” Meaning Cassandra but have to widen the circle, for appearances.
“Well, Mark is partner in Arthur Fox. James, Venture Capital. And Cassandra. Cassandra is just Cassandra”
“Just Cassandra. Sounds like an important position”
“Well, she changes her mind quite often, never settled on any one thing, ever”
“Was she always that way?”
“From the moment she came into the world, always fidgeting, always running about, never still. She was, is, quite the handful”
I like handfuls. Tried changing my spots, really did, but they keep drawing me back in, those handfuls. One day.
“Will you be seeing her over the holidays?”
“Funny you should ask, she’s arriving tomorrow”
Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I won’t sleep I won’t sleep. Staying outwardly cool, move the conversation on to other things as Dom the toff bangs on, talking over my friend now, owning it. Thankfully soon enough we rise for dinner, called in by a butler-looking fellow, Japanese, dressed in black, not quite tails, but formal. A driver and fixer sort too I’m sure, a good old all-round factotum. Gliding about the edge of the room he lets ‘Sir’ know in tones of solemnity that dinner is served. Some style in domestic staff, twenty first century style. Knew his place in the household though, please Mr. Suave with gentle soft words, and get paid.
Over dinner and Claret our host didn’t hang around, got straight into it, again. The moment we sat down more fuming and flaming. Said he wanted to right a few wrongs, companies he’d founded but later side-exited from, all could do with good suing, teach them a lesson. Blah de blah de blah, on and on. But really, it was an empty gun situation, he was out the other side now, retired, grazing on the cashmere savanna. I get it, takes a lot of confidence (and fear) to drive oneself to this sort of wealth. But was he this petty, this hard boiled, this vain. He’s touching eighty, surely some common sense should have seeped in by now. Maybe he’s having a brain spasm, my kind thought. It happens. But you know, some people living too high on the hog for too long do begin to think they’re ‘special’, apart, all knowing. Further slight observations of the evening – Lobb evening slippers, four bottles of 2000 Chateau Cheval Blanc opened, Gold President Green Dial Rolex, Channel-clad wife dotted with diamonds, major Jack Yeats to the right of the fireplace – all were too-obvious wealth signifiers. Perhaps these egged him on in his importance.
A boarding school bully too, going by my friend, who casually imparted the knowledge as we entered the dining room for dinner. Seemingly the short-tempered ringleader of the school crew. Know the type, had them in my school too. None amounted to much, but this Dom, appears he managed to slip up the greasy pole.
My friend on the other hand, greatly deserved his material fortune - kindly, upright, principled. Created his wealth the old, slow way. Did he show any contempt or irritation at now still being spoken down to, at, by the old school bully? No. He just sat there attentive, still, sipping the good wine, aware. Why did he accept the invitation if he knew it was going to be this way. Why do it. Literally we could be anywhere else. Leave the bullies to be bullies, move on up to the higher plane. Perplexing, a man of his calibre allowing flash pan Harry lord it over him once more. And he did, he let Flash bang on. Just continued to raise the crystal to his lips, nodding, sipping, sometimes concurring passively. Very unlike him, odd. But there we have it.
Continued my conversation with Pins. But even here Flash occasionally barged in, “I think what you’re trying to say is ….” Cut him off the third time, have short thrift for bullies these days, “Wasn’t trying”, I reply. Give him a hard stare across the dining table to go along with it. A guest. Talking back. Challenging the silverback. Momentarily stunned to silence, he’s thinking.
Too brutal, it’s his house after all, and our first evening. Don’t push it back too hard, adapt and survive, “What I actually mean to say is, I wasn’t trying to moot the point, the horrors of Brexit, a backward step for the English”.
To the softer line he replies, “God, finally not staying his hand over England"
“Does seem incredibly backward thinking”
"Beyond Stupid” he growls in reply.
At least we agree on something. The sentiment, not the growling. There just wasn’t a need. Conversation moves on. But soon, he’s at it again, absolutely lording it over my friend.
Continued, Part II.
