Twenty-Two
When we get in, all writing plans are set aside because Sir John decrees that he needs a nap and sways up the stairs, singing what sounds suspiciously like an ABBA medley.
I sigh and go and sit in the library anyway, in case alcohol-induced inspiration strikes. I stare at the piles of yellowing documents and wait, assuming it will strike dramatically. Nothing. It’s all just minutes and letters from one CBE to another.
However, another positive to come from our wobble home is Sir John’s slightly confused consent to reimburse me for any internet research I do for the book, so I happily connect the laptop to my phone’s data. I’m a professional and savvy operator, so my first stop is Wikipedia. I recall from my hasty scans before the interview that it’s a dry read. Name checks of a posh public school, Law at Oxford, some time as a barrister before becoming an MP in the late sixties. A succession of ministerial posts up to his retirement as Home Secretary in 1978. His personal life is similarly dry. Married an Honourable. One daughter. Loses wife in 1978. That’s notable. He left politics the same year that he lost his wife.
I think about how he spoke about her to me. His eyes, his sad smile. A whole world gone. A few hasty sentences tapped out by some politics geek on Wikipedia fall so short of all of that happiness and grief. There’s no way he is going to go anywhere near this with me yet, but it feels like an unavoidable watermark in any autobiography. I need to know more and so, the vodka giving me courage, I start a deeper trawl, plugging in Lady Fenton’s name. I find several obituaries, and a beautiful black and white Press Association photo of her as a bride. She has fiercely intelligent eyes and the sort of poise that makes me straighten my back as I slump at the desk. There are some news stories too about Sir John’s career, mentioning his wife, and one of those cringe interviews done at home with the family. I click through some pictures, and it’s clear how amazing this house must have been in its heyday. Where now it’s faded glamour, in these photos, it was just glamour.
I’m about to shut down the laptop and follow in Sir John’s footsteps by going for my own nap, but then one final story catches my eye. It’s a tabloid tale under the headline, “Is ‘Family First’ Home Secretary’s Marriage Floundering?” It goes on to report a rumour that Sir John and Lady Fenton have separated, with a picture of Lady Fenton being comforted by her parents, Major General and Mrs Marchent.
“Neither the Conservative Party nor the Home Office has offered any comment. However, a reliable source in Westminster reports that the Fentons’ thirty-four-year-old nanny, Jenny Hartley, has also recently left the family’s employ.”
I think about my unloved little nanny flat and Sir John’s refusal to discuss his family life. So much for him opening up this morning with the euphemistic talk about separation. In the end, it’s the oldest, most common explanation: the husband leaves his wife for a younger woman.
“Not your business, Alex,” I chide myself. I’m an impartial, invisible ghostwriter. But I’m still surprised – there was something so pained and open about him whenever he spoke about his wife. It just doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s guilt? It would certainly explain why the daughter is estranged from him. It would be hard to deal with your father running off with your nanny and then your mother dying in the same year. I sigh. I feel like it’s not my place to feel disappointed in Sir John – after all, I’m hardly a beacon of honesty and integrity myself at the moment – but I do feel a little disappointed that he could do this to Laura despite loving her so much. I wonder if he’ll ever confide in me or if I’ll ever find out what happened to the nanny. Probably not. Sometimes, it seems like it’s one step forward, two steps back with us.
I’m pulled out of my pondering by a text from Adam inviting me to come round and meet his new flatmate, Javier. Great, I think, as if I’m not feeling sad enough, I need to meet Alex version 2.0 this evening. I consider writing a non-committal response but then catch myself. I quickly text back that I’ll be over in the evening after an afternoon nap. The vodka is definitely taking its toll. Leaning occasionally on the wall for moral support, I make my way to my room, not even reacting to Adam’s snarky text: “A nap at 1pm? You’ve been living with Sir John too long.”