18th - Part 2

Another recollection from the weekend.

There came a point, around 1am, when all the young were in a state of some disarray dancing in the morning room (the only room the National Trust would allow to be used as a disco – and even then I bet there was a fair amount of tooth-sucking in NTHQ). At that point T and I and a few other oldies retired with glasses of brandy (good stuff, though I forgot to ask what it was) to the library. Our number included a couple of godfathers, T’s golfing partner, Sarah’s two favourite teachers, and a man called Suds (I believe) whose provenance was never clear to me.

Suds was rich. This much became quickly apparent. He made no allowance for the fact that the teachers were most likely on the breadline, instead launching – as soon as he discovered my profession – into a rambling monologue about the trials of great wealth. MiFID, the new financial services directive that has just come into force, was of particular concern to him. He spoke at great length about it, placing the rest of us in an awkward position: the teachers and godfathers, because they were alienated and bored by the subject; me, because it rapidly became clear that Suds had completely failed to understand the point of MiFID, and anything I said would only draw attention to his ignorance.

Inevitably, we reached the point where Suds leaned across to me, all confiding, and said, ‘Go on then, tell us. Where should we really be putting our money?’

I gave the usual non-committal spiel about spreading risk and bewaring property, but that wasn’t enough for Suds. ‘Just give us a stock,’ he demanded. ‘Something you have the inside track on.’

T embarked on a polite attempt to distract Suds, but he wasn’t to be drawn. ‘We deal mostly in funds, these days,’ I said. ‘Or funds of funds. I could give you the names of a couple of good managers, if you like.’

But Suds had written me off. ‘Bloody City lot. Always the same. Won’t let the rest of us near the golden eggs, eh?’

An unfortunate metaphor to use, given what happened to the goose, but there we are.

Later, as I was retiring to my (rather fine) room overlooking the herb garden, T accompanied me up that marvellous staircase and said, ‘Bloody Spud, always drinks too much.’

‘I thought his name was Suds,’ I said.

‘Is it? Oh, maybe it is,’ said T, leaving me rather puzzled.

Sarah, her hair flying wild, came scampering across the hall at that moment, pursued by a handsome young rogue with flapping bowtie and scarlet cummerbund. Luckily she didn’t notice us halfway up the stairs, so whatever spark of romantic thrill the moment held for her wasn’t spoilt by her daddy witnessing it. The amorous couple disappeared into what I believe was the billiard room. A number of ball-and-cue-related innuendoes came to mind but I managed to resist voicing them.

‘She’s had a good night, hasn’t she?’ said T.

‘Oh yes,’ said I, loyally. ‘The best.’

‘It makes it all worthwhile, you know.’

‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of my own. It really does.