Read Online Past Imperfect by Julian Fellowes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julian Fellowes
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, England, London, London (England), Nineteen sixties, English Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors, London (England) - Social life and customs - 20th century, Upper class - England - London, Upper Class
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Janus, it faced both ways.
One part of the culture was indeed about pop and drugs and happenings, and Marianne Faithfull and Mars Bars and free love, but the other, if anything far larger, section of the community was still looking back to the 1950s, back towards a traditional England, where behaviour was laid down according to the practice of, if not many centuries, at least the century immediately before, where everything from clothes to sexual morality was rigidly determined and, if we did not always obey the rules, we knew what they were. It was, after all, less than ten years previously that this code had reigned supreme. The girls who wouldn't kiss on a first date, the boys who were not dressed without a tie, those mothers who only left the house in hat and gloves, those fathers wearing bowlers on their way to the city. These were all as much a part of the sixties as the side of it so constantly revived by television retrospectives. The difference being that they were customs on the way out, while the new, deconstructed culture was on the way in. It would, of course, prove to be the winner and as with anything it is the winner who writes history.
A great fashion then was for adding false hair, in ringlets and falls, to dramatise a hairstyle. They were intended to look real but only with the reality of a costume in a play, that could be discarded the following day with no loss of face. So a girl might appear on Monday night with curls to her shoulders and at Tuesday lunch with an Eton crop. The idea was really to use hair like a series of hats. In this one disguise, perhaps alone among their habits and unlike the wig wearers of today, there was no intention to deceive. The vogue was further enhanced by the practice of depositing these 'pieces' at the hairdresser's a day or two in advance, where they would be rollered and treated and even sewn with flowers or beads, before the whole elaborate coiffure would be pinned to the owner's head in the afternoon before a party. The style reached its apogee when the dances began, but even in the early stages, during the first cocktail parties, it seemed a parable of the unreality we were all participating in, as the debs would alter their appearance almost completely, twice or three times a week. Partygoers would see a stranger approach, only to discover, as they drew near, the face of an old friend peeping out. So it was, on this particular evening, that I suddenly recognised the sedate highness in transit, riding in the seat next to Damian, was none other than Serena Gresham, who climbed out of the car, as cool as a cucumber, and walked over to where I was standing. 'Hello,' she said.
'Hello. How are you getting on?'
'I'm shaken to pieces. I feel like a cocktail ready to be poured.'
'I was going to ask if you wanted another go, with me.'
'Not likely,' said Serena. 'What I do want is another drink.' She looked around and had secured a new glass of champagne before the offer to help her was even out of my mouth.
Leaving her surrounded by would-be gallants, I wandered over to the Dodgem track, where the cars were already fully occupied. Then I heard my name called and I looked round to see Lucy Dalton waving at me. I walked over. 'What is it?' I said.
'For Christ's sake get in.' Lucy patted the battered, leather seat beside her. 'Philip Rawnsley-Price is coming this way and my bottom will be quite bruised enough without that.' Behind me I could hear the man shouting for us to clear the track. 'Get in!' she hissed. So I did. It wasn't a complete reprieve. Before we could set off, Philip, ignoring the shouts of the operator, had strolled across between the now moving cars - in those days, you understand, 'Health and safety,' as a phrase, had yet to be invented.
'If you're avoiding me, you can give up now,' he said to Lucy with a leer that I assume was supposed to be sexy. 'We're destined to be together.' Before she could think of a suitable wisecrack, there was a harsh and
One part of the culture was indeed about pop and drugs and happenings, and Marianne Faithfull and Mars Bars and free love, but the other, if anything far larger, section of the community was still looking back to the 1950s, back towards a traditional England, where behaviour was laid down according to the practice of, if not many centuries, at least the century immediately before, where everything from clothes to sexual morality was rigidly determined and, if we did not always obey the rules, we knew what they were. It was, after all, less than ten years previously that this code had reigned supreme. The girls who wouldn't kiss on a first date, the boys who were not dressed without a tie, those mothers who only left the house in hat and gloves, those fathers wearing bowlers on their way to the city. These were all as much a part of the sixties as the side of it so constantly revived by television retrospectives. The difference being that they were customs on the way out, while the new, deconstructed culture was on the way in. It would, of course, prove to be the winner and as with anything it is the winner who writes history.
A great fashion then was for adding false hair, in ringlets and falls, to dramatise a hairstyle. They were intended to look real but only with the reality of a costume in a play, that could be discarded the following day with no loss of face. So a girl might appear on Monday night with curls to her shoulders and at Tuesday lunch with an Eton crop. The idea was really to use hair like a series of hats. In this one disguise, perhaps alone among their habits and unlike the wig wearers of today, there was no intention to deceive. The vogue was further enhanced by the practice of depositing these 'pieces' at the hairdresser's a day or two in advance, where they would be rollered and treated and even sewn with flowers or beads, before the whole elaborate coiffure would be pinned to the owner's head in the afternoon before a party. The style reached its apogee when the dances began, but even in the early stages, during the first cocktail parties, it seemed a parable of the unreality we were all participating in, as the debs would alter their appearance almost completely, twice or three times a week. Partygoers would see a stranger approach, only to discover, as they drew near, the face of an old friend peeping out. So it was, on this particular evening, that I suddenly recognised the sedate highness in transit, riding in the seat next to Damian, was none other than Serena Gresham, who climbed out of the car, as cool as a cucumber, and walked over to where I was standing. 'Hello,' she said.
'Hello. How are you getting on?'
'I'm shaken to pieces. I feel like a cocktail ready to be poured.'
'I was going to ask if you wanted another go, with me.'
'Not likely,' said Serena. 'What I do want is another drink.' She looked around and had secured a new glass of champagne before the offer to help her was even out of my mouth.
Leaving her surrounded by would-be gallants, I wandered over to the Dodgem track, where the cars were already fully occupied. Then I heard my name called and I looked round to see Lucy Dalton waving at me. I walked over. 'What is it?' I said.
'For Christ's sake get in.' Lucy patted the battered, leather seat beside her. 'Philip Rawnsley-Price is coming this way and my bottom will be quite bruised enough without that.' Behind me I could hear the man shouting for us to clear the track. 'Get in!' she hissed. So I did. It wasn't a complete reprieve. Before we could set off, Philip, ignoring the shouts of the operator, had strolled across between the now moving cars - in those days, you understand, 'Health and safety,' as a phrase, had yet to be invented.
'If you're avoiding me, you can give up now,' he said to Lucy with a leer that I assume was supposed to be sexy. 'We're destined to be together.' Before she could think of a suitable wisecrack, there was a harsh and
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