The C Word
Chapter 1. Up
Song suggestions: Chez Chanel by Alexandre Desplat and Young Edie in NYC by Rachel Portman
Enjoy!
My great grandmother had told me all about the stretch of Fifth Avenue that was known in her youth as Millionaires' Row. Her stories were sprinkled with mentions of Vanderbilts and Astors and more often than not centred on society balls that lasted from sunset till sunrise, only winding down when dawn had broken and ushered Upper East Side Cinderellas back to their townhouses. I can't recall a time before I adored Fifth Avenue. My head had been filled with stories of an age when life was golden, of mansions beyond compare and the vibrant characters who inhabited them. Granny would talk of hostesses who packed their warrens of rooms with the best and the brightest things and people that the world had to offer. The Gold Coast of the 1890s seemed a universe away from the realities of my own childhood.
I suppose there must've been a time when New York City was unknown to me, when I thought our country house in England was the centre of the earth. But I don't have great childhood memories of the country of my birth or the pastoral idyll that our family once occupied. For as long as I can remember, Fifth Avenue filled the corners of my consciousness and dominated my thoughts: it was from here that we had once ruled the world.
I can't remember a time before Central Park on Sundays, when I would slip my little gloved hand into the embrace of my fathers and hold tight as we practically skipped through the early morning crowds of shoppers and tourists. My mother is conspicuously absent from these memories. Whilst Da and I were breathing in the air and taking in the sights with a sense of unbridled delight, as if we were tourists in our own city, Mother was only mere blocks away. She was sitting alongside her great aunt in our family's usual seats at St. Bart's on Park Avenue, the ones with the prime view of the altar, second from the front. I say our, however myself and Da were most definitely not included in that sentiment. Yes, I had been for tokens sake. I had sat primly by my mother's side at Easter and Christmas, when most of the congregation came to see and be seen (spirituality has always been a social event in this circle). But Da had never sat in the second row and he'd never even entered the church. After all, Charles Swan knew better than to show his face there, handsome though it was.
In defiance, he established a new tradition. Mother could have her social standing, cemented by her weekly prayers, and he got to show me the city in all its beauty. Each Sunday was different and the same. We would almost always have brunch surrounded by the gleam of The Plaza Hotel's Palm Court, where the waiters that I'd known since I was small would fuss over me and I would relish in Da's pride at my use of the right fork; of the just so fold of my napkin; the way I always sat upright taking in the spectacle of the room, always appreciating everything.
'What a lovely little girl,' one of the other patrons would say. 'So well behaved.'
That's all I ever heard. Lovely. Lovely hair, lovely face, just…lovely. I relished the praise and took pleasure in Da's resulting grin. It was a gold star awarded for manners that I can't even remember adopting: it was as if they were somehow ingrained. Genetic, my mother would say.
And after we had dined on eggs Benedict and scraped the bottom of crystal bowls piled high with hand-cut fruit, we would take a ride around the Park in a Hansom cab. After completing our route, Da would descend from our carriage and sweep me down with chivalric flourish that never failed to make me giggle. As soon as my ballet pumps had touched the ground, he was paying the fare and giving the driver a considerable tip, manoeuvring a fifty-dollar bill out of his hand with easy grace. I was used to this smooth exchange even at five: there was always a tip to be had with Da. A treat, he would say. There would be one for the doorman with the perpetual smile who guarded the gilded entry of Granny's Park Avenue building; for any waitress that ever served him; for any taxi driver, attendant or member of staff that had the fortune of crossing his path. This generosity was not for show and it wasn't done to affirm his status.
When, one Sunday morning I inquired as to why he always did this, why he seemed to give his money away so freely wherever we went, he knelt down and wrapped my hands in his.
'Never forget people on the way up Belle,' Da said softly, smiling gently at me. 'You can't take money with you.'
My five-year old self had thought the statement beyond comical. Silly Da, I'd thought. Because of course you could take money with you. That's what the purse that Mummy carried was for, the one with the back to front Cs. And that's why Da always had cash handy in his wallet or folded neatly in the pocket of his suits. Come to think of it, he even kept a stack of bills tucked away in the magazine rack next to the velvet chair in the study. It was just money and it was just there, newly minted and in abundance. And besides, where was Up? Did he mean heaven? Weren't we already there? Things couldn't get better or higher or more heavenly than Hansom cabs on a Sunday, could they?
But over the course of the next eighteen years or so, I began to comprehend what he had meant by Up. Uptown. Upper East Side. Upper Class. My mother's family were always talking about Up without even uttering the word. It went unspoken as they conversed about their summer houses and their societies and their housekeepers. Up was a way of life. And Da was just that bit beneath it, no matter how much of Manhattan he owned or the seemingly endless amounts of money that he made. Never mind that it was the brink of the 21st Century or the fact that the Swans had all made their way in the world since coming to this country mere decades ago, that our family tree now included Doctors and CEOS and people to be proud of. No. Da would never be Up enough to claim a seat in the second row at St. Bart's.
But me? I was halfway there and I could rise. All I had to do was choose.
It will speed up and Edward will arrive soon enough. I'd love to hear any thoughts !
