IF OEDIPUS SNARK was a flawed character, the same could certainly not be said of William French, Master of Wine (Failed). That particular failure—his regrettable performance in the MW examinations—was his own fault and nobody else’s, and he certainly did not try to shift the blame. He had become intoxicated in the practical tests and completely confused the attribution of the sample wines. He recognised that it would have been a travesty had he passed, and he knew that he had a great deal of work ahead of him if he were eventually to obtain the treasured qualification.
Whereas Oedipus was unpopular with all those who got to know him at all well, the warmth of feeling that people had for William only grew as they spent time with him. It was difficult to put one’s finger on the reason for this, but it was a quality of kindness, perhaps, that people most noticed: kindness, leavened with a large measure of charity in his attitude to others. One realised, of course, that William had a problem with finding direction in his life, but that counted for very little when one looked at the broader character of a person who had a strong sense of where he was going. The ranks of such persons were not entirely occupied by the ruthless, the selfish and the insensitive—but those characteristics were certainly well represented there.
His friend Marcia Light, who owned the outside-catering firm Marcia’s Table, was well aware of William’s lack of direction. For some years after William had been widowed, she had wanted him to marry her. She used every ploy known to woman to secure this end, but eventually admitted to failure.
“It’s not going to happen,” she had confided to a friend one day as they prepared a large selection of canapés for a reception at the Norwegian embassy. “The problem is chemistry. The chemistry’s either there or it isn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
“Are you sure?” her friend asked. She was an incurable romantic and believed, in the depths of her soul, that any man could be enticed as long as one knew what his appetites—in the culinary sense, of course—were. “There are ways, you know …”
Marcia knew what her friend was driving at. “It’s not that simple,” she said. “Yes, there are men who just want domestic comfort, who want somebody to cook for them. William’s not like that.”
“Pity,” said the friend.
“Yes. But there we are. He’s looking for something else.”
William would not have disputed that assessment. He was aware of his problem of direction; he was aware of the fact that at the end of each day he made his way home to a flat in Corduroy Mansions that had developed a rather unlived-in feel; he was aware that if he were to attempt to sum up what he had achieved over the last six months, or even the last year, it would not be a long list of achievements. Indeed, he would be hard-pressed to find even a single thing to put on such a list.
Of course, there were very few occasions on which one was required to make a list of one’s achievements. Some people went for years without listing their triumphs; others did it more regularly, often under the pretext of sending out a Christmas letter to their friends and acquaintances. William received a growing number of such letters each year, and he often blushed to the roots of his hair as he read the shameless blowing of trumpets that these entailed.
The previous year he had received a five-page letter in which an entire page was devoted to each member of the family. “It’s been a rather successful year, as it happens,” wrote his friend. “You may have read of my appointment in the newspapers, but in case you missed it I have scanned it in and attached it as appendix A! Well, that came as a surprise because I really shouldn’t have got the job for another five or six years, and I’m afraid I did rather leapfrog—or I was leapfrogged—over at least ten people who were my seniors in the company. The chairman made a very generous remark about cream rising to the top … A bit of a joke, of course, but a sweet thing for him to say nonetheless. I do hope it sugared the pill for those who might have hoped to get the job but didn’t (and I realise as I write this that a few people in that category will be reading this letter). Anyway, there was that, and then a few months later, in July, we had a simply wonderful piece of family news—the beatification of our late Great-Uncle Martin! It came as a complete surprise because, although we knew that there were quite a few people supporting his cause, not being Catholics ourselves we didn’t know the ins and outs of it. The current Pope, however, is said to be very keen on the project, as was the last one, and so they have given the whole business a fair wind. Now being beatified is not the same as being canonised, but it’s the first step and sometimes they fast-track these things. So I gather that there’s a reasonable possibility that he might be made a saint if not in my lifetime then at least in the lifetime of the children, which would be rather nice as we currently don’t have any saints (real ones, that is!) in the family. I gather that the ceremony in Rome is very moving and that they have special candles made for any members of the family who can get to the service.
“Of course, they need proof of a few miracles to get the thing nailed down, and I’ve told our Jane that the fact that she got seven A Level passes at A grade last year is not a miracle attributable to the Blessed Martin Blaise but more the result of hard work—and she has worked very hard over the last few years—and a certain amount of native intelligence. She was made a member of Mensa, as it happens, this year. For those of you who may not know about it, Mensa is the society for the super-intelligent. You have to do a very tough test to get in and, naturally, you need an IQ of the highest level. I served for some years as the secretary of our regional Mensa branch, and enjoyed it greatly. I could always be certain that the fellow members to whom I wrote about subscriptions and so on would understand my letter!
“On the subject of letters, I received an absolutely charming one from … well, modesty forbids my telling you exactly who it was from, but you might have seen his latest film—which I thought was really rather good. We were at the premiere, as it happens, where I bumped into …” And so it continued.
William realised he could never write a letter like that; he was far too modest and … Well, the other side of it was that he had nothing to write about. He would never get into Mensa, just as he feared he would never get his MW. William French, MW (Failed), Mensa (Failed): well, at least it was honest, and perhaps it would be no bad thing if more of us admitted to our shortcomings more readily—and in a spirit of genuine failure.