From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 134)

I opened the door just as the pitter-pattering steps stopped. Hope, aged four, looked up at me and, grinning, said she had come to welcome me home. We both knew that she had sneaked up in the hope of getting into the converted attic rooms at White Orchards that had become my own. Alice had decided that as a frequent visitor she might as well convert part of the unused attic space for me. It meant that my sudden arrivals and departures provided much less upheaval for the household, e.g., an extra place at the dining table being far less unsettling than the sudden demand for a room to be made ready. It also allowed me to leave clothes, books, and even a dog basket for Jack there, so I could simply jump on a train, or in the car, and arrive without needing to pack, or having Griffin pack if I happened to have him with me.

Ever since these attic rooms have been mine, Hope has been desperately trying to get in to see them, despite it being strictly forbidden. On this occasion the door had been left unlocked, entirely my own fault, but she’d got barely a glimpse past me before I took her firmly by the hand and led her downstairs, all the while protesting that she only wanted to see my ‘home’.

I explained that it wasn’t my home - and got no further before she demanded to know where my actual home was. It was a good question. I’ve used a London flat for some years and have made it comfortable. I can relax there, but I cannot say I think of it as ‘home’.  Not that long ago I bought a small estate in the country. Not the sort of place where one might invite friends for the weekend, but rather nice, with two home farms, and some acres for cattle. If I had a family, I suppose it would be a pleasant base for them. For me though it was an investment that went beyond the few London properties that I own.

I suppose growing up in a castle, regardless of however one might not get on with one’s father, still conveys rather a lot of demands on what might be considered a ‘home’. A home, for me, must always be surrounded by countryside, but for a home for me to feel truly at ease, it must have several feet of thick stone external walls (there must be something feudal in my blood).

When I’m sent on missions that involve staying in Great Houses, I feel quite at home. High ceilings, hot and cold running servants, and rooms that make the average baby grand piano look like a footstool.

It’s a world of unfair privilege, and after the Great War, it’s one that’s fading. This, I truly believe, is only right. I’m no communist, but that some should have so much while others have so little, especially the frequently maimed returning heroes of the war that one might find begging on a street corner, is both morally and societally repugnant.

Yet, I cannot forget my youthful delight of running along the corridors of my family’s castle, and the sheer joy that the place could bring me. But I enjoyed it only with the ignorance of childhood. Back then I had no understanding of class privilege, or the hard lives of many of the servants. Fortunately, despite the Great War, I am so far down the line of inheritance that it will never fall to me to decide what should become of the old place.

Home, I told Hope, is where the people you love reside - and it makes not one jot of difference if that place be a hovel or a mansion. She beamed up at me with childish joy and said, see Godfather, you ARE home!