Reading about Sarah Vine’s recent memoir of political wifedom, I was struck not so much by the break-up with her husband Michael (now Lord) Gove, nor by being at the epicentre of the EU referendum, but by the savage way her friendship with Samantha Cameron ended. Once considered the best friend of the then Prime Minister’s wife, relations became strained after Gove backed Leave during the Brexit campaign. After Vine wrote in her Daily Mail column about her fears for its impact on the friendship, SamCam reportedly monstered her at a party for this perceived betrayal, then cut her out of their lives. Brutally, Vine was sacked as godmother to the Camerons’ daughter, Florence.
The issue of whether it’s ever acceptable to jettison a godparent—and how one should go about it—has been on my mind for months. After my daughter’s shaky start and diagnosis with a lifelong disability (since augmented by two other neurological conditions), I wanted to bring some of the excellent women who had supported me during that terrible time into her life on a more permanent footing.
Romy has six godmothers and one godfather. Four of the women and the man are Catholics, and one has a strong Anglican faith. The other is wishy-washy CofE/agnostic—“Pretty much the same thing,” as our local vicar once observed—but I asked her because of her double-yolker qualities (she is a jolly good egg). As I don’t have any immediate family, all three of my children have more than the requisite two godparents; I wanted plenty of good people looking out for them and their faith—and, on a more materialistic footing, I reasoned they wouldn’t feel hard done by at Christmas and on birthdays.
And yet... presents are the least of it. The problematic godmother always remembers Romy on her birthday and at Christmas—but that, while very nice, isn’t, as a mutual friend pointed out, what really matters. “You need moral support,” she said. And on two occasions when I—or we—have desperately needed that, she hasn’t so much come up short as made herself unavailable in a pretty pointed way.
So what to do? I’ve come to the end of the road as far as our friendship is concerned. Do I write a formal letter or, in the modern, cowardly way, just ghost her? Perhaps this won’t come up—a message I sent informing her about Romy’s referral for an autism diagnosis went unacknowledged, as did a thank-you letter which her goddaughter (who was predicted to have severe learning difficulties) had proudly signed herself.
But it’s also made me reflect on my own shortcomings. I was thrilled to be asked to renounce the devil twice. For my goddaughter, now a sassy tween, I have written regularly, sent presents, taken her to Mass and encouraged her in some of the sacraments about which she is reticent—with the promise, incentive, or bribery of a white fur shrug to wear for her Confirmation.
With my younger godson, who like my daughter has some special educational needs, I don’t feel I’ve stepped up to the plate. Yes, I send presents; but it’s hard to support his mother when I’m barely keeping afloat myself. Worse, I failed to get to his First Holy Communion last summer. It was a particularly rough time; I think I was suffering with burnout, even a functioning breakdown, as I came to realise our daughter had autism as well as cerebral palsy. I had planned to go, but on keying the postcode of the church into my satnav, realised that a six-hour round trip was beyond me and cried off.
“I don’t know why anyone asks a friend of the same age with young children to be a godparent,” counsels a contemporary. He is deeply religious, great fun and what used to be called a “confirmed bachelor”. “They should ask old sillies like me,” he adds. “We’re the only ones with the time and energy.” He may have a point.
It can also be a mistake, I’ve learnt, to ask someone with too many family commitments of their own. I very rarely hear from my own godmother, whom I asked to sponsor me when I was received into the Church at 29, and who was one of my late mother’s best friends. She has more than 20 grandchildren and now several great-grandchildren. People have finite capacity and their own family comes first—the exceptions, perhaps, being Diana, Princess of Wales (17 godchildren at the time of her death), and Sir Nicholas Coleridge, Provost of Eton and former president of Condé Nast (seven, including the models Edie Campbell and Cara Delevingne). But then magnates and monarchy have diary secretaries to manage such things.
As a convert, I don’t really suffer from Catholic guilt, but I did feel awful about missing my godson’s special day. I sat in the garden by my statue of Our Lady and prayed five decades for him and sent a massive box of Lego.
One of my sons, whose godfather is prone to missing important milestones, regularly receives £50 in an envelope. For neglected godchildren, at least, Catholic guilt is a force for good.
