Not just another Summer - 1. Daddy issues & a friendly twitcher

“What did your Father think of your poetry?”

My two published collections, A boy alone and The journey, sat on the table between us, the cover of the latter proudly emblazoned with ‘Winner of the 2022 Thorncliffe Prize’. But we had hardly talked about the books or the poems. We were crammed into the rear corner of the local Starbucks which was not the most conducive place to hold an interview, I admit, but the venue had been the journalist’s suggestion.

The local paper, the Coningham Evening Mercury, had contacted me about an interview, to talk about my poetry, how my love of the surrounding Essex landscape had influenced my writing, and what effect my return to live in Coningham would have after an absence of so many years. Whilst my poetry might have been inspired by the local area, I hadn’t lived here for some ten years, so I was no longer seen as a local poet. I agreed to the interview hoping it might help change that perception.

I wasn’t stupid, I realised that there would be an interest in my family, particularly Dad who had been a significant local figure and whose death six months ago had partly resulted in my return. But as soon as the journalist began her questions, it became apparent that she was interested mostly in my family; that I was a Philpott, son of the local philanthropist Mac Philpott and scion of Philpott & Sons, the dynasty of builders and developers. Her first question had been ‘what did it feel like to grow up the son of such a notable figure?’

I had bitten back my immediate, snide retort that I had grown up in the shadow of Dad’s obsession with the business, Philpott & Sons, his legacy (as he saw it), and how when he realised that neither my elder brother Vince nor I had any intention of joining the family firm, Dad had conceived the idea of punishing us. If we wouldn’t become part of Philpott & Sons, then we had no right to shares in the company.

It had stunned everyone when Dad had announced that he was leaving his shares in the family firm to a trust to create a worker-owned company, much as the John Lewis Partnership had been. The action gave him a fine liberal aura (entirely false, his politics were rather the opposite of that), and cemented his reputation as a great local philanthropist, a reputation he had increasingly cultivated over the last decade of his life.

As far as Dad was concerned, politics had nothing to do with it. The scheme had been conceived as a punishment for his sons rather than a liberal benefaction, a reward for his staff. However, for me to turn round to an eager young journalist and say this would have seemed not only bad tempered but small minded. As far as I was concerned Dad’s hand hadn’t fed me that much since I’d left for Uni, so I was entitled to bite it. But I was realistic; I wanted to garner publicity for my poetry, not a reputation as a misanthrope who bad-mouthed his Father. Instead, I had bitten my lip and simply pointed out that Dad’s philanthropic gesture had come along when I was grown up and had long left Coningham.

Now, after the merest chat about the poems themselves and my love of the bleak Essex landscape with its windswept and seemingly desolate coastline, Dad was back. This was firmer ground; I wasn’t going to lie here.

I picked up A boy alone; published when I was just 22, the collection was a remarkable achievement however you looked at it.

“When this came out, he said ‘well done’, and now that I’d got the nonsense out of my system, wasn’t it time that I got a proper job? Then when this won the prize”, I tapped The Journey and looked up at her. “You know what The Thorncliffe Prize is?”

She nodded, “A biennial award for the best new poetry book in English.”

“My winning was a big thing. Dad simply said shouldn’t I start doing something that actually earned some money?”

She was staring at me. She was probably my age or younger, eager to get on, covering the arts, such as they were in Coningham, for the Mercury probably because it seemed a useful string to her bow. I wasn’t following her narrative, however.

Her eyes narrowed, “Would you say your relationship with your Father was difficult, then?”

I wanted to laugh. “He wanted a son who would take over the business, get married and have children. Instead, he got a gay poet who ran away.”

“But you have, at last, returned to live in your old family home. Your Father did leave it to you and your brother.”

“Not at all.” It came out rather sharply, she should bloody well do her homework, shouldn’t she. “It was left in trust for my brother and me, as long as we both live there. Together. If we don’t, then it is sold, and the money goes to charity. We get nothing.”

To give the woman her due, she pivoted the interview smartly, though we left my poetry well behind, alas. “Why do you think that was?”

So, she got it all; how he’d wanted a pair of sons who took over Philpott & Sons, lived in the house and carried on what he saw as his legacy, the family firm. When we both refused, he had arranged his supposedy generous gesture to rub it in, demonstrate what we were missing. However, as my legal-minded solicitor brother Vince pointed out, Dad’s gesture had the advantage of minimising the amount of Death Duties to be paid by his estate!

The house itself was a ginormous monstrosity, plenty big enough for Vince, me, and our putative families to live there together. But neither of us did, we weren’t interested in stoking Dad’s obsession with the family legacy.

Interview over, I walked away from Starbucks feeling annoyed with myself. Not for the first time, I had lost my temper and hence lost control of the narrative. Yet another interview had gone badly.

Fuck knows what Vince was going to say. He’d be furious. I could just hear him, ‘Your actions affect other people, Gray. When will you learn that.’ Vince had a law practice and a reputation to uphold. It wasn’t going to look good for one of Coningham’s most prominent solicitors’ practices if the younger brother of one of their partners was sounding off about Coningham’s notable philanthropist, Mac Philpott.

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Coningham Evening Mercury – 5 January 2024

Local philanthropist Macdonald Philpott has died, aged 77. Mac, as he was fondly known, passed after a short illness at his house, The Grange. Mr Philpott was the owner of Philpott & Sons, the builders and developers founded by his Father, a company whose roots however go back to a local firm started by Reg Philpott in the mid-19th century.

Mr Philpott stunned Coningham last year when it was announced that his entire holdings in Philpott & Sons were being transferred to a trust for the benefit of those responsible for the firm’s achievements, the workers themselves. This significant gesture followed on from other notable benefactions including substantial support for the Coningham Theatre redevelopment.

Mr Philpott is survived by his sons, Vincent, a partner in Glentworth, Laidlaw & Philpott, Solicitors, and Graham, a well-known poet, and his grandson Frederick.

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I had to clear my head, so I decided to cycle to the Nature Reserve; properly it was called the Estuary National Nature Reserve, but all the locals shortened the name, making it clear that as far as Coningham was concerned, there was only one nature reserve. An hour simply sitting and absorbing the landscape and relishing the quiet was what I needed. I hadn’t been back in Coningham five minutes, and already Dad’s spirit was starting to get to me the way he had when he was alive. This had to stop.

The landscape had always been a retreat for me, in my teens I had cycled all over, visiting the various nature reserves and marshes, walking along the coast, and letting it soak in. The journeys had started purely as a form of teenage escape, but I had begun writing and the results had come out in the sequence of poems that would lead to my first book.

Dad’s house, The Grange was a manageable 45-minute cycle ride from the reserve (30 minutes in my youth when I was properly fit), but from the centre of town it was considerably more than that, and it wasn’t a direct route either, the waterways and marshes prevented that. In the past, before the development of the modern road network, this had been a secret and mysterious place. So, though I was using a bike because I didn’t own a car, there was some way that the very use of a bike anchored me in this older landscape.

Under normal conditions, I would have enjoyed the way the bleak field-scape and marsh emerged from town, along with the views of the reservoir and the way nature seemed to take over. But I was too pissed off, and as I calmed down, fatigue took over. Fuck was I unfit, and the last part of the journey seemed to take forever, even though it was all on the flat.

In Norfolk, where I had taught at the University of East Anglia (known normally just by its initials, UEA), I had relied on buses and friends’ cars. Here, I was reduced to using my old bike, found in the garage at The Grange. If I was going to pull this sort of stunt more often, I’d need to get the bike sorted out and get fitter or find the money to actually buy a car. Or perhaps all three.

I locked up the bike in the car park; the bike rack was empty, most folk, most sensible folk, came by car though I did notice a rather elderly moped. I had originally intended to walk to one of the more inaccessible areas, but I needed to sit down. The boardwalk at the entrance was new, added as part of a recent attempt to improve the reserve’s image as somewhere for ordinary people rather than just those obsessed with birds.

I collapsed thankfully onto one of the benches. Wheezing away, I closed my eyes, letting the quiet, the atmosphere, seep into my soul. Though Coningham was inland, there was the river, and you were never that far from water and the Estuary. In one direction this led into Essex, in the other, to the North Sea. You were never far from water because the very boundaries were porous; fingers of water snaked inland, and where man had not reshaped things, the shoreline was completely permeable, land leading to wetlands that shaded into the sea so that you never knew which was which.

As a boy and a teenager, I found it completely magical the way the landscape merged land and sea without any sort of border. In fact, possible alternative titles for my poetry collection had included ‘Beyond land and sea’ and ‘A land without borders’, and if I ever managed to assemble another collection of poetry, one these two might still get an airing.

The wetlands, important parts of the nature reserves, were essential for wildlife and created a magic all of their own, a landscape and a soundscape. In a way it was liminal space, land shading gradually into sea and sky, creating a sense that this landscape was porous, we were on the threshold of something else. But if you were wandering on foot, woe betide you, wet feet or worse were an inevitability.

“You OK mate? You need me to call anyone?”

A pair of concerned blue eyes peered at me intently. The eyes were in a freckled face, the pale skin contrasting with the curly, dark brown hair. When I opened my eyes properly, he gave a startled ‘Huh!’ and drew back hurriedly, as if stung.

Early 20s, maybe; tall and thin, interesting rather than attractive. Personable.

“Sorry mate. I saw you arrive. Thought you might have been taken badly, like.”

I stifled a laugh, “My own stupid fault. I cycled from town, and it is a darn sight further than I remembered.”

“You come here a lot, then?”

“I used to.”

“You mind?” He gestured to the bench next to me. He was wearing just t-shirt and jeans, the former did nothing to hide his gaunt collar bones, the latter hung loose on his hips. The t-shirt looked to be an old RSPB one.

“I’m Matt, by the way.”

We shook hands and I introduced myself. The surname did not seem to mean anything to him, which was something, at least.

“I grew up around here and used to come over a lot, but that was years ago.”

“And are you into birds too?” He looked at me eagerly, tapping an old canvas satchel slung from his shoulder.

Bloody hell, a ruddy twitcher. I remembered the old guys boring me to death here when I was younger. Without thinking, my response was sharp, “No. I come for the peace and quiet.”

He collapsed like a deflated balloon. “Oh, sorry. I’ll leave you in peace and go and see what the marsh has for me today.” He gave a tight smile and walked off.

Well, that had gone well, hadn’t it? Two people in one morning. Perhaps, I could ruffle someone else’s feathers and make it the hat-trick. I sat for a bit, but the quiet wouldn’t come.

I was stuck here for a few months, at least. I had to learn to live with my brother, and a few local friends to add to the mix would be nice. I wasn’t in touch with any of my old school friends; I had no-idea who might still be living here and frankly, none of my memories of them made me keen to look up any of them. Matt, however, had seemed eager and personable, though not really my type. But it wasn’t all about sex, remember; someone to, at least, chat to. I wasn’t going to get anywhere if I snapped at people, was I?

I was lucky, Matt had only gone as far as end of the board walk rather than further afield. I could see him sitting staring through his binoculars. I walked towards him and sat down on the same bench but a short distance away. He looked at me briefly but didn’t say anything.

“I grew up round here. I used to come for the quiet, and to write, but kept getting bugged by old guys who always wanted to tell me all about the birds they’d seen. Sorry, I’ve had a shitty day, so far. Can we at least part amicably.”

He put the binoculars down and turned to me, “What do you write, then?”

“Back then. Anything that came into my head. Now”, I shrugged, “poetry. Mainly. About this place and the landscape.”

That was the problem, whilst I had been keen to escape from Coningham, my poetry had remained anchored to this particular landscape. Without it, seemingly, I couldn’t write, or at least not with the same degree of facility and felicity.

“Poetry, wow!” He said it as if the sheer idea was strange. “We did stuff at school, but never anything about this place.” He peered at me, “You like it?”

“I love it. Something of it seeped into my soul”, that sounded too twee, and I stifled a giggle. “Sorry, that’s one of the poncey phrases I came up with for the marketing people.”

“Marketing.”

“I have two books of poetry published, which sounds impressive but provides enough income to keep me in pens, if that.” I gave a resigned shrug. “So, I need to do some marketing to sell them.”

“What do you… Sorry, I’m being nosey.”

“I write other things, articles, and I teach. Well, I used to. I’m a bit unemployed currently, living at home and looking for a job.”

He gave a nervous laugh, “That’s me, sort of. I live with my Mum. I’m at college now but had to retake my final years at school because she was ill.”

“Shit, sorry.”

He smiled, “Thanks. It’s only me and her, so I worry. She’s OK now. I’ll have to live at home till I finish college and get a job.”

“Welcome to the club.” I aimed for wry, rather than bitter and twisted.

We were quiet for a bit, and I wondered if I should slip off, but he didn’t seem to be returning to his binoculars.

“Do people really write poetry about this place, then?” And his eyes widened, “Sorry, that was a bit…”

“Perfectly valid”, I smiled. “Look, next time I see you, I’ll give you one of my books. But until then, how about this. It’s not by me I hasten to add.”

“Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,
Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;

On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,
And pencill'd flower of sickly scent is seen;

Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume.

At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,
With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;

In every chink delights the fern to grow,
With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below:

The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed.

These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,
Form the contracted Flora of our town.”

I gave him a rather approximate rendition of George Crabbe’s description of marsh flowers, full of evocative imagery and rather apt for the time of year.

He grinned, “Wow. Who wrote it then?”

“A man called George Crabbe; he lived in Aldeburgh in the 17th century. That bit of text was set by the composer Benjamin Britten in the 1950s, which has made it better known.” Then as if to prevent my tendency to academic pomposity, my stomach rumbled, “Sorry, breakfast was a long time ago and it’s been a stressful morning.”

“I have something in my bag. It’s only bread and cheese, but the bread’s homemade.”

“Homemade?”

He blushed, nervously. “Yeah. It’s the cheapest way to get decent bread.”

“Thanks. But I don’t want to deprive you.”

“Nah. It’s OK. Mum always insists I take plenty, says I don’t eat enough”, giving an embarrassed dip of his head at the comment about his thin frame. I wondered what his Mum was like.

The sandwiches were filled with some sort of soft cheese, lettuce and cucumber and there was unsweetened iced tea.

“Are you here regularly?”

He looked at me carefully, “Now college is finished for the Summer, I usually come first thing on Monday to Thursday and later on Fridays, or at least try to.”

“What’s first thing.”

“Eight, usually.”

“Bloody hell, that’s early.”

“Tell that to the birds”, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Fair enough. So. I’ll see you Monday and I’ll bring you a copy of my poems so that you can see what you think.”

A dip of the head, “Thanks.”

“I was going to say that I’d bring breakfast, but I suspect that your bread is nicer than anything I could get.”

Another dip of the head, “Ta.”