Not just another Summer - 10. Importunate neighbours & old haunts

It was strange, being in the huge house on my own. Of course, I stayed in the annexe but on Sunday there was the temptation to wander around the big house, trying to remember how it had been. But my old bedroom and the piano in the hall apart, the rest was only a vague memory. I called to mind notable scenes, but the house was only ever a backdrop. I could tell you that Dad and I had a fight about what degree course I was going to take and that the fight had been in his study, where he had been sitting behind his desk. But as to the rest of the study, it was a bit of a generic blur. Perhaps that was for the best.

I did, however, have a nose round upstairs, checking the rooms Bas and I would be using (old guest bedrooms), but also looking in on the rooms we had used when kids. These were different now yet overlaid with images of how I remembered them. Freddie had Vince’s old room, it was full of the lad’s stuff, whilst my old room seemed to have been colonised by Vince as a sort of den.

I had been happiest up here, the rooms had represented an escape, both from the rest of the house and from the pressures of family life. It was unsettling, seeing the rooms so changed, and neither held real memories for me, now. Mum and Dad’s room was now Vince’s, and I was rather shocked that the décor look as if it hadn't been changed since Mum and Dad decorated it. When was that, I wondered? Memory failed me there. At least, I assumed Vince’s taste wasn’t so floral and pastel. Was he not that bothered? He surely couldn’t be clinging on to it for sentimental reasons, could he? Or did he plan to be in the market for a new girlfriend and so was waiting for that before decorating? Interesting.

I could see my brother not being that interested in the look of things; his focus was on family, career and politics, rather than doing more homely things just for the sake of it. But surely getting decorators in to give the room a once over was no big deal, was it? Perhaps this reflected a sense of unease in his attitude too? He had pressed me about whether I was going to stay on in the house, but the fact that the place had barely been touched suggested that Vince was waiting too. Waiting for what? We would need to have a proper conversation again. All I had to do was catch him in the right mood.

Back in the hall, I contemplated the space where my piano had been and realised that I was beginning to miss not having access to one. At UEA there had been practice rooms I could book, and a couple of friends with pianos who didn’t mind me dropping in occasionally. I wasn’t the world’s best pianist, but I enjoyed it. Now, my piano music was sitting in a box in my bedroom, gathering dust.

Would Vince lend me the money to buy a cheap piano? Was there such a thing? Was it worth it, would we be here that long, or would we end up at each other’s throats? There was also the issue of Vince’s marital state, I was still convinced that there was someone in the background. If so, then my days here were surely numbered; I couldn’t see me, Vince and the second Mrs Philpott happily settling down together.

My reverie was interrupted by the doorbell, being rung very insistently. I considered ignoring it, after all it was Sunday, so it was hardly going to be the postman, was it? Vince’s detailed instruction list had made no mention of any potential visitors. But the bell was unrelenting, and I was a bit curious.

“I need to speak to Vincent Philpott, please.”

It was a demand rather than a request, made by a woman in her early 50s. Middling height, well-upholstered and with a hairstyle that was short and practical, but looked as if it owed a lot to the hairdresser’s art. She was wearing a blouse, jeans and a padded waistcoat that seemed entirely redundant this time of year. Her clothes suggested someone engaged in country pursuits or horsemanship, yet she was bandbox trim.

I probably stared for a bit too long.

“Well, are you going to get him for me?”

“Sorry, to whom am I speaking?”

“Venetia Murray, I’m a close friend of Mr Philpott.”

I was beginning to dislike her, already. “I am sorry, but Vince is away at the moment.”

She glared, very put out. “I was not aware of that. Who might you be?”

I definitely didn’t like her, “I am his brother, Gray.”

“Oh, yes, you’re staying with him.”

“Not quite, I am living here. This is my house as well.”

“Well!” I am not quite sure what she objected to, my manner or the fact that The Grange was now inhabited by the two of us.

“Vince and Freddie are off on holiday, I am afraid. They will be back on Sunday.”

“Well, I have been trying to contact him, and he is not answering emails.”

“Sorry, I cannot help you there. You could try phoning, but they are in Spain. I can let him know you were trying to get hold of him.”

“I was expecting him to dinner on Saturday.”

“Sorry, he’ll be away, and the holiday has been planned a long time. He and Freddie go away for the same week of the school holidays every year.”

“And are you staying for long?”

As that had anything to do with her! “I’ve just moved in”, I smiled, “so it is probably for the duration.”

“Hmm. Well, if you could let Vincent know, please. I was a dear friend of his wife, and I do so like make sure of his well-being.”

My arse. I didn’t say that to the stuck-up cow, but I would have loved to.

---

Vince

Nothing to report, so far. I’ve not seen Moggie yet, but am making sure she gets fed.

The only excitement was one Venetia Murray at the door. Most insistent. Says she was a dear friend of Moira! Expected you at dinner on Saturday. Most put out. And she seemed to think I was some sort of servant. Less than impressed that the house is half mine.

Supposedly she has been emailing you.

G

---

Gray

Oh Lord. Save us from Venetia Murray. She knew we were away but was desperate to hook me up with her latest protégé. She thinks it’s her duty to find me a ‘suitable’ wife. No great loss. Sorry you had to put up with her, she’s probably annoyed that I’m not quite the heir that she’s been talking me up to be.

The dinner threat won’t go away, alas. Best get it over with. And be warned, once she’s done her research and realises that my brother Gray Philpott is the notable local poet Graham Philpott, you are going to be another scalp.

Be very afraid.

V

---

Monday, I cheated and drove down to the reserve in Vince’s car, and then spent the day driving around old haunts, taking photos. I had an idea for doing a talk about the places that had inspired me as a youth. The driving proved stressful in itself. I didn’t drive regularly, after all I’d never actually owned a car, and the narrow country lanes, the navigation, and the other drivers all rather got to me. Big time, so that I would arrive at a destination all hot and bothered. And then the problem was that a lot had changed. What had been open bits of countryside and stretches of coast that you could just wander along were now inaccessible. Sometimes because of changes of ownership, but in a lot of places the need to preserve meant organisations like Natural England and the RSPB no longer gave people such free access. And, in one or two places, things had changed so much, I was unsure whether I was in the right place or not, coming away with a profound feeling of disorientation. I decided that exploring the landscape was a nice idea, one to be pursued, but I would not be trying to revisit the past. From now on, it would be about the present Graham Philpott and the 21st century Essex landscape.

Still, I got a decent load of photos. I wondered whether my old teenage albums had survived. I know that Dad had culled my childhood things, announcing that if I wouldn’t take ownership of them then he was damned if he was going to be lumbered with them. But Vince had said that there were boxes in the attic. There was, however, no way I was going up there without Vince in the house. But I was intrigued as to what had survived. What Dad had considered worthy of saving.

Dad had never understood the challenge of living an itinerant lifestyle whereby I moved between academic posts and residencies, usually renting and on a few occasions reliant on the good nature of friends. His view was that if I saw sense, then I would come and work for the firm, move back home, earn a decent income and live at The Grange. He wasn’t an ogre by any means, there would be presents at Christmas and my birthday, and when I visited, each time a substantial cheque. But not enough to support my ‘damned stupid lifestyle’ as he was wont to refer to it. As far as Dad was concerned, I had made my bed and could lie on it.

---

Bas

Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Philpott Towers will be shipshape, thanks to our estimable cleaner, but I have vetoed sleeping in my old room. That way lies madness.

Be warned, Coningham is quiet and provincial. During the Summer there seems to be tourists and fuck all else. What goes for the arts round here is a joke. So, we’ll be quiet. I do have Vince’s car, which means going exploring.

Oh, my twitcher is joining us for dinner on Friday, so you’ll know that I’m not entirely friendless!

G