Not just another Summer - 2. Brotherly love

In the morning light, the lawn, as it sloped down towards the reservoir as if the garden ran right to the distant water’s edge, was magical as you got a glimpse of the water framed by the trees and mature (i.e. overgrown) shrubs. Grandfather had built the house for this very view. I doubt that he would get planning permission now, and even in the 1950s palms had had to be greased. The Philpotts owned a considerable amount of land around the house, not just the garden but the fields beyond and to the side. Dad had continually fought off the idea that they might be developed. This meant that The Grange sat in splendid isolation, some way from the village which was itself not that far from Coningham. But the isolation gave the house a deceptive sense of tranquillity.

I was standing in the huge bay window of The Grange’s main room, the hall. Grandfather had built the house on a grand scale, intended both to show off and for family life. In terms of the number of bedrooms, the house was on the generous side but the main rooms on the ground floor were simply huge. Only, Grandfather had had just two children, and my Aunt Marjorie had left home right after leaving college, finally settling abroad. My brother Vince had done something similar, though he had returned to Coningham to train and to marry. Vince had refused to live in the house with his family, saying he wanted them to have an independent life. You see, the Philpotts weren’t supposed to do independent, as far as Dad and Grandfather saw it, we should stay together, two or three generations in the same house.

Instead, I had grown up rattling around the monstrosity with Dad and an increasingly frail Mum, plus my elderly Grandfather in the annexe which sat to the side of the main house. It hadn’t been the liveliest of upbringings, whilst Vince’s concentration on training and work, plus his new family, meant that he had little time for his rather moody kid brother who had a habit of disappearing off into the countryside.

Now, it was Vince, his son Freddie and I. Vince’s wife, Moira, had died five years ago after a long illness, and Vince still had not seemed to get himself back on the market. Vince and Freddie lived in the main house, whilst I was in the annexe. This was a small side extension, intended as a granny flat; Grandfather had been the only person ever to live there. But it suited me, giving me a bedroom, sitting room and small kitchen, linked to the house yet still with its own front door.

I was still, relishing the quiet, just the occasional creak of the house, noise of distant traffic and a surprisingly few birds. I heard steps on the staircase, measured and steady, Vince almost certainly. He didn’t say anything and didn’t intrude on my line of view.

“I used to come down here early in the morning. Dad and Mum would usually be asleep, or he’d be working in his office, either way he’d not disturb me, and it was a chance to get a bit of quiet, soak up the atmosphere.”

“You used to write?” Vince’s voice was low; his natural speaking voice was dark and rumbly, making me feel rather yappy in comparison.

“No, too much danger of being caught. I’d store things up and write later. School time, my favourite place was the boys’ bogs in Block B, they were usually quiet.”

“And stank, at least in my day.”

“True.” I shrugged, “But I could live with that.”

“If it gave you peace.” I wasn’t looking at him, but I could sense his tolerant amusement.

“Yes.”

We were quiet, but the silence felt pregnant, as if there was something Vince wanted to ask. Finally, “Are you planning to stay?”

“Would you like me to?”

I turned. My brother was in his pyjamas, the jacket open enough that I could see a bit of the rug of dark hair that covered his chest. Vince inherited his dark, saturnine looks from Dad, whereas I took after Mum.

He looked uncomfortable. As a lawyer, a solicitor specialising in criminal law, he disliked committing himself. “I’d like to try living here with Freddie. I doubt anyone would go as far as to check whether you were staying here full time, but he and I would certainly rattle around on our own.”

“Fair enough. I’d thought never to come back but”, I gave an annoyed shrug, “I’ve discovered that round here seems to be the only thing I can write about. Even in Norfolk, in Norwich, it was these marshes and this landscape that lived in my imagination.”

Vince’s eyes widened; we never really talked about work, his or mine. Neither of us really understood the other, the solicitor and the poet, and Dad had never encouraged that sort of communication.

“And are you, writing?”

“Yes. Easily. Ironic really, would have annoyed him.”

“Really?” Vince looked puzzled, “He liked your work.”

“Oh, come on! When A boy alone was published, he told me that it was good to get it out of my system so I could get a proper job. He never once said well done.” I glared.

“But he was proud of you.”

“Was he? When I asked him for a loan to help cover publication costs, he said it was far better I did everything on my own, to learn the hard way. Let’s face it, I was just another Philpott achievement, he wasn’t bothered about the poetry. Besides, when he said nice things about my poetry to you, wasn’t that just a stick to beat you with?”

“Touché.” He looked rueful.

“To return to your original question”, Vince looked startled but kept quiet, “I have to stay because I can’t really afford anywhere else. At least not and have a half-decent life.”

“What about your teaching? You’ll have to go back to Norwich at some point won’t you, for that creative writing job at UEA?”

“That’s ended. They’ve restructured the course, reducing the number of posts so rather than creating a permanent role for me, as was promised, I’ve had my marching orders.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve decided to think positively. I am going to use the time to write and explore new avenues. Things I never previously had time for.”

“I’m glad. Look, I know we’ve never lived together since…”

“Since I was eight and you went off to Uni.”

He grinned, “Yes. But I’d like to try. There’s space here, after all.”

I looked around. The main hall was impressive, two stories high with staircase and balcony, plus connecting doors to the kitchen and dining room that opened to further create one larger space.

“Perhaps we should have a party, fill this space up a bit.”

He looked around, “Who the hell would we invite?”

We looked at each other silently, admitting we were both social failures. I had a handful of friends scattered across the country, whilst Vince, I think, just had work and a couple of Freddie’s school friends’ parents. That was it.

He smiled, “I don’t think so. Besides, the room wouldn’t be right without your piano.”

My piano. A gift when I was eight, bought with money from a legacy left by my grandfather. A full sized grand. My piano. When I left for Uni, choosing to study English rather than a course Dad wanted for me, one more useful to the firm, he had continued to support me financially. At a price, though. He had sold the piano, my piano, from under me, blithely saying that I wouldn’t need it now as I wasn’t going to be home. I had been furious and am not sure that I ever completely forgave him.

I gave a dry laugh, “Well, there is no chance of me replacing it, my budget certainly would not run to it.”

Another silence and Vince walked over to the kitchen and made coffee. But the subject of Dad wasn’t done. How could it be, he’d only been dead six months and had loomed large in our lives. Vince had lived in his shadow, literally, and whilst I had largely absented myself, my Cold War with Dad meant that even away from Coningham, his presence loomed in my mind.

“Ten years ago, I did some pro bono work for the centre.”

“The centre?”

“The old homeless centre, it’s called the Horniman Centre now, but the focus is still on those who are struggling, who are displaced.”

“Bet he loved that; Dad’s views were a bit old-fashioned at the best of times.”

Vince snorted angrily, “We had words, more than once.” He stared at me carefully, “I think the words ‘shirkers’, ‘back to work’ and ‘bloody layabouts’ might have been used.”

I laughed out loud, Vince glared at me, “Sorry, but I can just hear him. Some of the stuff he came out with wasn’t very pleasant, was it?”

“As far as he was concerned, any time I devoted to the centre and its clients was pure waste.”

“Look, I’m with you on this one. I can’t admit to being very vocal about these issues, but as far as I’m concerned Dad’s views were poisonous.”

“Thanks. But the stuff ten years ago wasn’t just about politics.”

I smiled, “Political and personal all mixed? With Dad, that’s not a surprise.”

“The work I did for the lads was just a bit of conveyancing and advice about leases. Dad was even more furious, because I wouldn’t do things like that for the firm.”

“But you’re not that sort of lawyer?”

Faced with Vince’s refusal to go into the firm, Dad had taken the view that Vince could handle all the firm’s legal work for free, even if he knew little about property or business law.

“He said I should bloody well learn. What was the use of my expensive degree, otherwise. A few years later, I did some work for some lads at the centre. Their landlord was buggering up their lease. It wasn’t a big deal, a few letters and advice.”

Something in Vince’s manner said that it had been a big deal. He wasn’t telling me everything, but we’d never had that sort of relationship.

“Don’t tell me. Dad found out.”

“And was furious. Again. As if I was thirteen, not 30. Wasting my bloody time with useless layabouts and druggies when I could be useful to the firm.”

“What did you do?”

Vince snorted again, “Ignored him.”

“Bet he didn’t like that.”

“None of his bloody business. The partners at the practice supported me, that’s what counted. Doing our bit. The senior partner, Francis is a bit of a dinosaur, but even he could see the importance.”

“For the practice’s image.”

Vince gave a wolfish grin, “Maybe, but I wasn’t going to argue and besides, Francis was in the Rotary Club with Dad.”

“Well placed.”

“Yeah.”

I took the proffered coffee, dark and strong with a dash of milk; we might be different people, but we took our coffee the same way.

“And Dad’s got the last laugh. He spent a lifetime setting one of us against the other, lauding my achievements to you yet telling me that I needed to get a regular job like you, then he leaves us stuck here. Shackled together.”

“They are only shackles if we make them.”

“Point taken. Look, Vince, I’ve never lived with anyone properly.”

“I haven’t since Moira. Besides, you can be more independent, next door, not living in each other’s pockets.”

“I know. We’ll give it a try. I don’t have that many friends keen to visit, but Bas will probably want to. I’ve talked about the place often enough.”

Vince chuckled, “Couldn’t leave it behind, eh? Bas, is he the guy you got pally with at Uni?”

“That’s right. I refused to let him come here, I just knew mixing him and Dad would lead to conflagration.”

“You know, I wonder if we’d have had more friends if we’d felt comfortable bringing people here? It was easier not to, wasn’t it?”

“Avoid the aggro.” I nodded. “But look, if we’re going to make this experiment in modern living work, then we need to talk, not let things fester.”

“Same with you.”

I gave a half smile, “You sulk, and I explode, good combination. We could always move out.”

“What and be forced to give the whole lot to bloody charity?”

I gave an embarrassing snort, “Now you’re starting to sound like him! Fair enough. We try.”

“If we do decide that it doesn’t work, then I want us to choose where the money from the sale of the house goes.”

“Choose a charity that he’d hate. Support the homeless and the bloody shirkers.”

We both smiled.

---

Bas

Well, here it is. Philpott Towers [see picture]. I’ve told Vince that I’ll stay, so I’m stuck. For the duration. Yes, the house is fucking huge. I’m in the annexe, which only has three main rooms but is bigger than my old flat. Go figure.

Vince is, well, Vince. Perhaps you’re right and Dad did a number on him too. If this is to work, we’ll have to work it out. Takes two to tango.

More later. My busy social whirl calls.

G