(NB. I’ve said this before. This is what we writers call a first draft. I may change some of it later if I can think of something better to say. I may also add some things, if I can think of anything interesting.)
My Pa was born in the 1920s. Come to think of it, so was my Ma (but more of her later, if I can stomach it). Because Pa was born when he was, the Second World War happened when he was quite a young man, although I am pretty sure it was not his fault, even though his birthday was on November 5th, which means fireworks. He used sometimes to tell me about his exploits during the War while he sat me on his knee (which was fine when I was little but I found it a bit awkward as I entered upon adolescence) but his stories varied depending upon how much he had had to drink. Quite often he had been a Spitfire pilot bombing the Germans, which I found difficult to believe because he was afraid of heights, but wedding photographs show him in RAF uniform, although I think you could hire them from places like theatre costumiers, so a photograph can lie, although people always say the opposite, or they did until computers were invented. But I digress.
The truth (as far as I can tell) is that he managed to avoid military service because he was a bit of a reptile, and (to mix a metaphor) somehow wormed his way into the good books of some influential people and they had helped him prove he was involved in an industry of vital national importance, and could not be spared for dangerous military service. That this was a confectionary manufacturing concern seems to have been overlooked by the civil servants who rubber stamped his reluctance to risk his life, unless they believed it was important that our boys overseas had a decent supply of gobstoppers if they were to halt the spread of Fascism. Be that as it may, by all accounts he came out of the years of global conflict significantly richer than when he went in – unless you count his having married my Ma in 1943 (but more of her later, if I can stomach it).
But I have come to the conclusion that it cannot have been confectionary that made him a rich man. I mean, seriously? In wartime? It is true that during and after the war people were absolutely dying for sweets, and his Fizzy Froots were everyone’s favourite, but he had other irons in the fire, for sure. If I knew what money laundering was I would suggest he did some of that, but I do not, so instead I shall suggest that he used his connections with the same important and influential people in government and was involved in some kind of black market dealings. Frankly, I do not know and care even less, and also I am out of my depth with this kind of thing. I am a poet, not a reporter for The Guardian. The upshot of all of that nonsense, some of which may be true and some of which may be hokum, was his purchase of the house and estate where Your Poet now lives: a Victorian pile in several acres of prime Home Counties landscape, which over the years, thanks to high walls and, of late, electrically-charged fences, has managed to keep out the hoi polloi unless they have been specifically allowed in to work.
Far be it from me to say that my Pa had delusions of grandeur, but I think it is fair to say that he had delusions of grandeur, and spent the greater part of his adult life distancing himself from his immediate family forebears. While, like my Grandpa (as I called him), he saw nothing wrong with chasing after actresses and chorus girls, he did not regard having a church caretaker for a father as good for his image, and so Grandpa (as I called him) was rarely invited or allowed to visit our magnificent home, and was left to rot gently away in Basingstoke, which is as good a place as any in which to rot away. I have vague memories of my Pa telling people, if they enquired, that his father was living comfortably in a house he (my Pa) had bought for him in Bermuda. I do not know if anyone believed him, or if I am mis-remembering. It does not really matter. This book (and, I hope, one day a film) is not about him, it is about me, and the sooner I am done with this part the better.
By the early 1950s, and by the time Your Poet made his entrance into the world, Pa was the epitome of the country squire and gentleman, albeit a fake, all tweeds and monocle and shooting parties and grouse for breakfast and chasing the parlour maids around the scullery.
I have just thought of something to say about my Ma. She was not a pleasant woman, and was almost a photocopy (had photocopies existed back then, which I do not think they did, I am not sure, probably I should check, but I cannot be bothered) of her mother, grumpy in the extreme, and constantly upsetting my Pa by insisting that her mother and father (my grandparents – the former dustbin man and his grumbling other half) come to visit every other weekend and be sumptuously fed and pampered at Pa’s expense. As a child I witnessed many full-blown rows about these visits, but chronologically I have not been born yet so might return to those later (if I remember – I must make a note).
On the weekends when that particular set of grandparents were not visiting my Pa would, on the Saturday evenings, hold splendid parties, to which business associates, government people and, most importantly, other very rich toffs with nothing better to do were invited. And, of course, they came, because why not. Loads of first class free food and booze was there for the taking, and my Pa was by all accounts a good chap to know. I take after him.
The other thing I have thought to say about my Ma before I get on to much more interesting things (i.e. me) is that – oh no, wait, I should hold this bit back for later. This autobiographical business is a bit tricky, to be honest, because here I am telling you about some things that happened before I was born and some things that happened after I was born but too young to know anything about them, and it threatens to confuse me: one bit of me wants to tell you everything now, but some bits I want to tell you about did not happen until much later. I shall save this one up. But trust me: it is what I believe the youth call “a banger”.
Which, at last, brings me to the nativity of Your Poet (and about time too!) which belongs at the beginning of the next (imaginary, at the moment) chapter. I will sort all of this out into proper chapters later, or get someone else to do it for me. But, to whet your appetite, let me just say here that my birth was heralded by several auspicious omens. More about that in due course . . .
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James Henderson