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J.P.SIGLEY, Man of Letters

The Masques behind the Man

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ONE: ENDING AND BEGINNING

There were no obituaries. Not surprisingly, JP Sigley’s death in early 2004 went as much unnoticed and unreported as most of his long life. He kept himself so remarkably to himself that few even knew he existed. One who was aware of him suggested the term ‘hermit’ to characterise his way of life. Having known him during most of his final twenty years, I would say (writes Sigley’s anonymous amanuensis) that ‘recluse’ would be much closer. On reflection, to say ‘having known him’ is itself seriously wide of the mark, since he was not knowable. I simply made and retained his acquaintance. That was as near as you could get.

Withdrawn from wider society as he was, news of his death did not break immediately. He had no close neighbours, nor would he have welcomed them. Visitors were few and infrequent. It was the local milkman, passing Sigley’s residence on his round, who sensed intuitively that something was amiss. The cremation on the outskirts of King’s Lynn was as quiet an event as any could be. Following the briefest and simplest of services, the leading undertaker scattered the ashes briskly over an undistinguished flowerbed to the right of the entrance gates. At his death, as throughout his life, JP Sigley seemed hardly to make a ripple.

In fact, he made rather more ripples than that opinion suggests, though their unique impact was admittedly small. They were noticed by only an insignificant minority segment of the readership of the Lynn News and Advertiser (later called the Lynn News), the popular West Norfolk newspaper, published on Tuesdays and Fridays.  Sigley rarely bought a copy of the paper himself, preferring to study it in the public library on his twice-weekly excursions by bicycle into the town centre. He read every issue closely, including many of the classified advertisements, until his eyes could no longer manage the smaller print. Only the Sports and Motoring pages failed to interest him. He would comment later that he thought of those sections of any newspaper as ‘the blank pages’.

Sigley made his unlikely public debut in the Lynn News readers’ letters column of 26th October 1982.  To regular readers, his letter was one among many, the usual sort of thing, contributing an opinion on one of numerous local preoccupations. To Sigley himself, however, solitary and reserved in the extreme, the writing of this letter, let alone its publication, would be a momentous event. Though not on the scale of a human landing on the Moon, in his personal universe it created a similarly astonishing resonance. This was no accident. At a stroke, he had broken the profound silence of his long adult life with this one deliberate and premeditated act. For the first time, and at a relatively advanced age, he was making himself and his thoughts known to others beyond his otherwise hermetic private domain. Through a single uncomplicated Letter to the Editor, Sigley affirmed his own existence to the general public at large.

What subject, from all the exhilarating topics in the world, could have caused this seismic reaction in one usually so far distant from the throbbing centres of quotidian discourse? Of all the gripping issues, lofty and mundane, so frequently ventilated in the letters pages of local papers, what could have stirred this previously quiescent region of JP Sigley’s intellect? What could stimulate action, of all things, in this least active of men?

Look only as far back in history as the preceding week. On 19th October 1982, the Lynn News had published a letter from one Dave Reardon of Tilney All Saints (a Marshland parish to the south west of King’s Lynn), under the heading:

Sociology question

I have heard, not once but several times, that ‘A’ level students at the King’s Lynn College

of Arts and Technology are persuaded, whenever possible, to take courses in Sociology

and, of all things, Political Studies.

I have yet to hear how Sociology is likely to improve anyone’s employment prospects

(although with enough “waffle” it cannot be too difficult to pass) – what I would like

to know is how the nation’s future wellbeing is being furthered by courses on Political

Studies.

So that was it! Nothing more nor less than the allegedly enforced study of Sociology by local college students. Readers of the country’s local newspapers will probably agree that this topic is not commonly numbered among the most considered or discussed. It probably shares this distinction with others even more elevated and arcane, such as quantum physics, how the brain works, pre-Columbian architecture and the topography of the Outer Hebrides.

Mr Reardon’s letter had two notable results. First, the generation of an unusually extensive and lively exchange in the Lynn News letters column, a total of eight letters over three editions, devoted to this single captivating issue. By his action, Mr Reardon exposed himself to an onslaught of some severity directed by correspondents who claimed to know better. Second, and of much greater significance, the emergence of a new voice in those columns as JP Sigley launched the idiosyncratic epistolary career that was to span two decades.

A week later the sociology question had spawned four more letters, published beneath the portmanteau heading Sociology at NORCAT [Norfolk College of Arts and Technology]. The official response was penned by Mr J Byron, head of the faculty where the offending subjects were studied. Wisely avoiding any comments on the value of those subjects in improving one’s employment prospects, he dealt calmly and accurately with the central points Reardon had made. One, that full-time students were not persuaded against their will to take the subjects mentioned as they were free to choose from at least thirty available ‘A’ level subjects. Two, that he may be referring [as indeed he was] to a special one-year course for mature students where English, Sociology and Politics were the three set subjects, selected to best suit adults and their particular life and work experiences. Finally, he invited Reardon to contact him or the relevant teaching staff if he wished to pursue further the points he had raised. Byron’s letter concludes with the most intriguing sentence of all, declaring ‘I am particularly interested to discover the source of his remarks.’

[Footnote: The answer to that enquiry is only incidental to our main purpose. The matter becomes mired, almost inevitably, in gossip and speculation. They thrive both in the corridors and staff work rooms of the college and in the public houses, coffee shops and front rooms of this medium-sized East Anglian country town. It was easy enough to establish that Reardon himself was not a student at the college. Nor was he the parent of one. The most moderately plausible theory among several, lacking somewhat in hard supporting evidence (though those who knew certainly knew that they knew), was that he was the boyfriend of a mature student who was following the special one-year course mentioned in Byron’s letter. Anyone joining that course should know precisely, from the very start, which subjects they would be studying. It is suggested that, for her own reasons (including, possibly, a spat with one of her tutors), she had declined to complain directly about her course, preferring to make it an issue of public interest through a third party.  The truth of these possibilities has not been publicly tested. Byron’s invitation to further discussions was not taken up, and no letter over Reardon’s name appeared again in the subsequent related correspondence.]

The second letter in that edition came from Andy Powell, a college student studying the very subjects in question. His vigorous defence of them concluded with an undisguised assault on Mr Reardon’s ‘misguided views based upon hearing an accusation “several times”.’ He answered head-on Reardon’s query as to their value, saying ‘Well, I shall tell him!’ And he did, including a detailed summary of the demanding concepts involved in sitting ‘A’ level examinations in Sociology. Like Byron before him, he issued an invitation, this time for Mr Reardon to enrol himself for a college course in the two subjects. ‘Then, and only then’ would he be qualified to write to the press about them.

Simon Tait of Fakenham, another student of these problematic subjects, made the third contribution to this growing discussion. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Powell, confirming that he had been neither compelled nor persuaded to study them. He felt that Reardon had missed the whole point of advanced studies in anything. Certainly one acquired knowledge but also, in the process, became empowered ‘to demonstrate an ability to think at a certain level’ through grappling with the analysis of complex abstractions. His invitation was for Reardon to inspect recent examination papers to see how far he would get with mere “waffle” – and, in future, to avoid making allegations based on hearsay.

At last, it was the turn of JP Sigley. No amount of later questioning has ever evinced the slightest clue to his motivation, or to any essential nuance in the debate that might have triggered his participation. Here is the full text of his letter:

Dave Reardon has raised a timely and serious issue in drawing our attention to some

of the courses of study which students are persuaded to follow at the Norcat and, let

it be added, at some of the High Schools in the town.

I  am somewhat puzzled as to how anyone’s employment prospects are improved,

or how the nation’s future well-being is being furthered by courses involving the

reading of the poetry of John Donne, the plays of Shakespeare or Moliere, the novels

of Thomas Hardy or Andre Gide, or the appreciation of paintings by JWM Turner,

Pablo Picasso or Pieter van Eyck. I think we should be told!

The letter is signed J.P.SIGLEY, ‘The Burrow’, Hardwick Road, King’s Lynn. In time, as his infrequent contributions to the letters column became an established part of their lives, Sigley’s enthusiastic readers came to see that address as something akin to a welcome lighthouse beam projected across the stormy sea of their lives. In contrast with the youthfully enthusiastic and even unforgiving responses of Powell and Tait, Sigley takes Mr Reardon’s side. And he goes further, adding his own doubts as to the value of literature and art history in enhancing employment prospects or national prosperity. Thus we might see the whole discussion as brought full circle and concluded, enriched by this frank exchange of well-articulated and impeccably expressed points of view.

Far from it. Indeed, the three related letters published in the following week broadened the issue well beyond the earlier limits of two specific ‘A’ level subjects. The Lynn News appropriately provided them with the grand over-arching title: Purpose of further education. Now Sigley himself had become the object of attention. One writer attacked his position, while the other two applauded or at least agreed with him. M.A. Evens (Mrs), of Tennyson Road, did not ‘want to appear rude to Mr Sigley, but his letter seems to be written in an emotional, uninformed way.’ She wondered what his qualifications and background might be, implying that his comments suggested that he had probably not been educated to ‘A’ level standard himself. She went on to confirm the importance of the broader intellectual training provided by this level of education, saying that ‘Education for work alone is not education but trade-training.’ Her son, despite his own ‘A’ levels, was presently unemployed, but neither she nor he regretted the time spent in achieving them.

Sigley’s warmest support came from J.C.Turner of Heacham who suggested ‘additions to the list of great writers and painters the study of whose works is unlikely to lead to employment.’ His literary selections included the Holy Bible, The Canterbury Tales, Milton’s Areopagitica and Mill’s Essay on Liberty. Among ‘illustrious painters’ he offered Leonardo, Rembrandt and Constable, with William Blake appearing on both lists. Modestly, he confessed that ‘Obviously these lists are far too short, but a useful start has been made.’ He trusted Sigley to make a reliable final choice of writers and painters and ‘The credit is all his for this sparkling idea.’ In his view, the list would be ‘of the greatest use to students and others looking for employment making it possible for them to avoid reading uselessly.’ Further, it would assist employers when faced with two applicants of equivalent qualifications and experience competing for one vacancy. The one who had read Jane Austen and Trollope could be readily filtered out in favour of the other who had ‘read nothing more damaging than Old Moore’s Almanac or Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.’

Could anything still remain to be said on this vexing matter? Indeed there could, and Angela Tring (Miss) of Mount Street was primed to say it, shooting straight from the hip. Daringly, she agreed with both Reardon and Sigley, declaring that ‘There’s too much of this teaching of sociology, literature, history, art and the like in our schools.’ Having left school at fourteen - ‘and it did me no harm’ - she had been brought up on the three Rs. ‘What’s more you learned a fourth R (Respect) and we’d be knocked into the middle of next week if we didn’t show it. All these fancy book subjects only leads (sic) to nervous breakdowns. I know – I’ve seen it happen. It’s no use these so-called students trying to tell us different.’

[Footnote: Miss Tring’s address was given as 73, Mount Street, King’s Lynn. A cursory glance up this cul-de-sac from its junction with Park Avenue shows that it contains probably fewer than twenty houses. Number 73 could not exist here, suggesting that something in the letters column may not be quite as it appears.]

And still the wretched subject would not lie down. The next week brought what proved (mercifully) to be the final letter in the whole saga, from one Wally E. Pond of Tennyson Avenue. Beneath the dramatic heading Country of the uninformed he moved on from the previous points made by Miss Tring, and by Messrs Reardon and Sigley, to blame Britain’s regrettable loss of traditional values on ‘an uninformed populace.’ He castigated Miss Tring’s reference to nervous breakdowns as ‘quite absurd’, recommending the study of sociology as a reasonable substitute for that of psychology, which the town’s temples of higher learning did not then provide.

Mr Pond’s letter refers twice to the earlier contribution by the student, Andy Powell. Close followers of this correspondence from its inception may have observed that the names ‘Andy Powell’ and ‘Wally E. Pond’ are mutual anagrams. This may be an innocent coincidence. The more disquieting view is that Powell may be masquerading as the fictional Pond, or Pond as the fictional Powell. Even, perhaps, each is the invention of an entirely separate, and mischievous, third party.

At least, and at last, the exchange had run its course. JP Sigley had entered the public arena, and observed its workings. He withdrew for a while to his habitual position of social invisibility. Whatever he may have thought about the directions eventually taken by this thorny issue, he did confess, much later, to being surprised that it ran for as long as it did. A man of firm views and few words, unused to the agitated melting pot of public discussion, he had rather expected his own letter to be the last word. Having clearly stated his position, he did not anticipate being subject to anyone else’s agreement or disapproval.

Interestingly, in all his subsequent interventions, few topics were ever to generate such a vigorous or far-reaching set of contributions. However, this first experience did confirm him in one strict principle for the future. Regardless of the force or dynamism of any response to one of his letters, even the ferocity of any personal attack, he would never engage in dialogue with other writers to the letters column. As it transpired, there were few opportunities to enforce his principle, as the huge majority of his contributions failed to elicit any replies at all. □

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TWO: MARKING TIME

Sigley went quiet now.  The effort of writing one letter and reading seven more on the same topic in the same month may have overtaxed his intellectual resources. As I was to discover (continues his secretarial aide), his resources of patience were limited. Had the mystery of one or two correspondents’ identities perplexed him? If he noticed this issue at all, he certainly never referred to it. Nothing in his reported behaviour during the winter of 1982-83 hinted that he was about to embark on a letter-writing career spanning two decades. At this time, it had probably not even occurred to him.  Once he eventually found his voice and got into his stride, Sigley’s output never exceeded three letters per year. Any more than this, he felt, might attract unwelcome attention. During the couple of years following his debut, his role in local opinion forming was slight and erratic, amounting to no more than a single annual event. The year 1983 itself was to prove completely fallow.

Details of his daily life were always sparse, and never more so than during the early Eighties. I had not made his acquaintance during the Sociology flurry, and had no doubt dismissed him from my mind. In fact, we did not meet for the first time until 1986. A person I knew slightly, who lived near Sigley just off the Hardwick Road, approached me one day to see if I could provide an unusual form of help. An elderly gentleman who lived nearby had told her he was finding handwriting increasingly difficult and painful with the sharp onset of arthritis in his hands and fingers. Feeling that he might need to write important letters to the local press from time to time, he wondered if she knew of anyone who would make a fair copy of his correspondence for him once he had composed it. He rejected the suggestion of using a typewriter, not on arthritic grounds, but because he despised and condemned almost every manifestation of modern life. His only real concessions to twentieth century inventions were his ancient bicycle and the radio, predictably referred to as ‘the wireless’.

This lady wondered whether I, or anyone I knew, might be prepared to undertake this small task. She was sure it would be a very light duty, only rarely called upon, and involving no other commitment whatsoever. ‘Who is this person?’ I asked. ‘Well, I don’t actually know his name,’ she replied. ‘He’s a very solitary man and he seems to lead an extremely quiet life. He cycles into town two or three times a week, mainly shopping for food, I should think. Our paths just cross now and again when I happen to be walking past his house as he comes out or when he’s returning from town. I’ve never had a real conversation with him.’

I tucked this away in the back of my mind and largely forgot about it. Clearly it wasn’t particularly urgent. It had been a fairly casual enquiry and no arrangements had been made. I would probably mention it again the next time we met. But before anything like that, Sigley had written another letter, published in the Lynn News of 5th June 1984:

Unwarranted

As a lifelong admirer of the Royal family, I was saddened and dismayed to read on your

front page that the Norwich Brewery had been granted a royal warrant for supplying beers

to Sandringham Estate. To put the matter more simply: the Monarch drinks Watneys

– official!

We see the Queen as the supporter and protectress of our most hallowed traditions –

the Church, the law, the armed forces and the aristocracy. As important as these national

bastions is traditional English beer, whose origins predate both a national army and a

codified legal system.

It is tragic that Royal recognition should be given to the one company which, above all

others, did so much to wilfully and systematically destroy that particular part of our

heritage with its rebarbative products from the early 1960s onwards.

There were no responses, from readers real or fictional. One might perhaps have expected the local Real Ale people to write in support, but the matter was left to rest. As I discovered, this was how Sigley preferred it. Some time after, followers of his correspondence, reflecting on his varied and eclectic preoccupations, expressed surprise that he should have bothered himself with this topic. He was not known as a beer drinker, nor to have any particular interest at all in wines, spirits or even pubs. This was to miss the point, as he revealed during one of our later conversations. He had read enough about it to know that Watneys had indeed done incalculable harm to the reputation of fine English beer. The core of his complaint was not about beer itself, rather the damage done to age-old English traditions which he and many others valued so highly. To associate the Monarch with such inferior products was tantamount to demolishing the Tower of London to make way for a supermarket.

It is clear from this that Sigley’s central concern was not for himself, but for the general good. Close scrutiny of his later letters shows this to be a consistent approach. When something troubled him, he recognised that it might also trouble other people, and that was the primary reason for writing most of his letters. Despite his very limited contacts with members of the public at large, he wrote on their behalf as much as on his own. The Watneys letter made clear and useful contributions to our very limited knowledge of the man. It showed us his considerable respect for the monarchy, and for our long-standing national traditions in general.

So Sigley’s name had come to my notice again, a reminder that nothing had been done about finding clerical assistance for him. I had no idea whether he managed to write that letter himself or with some help. Either way, I should try and contact the person who had first raised it with me. Once again, time passed without the question being moved forward. I only encountered her very occasionally, and did not know with any certainty precisely where she lived. Now winter was already upon us, and the likelihood of meeting the lady considerably reduced. At this season, local inhabitants kept themselves warm indoors as the notorious easterly winds blew uninterrupted across the North Sea straight from the Russian steppes.

As the year’s end came closer, Sigley did it again. The archive cutting has no date (carelessness on my part), but he wrote the letter during the three weeks or so before Christmas 1984, the period now called ‘The Run-Up’. The Lynn News printed this short letter entirely in bold type:

Act of kindness

As the season of goodwill approaches, I would like to thank a recent benefactor through

your columns and, in so doing, perhaps restore the faith of your readers in the virtue of

charity in this troubled world.

While I was cycling along Tennyson Avenue the other day, a Pyrenean mountain dog

bounded into the road and collided with my bicycle, throwing me to the ground. Seeing

my plight, a local householder, Mr Edwin Tonkyn, rushed to my aid, and brought me

into his house to attend to the abrasions I had received. Fortunately, the damage to

myself was relatively slight, but this does not diminish the value of a spontaneous and

selfless act of kindness, which should be an example to us all.

Here was JP Sigley, minimising his own hurts but generous in his gratitude for the help he received. No irrational attack on the owners of the dog, no demand that such an uncontrolled menace should be put down, or that people should not be allowed to own them, let alone permit them to roam the streets unattended. (Years later, a single attack by a pit bull terrier was to cause the Conservative minister Kenneth Baker to rush a Bill through Parliament against all and any Dangerous Dogs. It would be instructive to discover how many prosecutions have been made under that hurried piece of legislation.)  In the process, Sigley’s letter transmitted a heart-warming message to its readers that spontaneous acts of kindness were still possible in their world, and that neighbour was always ready to help neighbour, even though a complete stranger. In a few simple sentences, he had enriched the time-honoured benevolence of the festive season.

This letter, given both tone and content, pushed me into action on his behalf. As it happened, I ran into his near neighbour along London Road just after New Year. She had received no further enquiry from Sigley himself, but felt sure he would welcome a talk with me about his writing. She would knock on his door, for the first time ever, pose the question and let me know the result. We exchanged telephone numbers and I sat back again, waiting for the call.

This turned out to be another fallow year. Sigley had not been well during the early months of 1985. In such circumstances he preferred to be left completely alone, apart from the essential health visits from his local GP practice. My acquaintance was certain he was being well attended, and that someone he knew was bringing in his food and newspapers, and preparing his meals. His condition was not life-threatening but, at his age and in his solitary situation, it demanded controlled treatment and careful observation. He would certainly like to see me when he felt better, and asked her to remain in touch by making the occasional enquiry at his front door, or during their random encounters on the street. The Sigley project might be just beginning to move, but it wasn’t moving far, and certainly not fast.

It surfaced next outside the Egg Shop in Norfolk Street many months later, showing me again the unnoticed speed of passing time. ‘Oh, I’ve seen your old boy again,’ said my acquaintance. ‘And his name is Mr Sigley. He’s fully back to good health now, but the arthritis is still a nuisance. I told him I thought you might still want to help. He seemed pleased to hear this, and thought it might be best if you called to see him any Thursday afternoon, some time after three o’clock. Shall I tell him you’ll be doing that?’ I agreed, and she gave me directions to his house, information that, following a later undertaking given to Sigley, I was never to divulge to a soul.

Hardwick Road, on the southern edge of King’s Lynn, leads away from the South Gates, a castellated Tudor structure, to the great Hardwick Roundabout - and now flyover. Here the A10, arriving from Cambridge and Ely, meets the A47 on its way east or west and the bypass that takes the caravans up to the coastal villages of west and north Norfolk. The dead far outnumber the living along Hardwick Road, which has relatively few houses but a large cemetery. The hump-backed bridge over the railway line passes through the fringes of a large commercial and industrial estate before reaching the roundabout. Completely undistinguished in appearance, the house called ‘The Burrow’ is not readily detectable from the road, conforming exactly to Sigley’s desire for complete privacy. Without my very clear directions, I doubt if I would ever have found it. Approaching the solid wooden front door, I was put slightly in mind, though without any of the attendant Gothic horrors, of Jonathan Harker’s feelings at the great entrance to Castle Dracula.

The biggest surprise, when he opened the door, was that I recognised him. In an instant, my mind flashed back to the Christmas letter about falling off his bicycle in Tennyson Avenue. Now I realised who he was. A number of people had mentioned an elderly and slightly eccentric-looking character on a bike of ancient design, often seen in the town centre and in what I appreciated now were other relevant locations. This figure cycled so slowly that he could only just remain upright and mobile. I’d often seen him myself. Whenever sighted, he was wearing an old black suit and pullover, with grey woollen gloves and cycle clips and, in cold or windy conditions, a tightly fitting brown leather peaked hat with earflaps, like a First World War pilot’s helmet. His plastic bags of shopping were contained in a battered basket on the front, and under the clip of a metal carrier over the rear wheel. In wintry weather he wore an old fawn raincoat over the suit, with a thick woollen scarf. No one knew who he was, or had ever been close enough to hear him speak. It had been rumoured that he came from Poland, or elsewhere in Eastern Europe.

So this is JP Sigley, the mystery cyclist. He invites me in, no handshakes or other conventional niceties, and we squeeze past the famous bicycle standing against the wall in the hall. His living room has an unlit coal fire in the cast-iron grate, with a gas poker stuck into it. The curtains are only half drawn back, giving the room a gloomy aspect on this already dull day. I suspect, and it’s confirmed later, that he never opens his curtains much further than this. His furniture and carpet look uniformly old or second-hand, probably both, but everything is orderly and clean. One corner of the room harbours an antiquated bureau, the front flap down and littered with myriad jumbled pieces of paper. Some clearly carry long sentences, written, amended and re-written, others half sentences, and others no more than single words, some crossed out, some converted into capitals. A few paper scraps are even torn in half. Here is the creative crucible of Sigley’s writing, the place where flittering ideas are dragged out of his mind, meet the paper and become concrete. In this room and on that very spot those letters about sociology, our national beer tradition and Edwin Tonkyn’s seasonal first aid were conceived.

Back copies of the Lynn News and other newspapers and magazines stand in tall faded piles along one wall, tottering towards the ceiling. The phrase ‘serious fire risk’ need hardly be mentioned, and certainly not to my host. I discover later that, on the mention of a local event, possibly many years previously, Sigley can go straight to the correct pile and quickly extract the issue where it was reported. The other available walls accommodate shelves and bookcases filled with old hardback volumes with pale discoloured spines and indistinct titles, positioned in no apparent order. In all this eclectic library, there are only three or four paperback books that look remotely modern. The several framed pictures hanging on the remaining wall space contain such uniformly restrained colours that their decorative effect is barely noticeable. On one of the bookcases stands his old Roberts radio, once a highly respected native brand before the mid-century electrical invasion from Japan.

The relatively little known of Sigley was gleaned not on this occasion, but from future meetings with him and, of course, from the letters themselves. He brought out the relevant Lynn News issues to show me, displaying with no particular pride the letters with which I was already familiar.  He spoke as though I may never have seen them before, almost as though no one would have seen them before, and explained his reasons for writing them. He hardly ever looked at me while speaking but kept his eyes down on the letters themselves, talking through them as though talking to himself. Indeed, I eventually realised, this was precisely what he was doing. He knew I was there, but, so habituated was he to a solitary daily life – living so much on his own as he did, he would have been constantly talking to himself, and receiving replies from the same source - that the presence of another real listener hardly needed acknowledgement. He offered little or no additional commentary to the letters, except to say, in the case of the very first one, that there may have been a slight attempt at ironic humour in his approach to the sociology topic. I was more than inclined to agree with him, but decided to say nothing until I had come to know him better.

The review of his first letters over, he simply explained his physical predicament and asked for my help, which I willingly agreed to provide whenever he should feel another letter coming on. Reflecting on the few local issues that had stirred him during the past couple of years, he would only bother me two or three times a year. He hoped I could respond promptly in cases where topicality was of the essence, as public memory was short and its attention fickle. Topics could go quickly out of date, he said, rapidly becoming of little interest to the editor, no matter how clearly expressed or superbly written the letter. I appreciated this point, having suffered from the very problem myself, and agreed to do everything I could to meet any short notice demands.

As no new letter was imminent at present, he thanked me and we exchanged brief farewells. Moments later, after another squeeze past the old bike, I found myself out on Hardwick Road again, almost wondering whether I had just returned to the everyday world through the CS Lewis wardrobe. Walking down the short front path to the gate, I turned to see, as I’d imagined, that the door of ‘The Burrow’ was once more securely closed against me and against the entire world. I had no idea when, or whether, it would ever open to me again.  □

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THREE: CONSTRUCTING JP SIGLEY

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Swan gets in a right flap . . . is one of the Lynn News front-page headlines on 24th October 1986. It’s the kind of hybrid human interest and animal story beloved of local papers, which can also occupy the final slot on television newscasts. Apparently a young swan, having probably hit an overhead cable during its flight, had crashed through the glass roof of Mr Tony Mitchell’s conservatory. Mr Mitchell (age given as 53) found it when preparing to take his dog Smokey out for an evening walk. RSPCA Inspector Douglas Davidson collected the bird and delivered it to Jean and Kip Kirby’s swan sanctuary.

One week later JP Sigley was, at last, in print again. Following his total silence of more than eighteen months, this example demonstrates the complete unpredictability of both the subject that might get him going, and the treatment he might give it. The topic and his approach to it bear little resemblance to anything that had previously attracted his attention; nor, as will become evident, to anything he would deal with in future. His brisk letter wastes no words, appearing on 31st October 1986 under the heading:

Flap about ages

In last Friday’s front-page story “Swan gets in a right flap” you reveal that Mr Tony

Mitchell is 53 years old. I find it hard to see how the knowledge of his age adds to our understanding or appreciation of the story. Surely the interest would be much the same

whether he were aged 31 or 68.

On the other hand, if age is considered to be a factor in this story, it is clearly desirable

that we be told the ages of the RSPCA Inspector Douglas Davidson and Jean and Kip

Kirby – not to mention the age of Mr Mitchell’s dog Smokey, and of the swan itself!

In just over a hundred words, Sigley has assembled enough characters to make a substantial short story: four named humans, a dog and a young swan. He is quite unconcerned over Mr Mitchell’s conservatory full of broken glass or the eventual fate of the unfortunate swan. The force of his scintillating focus is directed to a single aspect of the reporting style itself, the mention of an individual’s age. Despite Sigley’s diligent and regular reading of the local press for years, he seems unaware (or ignores the fact) that it is one of the standard newspaper conventions, especially true of local papers, to obtain the name, address and age of any person offering them a story or providing a statement about one. Or is he really as unaware as he would have us think? Perhaps this is another case of Sigleyesque irony. After all, he might just as well have complained that only one person’s address had been given in the report. There may be those who wonder why he bothered.

Nevertheless, the letter adds one more, admittedly indistinct, piece to the Sigley jigsaw that is tentatively beginning to assemble itself. We know from the start that it can never become anywhere near complete, for far too many pieces are already missing. But this only adds to the intriguing nature of the enterprise, as we wait to see the quality of the next piece and what it might reveal of the man and his mind.

This time we did not have to wait too long. Sigley intervened only very rarely indeed in the field of contemporary politics, finding that the deliberations of our legislators tended to produce considerable pointless heat but very little light. However, as the constituency campaigns were creaking into action for the 1987 General Election, his attention was unexpectedly attracted to a long letter from Mr Ben Mullarkey of Dersingham, published on 13th March, touching matters still topical and unresolved thirty years later.

The local Tory candidate Henry Bellingham, sitting Member for Northwest Norfolk, had lately suggested that all constituencies should hold a referendum on capital punishment, or ‘hanging’, as he called it, for certain categories of murder. Mr Mullarkey argued vigorously against holding a referendum for any purpose and in favour of the present role of MPs as people’s representatives, elected to Westminster to contribute on their behalf to the decisions made there. He then added, with some force, that ‘we are stuck with an historic system in many ways undemocratic, not the least of which is the grotesquely unrepresentative nature of the House of Commons.’ If Mr Bellingham were so keen on the referendum as a policy-making instrument, perhaps he would consider holding one on the subject of proportional representation.

Lacking any reliable indication of Sigley’s political leanings, what position might he take in this complex discussion? Even more important, which particular aspect of it would he choose to deal with, or would he perhaps, as he had done before, sidestep the central issues completely and comment on something entirely marginal? No doubt to Mr Mullarkey’s disappointment, Mr Bellingham did not reply, but the following week’s Lynn News of 20th March contained this from Sigley, headed:

Turning back electoral clock

I applaud Ben Mullarkey’s complaint about the unfairness of our system of parliamentary representation. However, it seems to me that he is facing in the wrong direction.

Without question, what we most need is a return to the Great Reform of 1832, for it is

by limiting the franchise only to those with a direct interest in the power and wealth of

the nation that we shall elect sensible governments. The vast majority of voters wake up

only at election time and vote according to tradition or simple prejudice, or both.

On the other hand, those who own and manage the country’s wealth are trained and skilled

in making the sound decisions we need in government, and should have more votes, or a

more weighted vote, than the ordinary house owner. The reinstatement of the University

seats would also help to add to the stock of right-minded men in Parliament.

Don’t tinker with the existing system, Mr Mullarkey. Learn from the past, reduce the

franchise dramatically, and do the job properly.

No one could have predicted that. JP Sigley, respecter of our most honoured traditions, would make a profoundly radical proposal which Queen Victoria herself would have heartily approved. The boundaries of democracy would be rolled back 150 years, handing power back to the wealthy where it truly belonged, leaving the rest of us to sleep through our national politics for the rest of time. Given the direct and potentially inflammatory nature of his contribution, could Sigley possibly have said the last word on this most fundamental subject?

Certainly not, though the next letter in this series, appearing on 27th March, itself took a rather unexpected direction. Under the heading 'Using history to face the challenge', Pat Dimmock (Miss) of Snettisham, said she had moved from London to Norfolk only ten years previously. She found in Sigley’s attitude ‘the very nature of the Norfolk character – the ability to face the challenge of today by reference to our past heritage’. She praised Norfolk for being a part of the country which celebrated both the entrepreneurial spirit (embodied in businessmen such as Bernard Matthews) and pride in our traditions and culture (citing Castle Rising and Sandringham). She did have to regret Sigley’s suggestion concerning University seats, deploring the behaviour of so many of the students she encountered. Even so, Miss Dimmock concluded: ‘Mr Sigley is correct. The future does indeed lie in the past and one can only hope that when our young are old enough they too will understand and act accordingly. I do believe the future of Norfolk is secure.’

Such unforeseen warmth and support for the majority of Sigley’s startling position did not go unchallenged.  The final letter, Lynn News 3rd April 1987, was headed 'History is only a guide'. Mr AJ Lane of Crimplesham rather ignored Sigley, directing his attack mainly towards Miss Dimmock. He first deplored the great influx of people moving to Norfolk from London, ‘leaving speakers of the Norfolk accent a shrinking and despised remnant!’ He dismissed any return to the 1832 arrangements, going on to assure Miss Dimmock that, from his own experience at University, most students were not as dangerous as she appeared to believe. Mr Lane concluded that we are all entitled to vote in a democracy, and that ‘unrealistic views of the past’ are not ‘a useful guide for present policy.’

In the subsequent General Election, the Conservatives won with 42.2% of the vote against Labour’s 30.8%, and Mr Bellingham was re-elected for Northwest Norfolk. . How far that result had been affected by this exchange of letters has not been calculated. [Ten years later Bellingham was unseated for one Parliamentary term in the New Labour landslide of 1997.]

Sigley’s main observation on it was to query the impression in Miss Dimmock’s letter that he might be a Norfolk person, born and bred. His family had certainly lived in different parts of East Anglia for very many generations, most recently in West Norfolk. Originally of Huguenot stock, they had fled from France with many fellow Protestants during the 17th century to escape continuing severe religious persecution.  Thousands had been slain during the previous century during the Wars of Religion, and the Edict of Nantes in 1598 had not prevented similar savagery from erupting periodically thereafter. By the 1690s, France had lost over 400,000 of its Protestant inhabitants who moved to England, Prussia, the Netherlands and America where they became valued members of commercial and industrial communities. Among them in eastern England were Sigley’s own forbears under their original French surname de Siglieux. Given his considerable respect for traditions rooted long and deep, while he did not consider himself to be particularly French, neither did he permit himself an exclusively Norfolk identity. He was perhaps content to stand back from the question, knowing full well that his genealogical history contained something of the exotic. Above all, as we shall see, his family background was strictly his business.

Only two months later, Sigley was in full flow again, this time initiating a new issue of his own. He seemed to have been caught up in the spirit of the pre-election excitements, though he would never have admitted any such thing. Being both a bicycle user and a serious critic of virtually every modern trend, road traffic was always one of his bugbears. Hence the following letter in the Lynn News of 5th June 1987:

Put road tax on caravans

I read in your paper that a local rally attracted some 3,000 caravans to the area during

the Spring Bank Holiday. It seemed to me that the arrival of these wretched vehicles

along the southern by-pass on the Friday resembled an invasion, or even a plague. They

certainly caused immense annoyance to local people going about their ordinary business.

As we are in the throes of an election campaign, I am prepared to give my vote only to

that Party which will guarantee legislation in the next Parliament aimed at levying a

substantial road tax on caravans and at restricting their movement on the nation’s roads

to the hours between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m.

While on the subject of electioneering, I intend to take action against local Party agents

on the grounds of invasion of privacy if I should receive any more of their unsolicited

pamphlets through my letter box.

The responses to this one were stern. The Lynn News of 12th June printed two local letters. Mr DJJ Fosdike of Hilgay, a village on the A10 south of the town, declared that any wheeled vehicle was ‘entitled to use the highway whenever desired.’ He added that caravan users already paid more tax than others through their increased use of fuel, and that an additional tax on them might encourage even more use as their owners sought to get their money’s worth.

A more extensive treatment came from AJ Hunter of Grimston who firmly echoed Mr Fosdike’s point about increased fuel consumption. He asserts that, in 18 years of towing a caravan, ‘I don’t think I have ever caused a hold-up when towing as I use the Caravan Code which is, if you have a tail-back behind you pull onto a lay-by and let them pass.’ In an aside, he mentions that he has experienced tail-backs himself having ‘caught up with grandma and grandpa out for a spin in the Morris Minor.’ Restricting caravans to the hours of darkness only would present refuelling problems except for motorway driving. Caravans allow retired people to enjoy their later years by travelling the country, and provide accommodation for those with young families who may be unable to afford hotel accommodation. Mr Hunter concludes that Sigley’s suggestion is unlikely to endear him to the local people who thrive on the business opportunities generated by holidaymakers, and that his home address of Hardwick Road is, in any case, well out of the way of the nuisance he objects to. He recommends the old motto ‘live and let live’.

The final letter in this discussion appeared on 16th June under the heading 'Attack unwarranted', from Edward Marriott of the Caravan Club itself in East Grinstead. He fired hard and fast from both hips. Sigley’s attack, he stated, was ‘typical of an attitude that has put the UK way behind its continental rivals in the leisure and holiday field’. The terminology used in his letter was ‘a gross insult’ to hard working holidaymakers, and perhaps he viewed cyclists and any car borne trippers in the same light. Caravanners were ‘not some inferior breed of subhuman prepared to tolerate offensive and ill-informed criticism’. Any additional tax on caravans would cost government more to collect than the income it would receive. Finally caravan users ‘provide a vital boost to our own tourism industry. What on earth is wrong with that?’

This particular crusade was entirely in keeping with Sigley’s sensitivity to issues that might affect people apart from himself. He would never have been found cycling up the southern by-pass, nor, heaven forfend, negotiating the Hardwick Roundabout on his bike. He knew as well as Mr Hunter that he was not personally touched by the traffic jams caused by the caravans he had seen. But he saw, in all its awfulness on that Friday evening, something that would frustrate and anger many local people caught in the traffic jams who might not be prepared or even able to express their intense annoyance in print. He provided that service for them, and all he received in return was, in his view, a battering from representatives of the vested interest concerned. On this occasion, Sigley’s words attracted more fury than most of his ventures into print and, on reflection, created more anger in himself over what he saw as the limited and small-minded vision of those who replied. Even so, nothing would tempt him to re-engage with his critics on the subject.

Thus the year 1987, a remarkably fruitful period for Sigley, moved towards its close. During the autumn, the Lynn News reported that both a lorry and a double-decker bus had caused damage to the historic South Gates monument. Masonry had become loose and the police had closed London Road to traffic, causing ‘massive traffic build-ups throughout the town while scaffolding was erected to secure the arch’.  Sigley’s final throw of the year offered a startling proposal for the future, appearing on 23rd October with the heading:

Pleasing effect

The recent further damage to the South Gates means that a radical solution is now

required to protect our valuable heritage without impeding the town’s traffic flow.

Only half a mile away, the tasteful architecture of the new Tesco Superstore is rapidly

nearing completion. Instead of risking more damage, I suggest that the South Gates

building be moved to form a majestic roadside entrance to the Tesco site.

This would improve London Road traffic movement considerably. At the same time,

we would achieve a most pleasing combination of ancient and modern in a partnership

between functional and aesthetic considerations.

There were no subsequent comments on this visionary notion, and Sigley took the resulting silence as assent. Coming to know the man a little more closely during the year, I sensed the hint of a tongue in the Sigleyan cheek, for I was thoroughly aware of his lack of enthusiasm, to put it mildly, for the developing tendency towards vast modern supermarkets in every town. In fact, he was not beyond interpreting the erection of one so relatively close to his home as a directly personal attack. For all that, moving this valued historical monument out of harm’s way had a good deal to commend it.

November and December came on, moving us ever further into the East Anglian winter, and Sigley took up the usual seasonal position adopted by most living things in the region. Curtains were tightly drawn, draught excluders hammered into place, supplies of wood and coal assembled for the daily fire (on principle, never lit before 4.45 pm whatever the temperature), and heavy coats and rugs positioned at convenient locations around the house. Sigley now made outside excursions only once a week for his food supplies, reading both weekly editions of the Lynn News at a single sitting in the generously warm public library.  □

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