HOMAGE TO LOVE
I have a vague first memory of my brother, who I would discover – some 25 years later – actually wasn’t my brother. I am in my high chair, looking up at him. I am probably gleefully kicking my feet. Certainly, I am smiling, wanting him to be as enchanted by me as I am with him. I am one year old.
Over the next 7 or 8 years, more memories are made, memories that to this day are tangible; not only in their visual elements, but in the deep emotional bond of us being in something together – some necessary, fortunate bond that allows us to survive life with our hobbled, distant, punishing parents.
He is putting me on the bus to school and cycling behind it until I get off. Then he wheels his bike beside me as he walks me to the school gate before cycling on to his own school. He is 13. I am 5.
A seat is affixed to the crossbar of his bicycle, my seat, his arms encircling my little body, our hands on the handlebar. He is 12. I am 4.
It’s the summer hols. He has escaped the house and gone on an adventure on his bike. I wait in the garden all day for his return. When he does, he gives me a small paper bag. Inside, gold-edged, white satin ribbons for my long plaits. He is 14. I am 6.
It’s Christmas day. We hide behind the settee eating chocolates. He is 15. I am 7.
Family holiday on the motorbike and side-car. Cornwall. Evening. We walk the cliffs, my brother wears a knotted handkerchief on his head to keep the bats out of his hair. The bells of the village church chime Abide With Me. He is 16. I am 8.
My brother has made a go-cart and while mother is out of the house, he puts me on it and sits behind me, somehow managing to steer. We head to Hillcrest Road, the steepness of which is inherent in its name. Off we go. Halfway down, going at such tremendous speed, my brother abruptly steers left into a gravel lane and I go shooting off the front landing on all fours. It is thrilling…until my gravel embedded palms begin to sting. But my brother, always my hero, takes us into a nearby pub where the owner wields a pair of tweezers. Gravel-free we sneak home before Mum. And mum’s the word. He is 12. I am 4.
Christmas Day. Dad’s refurbished mum’s old bike and my brother teaches me how to ride it. He is 15. I am 7.
My brother wakes me up at dawn to say goodbye. He’s joining the army. I am bereft. He is 16. I am 8.
For the next few years he comes home on leave once in a while, always bringing me gifts: a stringed instrument from Morocco, a sheepskin rug from Cyprus. A shiny new bicycle, a puppy, a manicure set. Now he is 24. He’s still in the army. I am 16 and have run away to London.
I see him one more time, at my farewell party the night before I leave for Canada. He brings his fiancée. He is 27. I am 19.
We are worlds apart.
Over the next 60 years we see each other rarely, and always at my behest. He is still my brother, still my hero, but the connection is broken…until the moments he takes me to the train station where, every time, finally just the two of us, he reaches through the open window, grabbing my hand, begging me to take care of myself.
This past Christmas, his wife of 59 years is hospitalised. Within days she is unconscious and will remain so until she dies in late January. He is at her side every day. He is bereft. I take the train down each week. I hold his hand. Give him tissues. We eat sandwiches in the corridor. He is bereft. And open. Emotionally vulnerable and sharing intimate thoughts, concerns, regrets. I call him every evening. Every evening he tells me he loves me so. He is grateful for all the help and support his 2 children are giving him. He weeps. He says he finds me reassuring. The funeral arrangements take 5 weeks so the week before, Joel and I take the train down and uber him out to his favourite country pub for lunch.
Through all the decades I have told family and friends that if it hadn’t been for my brother the first 8 years of my life, I would never have known love. Now, all these years later, I get to give him love at the end of his life. This man, who is not my flesh and blood has known me longer than anyone. He has always been my brother. Now he is almost 88 and I am almost 80 yet even though he was lost to me for 60 years, the bond remained and we are siblings again.
The last hymn at the funeral is Abide With Me.
