I’m
writing Mikey’s story because I don’t know if he
will ever be able to tell it for himself.
Mikey
is about four years older than me, and we grew up in one of
those story book situations, mother a teacher, father an accountant,
neat house, well disciplined garden, with a thick hedge and
secure gate, in a well ordered street of houses which all looked
exactly the same, on the edge of London. “Close, but not
too close”, my mother always said whenever we met new
people on our annual holidays.
We
went to Llandudno, to the same guest house, on the same week
every year. I think it was there that my father became an accountant
instead of a clerk in a firm of accountants, but I suppose he
quite liked it too, because he certainly never corrected her
and so he became that to all the neighbours and family as well.
The only trouble was that it meant we had to live up to the
standards expected of a qualified professional which caused
all kinds of problems, especially when Mum somehow never got
back into work herself. But as two small boys we knew nothing
of this.
Mikey
was the centre of my world from the day I was brought home from
the maternity hospital. Some of my earliest memories are of
his bright smiling face, the funny noises he used to make to
make me chuckle and the endless patience he had for playing
with me. It must have been a trauma for him to have me move
in and take over his favoured place.
Somewhere
I read that for a first child the arrival of a sibling is like
a husband bringing home a new wife and telling the first one
she now has to share everything, including his affection. No
preparation, no explanation. Just a tired out mother, a squalling,
red faced, smelly, screwed up bundle and all the relatives cooing
and making silly noises and ignoring Mikey standing tearful
and alone on the stairs.
He
told me about this years after and how he thought he must have
done something terribly wrong to cause Mum and Dad to want to
get a replacement. He had had no idea that I was on the way.
Even when Mum went off to hospital nobody explained where she
had gone.
At first when I came home he thought he would hate me and be
so good that they would want to send me back. Then he poked
at me through the bars of the cot one day and he says I gripped
his finger. He fell in love with me. He says he whispered to
me “Hello, Jon Jon. I’m your big brother”.
“His
name is Jonathan”, snapped Mum, who had come in to the
room behind him. “Off you go out of here and leave him
alone”. She pushed Mikey and he banged his head on the
door as he staggered out. He started to cry, but by that time
she had lifted me out of the cot and was smiling with all the
pride and joy once reserved for Mikey.
Now
all he got was Grandma, pulling him into the sitting room and
telling him, “Big boys don’t cry”, and to
find something quiet to do, so as not to disturb the baby. Mikey
still felt he had done something terrible but nobody seemed
to have time to listen. He wanted it all to be right again,
but who could he ask and what could he do? He tried being very
good and very affectionate, but some of his attempts to help
ended in near disaster.
Boiling
water spilled on his arm when he thought he would make Mum some
tea, china smashed when he tried to clear the table and worst
of all he said nearly dropped me when he tried to get me out
of the cot one day to stop me crying when Mum had fallen asleep.
She woke up just in time and snatched me away. She slapped him
so hard that he fell and cut his eyebrow on the coffee table,
so then she had to rush off to the doctors with both of us.
Now
he had a fading bruise on his face, a scalded arm and a cut
eyebrow, but nobody seemed to question it. Mikey said when we
got back home he was locked in his room with no tea and nothing
to do and told never, ever to touch me again - or else. “Or
else” was a phrase that was to become very important to
both of us over the next ten years.
Read the next In Care column in the December issue, “Or
else”….
