annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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After

1. I'm going to try to write every day again. Whether I have anything to say or not, you know how it goes.


2. It's been intense. Of course it has. The funeral was about as good as funerals get - we did it ourselves, without any religious element, just tributes and poems that friends and family wrote and mostly read themselves, music, a poem and that bit from Cymbeline that I posted a few entries back. The chapel was packed, with people having to stand round the edges and it has to be said, there's a comfort in that when you've lost someone dear to you, knowing that their value was seen by others.  This is what I wrote and said, minus the names. I'm including it for the record, to keep it in its place:Our childhood in the 1950s and 60s was a long time ago - all I have left are vague impressions, so here goes.

    Jan 1958, Sis and I sat in a massive steamy bath, someone comes in and tells us we have a new baby brother. The rest of our time in Town is a blur of nappies hanging, dogs chasing buses, and hurry hurry hurry.

   Then Village, a house on the edge of the village, with a garden leading onto fields, the fields where we rambled free, Brother still in nappies: “He needs changing again.” “It’s your turn to take him home.”  “No, you do it!” We climbed giant trees, imaginary pirate ships with a crow’s nest each, according to age. Brother was youngest so his was low down but still he fell out. He fell a lot, out of the tree, off his bike, down the stairs at night, bump bump bumping to the bottom. Scabby knees, “Oh look at his lovely curly hair, those beautiful blue eyes!” Listening to the Beatles, Christmas 1964, sat on the floor round the record player, Brother's’s first record, bought when he was 6 years old, I Feel Fine played over and over, and the B side we preferred, She’s a Woman “People tell me that she’s only fooling, I know she isn’t”

   Later, in Sussex, still clumsy, catching himself in the back with a four pronged fishing hook, putting a gardening fork through his foot, but always there, my little brother, just the other side of Sis, my little sister, a bit out of reach, bumbling along, slowly growing until suddenly he shot up, taller than us all, and we were grown ups, or thought we were, young adults out in the world, part of the same tribe, into music and festivals, pints of beer, whole food, veggie, that kind of thing. Giving me a lift to sign on, on his little motor bike, both barefoot, hatless, long hair blowing free as the bike struggled up the hill by That Park, laughing. Squabbling with Sis in the front of mum’s mini when they’d both learned to drive and both knew best. Lending me his suit to wear to a gig, mending his bike in the back garden.

    

   As we grew into real adults, with bills to pay and children, we became good friends as well as siblings and remained so, apart from a few proper nasty fallings out. When I scrolled back through our emails recently I was stunned to find how vile we could be to each other, but reassured at how we let it go again. We were friends because I liked Brother a lot. He was funny and kind and clever and good company. In those days he could be unbearably pompous from time to time, but on hearing an indignant, “Brother!” from Sis-in-Law, he’d say, “What? Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” and never became a pompous person.

   He gave great presents – when I was skint for all those years he bought me clothes for my birthday, clothes that I would never have chosen, stylish clothes that gave me a different view of the person I could become. He took up painting and made Younger Daughter a lovely picture of Pooh Sticks Bridge. He made cakes and cooked and hung out with us mums when his boys were small.

   When my daughter Sam was diagnosed with MS, Brother trained and ran the London marathon, raising money for the MS Society. His continued visits to Sam, who he unfailingly called Samantha, were a source of comfort and pleasure to her always.

    

   I’m so glad circumstances brought us together on Friday mornings, these last few years, me to the Recovery Centre, on the day Brother worked from home. After art group I’d go round and he’d make us lunch and we’d chat and laugh and share what we’d been up to lately. Art, politics, walking, photography, books, music, family, friends, dancing, films, dogs.… symptoms…  tests… diagnoses…  appointments…  diets… and then silence.   That terrible silence.

   He was always interesting, often funny, always great company. You did good, Brother You were a good man. We love you. Rest in peace, little brother.



3. Then we went to a pub where everyone except me and Son got a bit drunk, then the family went back to Brother's house and carried on until god knows when as I went home at about ten. It was good.  These are my nephews' girlfriends, both called Anna. We bonded. I still can't believe it though. I'm numb about it, cold and dead inside.


4. Meanwhile my manky leg continues to be manky. I've done a week of heavy-duty antibiotics, and some of it has healed a bit but there's still a lot of nasty stuff there. The nurse on Friday told me to make appointments to have the dressing changed twice a week for the next three weeks, "And then we'll see where we are," for fuck's sake. I don't know if it's healing so slowly because I'm old or what.


5. This came in the post today, in a handwritten envelope, posted in Scotland, with a note thanking me for my support. I have no idea what it relates to and no memory of giving my address to anyone. I mean, choose love is pretty cool - I am an old hippy after all, but still...

Night night

11:51 p.m. - 07.04.18

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