Posts
I'd been out in Brixton that evening celebrating my then girlfriend Tina's 29th birthday and the first I knew something was up was when our friend Natalie (we had a flat full of friends sleeping over for the birthday do) came in to say my dad had left an answerphone message and I better ring him back as it sounded important.
The early hour of the call only further stressed that bad news was afoot but I couldn't even begin to guess just how bad. I took the call in our l-shaped hallway. I can't remember exactly what my dad said or how I replied but I know I sat numb, disbelieving, in that hallway for some time after. Unable to take in the enormity of what I'd just been told.
Steven was the youngest of three brothers. I was born in August 1968, Andrew came along in January 1971, and Steven was born in September 1977. I'd just started in the third year juniors at Tadley County Primary School and had to go and visit my mum and my new brother in Basingstoke hospital. I remember being a bit annoyed at the inconvenience. There was a chart on the wall in our classroom marking our reading progress and I was leading it. I knew this hospital visit would mean missing a lesson and being overtaken and I was right, when I returned to school some of the other kids had taken over at the top of the table. It was probably the last time I ever cared about missing school.
Once I got used to having another new brother it seemed quite a novelty. I came to like it. We gave him the nickname Boppard for reasons that I'm still unsure of but as Steven was more than nine years younger than me I took great pleasure in the fact that I could entertain him, and myself to be honest, during those long evenings when we were both supposed to be in bed, with my cast of fancy dress alter egos, Tougho McGraw, the Mongorongs etc; Basically, said fancy dress consisted of me putting a pillow case or sleeping bag on my head and talking in stupid accents. It entertained a six year old. But probably not as much as his He-Man and the Masters of the Universe toys. Castle Greyskull was very much a prize possession.
As he got older he grew out of these childish things and, like Andrew, got into cars, and, like me, got into music. His Mini was his pride and joy and he'd spend hours customising it. This mostly consisted of putting speakers in so that the music, which mum called his 'boom boom music' could be played louder and louder and louder. At Xmas I'd normally buy him a Ministry of Sound compilation and although we didn't share a lot of common musical ground I used to enjoy listening to them too.
I'd left Tadley for London in 1996 and, desperate to make a new life for myself, hadn't been back to see my family as much as I probably should've. So, for the last three years of Steven's life I didn't really see him all that much. I was growing up, Andrew was growing up (and had become a father himself to my nephew Daniel), and Steven, too, was growing up and spending more and more time with his ever expanding circle of friends. Some of which had been with him on that fateful night.
Back to the next morning and back to the l-shaped hallway of Angela Court. I finally dusted myself down, somehow imparted the news to Tina and my friends, and then Adam and Teresa, who'd also stayed over, gave me, Tina, and Ian (who came along for the ride) a lift back to Tadley. I was numb. I was on autopilot. I remember nothing about that journey except that there was a horrendous tailback near Twickenham due to some rugby match.
The rest of the day's not very clear either. We sat in almost silence, drinking tea, crying, and fielding calls and visits as the news got out to our friends and extended family members. For some reason I can remember that the football scores were on the tv in the background and Ian Wright had scored on his debut for Celtic that day. Of course, I could be remembering it wrong. My mind was not clearly focused on anything and both football and rugby were beneath caring about at that moment.
That evening my friends had arranged to meet for drinks in Reading to mark Natalie's 28th birthday. It seems insane now but I went along. Truth be told I just wanted to get as drunk as possible and not think about the last twelve hours of my life. Needless to say the getting drunk bit was easy, the forgetting not so.
When I woke up the next morning (and the one after, and the one after, ad infinitum) my brother was still gone. Each morning's slow, painful realisation another hammer blow to the soul. For the next week I tried to carry on as normally as possible. I had a few days off work but I started to keep all my appointments. Being busy stopped me from thinking, distracted me. Every now and then I'd laugh at a joke or sing along to a piece of music and instantly I'd be struck by what I guess you'd call survivor's guilt. How dare I enjoy these things when my brother couldn't any more?
Soon enough it was the day of the funeral. The thing about a popular young person's funeral is that they're always very well attended. You look around at everyone there and realise the one thing, the one person, they have in common is no longer there. It's one of life's many cruelties that you can only get everyone who loves you in one room after you've gone.
We stood at the front, of course, and the service took place. It felt like it kind of happened around me, like I wasn't fully there. The vicar said some stuff, one of Steven's friends made a nice speech, but I could hardly take it in. My mum loved a Boyzone song that was big at the time and as we all filed out of the church to the opening of No Matter What my legs nearly buckled beneath me. They're not a band I'd cared for in the slightest and I'm retrospectively glad. Not sure I could've handled Leonard Cohen right there and then. Boyzone were tough enough in the circumstances.
Over the next couple of months I felt a bit removed from everything going on in life. My friend Tony told me this was perfectly understandable, that I was 'above' the usual trifling concerns. I used to get angry when the train was late or packed and it just didn't seem to matter anymore. Part of me wanted to get irate at such trifling matters again, return to normal.
On the surface I felt I was doing just that but on New Year's Eve in The World's End pub in Finsbury Park I broke down crying on my mate Rob's shoulder. It's not the wildest behaviour ever seen in a Finsbury Park ale house but still mildly embarrassing for all concerned. It was a release though and I'm eternally grateful for him (and my other friends) being there to provide that shoulder.
Talking of friends I lost two of them around that time too. My mate Stuart, at the age of 24, took his own life after years battling his demons and Warren succumbed to leukemia at just 25. As someone who'd never really been touched by tragedy to lose two friends and a brother, none of them over twenty five years in age, was quite a sudden jolt into confronting mortality.
It can't have been easy for Tina and, at times, I was incredibly insensitive towards her, consumed by my own grief but also generally selfish and uncaring anyway. I hope I'm not those things any more and I hope, that in some small way, this blog acts as much as an apology, and a thankyou, to friends as it does a memorial to my brother. You need a mess of help to stand alone and I was very fortunate that I had the friends, and family, to support me.
Of course my family will have their own stories. My mum, dad, and brother will all have dealt with their grief and, slowly, come to terms with things (as best they can) in their own ways. I can only tell you one side, my side, of the story but I do know that my then 11 month old nephew Daniel, and later the arrival of his younger brother Alex (given the middle name Steven), gave everybody something to focus on.
Daniel is 18, nearly 19, now - so not much younger than Steven was when he died. It seems a crying shame that Daniel and Alex were denied the love of another uncle and I often wonder what his life would be like now if it hadn't been for that night. Would he have kids of his own? Would I have more nephews or even a niece? Would Dan and Alex have extra cousins? Would we get on? Where would he live? What would he be into? All things me, and my family, will never ever know for certain and can only speculate on.
When I meet new people now sometimes they ask about my family (sometimes they don't) and there's always a moment when I get asked about siblings. I simply tell them the truth. Some people don't know how to react, some share similar stories, one or two have been quite insensitive (more by accident than design), but the best simply give me a hug and ask me about Steven, or let me talk. Hopefully, when the same happens to my friends (and it has) I can take on board those lessons learned and be a more sensitive listener and a better friend myself. I'm certainly trying (you can insert your own joke there).
As the weeks, months, years, and even decades passed slowly the open wound of grief healed but, of course, it left a scar. At first the scar was clear for all to see but, as time works its subtle magic, it's become almost invisible to the untrained eye. But peer long enough and it's still there. Pick at it hard enough and it'll weep just like my tears are now. I wouldn't want the scar to ever completely heal. It reminds me of my brother and I don't want to, and won't, ever forget him.
No comments:
Post a Comment