The Back of My Brother's Head
When we were young, my brother and I, we shared the back bedroom of our parents' little two up, two down until he turned eighteen and went off to university in Scotland. We had this old walnut dresser with scratched panels and a loose handle. It had these three mirrors, one in the centre which tilted back and one either side which swivelled inwards so that if you leaned forward far enough and got the angles right you could see the back of your own head. I could comb my hair taking all the time I needed to shape it into a perfect D.A. to match the Tony Curtis bob at the front.
The last thing I want to see these days is the back of my head, the Tony Curtis long gone - like most of my hair and the thirty inch waistline.
My brother now. He still has all his hair and he's had it trimmed in the past few days so it's looking good – from the back anyway. I haven't seen the front yet nor have I seen his face.....
He's two rows – two pews – in front of me. Beside him is his wife. Naomi and I don't hit it off too well. Not, I should say, that we're openly antagonistic to one another. It's just I've always sensed this air of superiority waft in my direction when we're together in the same room. Still, I've got to say she's looking good, too, and, besides, she and Mary always got on well.
“It's your imagination, Andy,” she used to say to me, Mary did, “She's always been a good friend to me.” And so Naomi was – I got to admit that.
In front of my brother stands his daughter, Emma… and Tony – her about to be any minute now husband.
Tony is an asshole. How it got this far I'll never understand. I've seen the bruises on her arms and one of those rare nights I called (rare because of the Naomi thing) the side of her face was swollen and she'd been crying. Why, in God's name, My brother and Naomi gave their consent I'll never know. The power of love over the fear of abuse. Me? I'd have sorted it, and Tony, out a long time ago if it had been anything to do with me.
Which it doesn't.
I have two sons. They're sitting either side of me. Barry has his wife, carrying my first grandchild, on his far side and Dave has this month's girlfriend beside him.
We see a lot of each other, Barry, Dave and me, working together the way we do. We're getting by at the moment but the building trade's not doing too well. We've enough to keep us going another six months or so. But after that.....
It's done. The minister has pronounced them man and wife and told the groom he may kiss the bride, which he does. Then after he's said a few more words they all traipse out of the church towards the room at the back to sign the register – the bride, the groom, the bridesmaid and best man, Tony's parents, Naomi…my brother. As he steps out of the pew and stands aside to let Naomi past I get to see his face. He looks like he's okay. But I'm his brother and I know.....* * *
When Mary and I got married the photographer came, set up his tripod, few quick clicks and he was away in half an hour. I have one of the photographs, just the two of us, framed now and sitting beside my bed. It's black and white, of course, but each time when I wake up and look at it I see something different.
We've been hanging around the hotel lobby since half past one, waiting for the photographer to finish. It's now almost four and my stomach thinks it's had a by-pass. It's a cold April day and I've had three Guinness and three Jamesons and I need to eat soon or I'll.....
That's my problem. Used to be I could take it or leave it but since last autumn I've found it difficult. Barry and Dave keep an eye on me and I do try. I do. Really, I try.....* * *
The meal's over and the speeches, too, thank God.
My brother's was very short. He started off with the one about the similarity between a good speech and a mini skirt, you know the one. It raised a few polite laughs and an uncontrolled outburst from an uncle of Tony's who must have come in from the Outer Hebrides or somewhere. When he got to the bit about welcoming Tony into the family I looked away.
Then came the best man, weedy little git. You think my brother's was bad? At least he had an excuse but this guy was as funny as a frontal lobotomy. He went on for about ten minutes then took a coughing fit and had to be thumped on the back by the wife of the guy with the laugh.
Tony's speech? Sorry. Missed it. Went for a pee.* * *
Emma.
Emma looks a dream. She's twenty two and the daughter I never had. When she was a kid she used to come everywhere with us. Mary, the boys, Emma, me.
We went camping a lot in those days. I taught her to fish. We would sit there, the four of us (Mary would be off through the fields with her sketchpad) on a river bank somewhere and I'd show her how to bait, cast, reel in.
If she was the daughter Mary and I never had she was like a sister to Barry and Dave. School holidays would find her staying with us, picking up bad habits, no doubt Naomi would say to my brother. Not only did she learn to fish she could plane a straight edge or cut out a dovetail joint good as my sons. When Barry broke up with his first girl she sat at the kitchen table getting him through his first black night.
She's down at the far end of the room, talking to my brother. I watch his face. He's still trying hard but he can't hide it from me.....* * *
Take it easy. The Eagles. God, but it's hot in here. I loosen my tie. The chairs and tables have all been moved out to the walls and the floor is heaving with dancers. All ages, all shapes and sizes. I push myself up and have to hold onto the table a moment till everything steadies. Then I walk towards the French windows for some air. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. A tall blonde in a blue dress sways in front of me and I do a quick shuffle round her. She laughs and claps my shoulder.
Naomi is standing in front of me. I wiggle my fingers and gyrate my hips. She looks at me with disapproval, “Andrew…Are you drunk?”
“Drunk?…Me?” I say, “Do birds shit in the trees?”
She gives me a look of disgust and marches off in the direction of the ladies, handbag under her arm.
I look about for my sons. Barry is dancing with Emma now, eyes skimming the room. Dave is over at the bar, talking to a guy in a cream suit and a pink tie. I'll remind him about it on the site in the morning.
The music stops and the DJ comes in with his patter. Then I see Tony making his way in the direction of the alcove leading to the gents. He goes in. I look across at Dave and he says something to the guy in the cream suit and grins and walks towards the alcove. Barry has already left the dance floor and is heading in the same direction.
I wait. From where I stand I have a clear view. I see Barry push open the door and go in. Dave stands outside, his back to the door.
The DJ has urged everyone onto the dance floor and the music has started again. The dancers have their hands on their hips, twisting their bodies, bending forward. Let's do the timewarp together.....
The best man walks into the alcove and Dave gives him a broad smile and starts to chat. Dave is a motormouth – talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere about anything. The best man seems anxious to get past but Dave, still talking, still smiling puts his hand on his arm and I see his knuckles whiten. The best man looks round as if seeking help then backs away and walks towards the lobby to look for another toilet.
After a minute the door of the gents opens and Barry comes out, straightens his tie and says something to Dave then looks across at me and nods. I nod back. Then they both walk over to the bar.
It isn't long. The door opens again and Tony comes out. He looks like he's just received a lunch invitation from Hannibal Lecter. His collar is sticking up and the lapels of his wedding suit are crumpled. Suddenly his cheeks bulge and he turns quickly and rushes back into the gents.
I sense someone beside me. I look round and Naomi is there. She has seen the whole thing. She looks at me and then turns and goes over to my brother and sits down beside him.* * *
It's nearly midnight. I'm knackered. I've been up since daybreak and we need to be on the site before eight tomorrow morning to sign for a delivery of roof trusses.
The music is different now, quieter. A girl is singing. She sounds like she's in the room with us. Her voice is clear and achingly beautiful and I've heard the song before but never like this. The dancers are moving slow, circling on the same spot. The lights are dim and I don't want the song to end.
“You miss her, don't you?”
I look up. Naomi is standing beside me. I don't know how long she's been there. I pull out a chair and she sits down. She, too, is tired. It is there in the set of her eyes.
Many years have passed since those summer days, sings the girl.
Mary.
Dark grey eyes. Long hair, black as a raven's wing. Summer, 1969. Somehow she had got the rear wheel of her car stuck in the track gouged out by the backwards - forwards movement of a digger on the site where I had just started work. “Please can you help me?” she asked, her face flushed with the embarrassment of the predicament she had got herself into. She worked for an architect and she was there to hand over a set of plans to the builder. We got together, a few of us, and with planks and a bit of manpower freed the car and she was soon on her way, but not before I got her name and that of the architect.
See the children run as the sun goes down, sings the girl.
Mary. Black hair, faint streaks of silver, urchin cut now, humming with contentment, sketching her landscapes of green and yellow and gold as we watched the seasons come and leave. Mary, the look on her face when they told her the results of the tests and in too, too short a time the hair almost pure silver and the skin of her face stretched and pallid but the eyes retaining that gleam of burnished pewter. “He's not for her,” she'd whispered when she heard about the engagement, “He's not for her.”
Many years have passed since those summer days. I look down at the table. It's scattered with glasses and napkins and place cards and, here and there, the petals of flowers. “Yes,” I say.
“She was my best friend,” says Naomi. I nod. It's been the longest of winters, this past one. I reach for my glass but I don't pick it up. You remember me when the west wind moves. Naomi reaches forward and puts her hand on top of mine and squeezes. “Thank you,” she says. She gets up and walks back across the room to my brother.
You can tell the sun in its jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold...
Then all the chairs around me scrape back and Barry and his wife and Dave and his girl sit down around me. Nobody speaks and then the DJ says, “That was the late, great...” And I never get to hear the singer's name because Dave starts to talk.* * *
It's an early start tomorrow and we walk towards the door. Emma is there in the lobby along with my brother and Naomi. Tony is nowhere to be seen. Emma comes to me and I open my arms and she hugs me and I wish her every happiness and let her go as she turns to my sons and their women. I look at Naomi, and I'm not kidding about this, she walks over and stands on tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. I feel the warmth.
My brother.
My brother and I have hardly spoken all day. Which isn't all that unusual. The older we get the harder we find it to communicate. Not that it matters anymore in this extra-sensory life we now share. He knows and I know. Like, for instance, he doesn't need to tell me how unhappy he is. And I don't need to tell him that I'd do anything to make it right for him.
He takes my hand and I hold it tight, “Thanks for a great day,” I say and he summons up a smile for he doesn't want me to worry about him.
The taxi motor is running and he lets go my hand and turns back in towards the reception room, Naomi on one side, Emma on the other.
The air is sharp and clean and I stand on the steps and suck in a deep breath and turn and look back.
People are crowding about, some getting ready to leave, waving their goodbyes, some, believe it or not, just arriving, shouting their greetings. Some carry wine glasses, one woman carries her shoes, padding about in her stocking feet and I stretch to full height, looking past the mass of bodies milling back and forth, searching, squinting in the bright light of the lobby, trying to catch a glimpse of the back of my brother's head.Noel McBride