A temporary little brother

A (Very) Temporary Little Brother

When my granddaughter Rhiannon was five her parents told her all about her little brother, who was expected to arrive round about her sixth birthday. She thought about this for a while then asked, 'When my little brother comes, how long is he going to stay?'

Startled, her mother explained that little brothers were permanent fixtures in a family. But I, who was an only child, once had a sort of 'little brother' for two years only. Aged six, I was envious of school friends who announced to the teachers that a little brother or sister was expected at their house. The teachers would beam in delight and make a great fuss of them. I asked my mother if I could have one too but she said no. Nevertheless at school I told a fib and said that we would soon be having a new addition to the family. The teachers' reactions were quite different. They gasped in horror and asked was I really quite sure? Then they exchanged shocked glances and said no more. As my mother had been widowed nearly five years and was a teacher at Porthmadog Grammar School that would have been a terrible scandal! My mother found out and fortunately saw the funny side of my gaffe. She tried to explain why widows couldn't have any more children unless they remarried first, but I didn't understand and was very put out. I really, really wanted a little brother so much, I told her. Soon I began playing with an imaginary one, who had to have a place laid for him at the table at every meal.

Then my mother arranged for me to go and play with a neighbour's little boy, John Harris, who was two. John's mother told me that lately he'd begun to be afraid of being on his own after taking it into his head, following being told 'The Three Little Pigs' story, that there was a wolf hiding in their attic. But John called it 'Oof'. She left us playing quietly with alphabet bricks while she went to get on with something in the kitchen. The alphabet bricks were rather boring, so after a while I asked John to show me where the attic was. Then I crept up the attic stairs, crouched at the top and began making wolf noises: 'Wooo! Wooo!' John let forth an ear-splitting scream that brought his mother running in a panic to see what was up. John smiled at her very happily and said, 'Nita and me playing Oof in the attic!' For a long time that was his favourite game, with me howling and chasing him all round the house, while he screamed with a little more restraint than that first time.

Over the next two years we went on to play several other noisy games of imaginary adventures such as cowboys, pirates, lion-hunting, shipwrecks and so on. I decided what to play and John was happy to follow my lead. We always played in John's house, never in mine, as Mum and I lived with Great Aunt Kate, an old maid who didn't appreciate noisy games. From time to time my mother used to repay the Harris's hospitality by taking John and myself on a bus ride into the country for a picnic and outdoor play, as neither of us had a garden.

Then, soon after my eighth birthday, a great change came into my life. My mother became engaged to an Englishman from Liverpool called Owen Bailey, who persuaded her to send me to a boarding school out of the way. So came an end to my playing with John and all my friends in Pwllheli until the school holidays. I didn't like the boarding school at all. Having to speak English all the time, as Welsh was not allowed, and missing Mum, Auntie Kate and the cat, made me miserable. I longed to return to Troedyrallt School in Pwllheli with my friends. I yearned to go home at the end of each day like normal children, to the coal fire burning in the hearth and Auntie Kate's tasty suppers, instead of a stale crust in a cold refectory.

By the time the end of the Easter holiday approached, after I'd become reacquainted with all my old friends and favourite playtime haunts in Pwllheli, I secretly determined not to return to boarding school. Secretly, because I didn't want to upset my mother, who said boarding school would be a wonderful opportunity for me, something she had always wanted when she was my age. I understood. I'd read all her old Schoolgirls' Own Annuals and one or two of her Angela Brazils as well as the first of the new Mallory Towers series. I'm not quite sure how I worked out that just running away and leaving a letter would upset her less, but perhaps I only wanted to avoid confrontations. Books about unhappy children running away from home seemed to fit my case exactly.

I needed a companion for the journey, but none of my old school friends were willing to come. 'We have no reason to run away,' they said smugly. That was why I determined to take little John Harris with me, although he was only four at the time. He had recently been presented with a little baby brother (in whom I took no interest whatsoever) and had missed me during my absences, so was perhaps a little more amenable to my blandishments. One of my favourite books was a Welsh novel in which two boys stow away on a sailing ship to get a free trip to Liverpool, only to find her bound for the South Seas. I thought John and I could hide on one of the ships in Pwllheli harbour, get carried away to exotic climes and have all kinds of adventures in far-away countries where there were no boarding schools.

It was difficult to explain the idea of running away to John at first, since he was too young to have read such books, so I told him that we were going on our holidays alone, just the two of us. He was satisfied with this, and agreed to pack a little case. I had already brought my clothes in the weekend case which I normally took on my solitary train journey to school, John's mother thinking it was full of toys, books and painting materials as usual.

'Will we be away over Sunday?' asked John.

'Yes.' I thought it better not to suggest we were going away for good. 'Why?'

'Well, I have to pack my best coat then, to go to Sunday School, you know.' John took from the wardrobe his little pale blue tweed coat with the dark blue velvet Peter Pan collar, folded it neatly and put in the case. I sighed. John was not entering into the spirit of the thing. But taking him was better than going alone. Then he said:

'I think Mummy will worry about me. I think she'll cry.' I told him I'd write a letter explaining where we were going and leave it in his bedroom for his Mum. John was content with that. I wrote a brief note saying we were running away and never coming back and propped it on the dressing table. He couldn't read yet. Then, after making sure that John's mother was busy with baby Edward, we tip-toed downstairs, past the solicitors' office on the ground floor, and out we went with our little suitcases.

John was surprised when we walked past the bus station and the train station. He thought we were going to catch a bus or a train. I shook my head and led him towards the harbour. But I didn't tell him we were going to stow away on a boat, just in case he suffered from sea-sickness or was scared of water. The harbour held nothing but rowing boats. They were no good. By this time John was walking very slowly and reluctantly, even for a child of four. I decided it was too far to walk to the Marina where most of the big yachts and speed boats were moored, so we went on towards the beach. By the time we reached the promenade after his snail-like progress the sun was very low in the sky and John was complaining that his feet were hurting. So we sat on the sea wall for a while to rest. The beach was deserted, the sea devoid of any vessel, and none was drawn up on the beach. John said he was hungry. I jumped down onto the beach and returned with two round, flat stones with a piece of seaweed on each. Giving one to John, I pretended to eat from mine with relish. At that time imaginary food tasted better to me than most of what was on offer during those years of immediate post-war austerity. I began to describe to John the mouth-watering bacon, sausages, fried bread and egg we were eating. He usually went along with my make-believe quite happily, but now his bottom lip started to quiver.

'Nita – I want real food, you know. I'm really hungry.'

Before I could reply a long shadow loomed over us. A policeman. He asked our names and after hearing them read us the riot act about our parents being very upset and worried over our irresponsible behaviour. We had to go back home with the policeman, each of us holding one of his hands. And he held on very tightly too. John asked in a quavering voice if he was taking us to gaol. The policeman reassured him that he was taking us home. When we reached Station Square, where I lived above Bon Marché (recently closed down), and John above the solicitors (on the corner where the tourist office is today), the street lights were already on. A crowd of people stood in the middle of the road, several of them comforting John's mother, who stood weeping with baby Edward in a white shawl in her arms, his father's arm round her shoulders. Two more policemen stood by. Everyone clapped and cheered as the three of us appeared. The policeman holding us looked chuffed. I hung my head.

A woman standing next to John's mother took the baby from her so she could hold out her arms to John. He ran into them, sobbing. Only then did I realise that I'd done something very, very bad. Our policeman asked if my parents were in the crowd. I shook my head. He asked where I lived and I showed him our closed front door a few yards away. He looked surprised and, still holding my hand firmly, led me to the door and rang the bell. My Mum and Auntie Kate thanked him for bringing me home but said it really hadn't been necessary. They knew I'd come back when I was hungry because I often wandered off. John's parents were making a silly fuss over nothing, they said. But I knew they were wrong about that. I had to go back to boarding school of course, and John's parents forbade me to play with him ever again. I don't blame them!