challenging me about equating black and white children, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed.
‘What I remember best is going through the bush taking photographs.’
‘But how old were you then?’
‘Oh…well yes…I don’t remember things the way you do; not the same things. Are you absolutely sure?’
‘I don’t understand why you don’t remember. I remember everything about then . I know I’ve forgotten a lot of things about my life, because people say to me, Do you remember and I don’t. They get angry.’
‘Yes, they do, don’t they.’
‘But not about then.’
We are silent, for quite a bit. Harry is drinking steadily and carefully. Brandy. I could never enjoy drinking like that. I have a friend who researches patterns of drinking for a university. Would she be interested to hear about a man who drinks as if taking doses of medicine? My father, before he got diabetes, used to drink a whisky, perhaps two, as if a mentor invisible to us stood by him saying, Thus far and no further.
‘If we had really been like brother and sister, grown up together all the way, we would have a sort of–shared landscape. You know, one says, Do you remember and the other does remember, and if not soon thinks he does.’
‘I suppose we haven’t been brother and sister, not really.’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ he says, carefully and humorously, ‘I haven’t been all that keen on seeing you the last few years.’
‘And the same to you,’ I say. Humorously.
‘But you aren’t so bad, I suppose. Funny thing, if you don’t see somebody for a long time, you start imagining all kinds of things about them and it’s quite a shock when…but I suppose you do still have those funny ideas about–well, about everything.’
‘You could say that I have my funny ideas. You could say they’ve turned out not to be so funny in the end.’
At this he goes red, he is really angry. This is the moment when we could explode into argument. I say hastily, ‘Today when I came past Marandellas, I remembered how we used to camp out there, near the school.’
He smiles, and nods, meaning, Yes, you’re right, let’s not…And says, ‘Who camped out? When?’
Now I am really astonished, and upset. ‘You don’t remember how we used to come down, and camp? Sometimes for a week or even ten days? When you had Sports Days and things.’
‘Did you?’
‘How can you not remember that? The best times of my childhood…we couldn’t afford the hotel for a night, let alone a week…’
‘Wait a minute, yes, it’s coming back. Yes, you’re right.’
‘And the school always let you come and camp with us for a night or two.’
He rubs his hands over the back of his head, with a quizzical but frustrated look. I remembered the movement: father, brother.
‘We used to cut down branches or young trees and make an enclosure to steep in.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘To keep out the leopards.’
He puts his head back and laughs most heartily. It is a young fresh laugh, from quite another layer of his life. Then, soberly, ‘Shouldn’t have done that. Couldn’t have done the bush much good.’
‘We used to leave a trampled-down place inside the circle of dead branches, and the burned leaves hanging down where the fire was.’
‘But how could we? What did we want to do a thing like that for?’
‘That’s how we all were in those days.’
‘Well, we are all paying for it now.’ Many conversations with my brother end like this: I, we, she, he, they, you, are paying for it. Crime and punishment. Invisible walls have always surrounded my brother, signposted, Forbidden…No…Keep out. Verboten . Me, too, of course, but different walls, different forbidden places.
‘Do you remember how we hated to go to sleep because it was so marvellous sleeping out?’
‘No. But it is marvellous sleeping out. In the Bush War, that was the best thing. Of course I was too old to fight properly, but when we were out on patrol, we often stayed
‘What I remember best is going through the bush taking photographs.’
‘But how old were you then?’
‘Oh…well yes…I don’t remember things the way you do; not the same things. Are you absolutely sure?’
‘I don’t understand why you don’t remember. I remember everything about then . I know I’ve forgotten a lot of things about my life, because people say to me, Do you remember and I don’t. They get angry.’
‘Yes, they do, don’t they.’
‘But not about then.’
We are silent, for quite a bit. Harry is drinking steadily and carefully. Brandy. I could never enjoy drinking like that. I have a friend who researches patterns of drinking for a university. Would she be interested to hear about a man who drinks as if taking doses of medicine? My father, before he got diabetes, used to drink a whisky, perhaps two, as if a mentor invisible to us stood by him saying, Thus far and no further.
‘If we had really been like brother and sister, grown up together all the way, we would have a sort of–shared landscape. You know, one says, Do you remember and the other does remember, and if not soon thinks he does.’
‘I suppose we haven’t been brother and sister, not really.’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ he says, carefully and humorously, ‘I haven’t been all that keen on seeing you the last few years.’
‘And the same to you,’ I say. Humorously.
‘But you aren’t so bad, I suppose. Funny thing, if you don’t see somebody for a long time, you start imagining all kinds of things about them and it’s quite a shock when…but I suppose you do still have those funny ideas about–well, about everything.’
‘You could say that I have my funny ideas. You could say they’ve turned out not to be so funny in the end.’
At this he goes red, he is really angry. This is the moment when we could explode into argument. I say hastily, ‘Today when I came past Marandellas, I remembered how we used to camp out there, near the school.’
He smiles, and nods, meaning, Yes, you’re right, let’s not…And says, ‘Who camped out? When?’
Now I am really astonished, and upset. ‘You don’t remember how we used to come down, and camp? Sometimes for a week or even ten days? When you had Sports Days and things.’
‘Did you?’
‘How can you not remember that? The best times of my childhood…we couldn’t afford the hotel for a night, let alone a week…’
‘Wait a minute, yes, it’s coming back. Yes, you’re right.’
‘And the school always let you come and camp with us for a night or two.’
He rubs his hands over the back of his head, with a quizzical but frustrated look. I remembered the movement: father, brother.
‘We used to cut down branches or young trees and make an enclosure to steep in.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘To keep out the leopards.’
He puts his head back and laughs most heartily. It is a young fresh laugh, from quite another layer of his life. Then, soberly, ‘Shouldn’t have done that. Couldn’t have done the bush much good.’
‘We used to leave a trampled-down place inside the circle of dead branches, and the burned leaves hanging down where the fire was.’
‘But how could we? What did we want to do a thing like that for?’
‘That’s how we all were in those days.’
‘Well, we are all paying for it now.’ Many conversations with my brother end like this: I, we, she, he, they, you, are paying for it. Crime and punishment. Invisible walls have always surrounded my brother, signposted, Forbidden…No…Keep out. Verboten . Me, too, of course, but different walls, different forbidden places.
‘Do you remember how we hated to go to sleep because it was so marvellous sleeping out?’
‘No. But it is marvellous sleeping out. In the Bush War, that was the best thing. Of course I was too old to fight properly, but when we were out on patrol, we often stayed
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