John:

‘It is important to feel the anger without judging it, without attempting to find meaning in it. It may take many forms: anger at the health-care system, at life, at your loved one for leaving. Life is unfair. Death is unfair. Anger is a natural reaction to the unfairness of loss’

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

We were always the bookends of the family. I was always the youngest child: precious, indulged and protected by some kind of angel.  You were always the wayward one: always off doing something that was, in your own mind cool; but to the rest of us an ill-advised venture. 

I idolised you.  I don’t know whether you ever knew that, I think you did, in some deep, unfathomable way.  Our Mum worked shifts, weighing and checking boil-in-the-bag food.  You brought me up, got me up for school, and cooked my dinner when I came home at midday.  It’s because of you I don’t like tomato ketchup, as you used it to thicken tins of beans.  But no matter, you were a reliable presence in a mustard jumper and gray sweat pants. 

It was when I was a teenager when you became a more glamourous, exotic presence.  It wasn’t the fact that you had a girlfriend (your second, I believe).  It was the fact that you began writing for a local newspaper.  This led to you writing for the NME, whipping an acerbic tongue across the fragile dreams of indie bands.   You bought a stereo to review albums and this led into djaying.  I was attempting to revise for my A Levels; which I failed miserably with a backdrop of old school hip-hop coming from your bedroom.  It’s hard to understand the complexities of Bismarck’s foreign policy; when all you can hear from the bedroom next door is Biz Markie.

 

I became a writer myself, progressing up from the local rag to section editor of a local arts mag.  Your were progressing to bigger to better things; not just as a journalist but as a DJ.  You were part of the divine madness of The Hacienda, amongst other places.  I was coming out of writing and becoming more interested in being a teacher and a performance poet.  Still massively interested in music though.  In a way that was that little neural link that kept firing between us. I can remember my Mum and Dad going out to the parish club on a Saturday.  It was here, I heard stuff like Yes and ELP: although prog isn’t quite my bag, I was interested.  I also heard stuff with eloquence, intelligence and wit; such as Steely Dan and Joni Mitchell.  Later on, old school hip hop, but things like The Smiths and Prefab Sprout.  I also think you were one of the first people to write about Half Man Half Biscuit. 

You moved to Manchester, acquired a succession of ever more exotic girlfriends.  An American singer, tall, black, sassy: like a friendly version of Grace Jones.  A tiny Geordie, who worked in the trendiest record shop in Manchester (and supplied me with cheap CD’s),.    What’s not to love?  You visited us, occasionally. Quarterly, usually.  We talked about our lives, confessing our thoughts and sharing music to tea and biscuits.  I visited you, occasionally.  Usually on a six monthly basis.  I like Manchester and I had vague, unformed, plans to move there, once.  It never came to pass.  I like it, but it’s busy, wired like a teenager on coffee.  And anyway, I couldn’t afford the suburbs. 

You visited us every Christmas Day.  The day usually panned out in a familiar, annual fashion.  Mum cooked Christmas Dinner, which would be boiled into oblivion.  You generally rang about half twelve, having slept in after a heavy evening of drinking/djaying.  We usually saw you about two, just as Dad was getting pissed off and was deciding to sit down to dinner on his own.  We swapped pressies and talked, swapping secrets.  I felt an awful sense of loss when you left, but I always knew I would be seeing you again in the Spring.  Always knew. 

The last time we saw you, was Christmas Day, 2004.  The day passed, pretty much as it would do any Christmas.  A few small changes: you acquired both an iPod and an MacBook.  My musical suggestions went straight into waveforms.  You were able to rip me a CD, there and then; rather than give me a mixtape.

Oh brave new world, that hath such people in it.  

I listened to it, walking to work on a dark, cold, icy morning a few days later.  I didn’t know then, that it would be the last time I would physically see you.

I could and have gone over that day in microscopic detail a thousand times.  I cannot recall a word, a phrase, a look, a concept that would have offended you.  We parted as friends, with a hug and masculine expressions of love.    You haven’t contacted us, though we have tried to contact you.  Phone calls, letters and invitations go unanswered, into some sort of nameless, wordless void.  During that time, I have had seven house moves, three serious relationships and one marriage.  Have you a concept or inkling of the damage that causes a missing piece in a family machine?  The empty place at the table?  The extra, unfilled teacup?   

There are rumours, from my brothers about what has happened to you.  I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.  I’d listen, I wouldn’t judge.  Whatever it is, it’s not a problem.  However, this open door swings both ways.  Fourteen years is a long time to be absent.  You might have missed a chance and the door may never swing open again. 

But you’re my brother.  I think of you every day in some way, but Christmas most of all.  My hand is open, but the choice to take it is yours. 

Oh, and by the way: Merry Christmas.