Wednesday, September 29, 2010


We’re 15 years on now, a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Not that Harry was ever angry with his lot, the cards he was dealt or the pain he so obviously felt going through the 20-odd operations. Unlike Sarah, my aunt. Actually, not my real aunt, as in one of my parents’ sisters – Sarah was really an old school friend of my mother. And it was her scalding tea that splashed all over Harry’s face and upper body when he was just a babe in arms, a few months old. He couldn’t even walk, then, could hardly focus on what was going on around him. He must have been, what? Between a month and three months old? Three months at the very most.

I remember the screams. Not Harry’s, though, I think they were what you’d describe as a whimper. Shock, we found out later. The screams came from my mother; Sarah took in a huge gulp of breath and sat, open-mouthed. I took this opportunity to surreptitiously look up her skirt. She was wearing pink knickers. Frilly. In my defence, I was eight at the time. If that’s any kind of defence.