Picture, if you will, a brother who has discovered the joy of inverting games to play with his baby brother. The baby, now five, is getting pocket money, but clearly, beyond the immediate value of money as potential sweets — to be got as soon as possible from the newsagents at the top of Bank Street — it is of no interest to that little barbarian. Money in the hand gets sweets in the mouth. A simple and straightforward equation to be applied with the maximum of speed to ensure the shortest delay between receiving the money and converting it into something useful, like liquorice, like sweet cigarettes, like Cart-wheels, like Smarties, or even a bottle of pop. But older and wiser brothers know better. They know there is more to money. It is a thing of value in itself. It has intrinsic worth that should be appreciated and respected. Oh, the wisdom of being 13.
So a game is invented, to regulate and control the unconditioned greeds of the baby barbarian. To educate, to inform, to engage the unruly dirt ridden, squirming, demi-human. And so the “Bank of Elbury” was invented, complete with paying-in book, withdrawal book, account ledger, and most importantly, a good strong metal box with a lock to act as a coffer, which served to prevent the little barbarian from making unsanctioned withdrawals. Best of all, the Bank of Elbury came with an imposing and important figure - its own Bank Manager. A Bank Manager who took much delight in fashioning his role, and playing it with total conviction; honing such phrases as “the bank cannot allow this”, or “It is not in our customers best commercial interest to remove all of their money, so we, the bank, cannot sanction it.” Phrases which seemed baffling and perplexing to the sniffling, dirt encrusted, socks askewed, cut kneed, barbarian - but which seemed to contain some weird magic of authority — and were not to be challenged!
Or picture this. A summer’s day with the light dwindling slowly into dusk. The same small boy, now seven and just as barbaric, stands in front of a high garden wall that separates home from the garden of the vicarage next door. A cricket ball is being thrown at him over and over, until he finally gets the idea that it is less painful to catch the ball than to be hit by it. His instructor, ever the perfectionist, explains over and over how the ball must be caught with a sweeping motion so that the ball “decelerates”, thus stopping it bouncing back out of the hand.The instructor is determined: he will have his imagined cricket matches on the lawn. He will train the barbarian into being a fit opposing team. First the catching, then the batting, and finally the mysteries of bowling - underarm at first, and then overarm.
At last “trained” the first match is planned. A score card is carefully drawn up. Two teams of eleven, names all chosen from the current Test Match squads. The instructor is of course, to be England, and England is to bat first. Ten wickets must fall before the barbarian’s team can come to the crease.
The barbarian labours long, though the morning, the afternoon and into the evening, bowling and bowling again. Six balls to an over, then a change of persona. The barbarian donning a new name on the score card and adding to another dreadful set of bowling averages. Eventually, the last wicket falls, and on the next day, at ten o’clock, strictly in accordance with the best cricketing traditions, the barbarian must take his place at the crease. His tourist team is soon swept aside - all ten wickets falling, for so few runs. The follow-on is forced, and the barbarian must bat again, if the ignominy of an innings defeat is to be avoided. The ignominy is not avoided. Victory falls once more to England.
That was out of doors, but indoors the sound through the house, enchanting, intriguing, mood music - the piano. Not practised, but played. A tune heard once is repeated, played, varied, inverted, its tempos exquisitely varied, its keys changed and changed again - now played on the right hand, now on the left. It becomes part of a tapestry of sound, that flows on and on. It was through his hands, through his music that my brother lived his emotional life when we were young. It was his lightening conductor, earthing all the confusions and distress of growing-up, of becoming, of being driven to a goal - the goal of university.
He was to be made to achieve what our mother had been denied - the chance of a scholarship place at Cambridge. A chance she had won by excelling in her sixth-form. She had woven words like magic. The warp of reason softened by the weft of passion. Her essays sent by her headmistress to an old friend at Newnham College, Cambridge, But then the dashing of dreams. “I have worked so that you do not have to” her father said, believing himself to be invulnerably wealthy, not realising how deeply ironic the twist and changes of our mother's life would make those words. She had been thwarted in her ambition - her ambition for her first born son was not going to be thwarted, no matter what! There was the terrible tension of the driven and the driver in the house - and music was the consolation and the safety valve. It was where all the frustrations and passions, all the repressed anger, all the angst of youth went.
We grew as though in a pressure chamber, he and I. His escape was her realisation of ambition. Mine, an exile into the purgatory of boarding school.
Later, now in our twenties, a friendship and companionship grew. We climbed Skiddaw, Coniston Old Man and other Lakeland heights together; and he visited me when I was studying at Bangor. Snowdon was too good an opportunity to be missed. That was strolled in an afternoon! And we shared a love of music, his patience unlimited at my stumbling efforts to accompany him on bass - but it was the sharing that mattered.
What was Roger like as a brother? - awesome. Inventive, caring, a constructor of shared fantasy worlds. A giant, whose benign shadow marked paths into adulthood.
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