Mark was the first child I met on arrival in England aged four, and is the living person I’ve known the longest. We had driven from Tilbury Docks in Grandpa’s old Ford and I slept all the way. I woke to tea in the garden. Mark pointed out his tortoise, which crouched with its moving parts retracted. “That’s just a stone”, I asserted confidently. It got up and walked. From that moment on, Mark knew better than me about everything. He told me that a DUKW (duck) was a vehicle which could go on land and water, not to be confused with a DKW which was a marque of German car, or a Volkswagen, which could float because it was airtight with the doors closed. When he spoke of a Museum, I was quick to correct him. “It’s called New Zealand, not Museum”, I claimed, inaccurately. He asked me my favourite colour. “Red”. “Mine’s yellow”. Neither of us could prove the other wrong on that one, but even then I felt he had me beaten. Though I learned to read and he didn’t till years later, it was not book learning which counted. He seemed to have read the Book of Life. When he challenged me to a contest—which of us could piss the highest on the wall behind the shed—it wasn’t the result which counted but his knowledge that no-one would punish us.
Mark was fair-haired and grey-eyed. Photos show him innocent and handsome. He grew up to be strong and fit, though not athletic. He had a living father—an Army Captain, who though he was overseas (and divorced from my Aunt, I later discovered), still made Mark luckier than I. He lived with Granny. Sometimes his mother was there too and sometimes not.
He could climb trees and showed me how to climb up Granny’s garden wall and thence to Myra’s flat built above the neighbouring auto workshop. This annoyed her. Mark said she was a witch and we knew from fairy tales that witches had hostile intent towards small children. She invited us to visit her the proper way, by the stairs. With its little balcony her place seemed perched on a cliff edge, small as a gypsy caravan, exquisite with tiny things: old dolls and antique buttons.
Mark introduced me to magic lore. Near Granny’s house was Gillsman’s Hill, a narrow road canopied by trees going down steeply to a “wishing well” at the bottom, actually a spring, with water tumbling out from a carved lion’s head into a marble basin and spilling over constantly: all green with algae and housed in a worn sandstone shrine. Our ritual was to play “monkeys in a cage” on railings going down till we reached the “well”; then cup our hands to drink copiously of its freshness; then walk up the other side, keeping silence until we had thrice encircled the Wishing Tree, making a wish never to be revealed. If we deviated from this strict observance, a Witch would issue from “the house with no windows” (an electricity substation) and plant on us a Curse. All this I believed.
Mark was Granny’s favourite grandchild but I didn’t resent it for he was a bird with a broken wing. His mother (my Aunt) explained he was “born in the Blitz”. What I saw of this was a clumsiness and sometimes theatrical tantrums, which only Granny could soothe. In maturity I see other explanations and distrust hers.
Whenever I stayed at Granny’s I’d look forward to days with Mark, if he was there and not in Kenya with his father. Granny used to put us in the bath together, the brass geyser roaring with gas as precious hot water trickled out. We enjoyed having each other as brothers: He had a real younger brother but he never seemed to be there at the same time, rather a mystery.
Together we had fun, even running round the Pampas grass laughing, trying to catch one another. We bought things from the shop across the road, including cigarettes, and persuaded the house-tenants to buy them, first aiming for profit, then at any old discount, to rid ourselves of the stock.
Our adventures extended and we roamed the streets and woods and even stalked in people’s back gardens at twilight for the thrill. One day we went to a wood not far from the Wishing Well that reeked of wild garlic. In a clearing, Mark practised throwing his new hunting knife into the ground till it pierced his gumboot impaling his foot. An old man passed with a sack of potatoes and gave me to carry while he brought Mark home on his back. Despite such incidents we accepted he was my elder and better, next to whom I was a timid bookworm. When we went to the convent school, each aged five, another boy threw my cap into a field with a sign “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted”.My reading was good already, but I was vague as to the precise meaning of “prosecuted”, so I refused to go and get it against his insistence that I should. When we reached home, my Aunt laughed at us and sent us both straight back to fetch my cap. Mark was superior even in his illiteracy.
9 thoughts on “Round and Round the Pampas Grass”
beautiful! beautiful!bless the memory and praise the typing fingers! hail the hero!
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Elvis Costello and Paul McCartney wrote a lovely song called Veronica. I am always moved by that tune as it reminded me of every older person I have known who became a shadow of what they once were.Even those who never showed potential in the eyes of those who might judge them, had at one time known joy and made others joyful.Taking the time to recognize this in those around you is one of the most precious things we can do for one another.Even though Matt may never know what you have done here, we now can appreciate him. And that does mean something.
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Knowledge of the world and its ways, is not the end-all of Life, but can be a problem for Life. Sometimes the one who doesn’t know is really the one who does know.Blood kin, while it has its’ righteousness, is not the definitive factor for Life, Life is above that ‘luck’, luck is applicable only to a certain integrity of facts.Pardon me for being so serious and studious, it has been an important day for me, and I am heavily engaged.About the curse from the windowless house, of course it was true, you were right to believe.As to the partiality regarding the brothers, some people are born to be part of the place, others to be other than the place, this is the source of many problems that have to be inclusively resolved.The bookworm thing, that is a lable, one that doesn’t apply, (as I see it, but one which was forced), you are different, more than being a ‘bookworm’, but your relation to Matt is intrinsic to your own psychology, he is your old self, you are your new self climbing higher.See, that is reversed of what appears to be the truth, you are less he is more, such is what I know to be true, without knowing more.Of course, this is not all he is, he is his own center, as you are yours, but we play these roles for each other, without consciousness of the reality of ourselves.See also, the situation is reversed in light of the true psychology involved, you were not less, but ready to be more, needing to be more, but judging yourself by the past you, you didn’t subscribe to the same as Matt represented in your eyes. As to Matt and his dementia, you can know little from that about his Life, but since you know him well, you might realize ‘him’ now. Without many words, consider that this world has its’ own ‘god’ and all who differ from that, all who are reversed to that, cannot stay, cannot play, and are ostracised by those who are just arriving to this worlds state of psychological reality, Matt apparently was ahead, as I would say you are, but don’t let this go to your head, we are all in the same boat.Yes, my love, it is seriously cruel, and so much the more so for children, G-d, I do cry.’Theatre of Cruelty’ is the best terminology for it I have heard, I will keep it, Vincent, Thanks.You must realize, due to the reverseness of the reality and our situations, that, tho cruel, you cannot condemn, but be always striving for mercy in order to raise up the whole of the people, adults and children, Live for it.Consider that he is both, your old self, (for you), but his present self (for him) for real, real meaning HIS feeling and suffering, HIS joy and HIS realizations, and know, Vincent, that some kind of progress was made, or is being made in his real Life, a Life, like yours or mine, that is more than this present world and its’ limitations, its’ reverse realities.I wrote this as I went, reading and writing, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, it taught me a lot about my life, that is your ART my friend, expand on it if you can, if you can go no further, know Vincent that you have surpassed the world and its’ limits. But don’t stop, be you writing or living here, keep on.Love and hope that I didn’t offend, no offense was intended, the tears in my eyes and on my face attest to that, Vincent, and your moving work. Please Sir, Continue.
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These things are hard to explain Vincent, and ‘now’ is not always the time for the explanation. My best to Matt, should you encounter him, simply, my best, as I know he will recieve yours.
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Hi Vincent! Thank you for the invite.Sad story but happy ending…looks like everything is going well for Matt. Maybe in the future you two will meet again. Your memories are beautiful and thanks for sharing them with us.
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Perhaps you can surmise, Vincent, the smallness of the affiliation of religion for us, call it label, or call it group identity, it is only a means to an end, not the end itself, never allow it to be more than it truly is. But you will find that making that known to others is difficult and fraught with the worlds reverse confusion, but know, please know, that that is surmountable, maybe not by me, or you, but by us.And please, Vincent, continue.
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One last thing, last is relative of course, you asked, I gave, lol, I received, thanks always, and I do mean ‘Always’ Vincent.
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Thanks to all for these comments. After a certain someone suggested it would be a good idea to respond to them, here I go.I will seek out that song Veronica, Charles. Ghetufool, you poetic fool, thank you. Jim your comments are more detailed it seems than the original post. I don’t think Matt has dementia at all not in any usual sense. I think he has some kind of different brain and it goes back to his childhood, but he has been brilliant at compensating for it, looking after himself and being looked after too. But you are right in that I used to measure myself against him and I never thought of him as in any way damaged or inferior until that dreadful term at the boarding school where he was judged by all the others, pupils and staff. (Even his mother judged him, I’m afraid. But she was racially prejudiced so that we had a great rift though she was my only aunt. Did I mention that?)Yes, Jim when you say “it taught me a lot about my life, that is your ART my friend, expand on it if you can” you have described what I want to do: talk about what I know best, that is my own life, but help others understand theirs better too. thanks for your many thoughtful comments.Kathy it is wonderful to have you here. I admire your blog greatly.
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Please note that the text of the post has been revised in May 2015. The comments above relate to the original version which included material which I’ve since found to be grossly false.
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