arms and tell her how much I love her. When I awoke to the sound of Caesar’s bark, I felt my soul shudder and leave my body. That, too, was imagination. My soul, if it exists, is still a living force, as is this wasted body that tethers me to this world.
I need to write my story. Words lend solidity when thoughts and dreams are in disarray. Is it one of love or betrayal? Loss or gain? Loss is easy to define but what of gain? How must that be measured?
Eighteen minutes, that was how long it took me to follow Laurence into my mother’s arms. Until then, no one knew of my existence. I was the ‘hidden’ twin, and while the midwife was admiring Laurence’s lusty wails my mother cried out that something was happening to her. That ‘something’ was me announcing my arrival. When I think about those eighteen minutes of aloneness, I imagine myself expanding, taking over the space occupied by Laurence, flexing my tiny body as I prepared to leave that warm cocoon. But in those crucial moments my brother had already conquered the world we would occupy. Once I was born, I became a pea in a pod, an almost invisible one.
When does a child’s memory begin? Is it in the pram where most of the space is occupied by a twin brother? Do I remember that or have I just transposed my later experiences onto those early years? It must have been the same in our mother’s womb. If sound existed in that watery sphere, he would certainly have shouted me down. Laurence did not laugh, he guffawed, and everyone laughed with him. He rattled the bars of our playpen, demanding to walk and talk and be loved the most. I was his pale shadow and if a question was asked, or a comment made, it was usually directed to him or, perhaps, it was he who always answered the quickest.
Despite our differences, I adored him. I’d never have dreamt of snitching, even when my nose bled or my eye ballooned from one of his punches. I fought back. I was not a coward or a pushover but, whatever battle we were fighting, I always accepted that Laurence would win. Until the day I met Madelaine Boylan and fell headlong in love with her.
But I digress from the chronology of my story. Hyland Stables was renowned for training champion racehorses and our world consisted of people who worked on the estate, the stable hands and grooms, the trainers and jockeys, the gardeners, the office staff, the farriers and vets who called regularly. My mother’s market garden ran in tandem with the stables and staff often overflowed from one to the other when necessary. When he was old enough to handle the horses, Charlie Bracken spent his school holidays and all his spare time working with me in the stables. His father had other plans for him but Charlie was determined to forge his own path and become a jockey. I was closer to him than to my twin brother, who constantly challenged me to compete with him.
Everything with Laurence was a bet. ‘Bet you all your marbles you won’t jump from that wall.’ He would point to the highest wall on the estate and prove his own courage by jumping first. ‘Bet you all your comics I can reach the top of that tree faster than you.’ He would point towards the tallest trees and count, ‘One, two, three. Go!’ My possessions disappeared bit by bit. Not that they really disappeared. They were still in our bedroom and Laurence showed no further interest in them once they belonged to him. A week could pass, sometimes more, before he issued another bet. They became more daring as we grew older. Sometimes, I refused the bet, frightened as much for his safety as for my own.
He was thirteen the first time he was caught leaving the house at night to play poker with a gang of older boys from the town. He knew the ways of our house. He found the hidden chinks and unguarded openings that gave him the freedom to leave and return at will. His favourite was the skylight in the annexe shower room. We were sleeping in separate rooms by then yet I always knew what was happening and could judge by his mood the following day whether he had won or lost.
We were separated for the first time when we were