This story by Jo Bryant is about her brother Stephen, who was ten years my senior and great fun. He studied at the College of Technology, Portsmouth and then left home at seventeen for RADA in London. National Service took him to Europe and he never looked back. A voracious autodidact, he was always surrounded by books, and spoke eleven languages.
Since his inglorious National Service, Stephen has remained in Germany as a tutor at a Berlitz school. However, he always returns to Portsmouth for festivities. After the Christmas hoo-ha he’s in London, trawling Charing Cross Road for books.
The phone rings, and Mother answers: ‘Oh, I suppose so, but it’s not convenient, the shops are shut and I haven’t got anything in’
She’s looking peevish.
‘What’s up Bren?’ says Dad.
‘He’s met some girl up there and wants to bring her down to meet us today.’
‘We’ll manage, don’t worry, it won’t be serious, he’s going back after the weekend.
‘Why can’t he meet some nice ordinary girl?’
‘What’s up with this one then?’
She’s Hungarian and lives in St. John’s Wood. She’s not going to be our sort is she?’
Dad hoovers and Mum flaps, muttering to herself. By lunchtime she’s had enough and takes to her bed, leaving Dad and I to cope with the latest.
Mid-afternoon we hear voices in the hall and go to greet their owners.
‘Juliana, Dad and Marjie.’
Juliana is tall with long fair hair and the mien of an off-duty mandolin player. She presents her hand to be kissed by Dad, he shakes it firmly saying, ‘How do you do?’ He turns to Stephen. ‘I’m afraid your mother’s not well, she’s in bed.’
‘Nothing serious I hope. Juliana’s bought you a present, Marjie.’
Juliana places the tissue-wrapped gift in my hands. It is two porcelain cherubs. I can see they’re antique, but rather more to my mother’s taste. I thank her.
‘Stephen’s bought me a cat, I’ve called it Catamite.’ She pauses, waiting for a reaction. Dad and I manage polite smiles, we haven’t a clue what she’s on about.
‘We think children should have three names, one Shakespearean, one after someone you admire and one everyday, so the child has a choice,’ Stephen adds.
Crumbs, they must be serious, Stephen’s never spoken about children before. They talk in a rush and as one. Are they courting?
‘What would you like to drink?’ Dad asks.
‘St. Emilion would be lovely,’ Juliana replies. ‘I always go down to the cellar to help Daddy choose the wine for dinner.’
This one’s from another planet. Who, over the age of five, calls their father ‘Daddy’? Dinner in our house is midday. In the evening we have pork pies, crisps and Nescafé.
‘Wouldn’t you rather have whisky, it’s a cold day,’ says Stephen, knowing the only wines we have are port and sherry. ‘I’ll just go and see how Mother is.’
As I go to ask Dad for a limeade, we hear shrieking. Stephen reappears, flustered.
‘Is it normal to rave at one’s child in this manner?’
I smirk, amused that it’s his turn. We rejoin Juliana, her pallid countenance reveals nothing.
‘Perhaps after this, you’d like to meet my sister and her family?’ Stephen offers.
‘Oh yes, that would be super.’
We never saw her again.
Picture ‘Commercial Road, Portsmouth – 1967’ reproduced under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 licence.
