by Karen Perry
There are words too – lyrics written not by me but by my brother. His letter is in my shirt pocket – I can feel its hard corners rubbing my chest, burning a hole there, demanding to be read again. A letter written on plain ivory paper, the kind our mum used. A letter written in a jagged, hurried cursive, the rushed slant of the letters on the page, the ts crossed quickly, the dotted is wayward and panic-stricken.
But I don’t take the letter out – I don’t need to. I’ve read it countless times since Julia gave it to me, and each time it’s as if Luke is whispering into my ear, as if his breath is brushing the back of my neck, causing goose-bumps to rise all the way up my spine. I feel them now as I close my eyes and hear his voice, remember words he wrote to me:
Dear Nico,
First up, a confession. I’m writing this with a few drinks inside me … and I know, I know, it’s a mistake to put pen to paper when you’re three sheets to the wind, but it’s been a strange day and I feel somehow compelled to write to you, even though you probably won’t read this, won’t answer. All the same a big part of me feels that there isn’t a single person on this earth who understands what I’m going through right now – except you, Nico.
We’ve spent the day – Julia and I – going through Mum’s things. Her ‘effects’, as Julia calls them – how ludicrous and Dickensian a term! As you know, Mum was a hoarder, and after eight hours of wading through paperwork and photographs, there’s still a mountain to climb. Most of it’s junk, though I kept finding myself dithering over whether or not I should keep something or throw it out – honestly, I was getting myself into a panic over receipts and holiday snaps, postcards of obscure places sent by people I don’t even know. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But this is what grief has reduced me to – paralysing indecision. And I do grieve, Nico, believe me I do. I was able to hold it together during the funeral, and for the first couple of weeks, but now, with the seasons changing, the reality of her absence is kicking in and I feel bereft, like a part of me has just leaked away without my noticing, but now it’s gone I can’t seem to get it back.
Today, all day, I felt the pull of the past. I’m sitting, now, at Dad’s desk, writing to you on paper that I found in Mum’s writing box. Even writing you a letter rather than an email or a text seems like something more real, if old-fashioned – it’s like something Dad would have done. There are times I sense his presence, when I am alone here in the office, late at night, leaning on this desk of his. Sometimes I wish I could summon his ghost, even once, to put to him all the questions and doubts I struggle with, like he might offer up some sort of wisdom, tell me what to do, help me see my way through the fog.
As for Mum, I don’t feel her presence now at all. Not since she passed, and I can’t help think of her passing as some sort of abandonment. Like she’s well and truly done with me now.
I think we made a mistake, Nico. The weather here has turned very cold, and when I think of her lying out there in the frozen earth, it seems so wrong to me that I have to stop what I’m doing, try to calm myself. I know we buried her next to Dad because it seemed like the right thing to do, but now I wonder, was it? Think of her spirit, Nick, her very essence – she was a creature of heat, she worshipped the sun. It always seemed to me that she was a different person in Africa – happier, carefree. But I suppose we were all different then … Anyway. Maybe it was wrong to bury her in a cold climate. Not that I’m suggesting we exhume her body and take it abroad. I guess I’m just telling you that I have regrets and that is one of them.
When my time comes, I don’t want to be lowered into the cold damp Irish soil. Have me cremated, will you? And then scatter my ashes somewhere the sun shines – Kenya, why not? I said the same to Julia today but she just said I was being maudlin. I don’t think she takes anything I say seriously right now, thinks it’s just the grief talking. But it’s not, Nico. That’s why I’m telling it to you. When the time comes, I want to go back to Kenya. Back to the Masai Mara. Scatter my ashes by the river Mara. Think of it as a form of atonement.
Jesus, I’m so tired. Head swimming in brandy. But you do what you can to get you through the day, don’t you? Lately, I need more and more help with the passing hours. I think I’ve taken on too much, Nick, but I don’t quite know how to shed the load. Mum left everything in my care, but this was always her thing – and while it gave her a lift, visiting Nairobi whenever she got a chance, it’s not something that appeals to me. I fear going back there, and yet there is the constant pull of the place. I considered asking you to take it on. But that day – the day we buried Mum – when you and I were here in my study, talking, I could tell you didn’t want it. That you needed to get away. To distance yourself. After all, haven’t you spent your whole life doing that, Nico? Don’t be offended now – I don’t mean that in a bad way. If anything, what I’m trying to say is: I understand.
I think I’ll stop now. It’s late and I’ve drunk enough to sleep. I’m going to seal this letter and maybe I’ll send it to you, maybe I won’t. I’ll sleep on it. But whenever you read this, wherever you are, I hope you are happy, Nico, and I hope that you think well of me,
Your loving brother,
Luke
As we drive through the dry landscape, the letter replays itself to me. It’s there in my shirt pocket, next to my heart, and as the day deepens, drawing me back there, I feel the words pumping through me in an unshakeable rhythm: Think well of me, brother.
A rap at the window. I sit up, blinking. The truck has stopped and through the muddy windscreen the sky is streaked with thick swathes of orange sunlight. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but we’re at the banks of the Mara river and Karl is outside lighting a cigarette, Lauren standing a little way off, her arms crossed over her chest. I get out, feel pain travelling through my body as I stretch and try to shake off the heavy daze.
The mourners gather in a confidential circle by the water, waiting for us. Figures darkly dressed, standing silent by the river’s edge, regarding me from a distance.
The sun is slipping down, casting the trees in long shadows. Now that I’m out of the truck, I’m suddenly cold. I feel the sweat on my back drying, my shirt stiff with it, and my whole body shivers.
‘Are we late?’ I ask Karl hoarsely, as I close the door behind me.
‘Just in time,’ he says, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it. ‘Come on, buddy. They’re waiting.’
With Lauren, we walk through the sweet red-oat grass and the circle greets us with nods and murmurs, like a troupe of theatregoers recognizing guests who have arrived late.
‘You made it,’ Murphy says, coming forward to embrace me.
It’s only as he draws away that I see the urn clasped in one of his hands and with it comes a rush of sound into my ears.
‘Just about,’ Karl replies.
My mouth is dry. I feel dizzy. I take a deep breath, then feel a hand in mine. It’s Lauren. I squeeze her hand, grateful for the gesture, even if this peace between us is only temporary.
You can hear the movement of water nearby, some creature surfacing further along the banks of the river. A herd of impala are tugging at the leaves on the lower branches of the acacia trees in the next field. You can see, too, the lights coming on from lodges and camps all around us and along the horizon. But it’s not how I remembered it. Not at all. It’s so different I could be somewhere else. I know back then I was a child and I may have misremembered certain things. I know time can play tricks on the mind. But it’s not as I remembered it. The river is wider and brighter here, the vegetation cut back. It doesn’t feel like the same place at all.
I feel kind of disappointed, cheated in a way. And guilty, too, because in my mind we’re doing Luke a disservice. This is not the place he thought it was.
‘“Scatter my ashes by the river Mara.” That was Luke’s last wish and that is why we are here,’ Murphy says, breaking the low murmur of unease between us.
He takes his glasses off and looks at each of us with a kind of
ceremonial deliberation. We fan out around him and he begins his sermon.
‘We’re here where Luke wanted to be laid to rest, where he wished his last remains, his ashes, to be scattered. “Scatter my ashes by the river Mara. Carry me home,” he said. We’re here where Luke Yates wanted to become again part of the land he loved so much, a land he first came to as a child, and that land, here, the Masai Mara, held out its arms for him, welcomed him, his brother Nicholas and their parents, Sally and Kenneth, into its welcoming embrace, and it is with great sadness that we now bid farewell to one of Africa’s returning sons. Let us pray.’
He starts the psalm: ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’
And we, all of us, join in as a faltering chorus, our voices weak at first, but slowly gaining strength as the light fades:
‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil …’
The light is fading. I can see the smoke of a bonfire rising in the distance, hear the rhythmic chant of tribal music from nearby. I can’t tell if the music is for tourists or not, though most things here now seem to be.
But not back then. Not when we were here: Luke, Katie and I. I wonder if some of the people with us knew what had happened here, all those years ago – I wonder if they would have come.
Not Julia. Not Karl. Not Lauren. Surely.
Maybe none of us should have come back. Maybe this is all a very bad idea and we should simply have ignored Luke’s outlandish request.
Listening to Murphy’s voice now, I can’t help but think of that time when we fled this country, as if we left in shame and silence, and how when we arrived in Dublin everything had changed.
Shivering in the cold of that house in the Wicklow hills, all of the words locked fast inside me, swathing myself in silence. Our parents had grown distant with one another. I remember, too, Luke’s sudden unnerving stammer. It seemed as if we were two different families. One family in Africa. One in Ireland. One was the negative print of the other. Back in Ireland we were all in darkness, growing quickly apart, each of us gravitating away from another.
I remember one time Luke crashed Dad’s car. He was seventeen. I was fifteen. Mum was out visiting an aunt who was ill in hospital. Dad had gone to his old rugby club in Donnybrook for a reunion. I was in my room listening to Dexter Gordon’s brilliant disc True Blue. Luke stood in the doorway twirling Dad’s car keys around his fingers. I pulled out my earphones and he said: ‘Fancy a spin?’
I thought he was joking and laughed. He walked out to the car and I followed. ‘Jesus, Luke, what are you thinking?’ I wanted to say, but I was so pleased he had asked me that I said nothing and climbed into the old red Mercedes.
When we got to the road that leads up to the Featherbeds, he said: ‘You have a go.’
I slid into the driver’s seat as he stepped out.
‘Clutch, brake, accelerator,’ he said, and I remembered it from one of the few lessons Dad had given us under what he called ‘controlled conditions’.
‘Take it handy,’ Luke said.
I got the hang of it without difficulty, flew up the Featherbeds to Military Road, then stopped at the Viewing Point. A rake of cyclists flew by us, and I was picking up speed as I took the corner for Kilakee, but I misjudged it and slammed the car into a tree.
Luke and I were flung forward hard against out seatbelts. Luke forced me out, inspected the damage and got back into the car. It started, but the front bumper was mashed.
On the way home, I said I was sorry. But Luke told me to shut up and let him deal with it.
He took the rap, and was grounded for months. Dad was furious. The car was repaired. But when Luke came home six months later, drunk from a night out with friends after finishing their mock exams, Dad went ballistic – only for Luke to point to me, as I came down the stairs to see what had happened, and say: ‘It was him, him, he did it … He smashed the car. It was him, it was him …’
Luke was distraught, his face wretched with tears. Dad had to coax him to a kitchen chair, where he cried into Dad’s sleeve, both of them looking at me – the words still echoing: it was him, it was him.
It was another example of how we were gradually growing apart, a process that had started when we returned to Ireland. We’d been home only a few weeks when my father told me that from then on Luke and I would sleep in separate rooms.
‘You’re getting older,’ he said. ‘The house has enough bedrooms, and with more homework in the new school year, Luke will need his own desk and the quiet to study.’
I didn’t say anything – I couldn’t – though I felt the words jostling inside me, pushing upwards as if they might suddenly burst out and break the silence that had me trapped.
‘We’re not in Africa any more, Nicholas. We need new habits, new routines. And one of them is that you and Luke are to have separate bedrooms.’
He sounded as if he was reading from a script, or that he was a robot, talking to me as if he didn’t know me, that I wasn’t his son, that I wasn’t Nick.
‘And,’ he said, ‘we thought it better if you went to different schools as well. You both have … Well, you have different needs.’
Maybe he saw my unspoken fear and confusion. Or maybe he, too, had begun to adjust to our altered state, and was starting to read my silences and the thoughts that might lie inside me. So he sat down on my bed and spoke softly, his brow furrowed with tenderness, as if he hated saying this, but knew it was for the best.
‘You must understand,’ he said, his voice dropping low, a new urgency spilling into it. ‘I’m trying to protect you.’
That was when I started to cry. I knew he was trying to make everything right – trying to shield us from whatever dangers lay around and within us. But that didn’t stop me wanting everything to be like it had been before. As he turned the light out, in my new room, he said, like the old Dad might have, ‘Don’t worry, champ, it won’t be so bad. You’ll be okay.’
We never talked about Africa again. It was never mentioned or alluded to in passing. Neither were the Walshes up for discussion. It was as if my parents tried deliberately to erase the time we had spent in Africa from our lives – which only forced it further into my unconscious. As time passed and I would try to remember what had happened in the days and months we spent there, the memory was never the same, but came back to me ever so slightly altered.
Maybe that’s why the place seems so unfamiliar to me now.
Murphy breaks off. The low tones of the prayer fade into silence. After a time, he says: ‘Please take some moments to remember Luke to yourselves and pray for his soul.’ He dips his head and we do the same. I don’t know whether I feel relieved or desolate that it’s nearly over.
Murphy takes the lid off the urn, sinks his hand into the ashes and lets them run through his fingers. ‘Ashes to ashes,’ he murmurs, ‘dust to dust.’
He steps to Julia, her face streaked with pain and grief, and as she releases a stream of ash onto the gentle breeze, she whispers some private message, then starts to cry and her mother goes forward to comfort her.
It’s my turn. Murphy holds out the urn. I put my hand into it and feel the sandy grit between my fingers, its surprising coolness.
‘Goodbye, Luke.’ I toss it into the air.
I can think of nothing else to say. Nothing that would do my brother’s life justice. Julia is weeping quietly now.
There’s still ash left in the urn. I dip my hand in again and this time feel the hardness of what must be the nub of an uncremated tooth or bone.
Then I fling the last of my brother into the wilderness.
The group of mourners breaks up and moves falteringly away from the river. The great Masai Mara is shrouded in darkness now. You can hear the nocturnal animals rousing themselves. There are rustlings in the undergrowth, and the great
chain of sound the crickets make begins to spin in one loop after another. They pick up the song the birds of the Masai Mara sing. Its verses are the same and its chorus too: Who cut the knot? Who cut the knot?
I stop and turn back to the place where we have scattered the remains. In the darkening light it seems too stark, too bare, too open to the elements. Fear rises in me again and the memories come flooding back: I’m five years old and standing on tiptoe in our parents’ bathroom, watching wide-eyed as Luke smears shaving foam over his jaw, then reaches for our father’s razor; or we’re sitting side by side in front of the fire on a Saturday night, our hair still wet from our bath, eating sandwiches while watching The Muppet Show; or I’m running to keep up while Luke charges ahead through a field of grass, a stitch starting in my side as his whoops and calls and wild laughter ring out; or it’s our first day at the International School in Nairobi, I’m sick with nerves, and Luke’s saying to me, in his older-brother voice, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got your back, or I’m standing on Killiney beach on a cold grey day, looking out to sea, when a white streak rips past me, Luke shouting with delight as he flings himself naked into the waves. I feel it all rising inside me, as if I’m brimming over with these memories of him as a small boy, before it happened, before it all changed, and with it comes the sense that, in scattering him to the wind, these memories of him are all taking flight – memories so precious to me now, because despite all that has happened, despite what he did back then, he was my brother and I loved him.
‘I don’t want to leave him here,’ I say, my voice cracking. I can feel the answering squeeze of Lauren’s hand in mine. It is supposed to be a source of comfort, but it’s not. Instead it triggers in me something fearful and alive.
I’m fighting what has happened, railing against it. And yet, if anything, the fear grows. I can feel it as definitely as my fingers find the line of melody in any of the late-night gin-joints I’ve played in, in any of the waywardly tuned piano keys I have pressed – a fear so real and so familiar it feels like a recurring nightmare. Like déjà vu. I shake with that fear, look out into the darkness and it’s there: the past stalking me like a late-night predator – stealthily, hungrily – coming towards me.
