WHEN A BROTHER DIES

“They told me Heraclitus, they told me you were dead. They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the Sun with talking and chased it down the sky.” Epigram. It is always difficult when a brother with whom you were close, pitched marbles, rode canal carts, journeyed down to the sea of an early morning to bathe, shot blague (pronounced blag), burst key and nail, climbed trees and shared dreams, dies. A week ago my eldest brother, Erskine, died and to deal with it our fun filled childhood proved a needed Land of Return.

He was particularly good at marbles, whether it was ‘Three Hole’ or ‘Zupponex’ and could stay a reasonable distance away and with marble held between thumb and finger next to the forefinger flick it with such force and dexterity as to hit and split his opponent’s marble in two. He usually won at ‘Three Hole’ and enjoyed giving bonock to the loser. We would often, as part of a group from Lewis Street, Keate Street and Broadway (now Independence Avenue) in San Fernando go ‘Down the Cliff’ to the sea for a regular swim, whether at Channel, Flat Rock or Black Sand. Flat Rock was a point at the edge of the sea onto which part of the sea wall had fallen. We had lived at Lewis Street with its blended charm. I remember how on evenings, almost the whole street waited for “Buggy Top” Procope to walk by on his way from work at Pointe-a-Pierre, singing “At the Balalaika.”

There was the service station owner, who in 1936 and 1937 would turn on his radio full blast whenever Joe Louis fought, so that the neighbourhood could hear the matches round by round. Few had radios in those days. Then there was “Honey,” the almost blind joiner, who despite his problem would work away at his trade. There had been the Thornes, Aldwyn Carter, Rawle Blenman, the Swambers and Tommy Hudson. Tommy Hudson once gave a schoolmate what was supposed to be heavy fatigue for those days: “You can’t go to the fete tonight. You are wearing your brother hat.” It was a jest Erskine and I would repeat to each other over the years, drawing a laugh each time. When Erskine came back in 2002, suffering from three minor strokes, diabetes and what would later turn out to be a heart condition, and I visited him at his apartment where he spent his days for the most part alone, save for hired help, mention of Tommy’s joke could still draw a laugh. In our childhood days before World War II we would exchange notes on our hopes and dreams for the future. There would be limes at Harry’s parlour, a favourite meeting place with among others, Tommy Hudson, the Fredericks, Aldrich Gibson, George Holder.

There was an old Spanish tomb on a gentle incline some 200 yards or so from Flat Rock which we called the Sagrado Tomb. There were myths it was a tomb once filled with treasure and at nights was haunted by ghosts of Spanish pirates. The name Sagrado Tomb had been given to it by people because of the inscription on it, “Sagrado a la Memoria de Juan Meilkham....”. It was, Erskine, who would later, shortly after he had become a student of Queen’s Royal College in 1939, translate it for us as “Sacred to the memory of Juan Meilkham...”. Still, the name Sagrado stuck. There had been talk by politicians of saving the tomb, as a part of our history. Unfortunately, it was just politicians’ talk and years later, a victim of soil erosion, it slipped down the hill into Black Sand. My brother loved sports, and as a child at San Fernando E C School, would take part in athletics, as well as play cricket and football. In 1941, two years after entering Queen’s Royal he swept the Under 13 field in the sprints, winning the 100 yards in 12 seconds and the 200 yards.

Cricket would become a major love of his and he played cricket for Malvern and All Blacks. He was a fast bowler and his friend since his days at Queen’s Royal, Jimmy Grosvenor, remembers being bowled out by him on more than one occasion. He had joined the Customs and Excise Department in 1946, and although he had spent most of his time at Shed Five in Port-of-Spain, had spent three years in San Fernando. At the Customs and Excise some of his friends would be Jimmy Grosvenor and his brother Horace, C M John, Ian Lambie and Coach Oxley. In his Southern stint he served at Pointe-a-Pierre as well but was hurriedly moved out when he reported that there had been an error, in the company’s favour, of the quantity of oil being shipped out. In turn, the oil he discovered had been of a higher quality, which should have drawn a higher revenue for the Government. To this day I wonder how this was able to take place, how many had been beneficiaries, and why instead of being saluted for uncovering corruption, my brother had been penalised.

Our father, the late C G Alleyne, had been born in Barbados, and would often tell my elder brothers — Erskine and Eustace — and myself how his father had been of humble circumstance. His father, he had said, had been the son of an African slave, proud and ambitious, but his ability to ride above the ebb and flow had been severely limited by the constraints of colonialism, and his country’s then immediate slave past. I myself have often pointed out that my father had been the grandson of an African slave, and whenever I go down to the Beetham Gardens’ All In One Child Development Centre, of which I am a Director, I understand that the Centre’s pupils, their parents, the wider community and I share a common hurt. We are, all of us, products of an embittered past. I have spoken of my elder brothers, Erskine and Eustace, but there were other siblings — Vera, the eldest, who lives in Barbados with her husband Semper Goring; Kathleen, a teacher, who died in a tragic accident in 1981; Garth, a former University lecturer; Angela, a nursing sypervisor, who lives in New York, and Clyde, Britain’s first black television announcer.

My brother, Erskine, was married twice, the first occasion in 1955 to a childhood friend, a nurse, Ruth Callender; the second to Marcy Edwards. When in 1956 he had left for Washington’s Howard University to study medicine Ruth had worked long hours to assist him, financially, to realise his goal. Three chidren were born of this union — Ian, Bernard and Shelley. Bernard came down for his father’s funeral. Two were born with his second wife — Andre and Jason. After his graduation he specialised in Obstetrics and Gynaecology and once again Ruth stood at his side. But later somewhere along the road, they drifted apart and their marriage would end in the sad song of divorce.