Our near neighbours the Allen brothers may only have been separated from one another by a couple of years chronologically, but in terms of outlook, behaviour and character they could scarcely have been more different. Michael was determinedly self-reliant, at times seemingly almost to the point of xenophobia. There was an intrinsic aggressiveness verging on brutality about him that suggested a deep-set disappointment with the world, or at least with his own experience of it. Over time, this intensified, and became, for me, an intermittent source of real uneasiness, and even, on one occasion, outright terror.
Richard, by contrast, exuded a kind of puppy dog gregariousness to which it was hard not to be drawn. Like me, he had an insatiable curiosity about the world, and his place in it, which was never sullied by the kind of cynicism exhibited, and at times luxuriated in, by his brother. Occasionally, indeed, it felt as though Richard was actually my brother, not Michael’s – the brother I had never, or only very briefly, had.
Michael’s and Richard’s parents, who preferred to be known as Eddie and Janet rather than the more usual ‘Mr. and Mrs Allen’, seemed to me to be partners in a much fuller sense than my own parents had ever been. They not only appeared to enjoy one another’s company, but they actually did things together, such as going out to a restaurant, a club, or to the cinema, drive-in or theatre. They even went away on annual family holidays. On Sunday afternoons during winter, Eddie would play soccer for his works team, and Janet would invariably accompany him. Often, Richard and I would tag along as well, although watching a game of soccer was the very last thing on our agenda. In the early days, we would spend our afternoons climbing trees, or searching for insects and lizards if the weather was warm enough, or staging mock ninja fights. Before very long, however, such childish pursuits were cast aside as we both became consumed with an insatiable passion for footy, and thereafter we devoted our time to honing our kicking and handling skills, engaging in one-on-one contests, or re-enacting incidents from the matches we had watched on television the previous night.
Sometimes, of an evening, Eddie and Janet would go out together, just like my mum had told me she and my dad used to do before they were married. On such occasions, Michael and Richard would be left in the ostensible care of my parents, which in practical terms meant that I would be presented with a marathon evening of play, discussion and, if Barbara was allowed to stay up late as well, sister-baiting.
Despite being an avowed atheist, and always being anxious to present an image of himself as an unequivocally rational being, Michael was, in actual fact, a creature of considerable inner contradiction, tension and confusion. He appeared to derive a substantial amount of pleasure from scaring, confusing and upsetting those younger or weaker than himself, and my sister was one of his favoured victims. However, although some of the methods he used might loosely have been described as having a basis in logic, most manifestly did not. For example, he was extremely keen on ghost stories, many of which were told in the first person, and presented not as fiction, but as events that he, and sometimes his brother Richard also, had actually experienced. Typically, Michael would insist that most if not all the lights in the room were turned off in order to produce the desired ambience, and the tales tended to feature much in the way of moaning and wailing, coupled with sudden bangs and other loud noises, all of which were guaranteed, before long, to reduce my sister to a quivering, near hysterical mess. One particular story, which featured the Allens being forced to spend the night alone in a deserted castle haunted by the headless ghost of Ann Boleyn, caused Barbara to have nightmares for months afterwards, but despite – or perhaps, perversely, because of – this, she always seemed eager to hear more such tales.
One of Michael’s biggest coups came when he systematically dismantled Barbara’s faith in Father Christmas. Barbara would have been aged just over three and a half at the time. We were at the Allens’ house on this occasion, and Michael was in an overtly confrontational mood. Richard, Barbara and I were discussing what presents we would like for Christmas, and Barbara said something about writing a letter to Santa Claus (or, more likely, getting me to write such a letter for her). Michael snorted with contempt. “There’s no such person as Santa,” he said. “Your mum and dad buy your presents from the shops.”
Richard, obviously a little taken aback by this unprovoked assault, hissed warningly, “No, Michael……..”
But Michael said, “Shut up – she deserves to know.” And then, to Barbara. “Your parents lie to you about Father Christmas. He’s just make believe, like Cinderella or Snow White or the three little pigs. Ask John.”
Barbara looked at me with a mixture of silent entreaty and defiance.
Gee, thanks Michael, I thought, as, somewhat feebly, I endeavoured to balance frankness with a brotherly solicitude for my sister’s emotional well-being. “Why would Mum and Dad lie to you?” I asked.
“To keep you as their baby," Michael interjected. "To keep control over you. Is that what you want, to go on being Mummy’s little baby, sucking a dummy and wetting your nappy all your life?”
Barbara, who still secretly sucked a dummy, and who on occasion also wet the bed, judiciously elected to say nothing.
Michael, however, sensing that he was on the verge of a kill, was relentless, and he proceeded, with painstaking logic and clarity, to dismantle, piece by piece, the now tottering edifice of my sister’s faith in ‘The Santa Claus Myth’, destroying in the process an integral aspect of her nascent, hitherto undiluted perception of the numinous. Much of what he said was, in all probability, beyond my sister’s understanding, but even at this early age she boasted a questing and analytical mind, and could see that some of Michael’s arguments were incontrovertible. When he had finished, Barbara sat quietly sucking her thumb, obviously somewhat cowed and shaken, but determined not to show it.
Michael, however, was not satisfied with simply undermining my sister’s trust in her parents, and sense of childish wonder. Wanting to strike while the iron was still hot, he moved on to what he saw as another cornerstone of human dependence, ignorance and immaturity. “It’s just the same with God,” he told her. “He’s just a fairy story, too.”
“He is not so a fairy story!” retorted Barbara, sure this time that she was being teased. “God lives in heaven,” she added, authoritatively.
“Oh, yeah? And where’s heaven?”
Barbara pointed solemnly upwards.
“On the roof?”
“No, silly! Up above the sky.”
“Above the sky?”
She nodded.
“But there’s nothing above the sky. The sky’s above everything, and goes on forever. Scientists have proved it with their telescopes.”
But Barbara was having none of it. “He’s up above the sky, like magic – and you’re just a stupid boy!”
Nevertheless, her unquestioning assurance had been shaken, and it would not be very long before her faith in God would suffer the same fate as her belief in the existence of Santa Claus.
