How My Brother and I Nearly Killed Each Other (Twice)
Tymawr Street down which, for a short period, me and my brother made Kamikaze-like runs on our tricycles
I grew up in the Sixties in Port Tennant, a tight-knit community on the east side of Swansea where the world for my brother Peter and me was one of terraced houses and sprawling, imagined battlefields.
Like most brothers born close together, Peter and I did not get on. Not really. We fought, argued, and from my side at least, I was constantly irritated by his habit of trailing after me when I wanted to play with MY friends. We existed in a state of continual low-level warfare, punctuated by sulks and the occasional truce.
But between all the scraps and mutual annoyance, there were rare moments when we actually played together as allies rather than enemies.
One of those came the Christmas we were both given tricycles.
Freewheeling to Certain Death
They were magnificent. Bright, shiny machines of pure freedom. For a few glorious days, we rode them up and down the pavement outside our house like kings of the road, or at least undisputed monarchs of the kerb. We'd race each other from lamppost to lamppost, take corners on two wheels, and pretend we were motorcycle daredevils rather than small boys on children's toys.
The pavement, however, soon proved too tame for our ambitions.
It wasn't long before we discovered the thrilling rush of Tymawr Street, a proper hill that offered real speed if you were brave enough to let gravity take control. We'd push our trikes about a third of the way up, then hurtle down with reckless abandon, wheels spinning faster than our little legs could manage. The problem was that Tymawr Street didn't end at another pavement. It deposited you straight into Wern Fawr Road, a busy thoroughfare where cars and buses had little patience for kamikaze toddlers on tricycles.
Apparently, some vigilant neighbour (no doubt trying to preserve our young lives, the interfering busybody) spotted us shooting off the pavement and straight into traffic like tiny, suicidal missiles.
Mam and Dad, displaying wisdom but crushing our spirits entirely, confiscated the tricycles. Probably saved our lives. Still, at the time, it felt like the end of all joy and freedom in the world.
A Brief Ceasefire
Those tricycles represented something precious, one of the few things that united Peter and me instead of dividing us. For those brief, shining days, we were partners in crime rather than sworn enemies. We shared the same reckless enthusiasm, the same hunger for speed and danger, the same outrage when our parents curtailed our fun.
Looking back, our neighbour was absolutely right. We were maniacs, tiny, uncoordinated maniacs on wheels, with no concept of mortality or traffic laws. It's a miracle we didn't end up as cautionary tales in the local paper.
When the Fighting Stopped
The physical warfare between us continued for years, escalating as we grew bigger and stronger. But when I was about 15 and Peter 14, it all came to an abrupt and final end.
We were at the beach, playing football with friends. We'd been needling each other all afternoon, the usual brotherly provocations and petty cruelties, and the tension had been building like steam in a kettle. Finally, over something completely trivial, it all exploded.
We went at each other like wild animals, rolling in the sand, all fists and fury. Peter managed to get his hands around my throat, squeezing with genuine intent. In desperation, I caught one of his fingers between my teeth and bit down as hard as I could, tasting blood and grit.
When we finally pulled apart, panting and glaring, the damage was clear: I had angry finger-shaped bruises blooming across my neck, and Peter had lost a fingernail entirely.
We stared at each other in the aftermath, both shocked by our own capacity for violence. There was something different in that moment, a recognition that we'd crossed into genuinely dangerous territory.
After that day, we never laid a hand on each other again. Don't misunderstand, we still argued with passion, still found ways to wound each other with words, still probably hated each other at times. But I think we both realised, in that moment on the beach, that we could actually do serious damage. Maybe even kill each other.
And that was a line neither of us was willing to cross.