How My Brother and I Nearly Killed Each Other (Twice)
Kamikaze tricyclists and fighting on the beach
I grew up in the Fifties in Port Tennant, a tight-knit community on the east side of Swansea, in a world of terraced houses and sprawling, imagined battlefields, shared uneasily with my younger brother Peter.
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.
One of those truces came the Christmas we were both given tricycles.
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, racing each other from lamppost to lamppost, taking corners on two wheels, pretending we were motorcycle daredevils rather than small boys on children's toys.
The pavement 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 trouble was that Tymawr Street didn't end at another pavement. It deposited you straight into Wern Fawr Road, a fairly 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, spotted us shooting off the pavement and straight into traffic like tiny suicidal missiles. The interfering busybody.
Mam and Dad confiscated the tricycles. Probably saved our lives. At the time, though, it felt like the end of all joy and freedom in the world.
Looking back, the 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.
The physical warfare between us carried on for years, escalating as we grew bigger and stronger. Then, when I was about fifteen and Peter fourteen, it 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, until 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 got his hands around my throat and squeezed 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. Peter lost a fingernail.
We stared at each other in the aftermath, both shocked by our own capacity for violence. Something had shifted, a recognition that we'd crossed into genuinely dangerous territory.
We never laid a hand on each other again after that day. 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 knew, from that moment on the beach, that we could actually do serious damage to each other. Maybe even kill each other. And that was a line neither of us was willing to cross.