My Childhood Room

Match Stick verses Lipstick

All families are the same, that is what I had believed up until I was twenty. The facts are each family is individual to themselves. Our family was certain different to those of my friends but only with hindsight could I have understood this. When you are growing up nothing really rocks your world more than a new brother or sister. My youngest brother was this unexpected bolt from the blue, understanding why just did not come into the equation. He just appeared one winters day at the end of November. Much to my sisters disgust as her birthday is 30 November. Ian was born in the early hours of 25 November 1967 five days earlier than his elder sister. I think this must have distracted from her birthday. My sister was two years younger than me and 5 years older than Ian. A difficult gap as I well knew being 4 years younger than my elder brother. The age gap can be a blessing and a curse all at the same time. I was not as charitable to my little brother as my older brother had been to me. Yes I did watch him grow up , and I did take him around with me as I got older, but in between times I have to admit I did not treat him that well. Practical jokes, dead legs, which he reminds me of today meant he become scared of me as he grew up. I now regret treating him that way. No excuse. I am sure his attitude towards me now was born during his growing up years. I can remember his first steps, his first words, the fact that he used to roll around the floor, never crawl. A mild manner baby that grew up in the shadow of an elder sister and brother. Adrian had left home at 16 and then again at 17 so although he was a part of the early years, an eleven year age gap is wide. I would take him out , play football with him but the age and strength difference would prove frustrating for both of us. One of my earliest memories linked to Ian was his joy of drawing. He could never get enough paper or pencils. He would draw on his arm and legs at the age of three. I can still see the boxed imagines of his people drawing in my mind today. I know my mother would have to watch him carefully as he would disappear , quietly vanishing into a corner just to draw on himself. I was not a good brother, I would encourage him to draw on his arms and legs just to annoy my mother, who would have to scrub his limbs clean. On one fateful morning my mother was busy in the kitchen, no doubt doing the clothes washing in her twin tub. Us children were all at a loose end and Ian had run out of paper and pencils. So the three of us took Ian upstairs into our parents bedroom. We were never allowed in under any circumstances. I knew we were doing wrong the moment we opened the bedroom door. My mother had a large unit wardrobe, not fitted just built in the room and lent against the wall. Dressing table in the middle, over head cupboard space and side wardrobe for clothes. The unit was very large, with much surface space. I think you are ahead of me ! I gave Ian my mums lipstick and pointed him in the direction of all that waiting space ! Needless to say he did a good job covering the whole unit including the mirror, in lip stick match stick drawings ! I think he was very quiet for well over two hours, finally returning downstairs by himself with his hands ,arms and legs covered in mum's makeup. Watching the horrified looked on my mother face , priceless ! Then the realisation of why Ian had gone unnoticed for a few hours. Following her as she ran up the stairs pushing her bedroom door open slowly, the four of us closely running to keep, hardly daring to look, peering from behind her loosely fitting apron. Ian had indeed been busy. His unique art work covered every square inch, including the mirror and the strip light. Red lip stick match stick men, women and dogs. This was brilliant ! Ian had done a far better job than any of us could have expected, even the walls had not escaped. Our mother's face, etched in horror, her over reaction to any situation legendary to us children, was for once warrantied. If you have ever tried to get lipstick off anything you would know how difficult it is. Even after my father had taken to sanding down some of the panels in a vain attempt to remove the lipstick the faint outline of Ian's efforts remained. My mothers dresser carried the scares of that morning for many years. Faded areas where the sandpaper had taken all the varnish off. Faded match stick men and match stick women enbeded in time. Ian has told me since this was one of his earliest childhood memories. He did not espace my father roff. He was mad, and even taking Ian's young years into account, poor Ian got the hiding of his life. Violence sticks in the memory. I am sure that my father knew no other way, repeating how his own father would have reacted. Learnt behaviour is no excuse for violence. But it goes some way to explain why. This took me many years to understand. This episode was not Ian's fault, nor should the responsibility fall on my shoulders. A lack of supervision was the issue. Children are unaware of dangers, right and wrongs, they need the attention and love from their parents. This was always lacking in our home. They would react and blame when we misbehaved but would seldom praise or encourage. Ian has recently said to me that he did not blame our mother for her lack of empathy, love and understanding. He believed that her own childhood had scared her so deeply that coping with the stresses of bringing up children was just too much for her. For a younger brother he has good insight. He has forgiven her for everything she lacked. I am still catching Ian up. That day still plays out in my mind. My part in it still hangs around, laced in guilt and laughter. But instead of anger, I have learnt to thank my mother for the lessons that I have come to learn and understand many years later.