Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never Let it fade away
You remember that old 50s hit by Perry Como? It came to be, for me, the signature tune for our island. For the first few years of my childhood it acted as a warning. Whenever it was whistled, sung, or played in our small town it signalled an inspection coming from the mainland. Officialdom was on its way to ensure we had no un-certified goods, illegally obtained drink or foodstuffs. In other words, nothing that had made life bearable during the war and the extended rationing that followed. That tune could be relayed person to person from one end of the island to the other far quicker than word of mouth. It was our ‘jungle drums’ and everyone, on hearing it, had a responsibility to pass it on. One memory that has become fixed in our island folklore is a certain Sunday morning when the church organist broke into the tune and by the end of it the vicar found himself facing an empty church. He brusquely made for the door and went home to hide his own booty.
‘You love all this, don’t you?’ my elder brother scoffed affectionately. He shook his head. ‘Crazy kid.’
Sean was four years my senior, already attending high school on the mainland and into ‘The Stones’, ‘The Who’ and ‘The Beatles.’’ He was heading towards six feet, had black hair and almost black eyes, with an inbuilt confidence and easy going charm that made him effortlessly popular. Sean was at ease with himself and I, with my brown hair, pale grey eyes, and social shyness, idolised him.
‘I’m off. See you Pod,’ (his nickname for me).He put his comb in his back pocket and strode off to meet his mates.
Five years later I visited my brother during his first summer in Edinburgh after he started university. It was another world. His shared house smelled of joss sticks mixed with something sweet that I couldn’t identify. It was filled with sitar music and seemed to host continual parties day and night. Sean had grown his hair, and like everyone else, wore brightly coloured clothes, often embroidered. He had a beautiful girlfriend called Mel who left me dumbstruck. I blushed whenever she spoke to me.
‘Hello, baby brother’s in love,’ Sean teased. ‘Don’t go stealing my woman.’
‘Why not? He’s adorable. I love you both.’
Mel gave me a hug and I thought I’d faint. The whole atmosphere was calm and happy. Looking back I now realise that was probably down to the weed, although I wasn’t allowed to touch it.
‘Not on my watch Pod. You’ll have plenty of time to break the law when you’re older.’
My idol allowed me the odd lager and I sometimes helped myself from half empty bottles of wine lying around.
We didn’t hear much from Sean as a rule. He’d send postcards usually and we assumed he was OK., but the year I took my A levels, he forgot my birthday. No card – nothing. I pretended I wasn’t hurt and tried to get him on the phone number he’d given us. ‘Catch A Falling Star’ came on the radio during a programme featuring 50s hits. Was this a warning? Don’t be stupid. I battled with myself for 24 hours, tried Sean’s phone again to no avail and packed a rucksack. ‘I just need to make sure he’s alright’ I told my parents. ‘I’ll call you when I get there.’
This time the house just smelt – garbage, and stale booze. Most of the old tenants had left including Mel and my brother was semi conscious, pale and sweating. I called his doctor who diagnosed bronchitis, gave me a prescription for antibiotics and pointed out un-necessarily that Sean had been neglecting himself.
‘He needs plenty of liquids’ he instructed ‘and if there’s no improvement in three days, or signs that he’s getting worse, call me again.’
At some point the next day as I was clearing the place up a familiar voice, albeit weaker than usual came from the bed.
‘Didn’t have you down as the happy housewife.’
‘Ever heard of women’s lib?’
‘You sound like Mel.’
‘You sound like Dad.’
One of the old housemates staggered in carrying a half empty bottle of whisky.
‘You look rough mate.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Brought you something – cheer you up.’
‘He’s on antibiotics. No drink,’ I ordered.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Baby brother’s in charge Pete, but it was a nice thought.’
When Mel arrived, full of concern and obviously feeling guilty, she didn’t seem drunk or stoned so I gave her some money and sent her shopping for provisions and new bed linen.
‘What happened between you two?’
‘Didn’t work out.’
‘Oh?’
‘She went off with some physics professor. It’s all a boring mess Pod. We thought we were gonna change the world. Why’re you looking after me anyway?’
‘You looked out for me often enough.’
‘True. Remember that pisshead Morgan?’
‘Morgan Price?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘You nearly put him in hospital.’
‘Should have done, while I had the chance. Does he bother you these days?’
‘No. He’s probably frightened, my big brother will come back.’
As Sean grew stronger I thought we should address the elephant in the room.
‘What about your degree?’
‘What degree?’
‘The one you came here for.’’
‘Didn’t even bother to take the exam. Hadn’t been to lectures for months. Too stoned and drunk to do anything. I’ve messed up haven’t I?
I remained silent.
‘Go on say it.’
‘OK you messed up!’
‘Now what?’
‘Come home.’
‘Home? What for? To kill myself on a fishing boat or look at a cow’s backside for the rest of my life?’
‘No. Go home, get well then come back and start again.’
Black eyes focused on mine.
‘You’ve changed, you know that?’
I shrugged. ‘Grown up possibly?’
‘Yeah. You’ve grown up.’
In the event Dad’s brother, our uncle Jack, who lived in Stirling and whom we’d met maybe twice in our lives, was commandeered to drive us to the ferry. When we docked Dad would take over.
Sean worked the fishing boats and herded cattle that summer while re-applying for university. I worked with him some days. I was revising hard, ready to resit my A levels. I’d need higher grades if I wanted to get into medical school. My brother asked me once how I knew he was in trouble. I shrugged and said ‘I just had a hunch.’ I knew if I told him the truth I’d never hear the end of it.
—
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
