BrotherHood | Allen Jarvis
Kensington Gardens
We’re encircled by rabid packs of loud Americans. Loud Americans with their louder clothes, shocks of yellows and red, checks and tartan, and their louder again voices, noisome words ebbing with an untutored openness, phonemes totally unconstrained by public surroundings, best confined to the seclusion of homestead porches. Flecked among the Americans are the little Far Eastern peoples in their tidy Gap khakis, weighted down by bludgeoning super-cameras. Away to our right there’s a coachload of stunning Scandinavians, auburn and pale hair and perfect skins so supremely at odds with the ugly dog accents with which they bark orders at one another, their inflection - even on English words - totally detached from ours, vowels pitching high when we might pitch low, choice words finishing on down-tones when we would close on up. Inferior races – everyone knows that God’s a fucking Englishman. Your only problem with xenophobia is that it’s a bloody Greek word.
I know my place in decent society.
And this is where you came in.
“Daddy,” Lulu prompts me, tugs at my jacket sleeve, wrestling my mind free from these cosmopolitan scenes.
“Er, yes, sugar-pie?” I query her.
“Why did Princess Diana have to die, Daddy?” Lulu asks me, sort of sadly, sniffles a bit.
I’m not quite sure if she’s sniffling because she’s probably quite cold, the weather’s turned miserable in the last half hour, or if she’s actually genuinely upset - as we all are, or were - even at Lulu’s young and untried age, at the loss of such a supreme human being.
“God wanted to take her back to heaven with Jesus and all the angels,” I tell her gently, grip my arm round her a little tighter, offering additional reassurance and optimism. “She’s got important work to do up there now, sugar-pie.”
“But I never got to meet her, Daddy,” Lulu sniffles back, quite sweetly.
“You will one day,” Harry then asides as he careers past us once again, looking bored, unimpressed. “When you finally get upstairs, Loo-head.”
“Daaaaddddy,” Lulu begins to wail at Harry’s chill words but I stifle her histrionics, delicately rubbing the back of my forefinger across bone-china cheek, telling her, truthfully, with prudent words, “Just ignore him, sugar-pie, you know that little boys have no soul.”
Harry bounces back past us once again then stops in his tracks, taking in the full transcendent spectacle that is Kensington Palace. I watch his little face for a moment, touched that he might’ve at last developed some sense of the enormity of our surroundings but then his brown eyes go all vitreous. His mouth curls, he starts to gibe, “God, this is boring, when are we gonna go look at the ducks?”
I sigh, part exasperated by Harry’s divine ignorance, wondering why I deem to bother, what can I do to dilute his genetic malignancy.
“I mean, not that the ducks are any more exciting than this,” Harry mumbles to himself, tries not to look too interested, as if even looking just half interested would be too uncool for him, as it is for all boys, as it probably was for me at that age ... me probably, my brother Davie unconditionally.
I look from Harry, kicking his heels together, to Lulu, staring intently at Kensington Palace to Harry once again, still scuffing his shoes, dirtying the toes, from bad to good, serpent to seraph, then I attempt to interject a little excitement into our proceedings with an animated, “Come on, let’s see who can spot the most ducks on the Round Pond,” and the children screech and squeak, “Yeeaaaah,” and we all start up the incline and Lulu squeezes into my hand a little tighter, tells me, “I wish I was a princess, Daddy,” to which I respond, “You are a princess, sugar-pie,” and Harry snaps back, unkindly, “Yeah, and we all know what happens to princesses, don’t we?” then careers off ahead of us once more, as if he hasn’t a solitary care or emotion in the world, succumbing to his maleness the way all impudent boys do.
“So, what can we see the most of?” I’m asking cheerily as the three of us are stood before the Round Pond, the wintry wind ruddying our faces, Harry grasping my hand to the right, like he really doesn’t want to, and Lulu to my left, clinging on for dear life.
“Swans,” Lulu squeals, points, then adopts a more serious, throatier, voice. “Mute Swans - Cygnus olor - often kept in tame or semi-tame conditions in parks. They hold their necks in a graceful S-curve when swimming, with their bills pointed downwards.”
“Hmmm,” I return, not wishing to deflate the wind billowing throughout Lulu’s sails.
“There are far more geese than swans, Dad,” Harry tells me, quite deliberately, slowly, as if he’s a right clever-clogs. “Greylag Geese, I think you’ll find. With a few Canada Geese thrown in for good measure.”
“Swans,” Lulu chirps again, points.
“Greylag Geese,” Harry states. “Anser anser. The most widespread of the European geese. Heavier than other geese and with a conspicuously large bill. Is the wild ancestral form of the Domestic Goose and shares that bird’s familiar honking call. Actually, the Canada Goose honks quite hoarsely with a voice not dissimilar to that of the Whooper or Bewick’s Swans.”
“But the swans are in charge,” Lulu trills in again, even more buoyantly this time. “Look, they’re like soldiers.”
The Mute Swans are indeed lined up to order along the concrete bank just as Lulu describes, great white majesties, heedful eyes over all they survey, the common geese just squabbling for bread which this man in a green hat and raggedy beard dishes out for their benefit. You cannot help but think that any single swan could, at any point, stroll into the jumbled affray and casually, lazily, without so much as a care in the world, begin to gorge itself on premium bites without a single chivalrous goose daring to rear up, be counted, fight the frosted aggressor for pride and dignity of race.
And then ... the ... earth ... stops ... moving ... I do a double take on the man in the green hat and raggedy beard dishing out the bread for the birds’ benefit but ... no, it’s not him; he’s maybe of the right build, the right height, but the eyes are obviously wrong and, though his features are contorted by the hat/beard combo, I still somehow know that his head is simply not the correct shape. This is not how Davie Hood would look today. My thoughts unbuckle.
“But there are more geese than swans,” Harry is whining. “And that’s what Dad was asking so it’s one-nil to me.”
“Yes, you’re right, Harry,” I tell him through clenched teeth, masking my aversion to his conceit.
“So, what’s the next question, Dad?” Harry asks.
I drop down on my haunches, closer to the children’s eye-level, Harry just higher than me, Lulu still lower.
“R-r-right,” I say slowly, trying to determine which ocular inputs are feeding my daughter’s mind. “Okay then,” I’m saying as Lulu’s little head twists towards me, keeping three flying ducks resolutely locked in her sights. “What are those ducks flying across the pond now?”
“Which ducks?” Harry returns.
“Those ones,” Lulu pips, releases my grip to point at them with both hands.
“Mallards,” Harry returns quickly. “They’re Mallards. Two-nil to me!”
“You could’ve had that one, sugar-pie,” I tell my daughter, squeeze her side affectionately. “You knew they were Mallards, didn’t you?”
“Mallards. Anas platyrhynchos,” Lulu murmurs as if on autocue. “Drake easily distinguished by chestnut breast, dark green head. Duck has loud quack, drake much quieter.”
“That’s right,” I tell her. It’s important that my children learn such things, that they focus their minds, memorise these little mantras to keep their darker sides in check, much the same way as my affection for birds hampered Davie as a child.
“Daddy,” Lulu then sighs sweetly, slaps her lips together.
“Yes, sugar-pie?” I prompt her.
“I’m bored,” Lulu returns innocently in a voice which suggests that being “bored” isn’t necessarily such an awful thing, not the way Harry might actually employ such a phrase. “I want to go for a walk,” she adds.
“Hold on, sugar-pie,” I tell her, then ask, pointing to the edge of the pond, “What’s this pretty little bird just here?” as a distinctive white head bobs up then down in the choppy wavelets, the wind catching a hold on the water.
“A Coot, Fulica atra,” Lulu smiles. “Adults easily distinguished by jet-black plumage, white forehead shield and white bill.”
“Good girl,” I tell her, be irrationally positive, and plant a purposely wet kiss on her cold cheek.
It’s disturbing to think that my twin brother was claiming his first murder victim when we were but the same age as Lulu.
“Do you think your sister deserves a point?” I ask Harry.
“No, it’s still two-nil to me,” Harry huffs. “I could’ve told you it was a Coot much quicker. And that they’ve got green legs and enormous toes.”
“I knew that they’ve got green legs and enormous toes too!” Lulu returns happily then points into the distance once more, trills, “Swans!”
“Well, I would’ve known quicker!” Harry spites, stamps one foot forward, a boisterous act which just makes him look silly.
“Harry,” I affirm.
Harry says nothing, just looks slightly angry.
“Harry,” I repeat, warmer this time.
“Ask me a solo question - that’d be fair,” Harry half-whispers, turns his back on me, scuffs his heels again.
I don’t say anything, just wait patiently for Harry to appropriate himself, turn to face me once again. He knows all too well that it’s bad manners to turn your back on someone when they’re addressing you, but he probably feels aggrieved by my leniency towards Lulu so I decide not to castigate him for this act right now. “Are you ready for your question, Harry?” I ask him.
“Ready,” he sulks, sniffs a bit.
“What’s the difference between the calls of the Coot in front of us and of ... the Crested Coot?”
Harry thinks, opens his mouth and -
His impersonations are not quite exact, the Crested Coot’s call should be much deeper and set over two distinctive syllables but I award him a full mark nevertheless, I’m proud that he is perhaps developing some solicitude, some understanding for his earthly surroundings. I’ll make an upright citizen of him yet, keep his murderous side at bay.
“Right then,” I tell the children, clap my hands together, raise myself back to my feet. “The Round Pond’s boring today -”
“Boring,” my offspring sound.
“So-o-o,” I start, then quickly, “Let’s all go look at the Serpentine!”
“Yeeaaaah,” the children chime again and we all head on, clockwise around the Round Pond bound for the river, even more waterfowl, with Harry rolling on ahead, little Lulu chugging along in front of me, myself just taking it easy though, not even so much as jogging, more just stretching my long frame, speed-walking at best, mindful that Lulu doesn’t trip up, bring herself crashlanding into grazed knee territory. My children dance to the beat of my drum. Our little jaunt takes us past heavy green benches, boards expounding NO BATHING, FISHING OR DOGS ALLOWED IN THIS POND, isolated deck-chairs abandoned like waste litter, past signposts directing us to LANCASTER GATE or the SERPENTINE GALLERY, past the PHYSICAL ENERGY statue by G.F.WATTS, whose presence I don’t fully understand, then down another incline toward the choppy fractions of the Long Water, just where it converges with the Serpentine, as the wind starts to take a bestial hold once again.
“Mallards again! Mallards again!” Lulu is shrieking.
“Tufted Ducks!” Harry squawks. “Look Dad, Tufted Ducks! Aythya fuligula!”
“Pochards,” Lulu clucks, makes this one word sound oh-so-very-funny. “Pochards. Aythya ferina.”
“Drake easily distinguished from other red-headed ducks by its black breast and grey back.” Harry.
“Female more drab but has facial pattern and steel-grey ring on bill.” Lulu.
“Both sexes have grey wing-bars.” Harry again.
But it wasn’t always like this.
I’m lost here, someplace else, stood transfixed, like a complete stranger who’s gatecrashed this outlander’s virtual reality headset, where I might reach out at any point, flick the ON/OFF switch and I’ll be sat back at home with my Amy all snuggled up beside me, both of us engrossed in some nature program on the television. I am locked into the sight of this Grey Heron, Ardea cinerea, stood gallant, mere metres to our right, locked into this heron’s all-knowing, all-seeing gaze, his presence as yet unregistered by my children, his flank protected from the path by an overblown Weeping Willow, keeping a safe and noble distance from the ducks wrangling before us over pole-position for any morsels we might reward them, this heron just motionless and tranquil, Herculean and proud, upright, unflappable like three feet of black, white and grey steel protruding from the shoreline, its dagger beak poised as if to strike, the plume on its head blowing gently in the wind. Our minds and notions weave and intertwine and all manner of unspoken words spill forth, over distal boundless planes where -
“More Mallards!” little Lulu is twittering.
“Well they are our most widespread and common surface-feeding duck,” Harry informs her.
- over distal boundless planes where birds and man were once united, contrary kingdoms combined, before evolution compelled my species on through the first apes, Homo habilus and erectus, Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon men then the Homo sapiens of today, the birds’ advancement less circumscribed, not even the rudimental province of its feathers fully defined, whether they cultivated as simple insulation or as conceivable aerofoils - learned opinion is divided - not even the Archaeopteryx, the long cited transitional form, providing an unmitigated set of evidence, reposing as it does with both fully-formed reptilian and fully-formed avian features, not the half-bird/half-dinosaur one might seek in a truly transient -
“Look, Daddy, a Crane, a Crane,” I think Lulu is trilling at me.
“That is not a Crane, that’s a heron,” I hear Harry moan. “A Grey Heron.”
But then ... what? ... danger? We ... are ... in ... imminent danger? The heron shifts its head sharply, realigns its gaze and I am propelled back to an actuality where acicular arrhythmia takes a temporary hold.
Little Lulu and Harry stand before me, lost in some meaningless argument, bouncing trivial words back off one another - “Is,” “Isn’t,” “Is,” “Isn’t,” “Is so!”
And so I’m spinning, my heart sidestepping to an irregular beat, unable to pinpoint our immediate menace, rabid thoughts buffeting this way then that, like bulls on a Pamplona run and then ... he is there, my angst pinpointed, masked behind the trees, a hundred metres or more between us, silhouetted dark as rain-clouds pull close overhead. He is there watching me, noting my movements, keeping his distance from me, my family, the clinical sniper he undoubtedly is looking for all intents and purposes like some casual stroller taking in the crisp air of a Saturday afternoon, lingering for a moment, me watching him watching me watching him. Then he turns, without haste, makes his way leisurely up, back through the trees, his body nearly lost to the darkness, the immediate distance between us growing with his every studied stride.
I take a pace forwards but I don’t know why as I’ve no intention to follow him.
“Look Daddy, it’s a Crane,” Lulu calls, tugs my trouser leg.
“Dad, tell her ... it’s a Grey Heron,” Harry states quite matter-of-factly. “When in flight, is distinguishable from a Crane because it withdraws its neck.”
“It’s a Crane,” Lulu squeaks again, tugs my trouser leg again.
“It’s a Grey Heron,” Harry says, quite casually. “What do you think, Dad?”
“I think it’s my brother,” I eventually mention.
“Sorry?” Harry giggles after an empty pause.
“Nothing,” I tell the pair. “Daddy’s just tired.”
The demon of my youth is coming home to roost.
The heron sounds a rasping ‘kaark’ somewhere behind me.
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