Read Small Man in a Book for Free Online

maharajah, returning from school and entering the smelling-of-furniture-polish house, whereupon he would sit down in front of the television and wait for his mother to bring him his tea on a tray, which would then be consumed while watching Magpie or some such show. The house had an open wooden slatted seventies-style staircase which was kept polished to such an extent that it became quite dangerous. Every time I visited I would take off my shoes in the kitchen and David and I would pad around the house in our socks. He would tear up and down the stairs at breakneck speed, by now familiar with the amount of slippage, whereas I would cautiously make my way up and down while gripping the banister like a man slowly regaining mobility around his home after a serious accident at work.
    Once we’d negotiated our way down the ice wall of a staircase, we’d run outside to the field behind the house to play football. I’d be happy to be in goal so long as he’d tell me where he was going to place the ball and I could execute a dramatic dive. That was part of being an actor; I was always aware of how things looked and wouldn’t mind engineering a situation where I would be the butt of the joke, providing it got a laugh, providing it was interesting. After an evening playing outdoors with David I’d arrive home out of breath and head straight to the kitchen, where I’d pour myself a few glasses of water, passing Mum and Dad in the living room sitting in the oh-so-1970s brown fabric swivel pod chairs, bought at the furniture warehouse set up in an old aircraft hangar at Llandow.
    In my mind Robin’s Nest is on the television, the windows are steamed up because Mum’s been boiling fish and my little brother is on the floor. Pete was born in 1973, eight years after me, a gap large enough to mean that I always felt as much a paternal influence on him as a fraternal one. We never fought or were competitive with each other. There was no sibling rivalry whatsoever, to the extent that when I had my own children many years later, with just a few years between them, I was amazed at how siblings can fight. I’d never known anything like it. Having said that, in researching this book I came across a picture of a young me and a very young Pete, in which I’m glowering at him as though he was the most unwelcome guest to ever arrive anywhere!

    A little put out by the arrival of my brother Pete.

    Plotting his demise …

    I think back on the eight years before Pete was born as years in which I was an only child, but this is not the case. In April of 1971 Mum gave birth to my brother Jeremy. I was about to turn six in May. I’m afraid I have no memories at all of Jeremy, the only image I can conjure up when I think of him is of my mother sitting on the settee at Woodside, crying. Jeremy died, without warning or explanation, in August of that year, a victim of sudden infant death syndrome. I can’t imagine how this affected my parents; it is unbearable to try.
    As a young child I can remember a comforting glow of certainty in my surroundings; while Dad was often away at work, Mum was always with me, ferrying me around here, there and everywhere, to Swansea, Neath, Briton Ferry … you name it, we went there. In my hazy childhood memory we’re in a Vauxhall Viva, the one with the rectangular speedometer. We’re waiting, Nan and I, in the car outside C&A while Mum pops in for something. It’s raining hard and the wipers are flapping across the windscreen.
    I have a very strong memory of being snug between Mum and Dad in bed and feeling that all was well with the world. ‘Snug as a bug in a rug,’ as Dad would say. Dad was always as much a friend as a father. He was also quite flashy; he had a way with words that betrayed his profession, that of a salesman. He sold cars. When I was little, he sold them from a large showroom in Margam that is now buried deep under the M4 motorway as it prepares for its flight of avoidance over Port Talbot;