Diary of a Lone Twin

by David Loftus

  Deep grief, tinged by all the other associated emotions that come from the individual circumstances of such a loss, have had the spiralling effect of distancing us over the years. None of us can want that, and none would have predicted that. But we have always since that day struggled to express our emotions and feelings.

  It has also brought out some of our best qualities with others, especially kindness and an ability to think of others in a different light. As Dad would say, for us to be ‘gentlemen’ in the true sense of the word.

  Going forward we can never forget, and we can probably never forgive until we hear the word we have wanted to hear for thirty years. But I hope we can listen to our hearts and bring ourselves back closer together. Perhaps use each day to value what we have, to find a reason to laugh and be happy, but still allow ourselves to remember and to cry. I hope beyond everything that we all find our peace together.

  I love you dearly.

  Your little brother.

  Mushroom

  Friday 26 October

  Shooting for the Sunday Times, Tom Kerridge, in North London

  The night of 25 October 1987 was awful, a restless night at home at The Beeches. Mother was very late back and Molly and I didn’t really know what to do with ourselves. I spent hours at the snooker table just thwacking balls aimlessly at corners trying to create any distraction possible. When at home I was deliberately not drinking, trying to keep my mind clear, aware that the phone could ring at any moment. When Mother eventually came home she was fraught and exhausted. John was not conscious any longer and again I prayed late and long that somewhere and somehow they would save him. During the morning of the twenty-sixth I worked at John’s desk, another overdue illustration. Mother had gone up to the hospital alone, not wishing me to see what John was going through there. The pressure in his brain was far too high from the meningitis, the headaches and fever so bad, and the lumbar punctures not working to relieve that pressure, so the decision was made to insert a reservoir into the ventricles of the brain to relieve the pressure and enable the doctors to give John his antibiotics directly into the reservoir.

  It’s called an Ommaya reservoir and I can understand Mother’s keeping me away that day. Like the initial surgery to remove the tumour, the surgical notes are too graphic and impersonal for my perusal; it all seems impossibly barbaric to the uninformed like me. A neurosurgeon makes an insertion, under general anaesthetic, through the top of the skull and inserts a catheter into the gap between the ventricles of the brain, attached to a small dome-shaped device just beneath the scalp, attached to the catheter. This allows the doctors to deliver medicine into the cerebrospinal fluid and take samples, directly into the area of the brain that makes the fluid and so relieve the pressure on the brain.

  Saturday 27 October

  Clear and cold, pyjama day at the Mews. 4°C Dear Ange out shopping for my birthday presents

  The broken folio case in the print room at the Mews had one final gem to present me, after much tugging, pulling and contortionism. An A3 spiral-bound, bent and wonky sketchbook, the watercolour paper jaundiced with time. Page after page, beautiful sketches on Paros, the view of the Castro church from my window at Jane’s, several more of the boatyard at Naousa, a drawing of the view across the fishing port towards its grand church, the ancient Castro arches at the end of Jane’s street, the higgledy-piggledy architecture of Parikia and Lefkes. Each sketch is annotated with notes, each word, even his name, ‘John Loftus’ a little gift to me, marks I have never seen before now, extraordinarily precious for me to find when I have so little of his.

  * * *

  On 27 October 1987 I was eventually allowed to see John, curled up in his tell-tale protective foetal position and still unconscious. I was able to study what the neurosurgeon had done to the top of his head. He had to shave a bit more of John’s precious hair off, right at the top of his head, and I had expected to see something more gruesome, a Heath Robinson contraption for the head. Instead there was a small bandage hiding the entry point and a small valve in which the doctors could inject and sample. My immediate thought was of his hair, that and the painful thought of catching it on his pillow if he moved. I stroked his head, which still felt alarmingly hot, and anointed his lips with lemon balm to try to keep them from drying out. He was terribly frail and there was absolutely nothing else we could do but sit, stroke, whisper to him in the hope that he could hear us while his brain battled to recover.

  * * *

  On 27 October 2016 we had breakfast on the rooftop of Riad El Fenn in Marrakech, listening to the call to prayer from the Koutoubia Mosque, the snow-capped Atlas Mountains on the horizon. Flocks of sparrows swarmed around as we awaited the arrival of our friends and my Ps, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited, so full of life, so happy.

  Sunday 28 October

  The Mews and the boat Cold day. The first frost, hailstorms and sunshine

  The twenty-eighth was a quiet day for John, who was still very poorly though his temperature had lessened a little. He was still in Intensive Care but the neuro-doctors were feeling a bit more confident. I did at one point hear the sentence, ‘It’s really up to him to fight it’, and looking at his weak and unconscious body I felt desperately helpless. The idea that he might be well enough for a birthday party now seemed totally unrealistic. Samantha was by his side most of the time and fiercely protective of him, overwrought and overtired and understandably tetchy. So I only stayed an hour or so to give her a break and whispered in his ear that I’d found him ‘the best birthday present’.

  * * *

  25 October 2016 was a glorious day in Marrakech. In the warm sunshine, Ange and I spent the day welcoming guests. Her parents and siblings had arrived from Australia and I met them for the first time and we settled them in a neighbouring riad. We spent the day rushing around, meeting and greeting; friends were landing from London, New York, LA, Australia and all over Europe. El Fenn was now exclusively ours so it was a merry scene of drinking Sahari Gris rośe and Moroccan teas, poured from a great height, to the soundtrack of the sparrows and the call of the mosques. Tim and I toasted to John and to Nick and to absent friends and partied into the evening.

  Monday 29 October

  29 October 1987 saw the first improvements in a while in John’s condition. He was conscious for a while, tired and weak, thankfully not remembering the pain of the past few days; I even got a frail smile or two, which raised my spirits considerably. I got excited enough to suggest reinstigating our birthday party, but, quite rightly, I was reminded that there was still a long way to go yet. I remember walking back down Wimbledon Hill with a little more bounce in my step, more confident than I’d been in a while. I spoke for a long time with Mother that evening while Molly baked in the kitchen; I’d bought John and Samantha a holiday for his birthday present, Easter weekend in Venice, travelling on the Orient Express, returning on Concorde, and she was quietly confident that, as long as there were no setbacks, he’d be well enough to travel then. It cost me every penny I’d earned.

  Poor Mother was exhausted and both of us were knocking back painkillers. I’m pretty sure I had a permanent tipple in my hand as I spent the evening playing solo snooker in the dining room, tinkering on the piano or playing Devo songs on my double bass. I had the overwhelming feeling that I was treading water, though not in a relaxing way, only just managing to keep my head up and out. I was late on several commissions and my agents really didn’t understand, Debbie was impatient with me to go out and play, as were my chums, but I was so desperately worried for John and utterly helpless to aid him in his recovery. I was lost. People I know love autumn. But to me autumn is the leaves turning, trees falling, wind howling, time moving slowly, that shared childhood fear of Halloween, John’s and my fear, aged five, of witches. Twins born on Halloween, hiding behind our beds, curtains closed, fearing every movement of shadow and light.

  * * *

  29 October 2016 was my wedding day in Marrakech, pos
sibly one of the most joyous days of my life. Here are some of my more memorable moments:

  Tim, Simon and me hilariously trying to sort 140 place settings, all hand-drawn by me, on the floor of our bedroom, the sight of which reduced Ange to tears.

  Champagne countdown beside the fireplace, with Jamie and Tim, my two best men. Adjustment of flowers on my linen Nehru jacket and tucking Strawbod into my left pocket.

  Wandering down to the courtyard below, filled with smiling friends, Moroccan mint teas and biscuits among the trees, tortoises dodging unintentioned kicks around their feet. Sigur Rós playing to the background chant from the Mosque. Hugging abounds.

  Jason Flemyng, master of ceremonies, always so smart, a man who can wear a scarf with aplomb in any temperature, fussing Tim, Jamie and me into the orange courtyard, under the fruit-heavy bows. A sea of rose petals, thousands scattered everywhere among the rows of chairs and pouffes and cushions, a more romantic scene impossible to imagine.

  140 hugs and kisses of welcome.

  Paros and Pascale, Paros in smartest of suits, fitted the previous week with his Papa at Hackett on Sloane Street. Pascale in charge of her small portable record player, essentially a suitcase with a turntable, needles and speakers, a crappy microphone pointing at the speaker. Playing ‘Into My Arms’ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

  The sudden drama of Tim Etchells, who had been warning the guests not to mistake the petal-covered pond as anything but a long and deep pond, disappearing up to his groin in said pond, Jamie screaming with laughter, recording every moment on his camera, chum Neil laughing so much he shatters the chair beneath him. The wonderful El Fenn ladies all in head-to-toe red, rushing around with mops and buckets of rose petals.

  My wife, arm in arm with her mother and father, either side of the pond, walking towards my open arms, unbearably beautiful in an ivory dress, designed of course by herself and based upon a Sandro dress I once gave her, layers of French Chantilly lace with flowers and swirls and curls everywhere, backless and breathtakingly serene.

  A kiss, the holding of hands, smiles everywhere as the music stops.

  The readings: ‘Castle in the Sand’ by Norman Lourie, read by brother and sister Morris, Rebecca and Luke; ‘The Blessing of the Apaches’, read by Jason Flemyng; an extract from The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas, my favourite book of all time, read by Johnny’s old boss and dear chum, Peter Matthews:

  The friends we have lost do not repose under the ground . . . they are buried deep in our hearts. It has thus ordained that they may always accompany us . . .

  Pascale plays ‘Windmills of Your Mind’ by Terry Hall’s The Colourfield on her little player to silence and tears from all. I hug my brother Ian.

  More readings: Katie Millard reads an extract from Winnie-the-Pooh; Jeff Bennett reads from The Little Prince by fellow pilot Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, spoken so softly it was almost said just to Ange and me.

  Ange and I exchange rings, me receiving the amber ring she once bought me from The Great Frog, a homage to my days as a punk, my hands already cluttered with silver skulls and fiery hearts, Ange with a silver heart of her own, her rings having been ‘lost’ by the Australian postal service. Instead of traditional vows we perform an exchange of roses, in which we hand each other a perfect bloom, in front of a beaming Jason and Tim and a snapping Jamie, my two groomsmen.

  Jason reads ‘The Art of Marriage’ by Wilferd Arlan Peterson, one of the greatest odes to matrimony.

  To tears, laughter, smiles and roses, Ange and I walk slowly, either side of the petal-strewn pond, accompanied by the birdsong of the sparrows and ‘Perfect Day’ by Lou Reed on Pascale’s player. For a quiet moment it’s just the two of us, knowing that hers is a hand I will never let go of.

  A rainfall of rose petals and 140 hugs, cuddles and kisses, handshakes and high fives, champagne and Sahari Gris flowing to a soundtrack of a lifetime of our music.

  We climb the winding staircase up to the roof garden, the tables stretching to every corner, thousands and thousands of rose petals in fifty shades of oranges and reds, a milky setting sun, the Kartoubia Mosque framed against the snow-capped Atlas Mountains, storks rising on thermals and the sparrows, in their hundreds, murmuring like starlings, filling the orange trees for evensong.

  Tables filled with happy friends on kilims and cushions and lounging on pouffes, candles lit everywhere, vases overflowing with roses, glasses overflowing with rosé, peppered with delightful tales of Ange’s childhood shared by her sister, Mon. And I discover the nickname of Ange’s youth, ‘Moth.’

  Plates of aubergine zaalouk, taktouka mixed peppers, khobez with green olives, confit pumpkin with honey, sesame and walnuts. Carrots in chermoula, salads with orange, walnuts and orange-blossom water. Moroccan breads and Sahari Gris. Then chicken and lamb tagines, slow-cooked local beef tanjia with Moroccan herbs, couscous with seven vegetables, curled mhancha, oranges in cinnamon and b’stilla with chocolate sauce, crème anglaise, fresh fruits and almonds.

  As I stand to read my speech the mosque call to prayer launches at full volume, and I await the end of its beautiful chant. I talk of John, of being a twin, of my happiness as a father, my happiness as a friend to all present, the love that was missing in my life until I met Ange, and I read to everyone our favourite passage from The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman.

  And when they use our atoms to make new lives, they won’t just be able to take one, they’ll have to take two, one of you and one of me, we’ll be joined so tight.

  Ange gets up to say an impromptu speech, a surprise to me, thanking her family and friends who’ve travelled from Australia to Morocco, and Paros and Pascale for accepting her into the family, telling me, ‘The vows we shared today are ingrained in my heart and I’ll do everything I can to honour those words.’ Pascale giving a heartfelt, tearful and beautifully eloquent speech, welcoming Ange to being a Loftus, telling all how happy she is to see us happy with each other.

  In the best man’s speech stakes, Tim raises the bar impossibly high, then Christian Stevenson, a.k.a. DJ BBQ, takes over my rooftop playlist, my indie and miserablist music replaced by James Brown and Aretha Franklin and a call to join him back beside the pool for the first dance, ‘I Need My Girl’ by The National. I’ve changed into a vintage Comme des Garçons linen number emblazoned with an overblown image of busby-wearing brass bands in full march, looking better than it sounds.

  Dancing around the pool beneath the huge palm trees, candles everywhere and fire pits in the marble tiles, the hot ashes rising into the warm air creating a ‘firefly’ light show of their own.

  Wandering up to our room in the wee hours, following a trail of thousands more petals, pinks, whites and reds, all the way to our bed where Ange, exhausted, slept peacefully on a bed of roses.

  Hyper after such an extraordinary day, I watch Ange fall asleep in our enormous four-poster, the room heady with the fragrance of flowers. Its like a field of roses.

  Tuesday 30 October

  30 October 1987 and John was slowly improving. He had been moved from Intensive Care onto one of the wards. This was a mixed blessing for poor Johnny as it was a hospital for those with serious brain injury, and this was a particularly disturbing ward, noisy and quite chaotic. Most of the patients were quite young and very sick. One was a young scaffolder hit on the front of his head with a falling pole, another a youthful City banker who had crashed his Porsche driving too fast around a blind corner. Both had returned, upon awakening after their accidents, to the mental age of four or five, maybe even younger, their stunned and disbelieving families around their beds completely unable to handle the human tragedies unfolding in front of their eyes. At one point John and I watched a junior nurse trying to take the stats of one young man while he exposed himself and pissed directly into her face, not intending any harm, his brain having been shaken to a mush.

  * * *

  30 October 2016 was a quiet and sunny day spent on the rooftop of Riad El Fenn, head to toe in white l
inen, no shoes all day, even in the evening chill, a wedding breakfast of bread dipped in oil, and honey and, my choice, shakshuka, a tomato and egg tagine. Many chats of the day before’s events, more hugs and kisses and quite a few goodbyes, the beginning of a sad post-nuptials exodus back home.

  Wednesday 31 October

  Halloween. Our birthday The Mews and Cheam

  31 October 1987 was a sober affair. John managed to open a couple of presents, we had a piece of birthday cake each and a small smuggled tipple. John’s birthday card to me was heartbreakingly simple, written while suffering a wobbly left hand, double vision and a cracking headache.

  Such a lot of effort had gone into that writing and it sits beside me now at my desk. I got Johnny to open my present to him; I’d collaged a homemade card with images of old Venice, Italian stamps and historic railway trains. He was shocked but delighted and that moment, sitting on the covers of his bed, I felt sure he’d be okay for the Easter departure. He was still having his drugs, gentamicin, administered through the reservoir in his head and he asked me to describe it to him. I was being honest when I told him that it didn’t look as bad as it sounded. We stopped opening presents soon after as he was terribly weak and emotional. We agreed we’d leave the bulk of his present opening, and there was quite a pile, until he was a bit better and away from the chaos of the ward, which was truly horrific.

  * * *

  31 October 2018, a card bearing a painting of a barn owl saying:

  31 October 1963 Twin boys were born, John and David

  31 October 2018 All love to David today and for the future, Mum

  Since John died my birthday has been a reluctant affair, a yo-yo of emotions, laughter often followed by guilt and tears, although there have been some memorable ones.