In the week my brother died, there was a storm in the universe. Giant flares erupted from the sun and a pink aurora lit up the Auckland night. I woke to a smell of burning. The sky had turned hard, cloudless blue; the days shone with photographic clarity.
I swam in a full tide at Cheltenham. I thought, my brother should be here. The horizon traced a sharp, turquoise line and Rangitoto Island looked strangely close. The sky was an aquamarine skin, the air was still and the sea was glassy. The colours seemed mineral, chemical, intense. There was a lurid wash over the world. The universe was blazing.
The last time I visited my brother in Wellington, the wind blew open the door and his papers whirled around us. I thought of Katherine Mansfield’s story The Wind Blows. It’s a vivid account of a brother and sister. I went home and wrote about him.
We texted and talked on the phone, and during our last conversation, he told me he was cooking. He’d made kahawai with salsa, and date scones. He was going to share the scones with his neighbour.
My brother was the brains behind our most absorbing childhood exploits. As a boy, he was inventive, imaginative and a meticulous researcher. He would read about a subject, announce a new project and oversee its operation. I would be sceptical, then increasingly entranced, because his ventures worked. They were successful because he put so much thought into them.
In the south of France, at his sole direction, we caught lizards and then spent every day catching insects to feed them. Back in New Zealand, he read that native tree geckos could be found in the bush. I was doubtful, until he led our successful hunt at Karekare. He built a terrarium and our captive geckos thrived because he’d researched every aspect of their care.
With the neighbourhood kids, we worked on raft building and hut construction. He created a salt-water aquarium, and was interested in astronomy. He built a loft for homing pigeons; soon, the gully was full of cooing white birds. One night, he dragged us to the Auckland Domain to see a predicted meteor shower. I didn’t believe him until, miraculously, the sky lit up with streaks of green flame.
The summer I was 10, he had the family driving around Britain searching for Roman ruins. He would pinpoint a spot on some moor or heath, direct our father to drive there, and we would locate the ancient dolmen or temple. In London as kids, we felt starved of nature, and he had a fantasy that we would own a yacht. He talked about it in our room at night, outlining equipment, describing imagined voyages. I was a sharp little critic, laughing at his ham acting, but inevitably, I would fall silent, listening.
Before he died, I told him a story. A new project would begin. He would pack a bag and head to the airport. He would travel, visit art galleries, go where his new researches led him. He would leave old burdens behind; he would rediscover how to live.
During his funeral, as we watched a photo montage, heavy rain abruptly roared on the chapel roof. One of his friends from the Auckland Museum waiata group sang for him, and before she began, told us, “That sudden rain was a tohu, a sign. It means he is here.”
He will always be here. On the breakwater, at the bay, in the huge rain on the iron roof. At Karekare, on the black sand, forever walking out of the Pararaha, running home.
