It was just sad that he didn’t read himself any more. He talked about the importance of plot structure and leaving the reader wanting more. Kev didn’t think it was silly that I wanted to be a writer: he actively encouraged me. He gave me his old computer to type on and encouraged me to write. His face was more red, speech slurred, eyes swollen. I was 10 years old, and I had an older brother who now spent most of his days sitting in his bedroom.
His marriage fell apart and soon his drinking meant Kev was signed off from a job he loved and excelled at. But of course all cracks deepen in time and the mask begins to slip. I didn’t know then that he was working long hours, that he was struggling, and drinking to cope. He made me appreciate the wonder of words. Kev always seemed full of life – talking, laughing and coming up with ideas. He was the one who’d take me out for surprise shopping trips, or for weekends away at his house where he and his wife would take me to amazing firework displays and other outings. In my early life, Kev’s long hours as a nurse meant he didn’t often visit, but when he did he brought a different energy to the house, and a kindness. Then my older brother walked into the house, carrying a bag of books. I hated missing school and was bored silly at home.
I was around five years old and stank of calamine lotion – my entire skin was cracked pink with it. One of my earliest memories of Kev was when I was sitting miserable and uncomfortable with chicken pox.
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