schizophrenic brother

When my borther died I was living in Port Hedland, married to a professional. We'd been married about eight years and had a 2 1/2 yr old. I hadn't seen my brother for nearly that amount of time.
My brother's body was taken back to Newcastle for burial near to where Mum lived. I didn't go to the funeral.
About a month later I was in Melbourne. I visited my father and he came with me on a tram up Elizabeth St. I had bought sweets for the residents of the night hostel where my brother Stephen had collapsed, and thinking back maybe it was a dumb thing to buy, money as a donation may have been more useful.
We spoke to several guys working there. I handed over the sweets which were accepted with cordiality. One of them had known Stephen and was there when Stephen turned grey and slumped down a wall. They called an ambulance. The guys were polite. My Dad was less than polite. He insisted on collecting Stephen's bag. They couldn't find one belonging to him
"He would of had a bag. Come on you bastards whre is his bag?"
The guys maintained cool polite reseveredness. I thanked them and moved my Dad away. "No. He wouldn't have had a bag." I had descended into tears. The guys watched as we moved away from the office area returning to the road where we could catch the tram back to Flinders Street rail station.
About ten months later my husband and I had a second child. I often think of him as the re-incarnation of my brother Stephen.
Dad lived in Melbourne but had disowned Stephen. It's doubtful whether Stephen spent one night under Dad's roof after being sent to Melbourne from Newcastle by my mother. We were all 'dirty bludgers' to my father. He would never have allowed Stephen to 'bludge' off him.
There was nothing wrong with Stephen, according to my mother. Even though he attended Watt st psyciatric clinic and lived in a hostel nearbye. It was because he smoked pot that he had problems. However I think he was causing problems between her and her boyfriend.
She told him to go to Melbourne. His left his bag on the railway station at Newcastle. It must have had some identification attached because it was returned to her.
Mum was very good at hiding facts and glossing over events. In reality she may have seen him off on the train. He may have never packed a bag or carried his wallet. She may have handed him his ticket and a little cash for food. One never can tell when the story comes from Mum.

Mum and Dad separated after twenty-five years of marriage. She came back to the Newcastle, Sydney area of her youth. Dad stayed near his family in Melbourne. Stephen didn't last a year living rough on the streets of Melbourne. I heard stories sometimes from Mum that he had often been preyed upon and his belongings stolen. She always maintained that she didn't know where he was during that year. I had tried to find out his whereabouts by sending a photo of him to the Salvation Army. I later informed them that he had died.

I often think of him and cringe. Once when he and I were little (my older brother always seemed so grown up, Stephen and I were always the little ones)we were at Nana's. Mum and Nana were talking in the kitchen. They were impatient with us hanging around. Mum, crossly, told us to set the table in the lounge room. We carried thing in there. Stephen was carrying a big glass jar of honey. Just before reaching the table he dropped it and it smashed. He must have been about six years old. With great sobs he tried to pick up the honey which was now mixed with ash spilled out around the fire place. It ran through his fingers. He'd bend down to get more blindly groping through tears to put honey up on the plastic lace tablecloth.

Another time a watched him coming home from school. We were both somewhere near the front gete, but we never were friendly enough to walk together. He was balling his eyes out with diarrhoea running down his legs.
I could have felt sorry for him. Only no-one was feeling sorry for me. I could never get to school on time. I didn't know how to look after my clothes, hair or to be clean, and be like the other girls in my class. The playground was a frightening place and I'd never go into the toilet block because of bullies. One year a crippled girl in class had to stay inside during lunch and it was the best thing for me to be able to stay with her as a companion, but then I was banned from doing that. She, or somebody didn't want me anymore to be with her . Bannished to the playground, I wandered the vast tracts of low grass pretending to be friends with fairies and other small creatures making homes beneath the crawling dark green canapies of weed.