Bricks, Mortar and the Passionfruit Vine

It was during the blissful existence of a childhood summer holiday that the cubby house was built. My sister and I were constructing a place of sanctuary, and a sense of purpose to the seemingly endless stretch of empty days that spread before us. The far corner of the front garden, in a narrow space between the old brick garage and high wooden fence, was a perfect site. Madeleine and I began by pulling out the weeds and struggling plants that grew in the damp, semi-shaded earth; sticky weed twisted through red geraniums, grass grew in tall wilting clumps and the passionfruit vine wound along the fence. Leaving the vine untouched, we worked side by side in childish anticipation of the end result that our hard work would produce. After clearing a small area of dirt, we decided on a ‘floor’ of bricks, in an imitation of paving.

Although five minutes younger than my sister and incidentally slightly less mature, at that stage of our lives I was the dominant one; decision-making was allocated to me and I gave myself the position of ‘leader’. The bricks were stacked in a pile in the back yard, a crumbling pile originally part of an old chimney. There were many half bricks, most of them still covered in sandy mortar and hiding spiders, snails and small creepy insects. I led the way, in bare feet, from the front garden up the narrow side of our old house, squeezing past the hot water cylinder to emerge in front of the brick pile. I could carry only two bricks at a time, and before starting my trip back past the house I would inspect each side of the bricks in case there were any spiders clinging on. Gripping the bricks with the tips of my fingers tucked around the bottom, I made my way back, dodging the creepers that grew along the fence, past the cool brick walls with the crunch of dead leaves and dirt under my feet. I made countless trips that afternoon, passing my sister as we moved back and forwards. When a large pile of bricks had been relocated to the front garden, Madeleine and I began laying them flat on the ground in a haphazard paving style. We then mixed together sand and water in a bucket and placed it between the bricks in the style of mortar, finishing in the cool of late afternoon.

The next morning, and many to follow, involved getting up early to go outside and continue working on the cubby. I can clearly recall one particular morning when we were constructing a roof. Crouching on our wide and splintering front verandah, I hammered the old boards together while Madeleine occasionally offered advice. In shorts and t-shirt, with my usual bare feet, I basked in the bright sunlight, listening to the hum of insects and distant lawn mowing. Nailing the planks together gave me a sense of satisfaction and pride. At least this feeling I shared with Madeleine; many of our friends owned cubby-houses that their parents had simply assembled from the hardware shop, while we were actually making ours by ourselves.

When it was completed, I loved being in the darkened cubby, watching the slivers of light that snuck through the holes in the roof, and listening to the snatches of conversation from people walking past on the footpath on the other side of the fence. Madeleine and I would sit there together and discuss improvements we could make to the structure. Yet our closeness was in proximity only, for as eight year olds we were never close in the true meaning of the word; we didn’t discuss each other’s feelings, nor did we share the kind of intimacy that many people expect from twins. Realising that changes to the cubby would be our source of entertainment, we discussed only this. It was in this way that our relationship was simplistic, based on a common goal and rarely involving emotions other than frustration when the cubby building was not going to plan. Our relationship was strange, defined by the boundaries of home and school. While we amused ourselves in each other’s company at home, it was a different matter once we were at school. My sister wanted nothing to do with me, largely because her ‘best friend’ took pleasure in deliberately showing a sort of hatred towards me; she would make nasty comments about me to my friends and the two of them spent their time whispering together about me. Even at the time, I felt a sense of injustice about the fact that although my mother knew about this, it was never talked about.

My brother, who was five years younger than my sister and me, joined forces with Madeleine and constantly told me that he ‘hated’ me. At such a young age, he probably only did it to enjoy my reaction, and for the support that my sister gave to him. I had no trouble making my own ‘best friends’, yet it was difficult to understand Madeleine’s attitude towards me. Perhaps at that age she disliked being a twin, something that I would experience years later. Although we aren’t identical, there are constant comparisons between us and many people have the expectation that we will both achieve at the same level in everything. However, during these holidays we had a mutual understanding that the cubby house was a place for both of us to share, and a low fence of white palings balanced on little brick piles marked a line that no one could cross without permission. The brick wall of the garage that made up one side of our cubby became a signature wall. Any visitors that our family had were invited to come and admire the cubby, and to sign their name in brightly coloured chalk, one name on each brick.

An old shed in the back garden held many useful pieces of equipment. I would squeeze through the peeling white-painted door and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I would find pieces of black and white lino, or an old bottle, or half buried pieces of china, which ended up in the cubby. One day Madeleine and I found a long green piece of hose coiled up in the shed, and realised that it could be an effective means of communication between the cubby and the other side of the solid, brick garage. We poked one end of the hose through the roof of the cubby while the rest of the hose was draped over the garage roof and down to the other side. Although we were only a few metres away from each other when using the ‘phone’, we were separated by two brick walls, and without the hose could only communicate by yelling. This was how we let each other know to pick up the ‘phone’; if Madeleine were in the cubby, I would yell “Ring! Ring!” and she would pick up the other end of the hose. I could hear her slightly echoing whisper of “Hello” when I held the hose up to my ear. She would then say, “Over” to let me know when she had finished speaking, and I would move the hose to my mouth and whisper my reply into it.

A number of memories revolving around my home are also related to that time of my life. Playing hide-and-seek, I would pick my way through the raspberry canes growing in front of the back fence until I could crouch safely in their midst, surrounded by leaves and berries, or I would sneak through the tiny window frame into the back shed and climb up to the rafters. I could look down onto the junk in the shed, thick with dust and spider webs, and squirm with excitement when the ‘seeker’ poked their head through the window, yet didn’t look up. I remained undiscovered. If I happened to be outside when it was dark, I would creep up the side of the house and pull myself up to the window by grabbing onto the sill until I could peer through the glass into the lighted rooms. Like imagining noises at night, it was a self-established kind of apprehension; one of being discovered whilst on a mission unknown to anyone else, one of stealth and of a childish amusement.

At around the age of ten, when Madeleine and I gradually merged into the same friendship group, if we invited a friend over to sleep the night we always played a game that we had made up. It was a cross between ‘hide-and-seek’ and ‘chasings’. We played in the bedroom that we shared, and still do share. It had to be played at night when it was totally dark, with any light coming under the door blocked out. At that time, there was a ‘glow in the dark’ cards phase at school, and Madeleine and I had a small collection. In the game, one person was ‘it’ and would use the card as a source of light while they attempted to find the other two people who were hidden in the room. It was impossible to move quickly around the room for fear of bumping into a desk, bed, chair or any other large object that was deliberately placed in an awkward position. I loved playing this game if I was not the person who was ‘it’. When you were hiding, the secret was stealth and silence. I would creep from one hiding place to another, breathing quietly and placing each foot slowly and silently on the carpet, then shrinking back out of sight as the glowing light headed my way. One particular game, I asked my friend, who was ‘it’, if they could go out of the room until Madeleine and I hid. Then pulling back the blind, I climbed out of the window onto the roof. Standing on the sloping corrugated iron, I lent against the brick chimney for support and waited in excitement. The thrill of being alone, high up on the roof at night without my parents’ permission made me smile involuntarily.

The fascination with the cubby house continued for another year or so, until gradually we stopped heading out to that corner of the garden. We had moved into another phase of both friendship and interests. The black plastic placed on the roof to water-proof the cubby blew off during strong winds, and the old planks of wood toppled over and lay in the damp garden. When we finally got around to taking down the roof, most of the chalk signatures on the wall were still there, and stayed until the next bout of rain.

Of course my relationship with Madeleine changed over the years, closer some years than others, and sometimes involving frequent fighting. When people now ask me whether I like being a twin, I find it difficult to answer. Shrugging, I usually respond with, “It’s okay”, while the questioner goes on to say how much they would either love or hate it. I used to enjoy being a twin, and I’m sure that as I get older I’ll appreciate it more. While I always have someone to talk to and go places with, there is only a certain amount of time spent with one another that we can endure. I hate the fact that many people will presume that my personality and interests mirror those of Madeleine’s, and I am still asked questions such as who is better at art, or sport, or school in general? Other people, even close friends, assume that we are ‘close’ because we spend a lot of time together, still sharing the same main friendship group.

As I write this, there are still bricks lying in the corner of the garden where nobody goes any more, and weeds that mingle with the flowers growing wildly near the passionfruit vine. Madeleine and I now have college as the basis for our friendship, with the discussion of similar worries that this entails. At this stage of my life I feel as if we are closer than we have ever been, although we still never discuss each other’s feelings. This is mainly to avoid arguments, which we never have, but I’m sure would bring us closer together. As we head into adulthood, I feel as if it is common interests that keep us, and our friendship, together.