It is no revelation that growing up
with siblings necessarily shapes
character, their influence less
deliberate but often just as enduring
as parents. As the middle child of five,
I’ve never known life without them – not
to mention my extended family, which,
since my mum is one of eleven siblings,
always promises a chaotic Christmas.
As we progressed academically, rivalry
was inevitable, and the compulsion to
compare was not assuaged by my parents;
I definitely don’t miss the side-by-side
comparisons of school reports that had
such a seminal influence on my teenage
development. My older sisters, with their
uninterrupted string of perfect grades,
set the precedent, and when the eldest
graduated with a First from Cambridge,
my fate was sealed. In spite of this, we’ve
always been close. A sheltered countryside
upbringing and proximity in age made us
constant companions by default, so that
the shift as we each leave for university is
freshly disorienting every time.
Between us, we cover the spectrum of
communication styles; we’d make an ideal
sample set for a psychological study. The
eldest, with frequent phone calls, updates
on her crochet projects, and requests for
pictures of our dog, has never felt far away.
Paradoxically, going our separate ways
has brought us closer together; distance
makes you appreciate those aspects of a
person which continuous proximity tends
to dull. The second oldest couldn’t be more
of a contrast: her default setting is radio
silence. None of us know her whereabouts
at any given moment. I’m still reeling
from the night when I bumped into her
in Bridge, without even knowing she
was in Oxford. A reaction on the group
chat, or, if we’re lucky, a photo every few
months, are the few fragmentary glimpses
we’re afforded into her external existence,
otherwise kept discrete from her home
life. Each has adapted to independence in
a drastically different way.
I like to think I strike a good balance,
calling regularly enough for mutual
reassurance, while maintaining the
right level of separation to foster selfsufficiency. Whenever I go back home, no
matter the interlude, it’s easy to slot back
into its unbroken rhythm, as if resuming
a conversation we’ve been having for
years. The fallacy of a space frozen in time
overrides all complications; I find myself
stubbornly ignoring the extra centimetres
my brother has gained in my absence, out
of a desire to find him unchanged. Home
feels like a constant: the march of time,
which, at university, sweeps me up in its
progression, seems to decelerate when
I’m back in the milieu of my childhood.
My youngest sister, who never says
“Goodbye”, or “Welcome home”, provides
comforting continuity. Even if I’ve been
gone for months, I can expect the same
rapport, balanced with a unique ability
to antagonise me, the same secondaryschool gossip, the same caustic judgement
of whoever I’m dating at the time.
Despite its appearance of static
progression, things do change at home.
But no matter the developments that
come with moving out, no matter the
level of communication we maintain
while apart, I’ve never felt estranged from
my siblings. It’s comforting to know that
they’ll continue to be witnesses to my
life – getting on my nerves and stealing
my clothes – whether we’re in the same
nightclub, or halfway across the world.
