We were joined at the hip – that’s not a metaphor. We walked with disjointed, ambling steps in perfect symbiosis, swaying from side to side, but never falling. We were dressed in two pink-and-white smocks that billowed into one from the waist down. There were no photographs, but I would picture us as babies, joined together, smiles wide.
I remembered every detail of the separation. Tubed and monitored, we shared a hospital bed side by side, the only possible position. You were a kicker; your left leg swung into my right at regular intervals all through the night. From our window we saw the Houses of Parliament and boats drifting down the Thames. The chimes of Big Ben resonated hourly, vibrating through our diaphragm (always referred to in the singular).
Our separation was the talk of the hospital. Piercing whispers circulated round us.
‘Aren’t they sweet?’
‘Such pretty little things.’
‘How does anyone tell them apart?’
‘Look at that black curly hair…’
‘… And those lovely dark eyes.’
‘Coo-ee. Come on, darlings, give us a smile.’
‘It must be strange for them.’
‘They don’t know they’re different. To them, all this is normal.’
‘They’re joined here, and here, you see? They’re very fortunate. No vital organs are involved.’
Doctors and nurses stood above us, proclaiming the phenomenon we were. They examined us minutely, measuring each response and finding new ways to emphasise our difference, a source of sorrow for you – you couldn’t bear the thought of us divided. Eventually they split us in two. I’ve always thought that two were better than one, but of course you begged to differ.
Our scars were long, fibrous lumps that ended mid-thigh. You would run your finger over yours, claiming it was testimony to the whole that we once were.
There was a wall in our bedroom filled with collages you’d made, each piece overlapping, faces doubled, carefully cut from magazines. Twin girls. They were there for years, even when we had outgrown them, because you were compelled to keep them visible. When I asked you about it you said that if you had been a doctor of medicine, or a psychologist, your need to study twins wouldn’t have been seen as strange, it would have been rewarded with research grants and sabbaticals. You always wanted to grasp why the pair of us existed. There was a documentary you watched that said identical twins were a kind of cosmic joke, God’s little prank on an unsuspecting world. You relished the description.
Our mother, Viv, found us exhausting. She’d only wanted one baby, but she’d got two. When our father Rudy came home from work, she looked at him tearfully and said, ‘They only want to be with each other, they’re hardly aware of anyone else. How can I look after them? They don’t even seem to notice me. I don’t feel like their mother. I don’t know what to do with them.’ Viv believed that we were everything to one another and had no need of her.
‘You’re exhausted, Viv, that’s all,’ Rudy replied. ‘Two babies at the same time when you already have a toddler would exhaust anyone. They’re doing fine, everybody says so. Just give it a bit more time. We’ll manage.’
‘Of course we will, Rudy,’ our mother said, though it was clear from the anxious look that was still on her face that she didn’t really believe it.
Our mother had pale, slightly freckled skin, and long, thick hair, parted in the middle. Each morning, she would brush it with impatient strokes. She disliked its auburn colour, but we knew it was beautiful – our mum was beautiful. Her smile was warm (though she didn’t allow herself to smile often enough) and she had long, slim legs; her hips swung elegantly when she walked. Our father was tall and muscular with tight black curls, brown skin and glasses that gave him the look of a Caribbean Clark Kent. I often hoped he’d turn into Superman. And then there was our brother: kind, generous Cal, the only other person we wanted to play with. Eighteen months older than us, he knew the best games. He had racing cars, planes and Meccano. He taught us to make cranes, complete with string, that would lift tiny objects when we turned the handle. We loved the story of Little Red Riding Hood, so our mother made you and me red cloaks from old velvet curtains, and a wolf suit for Cal, cut from an old fake fur coat, with pointy ears and a tail. At first he chased us all over the house, his growls loud and rumbling, but we soon tamed him, and he went to live in a den at the bottom of our tiny garden, where the Riding Hoods fed him biscuits and cake – much tastier than grandmothers or small children. Do you remember Cal? Do you remember how it was when there were five of us in our south London house?
Perhaps you don’t remember living there. Perhaps, in time, you won’t remember much at all. I will keep reminding you. But whatever happens next, I know you will remember Harriet. I know you will remember her.