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BRIAN ALDISS
Brothers of the Head
for darling Wendy
first to hear of ‘The Bang-Bang’ rockin-anna-rollin in the back of a Volvo proceeding like a bat out of Hell from Hunstanton ‘Well, I was shocked …’
Contents
3 Excerpt from taped interview with Nickolas Sidney
5 Continuation by Roberta Howe
6 Statement by Dr Alyson Collins
My wife and I were driving home with our children. We had been staying in a bungalow on the north coast of Norfolk. Whilst there, she and I had had one of those matrimonial rows that blow up now and again.
Suddenly, a dream I had had during the previous night returned to mind. ‘A nightmare!’ I exclaimed. Immediately, of course, my family wished to hear about it.
So I told them.
I had dreamt the story of two boys who were conjoined at the hip and could not be separated. But worse still, another head was growing from the shoulder of one of the twins: a silent alien head.
My daughter Wendy was particularly distressed – eventually I would dedicate the story to her.
The dream lingered. I believed it to be prodromic – foretelling illness – but I built on it all the same. An exploitive music company took up the conjoined twins; transforming them into a novelty number they called ‘The Bang-Bang’. They performed with moderate success.
Looking up the reality of their deformity, I found there was a medical term for it: diprosopus tetrotus; a defect in human babies causing them to be born with two heads. Very sinister.
In Brothers, this extra head eventually speaks. After its years of imprisonment with the brothers, it has nothing good to say. It demands its freedom.
Yet it is a strangely poetic story, and the story of its publication is also. Brothers of the Head was the first book to be published by Pierrot Press. The Publisher there was new. He phoned me and asked me to meet him by a park bench in Red Lion Square. Was he a secret agent? An escaped prisoner? It was dusk when I went to meet him. He wanted me to write him a strange story.
The book was published early in 1977. It was originally accompanied by surreal sketches by Ian Pollock, which perfectly enhanced the story. Possibly five thousand copies were printed, two thousand of which were exported to America. The odd square shape of the book, the amazing illustrations, and my strange story helped the book to sell rapidly – so rapidly that the publisher (Philip – second name, alas, forgotten) flew out to New York to get his two thousand copies back.
They sold immediately, but nevertheless Philip went broke – such are the hazards of publishing.
Brian Aldiss
Oxford, 2012
This volume is a memorial to the unhappy life of my brothers – their strange, unrealized, dual life. Although it ended in murder, and many people who like to pronounce on such things have said that my brothers’ entire existence was a form of slow murder, they did enjoy happier times. It is not an easy matter for any of us to weigh up the balance of joy and sadness in another life, even one as close as my brothers’ was to mine. Perhaps when we grow up we should not be so concerned with judging such things, but simply get on with the job.
When Tom and Barry were young lads, they did not realize that they were marked out from all other children. One thing was as strange to them as another, all was accepted without questioning. Father took us to live on L’Estrange Head when mother died, at which age I was only a tot of three and the boys mere babies. In the wild surroundings of the Head, we children were thoroughly at home. We all loved this beautiful spot in which I still remain. I’m thankful they returned to the Head in the end, before the last act of their tragedy was played out.
We could name all the plants growing on the Head, thanks to the teaching of our father. Down in the salt marshes, where the land is still regularly washed by the tides, grows a plant called the grass wrack. The wrack is often immersed in the sea for long periods. It can even flower under the water, and nature so provides for it that its pollen is water-borne. I often think of that humble plant in connection with my dead brothers. They also had their flowering, however submerged it might have been.
Nobody can deny that our family, the Howes, and the neighbours on the mainland, with few exceptions, looked on poor Tom and Barry as a stigma, a freak of nature. The boys, poor innocent mites, were never properly forgiven because mother – who was greatly liked by everyone – died in giving birth to them.
