A SISTER’S LOVE, A FAMILY’S LOSS

Keith and I were born in the 1950s, in a world rebuilding after the war. A safer time, or so we thought. He was three when I was born. By the time I was two, he was already off to school. We lived in a tiny two-up, two-down cottage in Wood Green—a little no-through road with a park at the end. It was simple and sweet.

Keith had a friend nearby. They used to play in the garden, crawling through a gap in the fence like it was a secret passage. We had no bathroom back then. I remember us bathing together in a tin bath in front of the open fire. It’s one of my earliest memories—and even then, I felt how much we loved each other. Keith was three years older, but we played side by side. He was always drawing, always reading comics, always kind.

He used to read to me when I was little. He was clever like that—always ahead. Dad worked long hours, and Mum stayed home with us. I remember when I was two or three, Dad won a small amount on the football pools. Mum bought some new furniture for the front room, I got a doll pram, and Keith got what would become his beloved train set. I still remember the big board Dad built for it. We’d slide on it in our little shared bedroom. Keith played with that train set for years—adding stations, bridges, parks, people. It was already clear how creative he was.

He was always gentle with me. I don’t remember him ever being cross or losing patience. He would wait for me when we walked, hold my hand without being told. He went to Bounds Green Primary, same as Mum had. He loved school and was a bright, well-behaved student.

Our family all lived nearby—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—so we were always surrounded by love and familiar faces. His cousin Lawrence, the same age as Keith, was his best friend. They were inseparable. And when Keith died, Lawrence never truly recovered. He was a huge comfort to me back then, helping me fill in the missing pieces of Keith’s teenage years when we’d started to drift into separate friendship groups. Lawrence passed away in his 60s, still grieving. Just like the rest of us.

When I was four and Keith seven, we moved to Rye Park, Hoddesdon. Our old row of cottages in Wood Green were being demolished to make way for flats. My grandfather had the chance to buy the whole row, but he said property was just a chain around your neck. He bought the Horse and Chains pub in Bushey instead, for my grandmother to run—just like he’d promised when they met, back when she was a barmaid at the Elephant and Castle. My other grandfather, on Mum’s side, lent them the money for the house on Rye Road. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder—what if we’d stayed in Wood Green? I’m sure Mum and Dad asked themselves that same question a thousand times after Keith died.

Keith and I both went to Rye Park School. He was always top of the class. One headteacher, Mr. Chancellor, saw something special in him and encouraged him to sit the 11+. That’s how Keith ended up at Broxbourne Grammar. Dad built a camp for Keith in the garden, and a Wendy house for me. We were always allowed to have friends round to play. Keith loved to read and sometimes, when the doorbell rang, he’d say to Mum, “Tell them I can’t come out to play today.” We had birthday parties in the garden and visited family in Palmers Green every Saturday. It was simple, happy, perfect.

I was nine, Keith was twelve, when our younger brother Robert was born. We both adored him—little Bobby. I remember one camping trip when he was just a baby—we stayed in a farmer’s field in Brightlingsea. Keith and the farmer’s son built a den out of a haystack. We pushed Robert’s pram across the mudflats, all five of us—Mum, Dad, me, Keith, and baby Robert. Those are the golden memories.

Keith was a wonderful teenage brother. We babysat together so Mum and Dad could have an evening out. He was always quiet, always listening. You’d look over and he’d be sketching—just quietly taking everything in. He started learning guitar around that time. I remember going with him to a band audition. He didn’t get it. But he was my Google before Google existed—always thinking before he spoke. He helped me through friendship dramas, break-ups, growing pains. Always with kindness. Always with wisdom. I hope I did something good for him in return.

He never asked for anything. We were brought up to be kind, to be content, to treat others the way you’d like to be treated. That was one of Mum’s mottos. And Dad—well, he was always whistling or singing.

And now, I’m crying again. Because it was all destroyed by one terrible, meaningless act.

Keith moved out at 19, into a shared house with old school friends. It was exciting for him. He needed to spread his wings. I wish he hadn’t. I really miss him. Even though he lived nearby in Broxbourne, and we still saw each other, I wish I’d spent more time with him. He was always there when I needed advice. Always had a kind word for me. We’d bump into each other in the pubs around town in the evenings, and he’d be there—quiet, smiling, laughing gently. Just being Keith.

And now I’m crying again.
Because our lives were changed forever one summer evening.

It is inconceivable to imagine why anyone would do what they did to my brother. Was it jealousy? He was good-looking, smart, kind. Or was it someone just lost to violence and rage?

I was seven months pregnant with my first child when it happened.

The next part is too painful. I can’t rewrite it, but I’ll try to explain.

It was early—6 a.m. I still remember the phone ringing. My dad calling. He couldn’t wait any longer. But he knew I was pregnant.
“Something has happened to your brother,” he said.
“Which one?”
He asked for my husband. “Is Norman there? I’ll speak to him.”

But I already knew.
I ran upstairs, praying, “Please God, don’t let him be dead.”
But Norman had to tell me. We drove to Mum and Dad’s. I hugged my baby brother Robert. We couldn’t stop crying. The baby in my belly twisted and turned as I sobbed.

I never went back to work after that. Norman dropped me to Mum and Dad’s every day until the baby was born.
Mum stayed in bed most days.
Dad kept going over the day Keith died—he had spent the day with Keith, had dropped him off. Nothing made sense.

Dad died many years later still never knowing what happened. Never finding peace.

Unless you’ve lived it, you cannot understand how this kind of loss shapes your life. You become terrified of death. Terrified of something bad happening to those you love. The pain is unbearable. It never goes away. And when it’s not illness, not an accident, but a choice—a deliberate act of violence—it’s even harder to bear.

I heard my mother once say, “I couldn’t have carried on if not for my other two children.”
She meant it.
And we knew it.

When my baby was born, I walked her to Keith’s grave every day for a year. I sat there and cried. And I never really stopped crying—not inside.

This is not something I’d wish on anyone—not even on the person who took him from us. Because even they must suffer, must live with what they’ve done.

And this is what we need to show young people—to help them see what a single act can do. That a knife doesn’t just end one life—it destroys families, sends out shockwaves, changes futures.

Keith was kind.
He deserved to live.
And we will never stop missing him.