It’s a strange experience having your baby brother run
off and become a pop star. One thing Harry’s ascent has taught me is that
suddenly you’re not seen as a normal person any more, but some famous ‘thing’
who simply came into being when a camera was first pointed at you. People
scurry to gather tidbits of information about his life, wether they’re readily
shared or not, to try and understand where this creature with the hair and
silver boots came from.
I was three when Harry was born. As such, the first
memories I have of him are typically hazy mix. The little things are what stick
with me the most: our old house and garden, climbing frame, family dog. Max war
a border collie/lurcher cross, the only grey speckled puppy with a curly tail
and multicoloured eyes, from a litter of pure black. I chose him out of
affection for his weirdness and we adored him. When Harry was probably only one
year old he’d be laying on the floor with Max, or join him in his basket, all
blond hair and giant blue eyes, then would suddenly take his dummy out and
pointedly shove it in the dog’s mouth instead, like something of The Simpsons. Max looked somewhat puzzled but sort of let him get on with it.
Harry has that way about him.
He was very loud. I think the first time I got in
serious trouble is when I pushed him off a chair because he wouldn’t stop
crying. Then there was the time Harry actually tried to get me in trouble, when
I told him WWF wrestling was all staged - he took it as a personal insult and
as revenge told Mum that I was the worst thing he could think of… a drug
dealer.
“No she isn’t, Harry… she’s nine”
When I started school in Holmes Chapel, on hot days
when the school-run cars were lined up outside and the parents were passing the
time, Harry - never scared of attracting attention - would be stood up in the
back of the car, entertaining everyone through the open window. Even then he
had that sort of magnetism that made people just want to watch him. He made
people laugh. Babies still tend to stare at him now - it’s kind of weird.
Harry the little boy was boisterous. He didn’t find it
difficult to make friend and had his first girlfriend at the age of four or
five. he would do that he wanted but often it seemed that what he wanted was to
make other people happy. From a young age, I had dreams of being a teacher and
Harry would pretend to be my only pupil, dutifully filling out my homemade
worksheets and answering all of the names on the register with different
voices. Sometimes an imaginary pupil wouldn’t answer so i’d have the undiluted
joy of calling out again and asking my ‘class’ where they were. He’d tell me they
were on a holiday or at the dentist so I could officially mark the absences. There was one birthday, or Mother’s Day, where we were sat giving Mum her
present. Harry was beside himself, for the first time he had managed to not
blow a surprise early. She’d opened her card and was just about to tear into
the wrapping paper when he couldn’t hold it anymore and exploded: ‘It’s a
handbag!’ So close.
On a family holiday to Cyprus, when Harry must have
been about seven, he particularly excelled in the schmoozing game. While I, the
introvert, spent mornings stockpiling ham from the breakfast buffet to
distribute to the stray cats outside the hotel, he was holding court around the
pool with people three times his age. When we left on a shuttle bus back to the
airport at the end of our trip there was a crowd of young, adult women gathered
on the pavement waving him off through the window, shouting their goodbyes.
Sometimes I look at him and wonder how he manages to entrance people, skipping
about just being himself, but actually he’s always done it - only now more
people get to watch.
Over the first few months of him joining me at
secondary school, Holmes Chapel Comprehensive, a few times I had teachers say
to me: “So… I met your brother.” For most of my time there I felt painfully shy
- speaking in front of the class was my worst nightmare. I was geeky, quiet
and, I guess, pretty easy to have in class. When I later trained as a teacher
and speaking in front of a class was still a nightmare, I could imagine how
Harry may have been a little difficult. I could never picture him being
deliberately rude or even particularly disobedient (perhaps rose-tinted
glasses), but he’s a joker, talkative and very distracting - not idea for a
productive lesson. Often they wouldn’t instantly realise we were related.
Harry didn’t struggle especially but, three years
ahead of him, academics was the one area I was excelling in. He thought he was
supposed to match me grade for grade. I think he would get frustrated at times,
and Mum would gently push me to help him with science homework and English
coursework, to build up his confidence for looming exams. I could never fathom
how he had a confidence problems, he was popular, decent at sports and not a
bad student either. I would have trade my A’s for his B’s and charisma in a
heartbeat. I don’t say this to point out his flaws but to try and offer some
perspective. Everything he does seemed to be effortless, even now; watching him
leap around a stage in front of thousands of people, he seems untroubled and
free from self-doubt. It’s easy to be jealous - he’s one of those people who
are just good at things, we all know one - but to assume this means he takes it
all for granted, or doesn’t worry, or try, would be oversimplifying him
unfairly. His bundles of talent are a mixture of natural ability and intense
heart.
Mum taught us to be independent. As teenagers she
raised us both in what was generally a happy little house. “Latch key kids”, as
she called us, we came home from school before she was done with work. While it
sometimes caused her maternal guilt, it was never a band thing, and we learned
to coexist as a pair for that daily window, boiling pasta and arguing over the
TV remote. When she’d had a bad day, as we all do sometimes, we tried to step
up where we could. Harry’s attempts at cheering her up were all the better for
their youthful earnestness. a 12-year-old has seen enough romcoms to know that
a thoughtful close is one who runs a bath, so thats what she’d get from time to
time, with a mismatch of house-gathered candles place around the bathroom.
As a ‘cool’ kid, Harry stood out but also fitted in.
He was always interested in clothes and spent all of his birthday money and
wages on getting the trains to Manchester to expand his wardrobe. He had a
paper round and then worked in a bakery in the village for a while. I’d barely
be eating my cereal by the time he got home from these absurdly early jobs -
the pull of new trainers obviously outweighing time in bed. As a wave of emo
teenagers took over Holmes Chapel, we both caught the bug with our floppy
fringes and studded belts. To get the look he tried stealing my straighteners
to attack his curls – and failed, enlisting my help to smooth his hair into
submission. Later he let me cut it as well: I had no idea what I was doing and
he’d always hate it for the first 20 minutes before admitting I was right and
it did look better. Uh-huh. The skinny jeans never went away.. but the
chequered pumps did.
When I went to university and moved out of home for
the first time, none of us had any idea that a 16-year-old Harry would be
following following suit a few months later. he was talking about choosing his
A Levels and had plans to be a physiotherapist. We mostly got on but, at that
time, we weren’t hugely close; he had his friends and I had mine, our interests
were very different, except for music - he would often ask me what I was
listening to and I’d give him emo and chart indie stuff to try. It was surreal,
years later, sat in a Leicester Square cinema watching the premiere of the One
Direction film, listening to him speak about the music that drifted down from
my attic bedroom. It was only after I’d left home that I realised he would
actually miss me. um said he slept in my bedroom for about a week after I left.
I don’t think it was just because I had the bigger room.
When we found out he had got through to the televised
auditions of The X Factor it suddenly felt real. There’s
a list of songs that contestants select from and we pored over it to choose ones
that he already knew, ones he liked and ones he couldn’t imagine singing. When
he had to practice, he suddenly became shy and wouldn’t let us listen. He was
constantly singing before and, at first, I didn’t understand why this was any
different. After a lot of persuasion, he would stand in the bathroom with the
door shut and sing Isn’t She Lovely and Hey, Soul Sister, while Mum and I sat on the landing outside. I’d never
experienced a shy Harry, and never honestly appreciated that he could really
sing - it was usually hidden behind humour or sarcasm or some silly voice; I’d
heard him sing Handbags and Gladrags a million times in his room on a karaoke machine but it was always
a performance mixed with swagger and bravado as he pretended to be someone else.
When he was little he sang in a primary school play as an Elvis version of the
Pharaoh in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It was ridiculous. He was funny. As soon as it was serious, and
he was being himself, it was like he’d had his shield snatched away.
And he was great.
As the weeks rolled on, we kept waiting for the ride
to end. It didn’t. Eventually he was summoned down to London, to Wembley, for
infamous ‘boot camp’ stage of The X Factor competition. He’d never been to
London before. I was enjoying the summer after my first year at university and,
as Mum was working, I said I’d take him on the journey. We arranged to stay
with a friend of our Dad’s and decided to go a couple of days early to make the
most of sightseeing in the capital. I dragged him to the Natural History
Museum, trying and failing to get him more interested in the sloths than
sandwiches; I gave up halfway through and we wanted around window-shopping and
boggling at how expensive chocolate is in Harrods food hall.
Soon enough the day arrived. We got the Tube all the
way to Wembley and walked to the arena, where a small crowd was gathering
outside. Everyone looked so much older than him and people were dotted around
in small groups, posturing and harmonising, and generally sussing out the
competition. he spotted a young guy he’d chatted to at a previous audition and
I realised it was time to leave him, 16 years old and in the shadows of a
building we’ve only seen on TV. I stayed nearby so that when the call came and
he was out of the competition, I could go and commiserate, take him home to
Cheshire and school, and back to his normal life. None of us wanted him to fail
but we never dreamed things would go the way they did. That call never came. He
has just kept on winning and winning - maybe not The X Factor, but there’s no denying he’s golden. My baby brother never came
home again. He grew up, and all of our memories became his origin story.
