‘Different paths’ mean I haven’t seen my brother for 20 years

Rumours of a rift between the Dukes of Cambridge and Sussex have been rife for months, but Prince Harry gave voice to them for the first time on Sunday night, telling Tom Bradby that “as brothers, you know, you have good days, you have bad days”, but that they are “on different paths at the moment”. When you’re dealing with the pressures of being part of such a high-profile family, “inevitably, you know, stuff happens”.

Prince Harry is quite right.

I was coming up to three years old when “stuff ” happened in my own family, with the arrival of my brother. My mother later reported that I was at first glad of the company, and as the new baby became increasingly sentient, and bipedal, I’d attempt to engage him in play, sharing those toys I had previously taken good care of.

But he had a different approach. He cared little for my fussy ministrations. If a Matchbox car broke in the process of him hitting it repeatedly against the wall, then what of it?

This was a shock to my system. It served to highlight, too, the very distinct ways we would approach later life. We came at the world differently, liked different things, chose different chocolates from the Quality Street. I was quiet, creative and reflective; he tech-obsessed, and barrelled forward like a rugby player.

In early adolescence, our preferred mode of communication centred on the full complement of English swear words, but there was a curious bond, nevertheless. When you have parents who fight, you tend to become unspoken allies – much as William and Harry remain allies. We were closest when our parents were at their furthest apart.

But once my father left – shortly after my 10th birthday – I found my allegiances compromised. It was my job to help keep my brother in line, to ameliorate friends he’d upset, to meet with teachers over his behaviour.

I realise now, of course, that he must have been in terrible pain, and taking the absence of our father hard. But I had narrower vision – all I could see was the wild animal I was trying to tame. My mother believed our relationship would improve with age.

The last time I saw him was 20 years ago, when our mother died from cancer. She was 56. Working overseas, he flew dutifully home for the funeral, where he permitted me to deal with all the bureaucracy, not because, at 27, he was too young to do so himself, but rather an instinctive deferral to a big brother. It was all he knew. It was all I knew, too.

Friends, my wife included, occasionally express surprise, and sadness, that we’ve had no contact since, neither of us appearing keen to break the deadlock. My answer is that we tried for almost three decades and I’m at peace with our estrangement.

As a father to two girls, I can only hope my daughters don’t end up in a similar sorry situation, as my heart would surely break. But I believe there is one benefit to growing up as we did. You work hard in life to avoid the same potholes.

The Smallest Things: On the Enduring Power of Family by Nick Duerden (Elliott & Thompson, £12.99) out now