PRIVATE. KEEP OUT.
My sister Joyce and I were never in any doubt that we had the most spectacularly wonderful brother that ever set foot on the planet. When his back was turned we would make forays into his room and passed the notice on the door that said, 'Private. Keep out'.
We would look in wonderment at the amazing range of stuff that included: a record player with records; balsa wood packages for making aeroplanes; Dubbing for his uniform belt as a cadet at ATC; his bugle hanging from the ceiling like a mobile; the unfinished Crucifixion being painted as a gift for his Vicar, Rev. Ward at St. Gabriel's; the nursery rhymes in preparation for our Mother's classroom; many books open at different chapters all being read and a couple of unfinished essays on 'the meaning of life'...
We looked with wonderment at the creative use of his dressing table, which doubled as an art easel and storage for poster paints, charcoal, linseed oil and all the usual paraphernalia associated with a painter in the 50s.
By the way I was 12-years of age and my sister Joyce was 14 when he became a student at the Liverpool College of Art (he was just 16) - so its not surprising his private room reflected a middle adolescent boy as well as a precociously talented young man.
Had Stuart caught us in his foray into his private sanctuary (which he did once) he would leave us in no doubt that we had breached his privacy and that he was concerned lest we should disturb anything that looked chaotic to us - but had total logic to him.
