When We Were Young

by Richard Roper

  From that moment on, I would insist we listen to “something funny” whenever we were in the car. Dad dug out some classic Radio 4 sitcoms and sketch shows of yesteryear: Round the Horne, Hancock’s Half Hour, I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again. Most of it went completely over my head—there were references and innuendos I was far too young to understand—but it didn’t matter. I may not have got half of the jokes, but over the next few years of forensic attention to detail, I grew to understand the rhythms and the timing, the ebb and flow of setup and punch line.

  We were never more carefree as a family than in Dad’s old Saab, trundling along the motorway, listening to those shows on holiday. When we got to the beach, it was the same routine every time: Mum and Dad would fall instantly asleep, Alice would draw and color, while I read script books and wrote my own terrible copycat versions. If we were feeling brave, we’d swim in the sea, little Alice laughing maniacally in the face of the icy water like a Viking chieftain celebrating a rival tribe’s demise.

  There was one moment on the beach that still stands out. We were in Whitesands, in Wales, and an entire swarm of non-poisonous jellyfish were washed up, neglected by the retreating tide. Dad began picking them up and tossing them back into the water, and Alice, Mum and I followed suit in an uncoordinated rescue attempt while I gave a running commentary like a football commentator. What must we have looked like, the four of us—side by side, hurling squelchy sea creatures back from whence they’d come? I suppose we’d have looked like a carefree family: untroubled, protected by a force field of our own happy eccentricity.

  That particular summer seemed to stretch out forever. I’d just left primary school, and while I hadn’t got any friends to play with, I found my own fun in a battered old Walkman of Dad’s. I’d lie on my bed, headphones clamped over my ears with both hands, mumbling along until I had each episode of Blackadder or Dad’s Army learned off by heart. I think what I really loved about it was that there was a very simple contract between performer and audience: You sit there and listen, and we’ll try to make you laugh. So when the occasional cloud of sadness drifted over me when I heard other kids playing on their bikes in the road by my house, I knew exactly where to turn to make myself feel better. I’d even found the perfect place to hide away: the shed at the bottom of the garden. There, I’d prop myself up on upturned paint cans or sweet-smelling firewood, listening to Basil berating Manuel, or Corporal Jones telling everyone not to panic, and for those twenty-eight minutes all was right with the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joel

  I was banking on Jane Green working late at the BBC as usual, even on a Saturday. As the call rang out, I looked through the train window at the meadows and fields flashing past. I caught a glimpse of the familiar stone roundhouse building between the trees. How many times had I gone past that place on the train and never thought to look up what it was?

  Jane picked up, but I knew I had at least ten seconds to wait before it was my turn to speak.

  “Joely-poly! How are we, sugarplum? Bear with me if I start effing and fucking blinding over here. Shitstorm brewing with Doctor Who. Apparently one of the Cybermen went on a massive bender last night and lost his helmet in a Cardiff Wetherspoon’s. So things are a total fucking mess as per. Head of props is shitting feathers. Anyway, where are you? How are you? Who are you? Et cetera, et cetera. Tell me everything.”

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  Jane chuckled, her smoker’s lungs rattling like a child’s homemade musical shaker. “That’s obviously bollocks, but I shan’t pry. You taking a break before we shoot the Xmas special?”

  I paused before answering. Lying to Jane Green wasn’t advisable.

  “Yeah, something like that,” I said. A train flashed past on the adjacent track. I had the briefest glimpse of hundreds of blank faces. Then they were gone.

  “So what can I do for you, dear boy?”

  “Well, you know how you’d asked for a new idea for next autumn?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, I think I’ve got just the one.”

  “Aha! Do tell.”

  I launched into a pitch for The Regulars. I was slightly hazy on the details, so I had to keep it to the point. This had to be a no-brainer for Jane.

  “Innnnnteresting,” she said, once I’d wrapped it up.

  I breathed a small sigh of relief. If she’d hated the idea, she would have told me straightaway, most likely using at least one swear word I’d never heard before.

  “Well, matey, leave it with me. I’ll run it up the flagpole. But I, for one, like the sound of it.”

  “Great.”

  And now for the other part . . .

  “It’s a cowrite, I should say.”

  “Really? Unlike you, my little auteur. Who’s the other bod?”

  “Guy called Theo Hern. Catalog of stuff under his belt, but all very much under the radar. He’s brilliant but modest. A real one-off.”

  In truth, I had no idea how much Theo was still writing these days. But what I did know was that he was easily the more talented of the two of us and that this had been something he’d always wanted much more than me. If I could help him pull this off—at least to get his foot in the door—then maybe that would go some way to making things up to him.

  “Hmm. Well, I’ll take your word for it, J-Pole. Right, the time has come for me to go and tear this Cyberman a new metal arsehole, but promise I’ll get back A-sap to you and . . . Tim, was it?”

  “Theo,” I said. “And honestly, Jane, trust me—the guy’s a total genius.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Theo

  I’d had my finger stuck in the bottle of Fanta long enough that I was really starting to panic. Thankfully, I managed to free it before I knocked on Alice’s door. She wouldn’t have let me forget that in a hurry.

  “My god, I’ve been dying for you to come back,” she said. “Come on, spill the beans—what the hell did he want?”

  As I came into the living room, I saw Alice’s kit laid out for her next wheelchair basketball game.

  “Big match tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Vital,” she said, handing me a glass of wine. “Kemble versus Chippenham. Huge stakes. Now, come on—spill.”

  “And is that guy you fancy playing?” I was stalling for time, and this line of attack seemed to have worked, as Alice pulled an appalled face.

  “One doesn’t simply fancy Dan Bisley. He is a work of art.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “What is it, again? Arms like . . .”

  Alice rattled it off impatiently: “Arms like two pylons wrapped in elephant hide, eyes as pure as azure lagoons and a smile so bright—”

  “It could power vast galaxies for a million years. Yes, I remember it now.”

  “So—”

  “You up for my b-day tradition?” I said, crossing to Alice’s DVD shelf.

  “Oh, Withnail, you mean?”

  “Yeah, that okay?”

  As I looked for the film, I felt Alice’s eyes boring into me. But she didn’t ask about Joel again. I got the impression she was giving me the benefit of the doubt, letting me tell her about it in my own time. But we were only ten minutes into the film when she cracked.

  “Okay, you can’t hold out on me anymore—are you going to tell me what happened with Joel fucking Thompson or what? It was so weird, him standing there all mournful. Still annoyingly handsome, though. Mum and Dad were pretty thrown. Roger and Beverley arrived about five minutes after you’d gone, but Dad just sent them packing, thank god. So what did he want?”

  “Well, it’s . . . complicated, really.” I stopped, grappling with shame. Blinded entirely by the promise of my own stupid dream coming true, I’d managed to conveniently forget about my sister.

  “Come on—spit it out,” Alice said.

  I shifted on the sofa, keeping my eyes o
n the TV.

  “Well, it was just . . . he reminded me we’d made this silly promise when we were kids where we said we’d walk the Thames Path together when we were thirty.”

  “Yeesh,” Alice said. “I’d forgotten how cool you were.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Alice widened her eyes expectantly. “What, and that was it?”

  “Yeah. Well, kind of.”

  Alice threw her head back and groaned with frustration.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “But before I tell you—just to be clear—I’ve told him no. Well, I haven’t yet. But I will.”

  Alice’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Theo. Will you please just get on with it before I kill you with”—she searched around for a weapon and grabbed something—“this spatula.” She brandished it menacingly. Why a spatula was in the living room I wasn’t sure, but the incongruity only seemed to add to the threat.

  “Right. So. The thing is. Years ago Joel and I came up with an idea for a sitcom called The Regulars. He had a meeting with the BBC the other day and happened to mention it and”—I picked up my glass of wine and spoke the rest of the sentence very quickly into it—“they’ve commissioned it and want us to write it and we’d write it together on the path and then it’d be out on the BBC next year.”

  For the longest time, Alice didn’t say anything. When I finally glanced over, she was staring at me, openmouthed, still aiming the spatula at me.

  “Holy. Fucking. Shitballs. What channel?”

  “BBC Two,” I mumbled.

  “Time slot?”

  “Friday, nine thirty p.m.”

  “BBC Two. Friday, nine thirty p.m. My god.”

  “Yep.”

  “The holy fucking trinity.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, well . . .”

  “So, wait, hang on. You . . . said no?”

  “No—I mean, I haven’t done yet. But I am going to, obviously.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I said. “After what happened with you . . .”

  Alice went to say something but stopped. I waited for her, but two minutes passed, and then five, and soon we were watching the rest of the film in silence, lost in our own thoughts. Every now and then I glanced over and saw Alice, her brow furrowed, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t anything to do with the film. By the time Withnail was delivering his Hamlet monologue in the final scene, Alice was asleep, head lolling forwards.

  I got up, popcorn cascading from my lap, and shook her gently by the arm to try and wake her.

  “Time for bed, pal,” I said.

  Alice responded with a noise I initially interpreted as either “Wimbledon” or “Wigwam” before realizing it was probably “Wanker.” (Alice didn’t particularly care for being woken up.) I made another couple of halfhearted attempts, but it was no good. So, as gently as I could, I scooped her up out of her wheelchair and into my arms. I wobbled slightly—it had been a while since I’d done this. I was out of practice. As I carried her over to her bedroom, I could have sworn I saw her look up at me, but the next second her eyes were closed. I took the rest of the journey slowly, partly not to wake her, but mainly because I was enjoying a rare moment where I could be a useful older brother.

  I managed to kick the duvet aside and laid Alice carefully down before tucking her in. I was about to leave when I spotted a mosquito lying in wait on the wall. I carried out a commando-style mission to kill it, creeping around the bed, squashing the thing successfully and silently, only to clatter my knee against a cupboard as I made the return journey.

  I heard Alice stir, but I didn’t seem to have woken her. But then, as I was tiptoeing out of her bedroom, she cleared her throat.

  “Listen, fuckface, I think you should do it.”

  I looked around. She still had her eyes closed. I wondered for a moment if she was dreaming.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  Alice opened her eyes. “The TV show. The Thames Path. All of it.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to. I should have just slammed the door in his face.”

  Alice sat up.

  “Now, you listen to me very carefully, okay? What happened. It was a very long time ago.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you should forget it.”

  Alice shook her head. “Sorry, but you don’t have a say in how I should feel. The truth is that I am happy with my life. I love being a teacher, I have friends who I am completely obsessed with and once a week I get to stare at Dan Bisley under the guise of playing basketball. You, on the other hand, are not happy.”

  I opened my mouth to retort, but I’d got nothing.

  “Think about the last year of your life,” Alice continued. “You’ve basically turned into an agoraphobic.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Sorry, I know you hate talking about it, but, Theo, the longer you stay cocooned here, the less chance there is of you getting on with your life. And, look, it’s obviously not a bad thing how close we are as a family—but Mum and Dad aren’t going to be around forever. That shed’s not, either. I know Joel fucked things up for you, too, with Edinburgh, but that was a decade ago, and at least he’s trying to make amends. Aren’t you curious to hear him out? Not to mention that it just so happens he’s casually dropped the most insanely exciting opportunity of all time at your feet.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Nope. No buts. I’m not saying that everything will suddenly magically fix itself in your life if you do this, but what I do know is that if you aren’t waiting for Joel at the start of the path tomorrow morning, it could well be something you regret for the rest of your life. Do you really want to take that chance?”

  * * *

  Later, I wandered back to the shed, pausing to admire the spectacular blood-orange sunset. Alice’s words were playing on a loop. I could tell there was no way I’d be able to concentrate now on a book or whatever was on TV, so I dug out the emergency wine.

  After a few moments where I built myself up to it, I fought through the bike pumps, linseed oil and tennis rackets to find my old boxes, which I’d labeled “My Old Boxes,” because I am hilarious. Inside were hundreds of script books, their pages creased, corners bent back, and crammed full of my own handwritten notes: “Good example of pull back and reveal.” “Note: rule of three.” And to think I didn’t lose my virginity until I was eighteen.

  Digging down further, I found some of my own offerings—at least two dozen notebooks (most of them exercise books pinched from school), each one full from cover to cover.

  By the time I’d finished looking through everything, it was nearly midnight. Just as I thought I’d gone through the lot, I found one final exercise book, saw the words written on the front—Joel and Theo: Quite the Little Double Act—and I found myself hopelessly lost to the past.

  * * *

  On my first day of secondary school at Atherton Comprehensive, I felt uncharacteristically hopeful that I might make some friends there. I’d managed to overcome my shyness a little, and I was determined to find a little gang of my own. I imagined it like in comic books—we’d catch frogs in jam jars and get into adventures on our bikes. I’d be the wisecracking leader, always ready with a funny line. There’d be a gifted nerdy type with thick-rimmed glasses who we’d affectionately call “the Professor,” or “Prof” for short. Someone exotic—an Australian or American, perhaps. Maybe even a girl! We’d establish ourselves as the Kemble Revue and perform a daring takedown of teachers at the end-of-year panto, the other kids carrying us on their shoulders out of the hall, chanting our names.

  It’s funny how life works out.

  What actually happened was that on my first day I couldn’t find my form room, and by the time I had—late—my nerves were shredded to the point that I got stomach cramps so bad I had to sit hunched over. I’d made it barely ten minut
es before I had to run from the classroom holding my stomach, asking anyone I saw where the nearest toilet was. There wasn’t any coming back after that start. The other kids were naturally suspicious of me. I was like a character in a zombie movie trying to hide he’d been bitten.

  I decided to embrace being an outsider instead. It wasn’t that I couldn’t make any friends; it was that I was actively choosing not to. I’d been watching Hugh Laurie playing Bertie Wooster in the old ITV series, and I persuaded Mum to take me to the charity shops in Gloucester, where I used my pocket money to buy a tweed blazer and a tie. Later came an old broken pocket watch on a little chain, and a cigarette case in which I’d keep fake sweet cigarettes, often tucking one behind my ear. Given that all this went against school uniform rules, the teachers made me change as soon as I got off the bus. But after a while they stopped caring—or maybe it was pity given my lack of friends—so I’d carry the look into lessons, too. The other kids laughed at me at first, of course, but eventually everyone got used to seeing this strange little Edwardian throwback shuffling around the place, and people stopped paying attention. Everyone, that was, apart from Darren Brighouse.

  Darren had seemed to work himself up to being the class bully—like it was a hobby he’d decided to learn in his spare time. There wasn’t anything that sophisticated about his attacks. He was bigger and stronger than everyone else, so if he took a dislike to you, then you got thumped, and that was that. Suspiciously, he had ignored me up to then. Perhaps having to lay a finger on me was just unpalatable. But out of the blue one lunchtime, he came up to me and asked if I wanted to play football with him and some of the others.

  “Um, okay,” I said.

  Darren laughed and clapped an arm around my shoulder. “Why do you look so worried, Theo? It’s only a kickaround.”

  “Ha, all right—okay, then,” I said, returning Darren’s smile. Maybe I’d got him all wrong, I thought as we headed out to the PE field. Small shoots of hope stirred within me as I pictured dinner that evening, leaning back in my chair and saying, with a casual yawn, “I might have a friend around sometime, if that’s okay, Mum?”