Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play

by Danny Wallace

  It turned out that the Minister of Defense and the Ambassador had come all the way to Loughborough to congratulate Cameron’s dad on finishing his doctorate at the university. The completed doctorate which meant he would now return to Fiji as soon as possible. Cameron’s dad had wound up stuck for things to show them in Loughborough—I believe they’d already had a Wimpy and seen the Woolworths pick ’n’ mix—and so decided to bring them round to our house for a cup of tea.

  Cameron and I had a sandwich and discussed it.

  “How come these guys are in Loughborough?” I asked.

  “Oh… you know,” he said. “They’re friends of the family. Hey—did you say you got a new He-Man?”

  And we went and played with Ram-Man.

  Later that evening, the limousine gave me and Cameron a lift down to the school play—where Cameron was preparing for his role as a magical tree in an enchanted forest (a role that consisted mainly of him standing very still and every now and then squeezing a small bottle of talcum powder which represented fairy dust)—and we got out, like Hollywood stars.

  As it would turn out, all this had actually been a small moment in world history.

  “I remember that!” said Cameron, putting his pint down. “The guy with the main guy was supposed to make sure that he didn’t give away any secrets about Fiji. But your mum got it all out of him within ten minutes. She got Fijian military secrets from him. And while he was away, Rambuka held a coup in Fiji. He made himself President. All while your mum was making them little sandwiches.”

  “My mum got secret information out of the Minister of Defense?” I said, shocked, as Cameron nodded. “Using little sandwiches?”

  I bet Mata Hari would be pissed off she didn’t think of that one. Which reminded me of something… something to do with Berlin…

  “It was quite a coup!” said Cameron, and we both fell about laughing. Cameron looked delighted with his pun. This was brilliant.

  “I think that the limousine outside our house was the first time I actually knew about… your secret.”

  “My secret?” said Cameron.

  “Yeah… your secret…”

  Because it had been a secret. At least from me, and despite the clues. Only after he had gone did I find out my best friend Cameron Dewa—the smiley Fijian kid going to the standard state school in the middle of Loughborough—was essentially…

  “You’re third in line to the throne of Fiji.”

  Yes. Third in line. To the throne. Of Fiji!

  “Oh, that,” said Cameron, dismissing it. “That wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t think it was very relevant. And it’s not exactly third in line. It’s more like part of an extended royal family. I really didn’t think you’d be all that interested.”

  “Not all that interested? Cameron! You’ve just said the words ‘royal family’! Do you have any idea how many people I told about winning the swimming gala? How many people I told about the conker championship?”

  “Hey, I come from Fiji. Everyone’s in line to the throne…”

  “That’s not true… wasn’t your granddad, or your great-granddad… oh, what was he, again?”

  “Well… kind of the King.”

  “That was it!”

  “But I’m only a chief.”

  “Only a chief?”

  “There are a few chiefs in Fiji.”

  “It must be great being a chief in Fiji!”

  Alcohol brings out the truth, doesn’t it? Because it must be great being a chief in Fiji! This was great. It was me and Cameron! Together at last! We were on our third pint and I slapped his arm in a look-at-you-you-big-Fijian-chief kind of a way.

  But he turned and looked at me with fury in his eyes.

  “NEVER TOUCH MY ARM!” he yelled. “IN MY COUNTRY IT IS A SIGN OF GREAT DISRESPECT TO TOUCH THE ARM OF A CHIEF!”

  My arm shot back so fast it left a vapor trail. If I could’ve tucked it inside my body I would’ve.

  Cameron looked furious.

  And then, suddenly, he didn’t.

  “But seeing as it’s you,” he said, “another pint?”

  * * *

  An hour later and we had reminisced about the Great Loughborough Fun Run, about school playtimes spent on nothing but running around, about our families, our friends and our pets. We talked about school, and about old teachers who’d gone unmentioned for years.

  “Do you remember that frightening one? Mrs. Adams?”

  “Yes. I used to feel a little bullied by her.”

  “Me too,” said Cameron. “I wanted to join the orchestra but she wouldn’t let me because I wanted to play the trombone and she said that was unbecoming.”

  “I used to get my own back,” I said. “Once, during the summer holidays when I knew she went back to Wales, I used to phone her house and leave messages on her answering machine, when answering machines were incredibly rare.”

  “What kind of messages?” asked Cameron.

  “I used to get high on bottles of Panda Pops, and then ring up and just say ‘Potato’ down the phone.”

  “Potato?”

  “Yeah, but I’d put the effort in. I’d shout ‘Potaaaaatooooo!’”

  Cameron’s eyes widened.

  “You shouted ‘Potatooo’ at Mrs. Adams? Why ‘Potatooo’?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “How often?”

  “Every day or two for three or four weeks. When she got back she had about forty messages, all just saying, ‘Potaaaatooooo!’”

  “Potaaaaatooooo!” said Cameron.

  “Potaaaaatoooooooo!” I said, which I believe made the point.

  “And she never found out it was you?”

  “She recognized my voice immediately and told my parents I was abnormal.”

  “Ah. Well. You used to like doing stuff like that,” said Cameron, and immediately I thought about telling him about ManGriff the Beast Warrior and Ben Ives and Argos. But Cameron had a glint in his eye, and he held up his mobile and said, “Do you still have Mrs. Adams’s number?”

  It was so tempting.

  * * *

  As the pints went down and the glasses piled up, hunger set in. We found a Burger King round the corner. I asked the lady behind the counter if she had one of those golden paper crowns, and if she did, could we borrow it because my friend was a Fijian chief, but she looked at me like I’d been drinking.

  “Hey, I brought something with me!” I said, slurring ever so slightly.

  “What is it?” said Cameron, sitting down.

  “A poem!”

  Cameron made the kind of face all nearly-thirty men make when you declare you’ve brought a poem with you.

  “A good one, though!” I said.

  I scrabbled about in my bag trying to find the small, colorful notebook I’d last used in the 1980s. The one with NO GIRLS ALLOWED written in it and various doodles of classmates along with brief character assassinations.

  Cameron started to munch down on his Whopper while I found the right page.

  “Aha! Here it is!” I said, and then cleared my throat to read.

  I began. Loudly. Solemnly. With deep and meaningful resonance.

  Cameron Is My Best Friend

  By Daniel Wallace

  Cameron shifted about in his seat a bit. He looked mildly uncomfortable. But I took this to be humility—after all, it’s quite a thing to have your name in the title of a poem. Especially a poem as important as this one—one that told the story of an entire friendship. I continued.

  Cameron, Cameron!

  With your face like a plum!

  Skin soft as a baby’s bum!

  You are my best friend! My best friend!

  A rum pum pum pum.

  I think that rhyme still stands up today. I continued.

  You have come to my school!

  Where we both played the fool!

  And now you must go!

  To Fiji!

  Wherever that is.

  We didn’t take geo
graphy until high school. I pressed on.

  I will never forget you!

  We will be friends for all time!

  Our friendship can’t be summed up!

  At least not while making it rhyme.

  Goodbye old buddy!

  And, with a flourish of the hand, I brought the piece to an end.

  Cameron sat, in awed, stunned silence.

  I allowed him a moment to take it all in. Sometimes to truly appreciate a piece of work like this, you have to give someone their space. There had been a lot of important imagery to appre ciate.

  And then I looked to one side. There was a man staring at us. He was wearing a blue cagoule and half an onion ring was hanging from his mouth. He’d been listening to my poem, and watching carefully as one grown man sat in Burger King and read out a poem he’d written about the other grown man. I suddenly realized there was no way of explaining the situation—no way of telling him I’d written that poem when I was eleven and this was the first time we’d seen each other in nearly twenty years and so to mark the occasion I’d decided that Burger King was the place to read it out. Because, as unbelievable as this may seem, that would sound even weirder. He clearly thought I’d written it this afternoon, and then summoned Cameron to Burger King to let him know just how I felt about him. I managed to communicate all this to Cameron using just my eyes. He managed to communicate a panicked “I know!” using just his. Quietly, we finished our burgers, and silently made our way to the door.

  We stood by a bus stop outside and looked at each other for a second. This had been fun. Good, honest, childlike fun. We both knew this would be the moment we would say goodbye. And we both wanted to delay it a bit.

  “So… we’ll have to do this again,” I said.

  “Definitely,” said Cameron. “We’ll have to email each other or something.”

  “Sounds good, yeah.”

  But had we done enough to be pals again? Had tonight been enough to warrant a definite beginning to our friendship again—or had it just been a fun night out?

  “So… do you still have royal connections?” I asked him, just for something to say.

  “Nah,” he said. “I mean, back in Fiji I get more privileges. I can stay in my village and people have to give me free food and lodgings, and be very quiet around me.”

  “You have your own village?”

  “Nabuso. My village is the area regarded as the people from the bush. The tough and violent people. No one messes with us. My people recently wrote to a church in England to apologize for eating a reverend 136 years ago. He’d taken the comb out of a chief’s hair, which is frowned upon, so they cooked him and ate everything except his boots.”

  “Your people ate a vicar?”

  “A reverend. But yeah. Hey, you’ll have to come out to Fiji one day! I’ll show you round the village!”

  I nodded. But, like our grand plan to see Michael Jackson, it seemed like just one of those things people say. Especially if they’re minor Fijian royalty.

  There was a slight lull in the conversation, signaling, I thought, the end of the evening.

  “Well…” I said, extending my hand.

  “Listen,” said Cameron. “What are you doing now?”

  I shrugged.

  “I was going to go home.”

  “What? The night is young!”

  It wasn’t. It was already applying for a bus pass.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The American Embassy.”

  “The American Embassy? Why the American Embassy?”

  Cameron smiled.

  “There’s a karaoke party on.”

  “A karaoke party? At the American Embassy?”

  Yeah. Cameron still had connections.

  And so the chief and I caught the bus.

  What followed that night is, I imagine, bound by some kind of official secrets act, but let me tell you one thing: ambassadors can’t dance for toffee.

  We sang, and we laughed, and we said our goodbyes and exchanged numbers, and I was certain that this time, I’d got Cameron back for good.

  I went home, buoyed by the happy randomness of the evening, and made myself a cup of tea.

  I stood there, and thought about how, actually, that poem wasn’t all that bad. Maybe I should write more poetry. Yes. I should definitely write more poetry.

  And then I turned my computer on, and, though my eyes were blurry and my typing slightly drunken, I had a go…

  To: Ben Ives

  From: THE STORMY LEOPARD

  Cc: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

  Subject: RE: My per formance

  Meeeeeooooowwwrrrrr.

  Hi Ben,

  It’s Alison here—the Stormy Leopard!!

  I believe you and your colleagues have agreed to listen to some of my poetry and thoughts on the 21st at 1pm in your offices in Llllllos Angeles. I will need a suitable space and also a changing area so if you have any ideas thank you

  Here’s one for you, would appreciate you’re comment’s. It is called, simply, DANGERFACE.

  Night time!

  Danger!

  There’s a noise over there!

  I strive, stealthy, stalking my prey, because I am a leopard

  What a day

  Night time!

  Night time!

  Move like a panther, clouded like a skyline

  At night

  I am a woman, I move like a leopard, which is what I am

  I am Alison—are you? No. For we are as one…

  In the dark.

  Thanks Ben, see you all soon, with bells on (literally!!!)

  The Stormy Leopard

  P.S. I will need volunteers for some of the dances.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT OFTEN, THE FUTURE TAKES AGES…

  I woke up, the next morning, with a smile on my face as wide as a cat.

  I’d had a great night. With a great old friend. Yeah, so I knew that, thanks to the Desperados Pact, I now owed Lizzie for my night out at the ambassadors’ disco. But that was fine. I knew precisely what to do. Finish varnishing that table. That was roughly equal to a night out, surely? Well, getting the bus there, anyway. And, when I rolled over to check the time, I found a note…

  Hey baby… didn’t want to wake you. All going crazy at work. Could you do me a favor? Could you get some shopping in? I’m going to be back too late to do anything… L x

  Excellent. Easy MPs. Duly noted.

  I turned my phone on and thought about the night before. That had been my first “cold” meeting with an old friend. And it had gone well. Me and Cameron were reunited. There was definitely something in this. In reconnecting. Rewiring friendships. Buffing them up. Giving them a polish. Returning them to their former glory. Cameron had proved that. I only hoped he felt the same way.

  Bzzzz.

  I looked at the screen. I had a voicemail.

  I dialed it up.

  “You… have… nine… new messages.”

  Eh? Nine? It was only quarter to ten!

  I listened to the first one.

  Silence.

  A crackle.

  And then…

  “POTAAAATOOOOOOOO!”

  I laughed, and flicked to the next one.

  “POTAAAATOOOOOOO!”

  And then…

  “POTAATOOOO!”

  Plus six more “Potaatooo!”s, each of them delivered with enthusiasm, gusto and power. Either Cameron was amusing himself on his way to work, or Mrs. Adams had really been biding her time before wreaking her revenge.

  Which suddenly made me think of Ben Ives and giggle again. If my plan was working, he would now be starting to worry that ManGriff the Beast Warrior and his oddball girlfriend really would be turning up to his offices near LA in order to perform a selection of poetry and wisdom for him and his colleagues. He’d said no, of course, and that it wouldn’t be appropriate, but I’d ignored him… or, rather, the Stormy Leopard had…

  But had he replied t
o my slightly drunken email?

  I checked.

  He had.

  To: The Stormy Leopard

  From: Ben Ives

  Subject: RE: My performance

  Hello “Stormy Leopard,”

  Um… I’m slightly dubious about this now… I think there has been a misunderstanding. I told ManGriff that a performance would not be appropriate. I had a very quick look at your poem and it seems very personal and heartfelt. It is also clear and succinct, which always appeals to me. But to be honest, I am more of a prose man—I very rarely read poetry. Anyway, I have to get on.

  B.

  Oh, joy!

  This was working! Okay, so Ben was dubious, but he was saying he didn’t want it to get out of hand, which just proved all the more that he thought it was going to happen. The old Ben would have been on to me in an instant… he’d have encouraged the poetry, made it bigger, odder, shown he was in on the joke… but that was the suspicious Ben. This was grown-up Ben. And I was getting him right where I wanted him.

  Life was… fun!

  I got up, whistled a bit, thought about watching Iran versus Angola, put some music on, jumped online, did the weekly shopping, and went and found my varnishing brush. I wanted to finish that table off quick-smart. Because I was happy, and I was charged, and also… I’d sneaked a look at the Book and I knew exactly who I wanted to meet up with next… someone I’d been reminded of when talking about little sandwiches and spies with Cameron…

  * * *

  Me and my mum and dad moved to Berlin in 1990, just a few months after the Wall had been pushed over and a new sense of excitement had rushed through Europe. I’m sure if I had properly understood all the political goings-on, I would have been very excited, too. But for me, the mere fact that we were in 1990 was enough to have me almost giddy with delight. It was a new decade! And we were only ten years off the year 2000! And in the year 2000, everything would be different. I knew this, because of all the comics I was reading. There was the Beano, sure, and the Dandy, as well, but there were also the dozens of ancient comics my cousin had thrown my way—comics with names like Eagle, Boy’s World and Fury. These were the comics that painted the way I thought the future would be going. A future of robot servants, and silver home pods, and personal aluminum jetpacks. I’d lose myself in copies of Action, Tiger and Millennium, but remember feeling particularly dispirited in 1989, when I picked up a comic from the late 1960s to see a group of glamorous travelers from a sexless future, wearing one-piece body suits and carrying rayguns, startling a group of Earthlings by jumping from a silver disc and shouting “WE ARE FROM THE YEAR 1989!” I’d looked out of my window at that point. Dad was mowing the lawn. Suddenly it looked like the future would be a long time coming. But for the Germans, the future they never thought they’d see was happening right now. For the East Germans, especially. They didn’t need personal aluminum jetpacks. The idea of a well-stocked supermarket was as alien as any alien.