Andy had been a good friend, and a good human being. Someone who was loyal, and upbeat, and funny. You think if you’re not in touch with someone, everything is probably okay with them. Life just ticks along. They do the same things as you. They grow up. They meet a girl. Maybe they get married. They progress in their work. Perhaps they get into IT, or move abroad, or have a kid. Maybe they get rich, maybe they stay poor. But you never, ever think that maybe they’re dead. Because actually, the cold, hard truth is that you don’t know what can happen to them. To you. To anyone. And actually, the cold, hard truth is that bad things can happen to good people. And if you rush in, unprepared, this is a horrible truth that becomes all the more horrible when it’s so very unexpected.
And so I’d stopped looking for old friends. I’d met Cameron, and Anil, and Mikey, and Simon, and Tarek, and Ben. I’d nearly met Peter. I hadn’t found Chris. I’d been rejected by Tom. And Akira had never found the time to write back. So what was the point in continuing? What had been the point all along? To make me feel better? To make me feel that everyone was going through the same things? To make me feel I was part of something—a random group of people about to start their thirties? Because Tom had made me realize that just because we went to school with people, ultimately, what does that mean? That means nothing. Yeah, we share a classroom. We learn about the water cycle and crop rotation and oxbow lakes and we learn about these things at about the same time. And?
There was no mystical reason for this, no destiny guiding us together. We had nothing in common, apart from the fact that we just happened to live in the same school catchment area, as decided by some faceless bloke in a cheap two-piece suit on the town council dozens of years before. Apart from the fact our parents just happened to have conceived around the same time, happened to take us with them, happened to have had us at all. And that was it. These were the two facts. Two facts which mean absolutely nothing in the world. Why should we get on, stay in touch, be friends? If any of this actually meant even a scrap of a hint of anything, then surely Tom, for one, would have felt the same way?
Tom had it right. I hadn’t seen it at the time, but Tom had it right.
Yeah. So I’d had some fun. But fun isn’t what life is about. Life is about growing up. Getting through. That’s what you do. And that’s what I’d been avoiding. So that’s what I should now do.
Lizzie had been concerned for me. I’m not saying I was walking around with a dark and brooding face all the time. I wasn’t. I’d accepted Andy was gone pretty quickly. But as one week turned into two, and two weeks threatened to become three, it was clear that something was missing. A little bit of joy canceled out. A friendship finished, first and foremost. One that could’ve continued, and could’ve been great, but one that I’d ignored or lost sight of, and which I’d now never have again.
“Are you okay, baby?” she’d said, one night, as I’d pretended to watch Life on Mars.
“Yeah! Course. Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.” I’d smiled. But I was looking through her.
“How many left to track down?” she’d asked.
“Oh. You know. Not many. Though I think I’m kind of okay at the moment for all that stuff.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think I’m done for a while.”
And then I’d turned the volume up, and pretended I was watching some more.
I’d just wanted everyone to be okay. But at the time, that had meant happy, and healthy, and enjoying life. I’d never for a moment considered that for one of them life could have ended.
And so I’d cracked on with the house. This time for me. And for Lizzie. Not for childish Man Points. Not to buy me time. But just to do it. I was, after all, a man. Not a boy.
The earthquake, the one that had started its rumble that night in a friend’s back garden—the one I’d been doing my best to put off or avoid or run away from—had finally, forcefully, hit home.
And as evening crept up, I didn’t check my email. I turned my phone off. I watched some telly, and then, slowly, I went downstairs to bed.
And I lay there for an hour or so, staring at a dark and featureless ceiling.
To: Danny Wallace
From: Peter Gibson
Subject: Hello!
Hey Dan—Just thought I’d remind you we STILL haven’t met up! Will have to be soon as I’m finishing work and moving on… would be good to tell you all about it before I go. Am having leaving drinks soon—do you want to come along?
Pete
To: Danny Wallace
From: Anil Tailor
Subject: London
Hiya mate,
Me and Sunil are gonna be in London next week. Sunil is working at a dojo in Docklands for a bit and then we thought we could grab a beer. Can you make it?
Anil
To: Danny Wallace
From: Lauren Medcalfe
Subject: Blast from the past!
Daniel! (or should I call you Danny now??)
My mum tells me you are looking for me because you want to send me a Christmas card! It’s been a while—you owe me about seventeen of them! Funnily enough I have seen you on some strange TV shows once or twice but didn’t realize it was you!
Only just got the message as have been traveling through Thailand, Australia, China etc having a whale of a time before I turn 30 (eek!). I’m moving to Dublin in the new year but am back in Britain now. Would LOVE to meet up! When were you thinking? Lx
To: Danny Wallace
From: Cameron Dewa
Subject: Potato!
Potaaaaaaaaaaaatoooooo!!!!!!!!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT NO ONE EVER DREAMS ABOUT CABBAGE…
The phone was ringing. Why was the phone ringing?
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and tried to find my glasses.
“Hello?” I said.
But I was speaking into the telly remote. That would never work. The telly wasn’t even on.
I found my glasses, and then the phone.
“Hello?”
“Pub!”
“Eh?”
“Pub!”
“It’s… not even ten o’clock!”
“Pub at eleven, then!”
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think?”
“Ian?”
“No! The other one! I’m back off tour for a couple of days!”
“Wag!”
“So—pub?”
I thought about it.
“I guess so!”
It was great to see Wag again. A little bit of normality. He’d been away for what seemed like months now—and, in fact, was—but he was back in London for a few days’ R&R before jetting off again, to…
“Moscow!”
“Moscow?”
“Moscow!”
“Wow. I got all your postcards. Thanks for that.”
“S’all right. Cheaper than a text.”
“It really is great to see you again, Wag. What’s been going on?”
“It’s been wild. Sleeping on tour buses. Whiskey and cigars. Great audiences.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“And you?”
“Yeah. Pretty much the same.”
I didn’t really want to tell Wag too much about what I’d been up to. Especially not lately. Because what I’d been up to lately wasn’t too much.
“Come on—you must’ve been up to something. Any more TV stuff?”
“I’ve taken a sabbatical. Too many things I needed to do.”
“Like what?”
“I sacked a builder,” I said, and Wag made a very impressed face. “And I’ve been sorting out the house. Ian and I made a canopy. That kind of thing.”
“How is Ian?”
“Um… I’m not sure. He’s left a couple of messages and I’ve been meaning to call him back, but you know how it is.”
“Canopies to build?”
“That kind of th
ing.”
“And that’s it, is it? That’s all you’ve done?”
“Well, I’m nearly thirty, Wag. Time to sort things out. Get my affairs in order. I’m not a boy anymore.”
“What? Yes, you are. We both are! We’re… the boys!”
“We’re a boy and a man, now.”
“What are you saying? That you’re my father?”
“I am not saying I’m your father. I’m just saying there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to stop sleeping on tour buses and buy himself a minivan. And then not sleep in it.”
“I’m confused. Are you talking about you or me, here?”
“It’ll come to you, too, Wag. You mark my words.”
I felt wise. But I also felt old. I may as well have had a pint of bitter in front of me.
“And why,” asked Wag, “did you order that pint of bitter?”
“Forget that. Tell me tales of the road.”
And so he did.
“What are you doing tonight?” he said, after lunch. He was wiping food off his mouth with a serviette but he’d missed a bit.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really know what I’m doing these days.”
“Well, Friday night, my friend—that’s when the fun will reenter your life. I’m having a few drinks to say hello and goodbye again. Ian’s coming. You better be there!”
“Yup,” I said. “Although it depends on whether there are any other canopies to build…”
I guess, in a sense, I’d been robbed of some purpose. I’d robbed myself of some purpose. The emails I’d received from Peter Gibson and Anil Tailor and Cameron Dewa I’d kind of batted away. Those asking me if I wanted to meet up, I’d replied to with non-committal non-answers, like “yeah—I’ll give you a bell!” or “love to—bit snowed under right now.” This had kind of happened to me before, and I knew the best way to combat it was to do precisely the opposite, but I also knew I needed some time to myself right now. And maybe that was more important. Sometimes Mikey would pop up while I was absent-mindedly playing Call of Duty, being bashed on the back of the head by the Bald Assassin, which didn’t even have the power to stir up anger or annoyance in me anymore. Up the words would pop: theblindsniper_1977 wants to play. And I’d say hi, and maybe play half a game, and then most of the time I’d say I had to go off and do a thing.
And then there was Lauren’s email.
So Lauren had got back in touch. I’d found her. Just a little too late. A pity. Perhaps if I’d met her sooner, things might’ve been different now. Perhaps it would have kept me going. Or perhaps it would’ve stopped things altogether.
I hadn’t really known how to reply to her, so had just sent something generic back. Something along the lines of, “Yes! Great to be back in touch! Maybe I’ll see you in Dublin someday!” No plans, no promises, no real encouragement.
But Lauren hadn’t left it there.
“I’m going to be in London quite a bit!” she’d say. “I could come to you!” And she’d list dates, and I’d kind of look at them, and I’d feel rude and silly and awkward, and I’d write back and apologize, saying I wasn’t around on those days.
And she’d joke, and say, “You seemed a lot keener when you first got in touch,” and she’d suggest more dates, and I wouldn’t reply for a day or two.
And then, one day, and out of the blue, a phone call.
“Hello?”
“Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Lauren.”
And I was slightly shocked.
“Lauren? How did you…”
“I asked my mum to call Martha to get Lorraine to ask your mum for your number…”
“Well… how are you?”
And we talked.
And finally, and in the end, and because it’s so much harder to avoid something when you can hear the person asking the actual question, we agreed to meet up.
Lauren Jessica Medcalfe was born in the same year as me: 1976. A year which anyone born before then would come to tell me—and, I imagine, her—was the summer of the Great British Heatwave. That nearly thirty years later people still boast of a particularly hot summer tells you more about Britain than it does about 1976. Plus, they’re forgetting: I was still in the womb at that stage. How did they think I felt? To say it was a bit parky in there would be to do the babies of ’76 a great disservice.
It was also the year Concorde made its first commercial flight. The year Apple made its first computer, and the year Microsoft became a trademark. The year the first space shuttle was unveiled. The year Renée Richards won the US Women’s Open, despite the fact that she’d been a man the year before. The year everyone thought they could see a face on Mars.
Among the many pretty hats, bonnets and teddy bears I received to welcome me into the world, a family friend in Dundee also presented my proud parents with The World of Wonder Book 1976. It seems to me now quite an optimistic gift to give to a baby. Bearing in mind I could hardly see, let alone read, I wonder now whether he’d really thought that gift through, or whether he’d simply decided that boys—no matter what age—would be fascinated by its educational chapters, such as “The Story of Wool,” “Inside the Egg of a Fish” and “The Moving Staircase!—The History of Escalators.”
Lauren and I had become pen pals through a mutual family friend. There was no rhyme or reason to it. People just thought that seeing as we were the same age, we’d probably have some of the same interests. We didn’t, really. Lauren liked Bananarama, whereas I liked Huey Lewis and the News and Michael Jackson. Lauren liked Pretty in Pink, whereas you’d be hard pushed to make me admit that anything was better than Ghostbusters. I have often thought, in fact, that were I ever to be asked for my specialist chosen subject on Mastermind, I would go for Ghost-busters.
Well, that or Teen Wolf.
What made our friendship work was the distance. It meant that when we wrote to each other, it felt like we were sending our thoughts thousands of miles away, even though it would’ve taken just forty minutes in a car.
After we’d talked on the phone, I’d looked in the Box. I knew there were still some of the old letters there. I’d read them.
There had only ever been one rival in life for my pen pal attentions. A French girl named Natalia. Here is a typical letter:
Hello Daniel!
How are you? Me, I’mm fine.
Now! I’m 14 years (fourteen)—3 april!
A cat
Do you like JIMMY SOMMERVILLE and ELTON JOHN?
Me, I like the pop singers. They’re marvellous.
I hope than you have good!
(J’espere que tu vas bien)
Love from Natalia
I never really knew what to write back to Natalia. I suppose I could simply have written:
Hello back
I am well
Me too
An ostrich
No
You too
Daniel
… but that would’ve looked like a haiku, and I must never be accused of trying to write a haiku.
With Lauren it had been different. Precisely because we knew different people meant we could be honest with each other. And it helped that we had a language in common. We could be open, knowing that no one—not our friends, not our parents, not anyone—would ever read our letters. Mainly because 95 percent of them were about Bananarama or Michael Jackson, and that’s quite a boring thing for parents to have to read. My secrets were safe with her, and hers with me. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, which these days, almost anyone can have, thanks to My-Space, and thanks to Facebook. But we had it on paper. And for some reason, that makes it more special.
I sat, in Bar Kick in Shoreditch, waiting for Lauren to arrive.
This had been my old stomping ground just a year before, and I looked around. Nothing had changed. There were still the same European-style football tables, which, though fancy, will never be as good as the ones you find in the back of old men’s pubs. Sti
ll the same men with interesting haircuts behind the bar, talking in Portuguese or Italian. Still the musty smell and the nostalgic pictures on the wall. I liked it here.
I ordered a Coke and sat near the back.
And maybe five minutes later, in she walked.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, putting a small rucksack down on the floor. “You know what the tube’s like.”
I hadn’t known whether to shake her hand or hug her, so I did an awkward mix of the two. By which I don’t mean I hugged her hand. I just kind of got a bit too close and then shook her hand. Was this because I wasn’t into this anymore, or because she was a girl? I couldn’t tell.
“It’s really great to see you!” she said, brightly. “So tell me everything. Are you married? What do you do? Do you live round here?”
She seemed genuinely excited. In precisely the same way I’d been when meeting Simon, or Tarek, or Cameron. Full of questions, full of energy.
“I’m married,” I said. “To an Australian girl. It’s great.”
“Amazing! God, I nearly got married! Haven’t yet, though, although I wouldn’t say no to half these barmen…”
“They do have interesting haircuts,” I said. “How about you? Married?”
She looked at me oddly.
“I just said I wasn’t!” she said.
“God, yes, sorry, I know. Sorry,” I said.
Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play Page 29