When We Were Young

by Richard Roper

  “Anyway,” Alice said, “how’s that ol’ liver of his holding up in there?”

  I brought a hand to the place my scar was, still tender to the touch. “Pretty good so far,” I said.

  “Does it feel weird?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Really weird.”

  There was so much I wanted to say to Alice, but I knew I’d be no more coherent than the speech I’d given earlier. Alice seemed to know what was going on in my head.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s all so hard. Let’s not try and make sense of it now. We’ll just tie ourselves up in knots.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But when you’re ready, do you promise to come and see me, or call, however you want to do it?”

  Alice nodded. I thought she was about to go, but she turned and put her hand out, and I took it, and we just stayed like that for a while.

  When she gave my hand a little squeeze and went to move away, I said, “Alice—please . . . can you just . . . I just need you to know how much I loved him. He was so brave. Braver than I’ll ever be. He really was my best friend. Even in all the years we were apart, I never stopped thinking about him.”

  Alice took a moment to compose herself, then she lifted her head and said, “Promise me something?”

  “Anything,” I said.

  * * *

  Nine months later I was pacing the stalls of the theater inside the BBC’s Broadcasting House, waiting for everyone to arrive. Amber was the first, and the way she embraced me instantly made me feel a hundred times better, though I still had butterflies about what was about to happen.

  Mum came through the door next, waving when she saw me. Martin, with his bristly mustache and twinkling blue eyes, followed behind her, carrying her coat. He had lived up to his reputation so far, and I’d never seen Mum so happy. I guided them to their seats and confirmed to Mum twice that, yes, the little bags of popcorn were indeed free.

  A little later, when Geoff and Angie appeared, and then Alice with her boyfriend, Daniel, at her side, I felt myself starting to freak out. I’d seen them since Theo’s memorial, and we’d talked at length, but even as they did their selfless best to rid me of my guilt, and the interactions became easier, I was still a bag of nerves each time we met. Amber took my hand and whispered in my ear that everything was going to be okay, and it was that which gave me the strength to go over and greet them. Alice and I hugged. Angie and Geoff said hello, and when Geoff patted me on the arm and asked me how the liver was, I was so overwhelmed and grateful that I couldn’t stop myself welling up.

  “Hey, come on, now,” Angie said. “No tears today. That’s not what Theo would have wanted.”

  “I bet it would be in fairness,” Alice laughed. “Ideally, he’d want this to be broadcast on every available channel in the world and for there to be some sort of mass crying outbreak like when a North Korean leader dies.”

  “Oh, give over,” Angie said, but she smiled all the same. “Shall we go and find our seats, then?” she asked me.

  “Yes, you’re just over there.”

  The lights were dimming as the last cast and crew members trickled in.

  Just before the Herns went, I said, “You don’t have to or anything—I won’t be offended in the slightest if you don’t want to, or if you’re keen to get back home—but—”

  “We’re coming to dinner, yes,” Alice said. “Amber and I sorted the restaurant already, don’t worry. She said you were, quote, a bit stressed about finishing the edits or something. Come on, Ma and Pa—let’s get you sat down.”

  I smiled at them all as they left. I was nervous about the dinner, but the fact they were coming at all, and that it had been a joint effort by Alice and Amber, left me with a good feeling.

  I took my seat next to Amber. I couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. All the people I loved most in the world were sitting around me. Except one. I felt a lump growing in my throat again.

  “Are you okay?” Amber whispered.

  I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find the words.

  “Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to explain,” she said, wriggling down and putting her head on my shoulder in the way she always does.

  The lights dimmed, and white text appeared on the dark screen.

  The Regulars

  (Cast & Crew Screening)

  Episode One—“Whose Round Is It?”

  Starring Amber Crossley

  Written by Theo Hern

  “Hey,” Amber whispered. “They missed your name off the credits!”

  I kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, that was me,” I said. “This was always his dream more than mine. It’s my one chance to let him have his moment.”

  The opening scene began, like all those jokes you don’t hear anymore, with a man walking into a bar. As he opened his mouth to speak, I raised my eyes to the ceiling and thought, We did it, eh, mate? We actually did it.

  * * *

  A butterfly had settled on my rucksack.

  “If you’re thinking of hitchhiking to London, it’s a bloody long way my friend,” I said. I checked for the hundredth time that morning that the engagement ring was in my pocket. It felt good to be worried about that again.

  Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a message from Alice.

  Ready to see it in all its glory?

  YES, I replied.

  I opened the photo Alice had sent through and gasped. She had gone above and beyond, and absolutely outdone herself. Leaning up against the wall of a pub—in glorious British racing green—was a tandem.

  Alice: The pub’s agreed we can lock it up around the back until you get here.

  Me: Perfect, thank you. How much do I owe you?

  Alice: Oh, nothing. You kept your promise. That’s all I wanted.

  At the funeral, Alice had asked whether—for Theo—I would walk the Thames Path. And get to the end, this time. She didn’t like the thought of that particular adventure of ours going unfinished.

  “As soon as I’m strong enough,” I’d said. “I promise.”

  I had decided to walk the path to Oxford—to where Theo and I had got to—and then do the rest on the bike. I knew I’d get some funny looks, or maybe even the odd wag asking me if I’d forgotten someone. But that was the point—I definitely hadn’t. Because when I was cycling I’d imagine Theo was on the backseat, and when the sun was behind me I’d pretend there were two shadows ahead instead of one.

  The butterfly took off, and that felt like my cue to get to my feet. I pulled the rucksack onto my shoulders and tightened the straps, turning to look at the path that cut a faint line across the fields. The river, and all its history, were waiting for me. There was nothing left to do now but start walking.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I walked most of the Thames Path, in three stints: in autumn 2015, summer 2017, and spring 2019. I chose that particular national trail partly because I was taken with the idea of walking from the source of something to its end, experiencing nature in all its majesty, and partly because I have no sense of direction and it’s quite hard to get lost when you’re following a river (although I did manage it—twice). I was indebted to Joel Newton’s excellent book Thames Path, a no-nonsense guide to the route. If—and I heartily recommend it—you do decide to take on the TP, you should know I have taken one or two liberties with the path when it comes to bicycle accessibility. As much as I love the idea of two people saddling up their tandem and following in Joel and Theo’s tire tracks, the route is a public footpath and so cycling isn’t allowed (or possible, in most places). I’m afraid once I’d had the idea it was too hard to resist, so for a more sensible guide to the path, Joel Newton is your man.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my incredible—and incredibly patient—editors, Harriet Bourton and Tara Singh Carlson, for challenging me to dig deep with this b
ook and helping to make it so much better. I still have Stockholm syndrome but, you know, in a good way. To my ever-wise agent, Laura Williams, who listens to my nonsense on a weekly basis and never complains. I owe you many pints. To everyone at Putnam and Orion, especially Chrissy Heleine, Nicole Biton, Katie McKee, Ashley McClay, Ashley Di Dio, Virginia Woolstencroft, Katie Moss, Olivia Barber, Jen Hope, Esther Waters, Dominic Smith, Declan Kyle, Nigel Andrews, and Linda McGregor. To the gang at Headline for all their support. To Ben, Holly, Lucy, Emily, and Fran, for just the right balance of encouragement and piss-taking. To Georgie, for making everything better. Finally, to my family, whom I missed an awful lot during the last year. Here’s to better days ahead.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Roper is a non-fiction editor at Headline, an imprint of Hachette UK. He lives in London and is the author of Something to Live For.

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