In the Ship Tavern in Anstruther on a crowded Saturday night, a voice came out of nowhere.
‘Hi, Billy.’
I jerked round, startled.
‘Sorry, my eyesight isn’t that good. I don’t recognise your voice.’
‘Simon. Remember me?’
I forgot my pint; stared at the indistinct face.
‘Bloody hell, Simon.’
It’d been three years since we’d seen each other, the two of us grinning like idiots.
‘Not bad, Billy. I’m busy as usual. he pointed towards a group in the corner. What about you?’
‘Same old, Simon. Good apart from the eyes.’
‘Are they that bad?’
‘Pretty bad. I had an operation six years ago. They’ve deteriorated since then.’
‘Can I get a pint for Billy?’ He counted out a handful of coins on the bar. I raised my glass and saluted.
‘Cheers, Simon, I’ll cope better for that.’
‘Where do you live now? He asked. And that was how the night went on. The beer was cold. An hour raced by. We blethered. I told him about my job, what was happening in town, about my niece, and about the house that I’d moved into. It was just like the good old days. But before we knew it, the clock was ticking. His friends were restless, waiting. He was losing attention, and our night came to a close with a last pint. Simon promised to visit me the following day. I knew him of old, though. I wasn’t holding my breath.
I’m back in my third year at school, standing outside the assembly hall during break one afternoon.
‘Hi Billy,’ a teenage boy with black rimmed glasses and scruffy brown hair appeared by my side.
‘Hi.’ I had no clue who he was.
And that was how we came to meet.
Simon and his family had moved to Pittenweem from Edinburgh, and he was on his own. Despite our differences, we became friends. He, geeky and lanky with scruffy brown hair; I with my square glasses, short back and sides. I liked football. He didn’t. He liked Formula One racing. I didn’t. There were some things we shared an enthusiasm for. South Park, the comedy TV show, and of course, girls. In those respects, we were like two peas in a pod.
Simon and I did everything together at that time. It isn’t easy living with Cerebral Palsy. Simon had lots of patience. We’d take the bus to St Andrews or Dundee, go swimming, do our shopping, or just hang out. We met girls. We even went to the school Christmas party with matching shirts and South Park ties. No one gave us a second glance; they were used to us by then.
I was more mobile in my teens. With the aid of my crutches, I often walked to visit Simon in Pittenweem. Despite the fact that we each had our own very different personalities, we got along pretty well. He had a kick-around with me, and I challenged him on the PlayStation in a Demolition Derby. We mostly broke even.
Simon helped again when I began to struggle with my eyesight. He assisted with colours during art classes, too. We were mates forever. Then, all of a sudden, things changed. I was diagnosed with Glaucoma in nineteen ninety-nine. At the high school summer ball that year, for some reason. Simon wanted to plough his own furrow. He ignored me. He left me to find my own way home. I coped with it. His family moved to a cottage outside Anstruther. He learned to drive and went his own way. I started college the next year and did my own thing. I met girls, which was fine, but when Simon got wind of this, he was back around, offering lifts and wanting to check out my girlfriends. He even dated one of them. I thought that was pushing it a bit much. He was hanging out with different people I knew from school. People I’d never have gotten myself involved with. The ‘wrong crowd.’ It was what it was.
That year, my eyesight plunged again. I attended the Royal National College for the Blind in Hereford. Life got better for me. I thought I’d phone Simon while I was there for old times’ sake, but it turned out to be a disaster. He claimed he didn’t know who I was, I’d had it with him by that time. I cut my losses. It was what it was.
Three years later, here we were in the pub back in Anstruther. I didn’t expect to see him on a Sunday, but my intercom did ring around mid-morning. It was strange. I put the kettle on, made coffee. We talked; what we’d missed over the last few years and what we hadn’t.
‘I like your pad,’ Simon said. ‘You’ve put a lot of work into it.
But his heart didn’t seem to be in it, and in the cold light of day, neither was mine.
‘Not me, Mum did the decorating.’ The silence stretched. ‘I’m meeting her at the golf club for lunch. You could join us.’
‘I’d like to, but you know me. I’ll have to get going, I’ll give you a lift, though.’
‘Like old times.’
The goodbye was awkward.
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ he promised.
‘Right you are.’
But we both knew. He was already gone.
‘Who was that?’ Mum asked when I sat down.
‘That was Simon.’
We watched the car turn onto the main road.
‘I thought it looked like him,’ she said.
And that was that. I haven’t heard from him since. Rumour has it, he moved to Aberdeen, he has a good job, that he’s married and has children. But knowing Simon. I wouldn’t say for sure.
Friends come; friends go. Some remain for a lifetime. Some just peter out. I miss Simon. He was a great mate. But life doesn’t stay still. I’ve lost most of my sight, but friends are always there if you look hard enough. Me? I keep my eyes open for friends. Always.