I don’t remember when me and Stuart became friends. Our mums said on the first day of nursery we just walked up to each other and that was it. Best friends. We sat next to each other all through nursery and primary. During break we’d eat our snacks together then go out to play tig, dodgeball or football in the ‘shed’ with a crushed can.
We shared everything. Magazines. Games. Toys. Football stickers. Penny sweets from the newsagents. He liked Rangers so they became my team.
During the last year of primary school things at home weren’t great. My dad had started drinking again so I spent more time at Stuart’s. His mum would make me a plate at dinner time until my mum came for me. We’d chat with his grandad who stayed with them. A really nice man. Funny and kind, he knew loads of stuff about everything. Everything he said made me laugh. He’d laugh too when he heard us playing but not in a cruel way that made me think he was making fun of us.
They didn’t make a big deal of me being Asian either, when a lot of other people did.
That summer holiday we played football everyday. There was this bit of grass by my house. Everyone called it the ‘hill’ but really it was a mound, a flat bit of land with slopes on every side, big enough for us kids to chase a ball around.
In the mornings I’d shout from my bed ‘is it time to get up yet?’, wearing my mum into submission. After watching cartoons I’d go up for Stuart. With the freedom and impatience of kids with 6 full weeks off school we’d play his Nintendo for a bit, passing the controller between us when Mario died.
Then we’d head out and go up for the rest of our pals, knocking on doors all shy and asking the adults if John, Thomas, Brian, Mark and Amar could ‘come out and play’. Captains were nominated but teams were decided with wobbly tic tac toe steps to see who would choose first.
The rest of the day would be spent running between the goals until we got called home. Wiping my muddy hands onto my muddier trousers I swallowed sandwiches whole. I’d gulp down a glass of milk while my mum stood over me, the chill in the drink going straight to my temples. Scrunching up my face I’d stamp on the spot until it passed then out the door I shot, right back into the game.
There’d always be the same arguments that stopped the matches. Who was moving the goal post jumpers? Did that shot go over or under our imaginary crossbars? Whose turn was to go after the ball rolling down the hill? Names and insults were traded, denials thrown back, as the ball bumped to a rest at the faraway kerb. Sit down strikes were serious business until a noble soul made the long walk sacrifice. Just as long as his kick got the ball up the slope. More shouting, cursing and laughter would erupt if his kick only got the ball so far before it rolled down the other side of the ‘Hill’, rolling further away from us.
I don’t think it rained a lot that summer but it was overcast the whole time, with maybe one or two sunny days before big school started in August.
I don’t know where it came from, or what made me say it out loud, but one morning, waiting for the rest of the lads to come out, I pointed up and said ‘those clouds have big grey bums.’ This had Stuart in stitches. His laughter was contagious and I caught the giggles too, as he rolled around on the grass, his face bright red and wet with tears.
Once he’d caught his breath he explained in the most matter of fact voice ‘It’s because they’ve got rain in them (hiccup). When they’re empty the clouds’ll (hiccup) disappear.’
***
For me and Stuart there was no big falling out or drama. From the first day of secondary school we were never in any of the same classes. Come breaks we’d have to find each other. We soon made new friends. We’d walk home together but in a big group. A quick chat in the corridor. Then down to nods. To walking by, too busy talking to other people.
Things ended up being okay for my family.
I stay in the same house, next to the ‘hill’. There’s kids that still play up there but when they stop now it’s to check their phones.
I don’t know if Stuart has moved. I’m not sure we’d recognise each other anymore. I’m not on social media. Even if I was, what would I say after all this time? I heard from an old school pal his mum passed away a few years back. That was sad to hear.
I have a young nephew now. Last time I visited him we played football for a bit and I realised it was coming up to thirty years since I last kicked a ball.
He’s starting to talk now too and it’s got me thinking about all of the questions he’ll ask. Dinosaurs. The weather. Why I support my team. All the stuff I’ll fumble over. Money. The news. His grandad. Girls. Or boys.
I’ll come up with something, I guess. Maybe that life has its good bits. And its dark patches too. But if he’s got good friends and keeps his head up things should be okay. The sun is always shining behind those clouds with grey bums. Just waiting for the clouds to empty so it can poke its head through again.