The first thing I saw in my mind as I read the post about the sudden death, was your face. Just as it was forty years ago when I last saw you. I didn’t know for sure that it was you though, which made it harder to react.
People think that when you set off into the world to lead your own lives, that the distance in space and time means the impact of friendship is lost. But not for me. Not with you. I felt a sickness in my stomach and a sadness swamp my mind. I needed to know for sure that this person was you. Your name is – was – unusual. That was the first clue, but we all know now from social media that names are less unusual than we think. The next was the outpouring of condolences from musicians and people connected to the music industry.
I saw your face again as I read these tributes, all saying how you supported their careers and dreams, all mentioning your kindness. I saw the four of us in the Rubaiyat, our favourite Byres Road bar. We headed there every Friday after the week’s lectures were done. Two lassies and two lads. Not couples. Just friends. We all loved music far more than Economic History.
That particular day – the one in my memory – you were excited about two new bands and albums you’d just bought. One was Stiff Little Fingers. The other was The Police. You raved on about the first, convinced they’d make it big time. I heard Sting’s voice later in my flat and I disagreed. But it was the Bluebells that excited you most after we’d graduated. I remember you telling me about them as you pulled a matchbox from your pocket with the iconic wildflower motif, explaining you knew them from school, and you believed that one day they would be stars.
Your face appears in my mind again as I remember that moment. Your hair was the usual immaculate cut – so different from the long-haired rockers and brightly coloured punks. It blew in the breeze like flickering flames, framing the hope and faith you had in the future, as your eyes crinkled and dimples lit up your smile. I loved our friendship that day. Our belief in ourselves and others our age.
You were excited I’d be travelling to Southeast Asia. I was excited as you drove me in your battered Mini Cooper to a surprise destination – the racing car green clinching the term Chick Magnet for you. I punched you for your sexism when you said that and you protested, pointing to the state of the vehicle. I laughed too then, despite the offensive term.
We got over that glitch as we parked up and you got out to open the passenger door for me, take my hand, and lead me into the bottom flat of an architects’ office. Your first studio. I don’t know how you got the money, but I knew you’d worked and saved throughout your degree even though we were of that fortunate first cluster of working-class students who could attend uni through grants. We were the lucky ones. We knew it then and know it now.
We lost touch when I was abroad, but you were the first friend to contact me at my parents’ house when I returned – keen to hear all about my travels and fill me in on your life. You wore a thick, cosy-red Christmas jumper and your hair still shook when you laughed and spoke. We went to Carriages and celebrated our reunion with champagne and canapes before the main meal. Music filled your world now as you chatted about your dream to drive through California in a 1950s Cadillac, how your studio had expanded, and you’d moved into larger premises in the city centre.
I was lethargic with loneliness at that time. I’d left someone behind that I knew I’d never see again. Your friendship and kindness saw me through one of the most difficult periods of my life though I don’t think you ever knew that. You were just being you. Happy, cheerful, full of fun. You made me smile again with trips to the Trossachs and drinks back in our old bar.
Then, all of a sudden, you stopped calling. We were never romantically attached. It wasn’t like that. But for some reason you were avoiding me. I’ll never know why but in a way it didn’t matter. It hurt at the time to lose such a close friend, but I’d started a new job at home, and it took up most of my days. Perhaps you knew that. Perhaps you knew I’d make it by then and you could let go. Perhaps your own life got too busy. Perhaps you’d met someone, and our friendship might complicate that. Who knows? But you left an imprint on my life and earned a special place in my heart.
…
A young musician friend of mine did some digging and came back to me, confirming that the deceased was you. I felt as though something inside me had burst. A thread had been snapped. I hadn’t seen you in nigh on four decades but your kindness to me in my time of need left me forever attached to you. My young friend sent me a picture asking if this was the person I was talking about. The check shirt and tight jeans were the first clue. The bright white car on California’s Route 66 was the next. The centre-parted shiny black hair the next. The smile and laughing eyes the last.
Adios my dear friend I said, into the screen, zooming in on those crinkly eyes as though they carried a message saying – it’s okay now. You can let go too.
I went to my playlist then, clicked on The Bluebells, and let the lyrics from Young at Heart drown out my sobs.