Mark Barwell: Blog

Coming Home

by Mark Barwell

The rolling fields of the English countryside give way to ramshackle buildings of stone and lime as we speed past the worn-out sign that heralds the name of a proud but tired village. From my viewpoint, staring out the window of the taxi, the streets of my old home town barely look real. Maybe it's because I'm seeing them through glass, like models in a museum. Or perhaps it's because my memories keep blending with the scenes before me, settling over the landscape like ghosts.

Not much has changed in the five decades since I've been gone. The shops have new names and fancy displays in the window and the old pub's had a lick of paint but the heart of the place is still there; beating a bit slower perhaps, but not ready to go just yet. I chuckle to myself as I murmur softly: "I know how you feel, old girl".

As we pull up to the church, I think that maybe it is my time after all because I think I see Charlie sitting on an old wooden bench outside, smoking an illicit cigarette. I know that's impossible because he died last week at the age of 63 and I'm here for the funeral. That and the fact that the boy before me can't be much more than 16. But I swear they could have been twins – same hair colour, same features, even that flicker of a smile that never seemed to go away. No matter what trouble we got into or how scared I'd be, thinking of the hiding I'd get from my mother when she found out, just one look at Charlie and I'd feel warm inside and happy to take on the world.

If only things had turned out differently, I could spent my life with that smile instead of having to be content with cherishing the memories. But that was then and this is now and I can't be late for my best friend. I've stayed away for almost fifty years so I owe him this much. I take a deep breath and steel my resolve to leave the safety of this taxi.

I trip as I lean out of the car and I take a tumble, the world spinning wildly around me as I clutch blindly at the air. I come to a sudden rest, not on the hard cobbled skin of the pavement as I had feared, but sagging in the well-built arms of the boy. I look up in shock and wonder and stare into the face of my saviour, concern etching his features but still with that hint of a smirk.

"Ch-Charlie?" I can barely speak as my breath stutters from my quivering lips.

"Oh, you're here for Granddad's funeral! I thought that was the case when I saw you pull up but I don't recognise you, I'm afraid. I'm Sam. Sam Didcott," smiles the young man as he pulls me to my feet and thrusts out his hand for me to shake.

I grasp it gratefully and return the greeting: "David Langford. I knew Charlie when we were boys. Granddad, eh?"

"Yeah, he was a great guy. I miss him a lot. But today's all about remembering how happy he made us, right? So how about we get you inside – the ceremony's about to start."

I smile in thanks as the youth leads me into the church. At the door is a stand with a glass-framed picture board on it. Fragments of photographed histories cascade around the edge and in the middle is the image of a man I almost knew. Time has wearied the features and deepened the lines but the old face before me is still familiar. I catch sight of my reflection in the frame and sigh at the realisation that age hasn't been so kind to me. I wonder if Charlie would have recognised me still?

I sit at the back; I don't want to bother anyone and even though the boy is quite insistent, I refuse the kind offer to sit with his family. I confess to being a little scared of meeting them, not for fear of being a stranger but in case they actually know my name. I don't want to have ended up as an embarrassing footnote in another man's story, a tale told with mocking laughter and barely-disguised disgust. So I sing to the hymns and listen to the words of others recounting a history I barely shared.

We first met in this church, Charlie and I, at my first Sunday service at the age of 7. My parents had just moved into the village and they thought that the best way of loving God was to fear him. So there I was, suited and booted and bored. Just as the service was about to start, in rushed a flustered family: apologetically-flushing mother, wearily-resigned father and a scruffily-charming boy who couldn't have been much younger than me. They tumbled into the pew beside us and smiled greetings at my parents, who sternly nodded their welcome in return.

On reflection, perhaps they would all have realised that putting two young and uninterested boys next to each other was bound to be trouble but as it was, such premonition was avoided as the wheezing old pipe organ trumpeted the arrival of the vicar and the whole shebang began. By the time Charlie and I had giggled our way through the songs and playfully kicked each other during the sermon, we were firm friends.

As the collection plate was passed round, we all donated our change and although Charlie seemed to have done the same, when our parents were looking elsewhere he nudged me in the side and I turned to see two shiny pennies in his grip. My jaw dropped in surprise and he winked at me before giving me one of the coins and motioning for me to keep quiet. In a timeless moment of boyhood bonding, I nodded and pocketed it quickly. On examining our bounty later, we discovered that they were minted in 1947, the year of our births: me in May and him at the tail end of the year. We truly felt that fate was smiling on our friendship.

We tried to talk after the service but were both pulled away by our respective families; his were desperate to return to the farm as there was much work to do and mine were concerned with ingratiating themselves with the clergy. As we waved our goodbyes, I hoped that I would see him again.

I am shaken from my reverie as people start to stand and file out from around me. Leaning on the back of the pew for support, I make my way into the grey sunshine and rest against the cool stone of the building. A middle-aged man approaches and introduces himself with a name that has no meaning to me.

"How do you do, sir? My son was telling me that you were an old friend."

I'm puzzled for a moment until the boy from before comes rushing up and takes the man by the hand.

"Dad, can I go and have lunch with Will? His mum says it's OK! Oh, hello again!"

"Hello young man. Thank you for rescuing me earlier!"

Now it's the father's turn to look puzzled so the boy explains the circumstances of our meeting. This goes down well and the boy is praised and my health is enquired after. I introduce myself and the man suddenly smirks.

"David? As in...Davey-Boy?" he grins.

I reel in shock and almost faint as I hear that name echoing back to me from across the years. I have been David to almost everyone: my parents, teachers, even my work colleagues in the ensuing decades. But Charlie always referred to me as Davey-Boy and just called me Davey when we were alone. He would take great delight in singing that old Irish melody, not too tunefully, until I would threaten to walk away and never speak to him again. A laugh, that smile, and a promise that he was only teasing, and we would go our merry way, friends once more.

It's almost tempting to be cheerful but then I see the humour on the faces before me and my knees go weak. The man looks at his son, who stares back in wonder and mirth.

"You mean, THE Davey-Boy?" he titters and they both turn to me and laugh out loud.

I can't stand this: my fears have been realised and I have to get away. I stumble an apology and stagger out of the churchyard, knocking people out of the way in my haste to be gone. I'm vaguely aware of voices behind me but I won't stay to hear them! With the perfect bitterness of history repeating, I run away.

Hours pass as I wander through tear-stained streets, finally glancing up and looking around as I marvel at where my feet have instinctively led me. At a bridge over a stream at the end of a lane, I lean on rickety railings and remember the days that we had lived, laughing and playing our way into adolescence.

We were thick as thieves, Charlie and I, and many people remarked that we were like brothers. We even pondered that too and agreed that it would be nicer if we were: in an ideal world, we would live together on the farm and his older, obnoxious brother would move in with my folks. But fantasy and reality were always going to be very different and we resigned ourselves to remaining firm friends.

All of my early memories are woven with thoughts of Charlie. The first time I bought sweets at Mrs Parson's store, he was there to share them. The first time I milked a cow and squirted myself in the eye, he was there to laugh and offer a cleaning rag and the first time I kissed...well, that was the last day of our time together. I wipe a tear from my eye as I hear a not-so-subtle cough from behind. I don't have the energy to turn and simply stay staring into the reflective trickle of the stream below me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man from the church settle himself beside me and I hear his soft voice speak.

"I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to startle you. Are you OK?"

I sigh deeply and reply, "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you. You must think me a silly old fool!"

"No, not at all. I feel dreadful for not going after you but Sam insisted that you needed time to yourself. He's wise beyond his years, that boy."

"Sam, that's your son? The boy at the church? Then you must be....Charlie's son? Son-in-law?"

The man laughed and I grimaced again, prompting a concerned look and apologetic words.

"There I go again, you must forgive me. It's just that...Charlie never had any children of his own."

Now I'm really confused!

"But the boy, Sam, he said Charlie was his granddad. How..."

"I see there's been some sort of misunderstanding. We've been calling Charlie that for years, it's a term of affection because he always looked after us, tried to let us see that there could be comfort in the things we can't change. Some of us found that harder than others."

"Do you mean your family?"

"No," sighs the man, "but let me ask you a question. What do you recall about the last day you saw Charlie?"

For a moment I consider sanitising my words, reshaping history into a form that may be more palatable. But I'm old and tired and I don't really care much any more. So I talk.

"It was 1964. The summer was in full swing and we had fun, boy did we have fun! It was the year that the lake was created by flooding the old quarry. We weren't really supposed to swim in there because there were said to still be sharp rocks left over from the old days. But we did anyway!"

My companion chuckles and so do I. Oh how I wish that those memories had ended there, with us playing out our days in those cool waters, running through fields of corn and laughing away our cares. If only I hadn't spoiled it all. Perhaps now really is the right time to let out the words that have long been buried inside.

"I was always the quiet one and Charlie was the tearaway. He'd never hurt anyone or damage anything, at least not on purpose, but he was always leading us into mischief. Things changed that year and my feelings for Charlie began to grow. By that, I mean that I began to hope for him as something more than a friend. The time we spent together started to have so much more meaning and the times we were apart were devastating. I...I really don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm sorry."

"Go on, I'm listening. It'll be OK."

I feel reassured by the comforting hand now placed over mine and so I continue, a feeling of nausea threatening to topple me as I recount the beginning of the end.

"You have to understand that all this was frightening. I didn't know what it was, what I was! It's all so different nowadays with people like me on the telly all the time, and street parties and the like. OK, OK, so it's not like that every day but you can see how I feel, can't you? It wasn't like that back then. That sort of thing was only talked about in whispers or shouted in hate, accompanied by fists."

"Charlie said his brother could be like that."

"You're not far wrong there, lad! He was a spiteful sod, that boy. Made my life a misery just because I didn't like football and always wore a scarf in winter. Stupid antics from stupid kids. But it still hurt."

"And Charlie didn't say anything?"

"Don't you believe it! He had lots to say on the subject and half the time was spent running away from his brother after Charlie had shot his mouth off in my defence. But he never asked me if what they were saying was true. I guess I didn't really know myself until that summer."

"The year of the lake?"

"Yes. The year of the lake. It was a glorious day and we had been climbing trees. It was that time of year when I was technically a year older even though we both knew there wasn't much in it. I had been struggling with my feelings for so long and thought that I would go mad with the torment of unreachable hopes and pleasurable but guilt-wracked dreams. Every time we were close, I wanted it to be closer and every time we hugged I didn't want to let him go.

On that day we had been swimming and were basking in the sun on the warm carpet of grass. I turned to say something to Charlie and found that he had done the same. Our noses touched and I remember thinking that it was now or never so I leaned in and kissed him before my resolve weakened. When I pulled away, I saw his shocked face and knew that I had gone too far. In horror I staggered away, my ears ringing with the curses and damnations that would be cast upon me when everyone found out. My best friend hated me and my life was over.

I didn't leave the house for two days. When I finally resurfaced, I went to the farm but his father said that Charlie wasn't there. He wasn't much of a talker so I didn't want to press for any further details, afraid of what I might unleash. So I came here, to our bridge. For days I waited, going to each of our favourite places but he never showed up. I knew that I couldn't face life without him but it would have been even harder to see his face every day and not have it look upon me with kindness. So I packed a bag, left a brief note for my parents and I left. I've been running away ever since."

My old bones creak as I sway back and forth, rocking quietly with grief for what I had thrown away. My companion is graceful enough to give me this time before interrupting me with a gentle touch and an outstretched hand bearing a letter. On the crisp white paper is a name. My name: Davey.

"Here, this is for you," he says as I raise a questioning eyebrow. "Charlie wrote it a few months before he went, before the cancer took hold and his body began to shut down. It was the last meaningful thing he managed to do by himself. People kept telling him that he was silly to hope; that there was no way you could be found. Some even said that you were just a figment of his imagination; that were never real. But he gave that letter to me and he looked me in the eyes and he made me promise to find you. It was me that sent you the notice for the funeral. I'm only sorry that I wasn't able to find you sooner."

My hands are trembling and I can barely stand so I allow myself to be led to the shade of the old willow tree, once upon a time an exciting castle, or a mountain cave, or the palace of a mysterious Arabian prince. Now I look upon it and see only a tree, silent guardian of childhood secrets. In this place of long-lost memories, I read the letter.

"Dearest Davey,

If you're reading this, then I know that I was right all these years and that you're still alive. I always thought that I could feel you in the world, a shining light that glistens from afar. Of course, if this isn't Davey, then bugger off you cheeky little toerag, whoever you are!

I'm assuming that this is you, and that time hasn't robbed you of your compassion. You always were the one with the heart and I can only wish that is still the case and that you'll read what I have to say without prejudice or hate. It has been a long time since we parted and I've always regretted my actions that day. I was scared, to tell you the truth. We were the best of friends, as close as brothers, and my only fear was of all that being lost.

We were closer than ever in that last year and I kept convincing myself that you were feeling what I was. That rush of excitement, that longing for each other, all the things that I hoped could be possible if only we were together. In the end it was all too much and I had to know how you felt, That day at the lake seemed so right, the perfect opportunity, and as we looked at each other and our lips finally met, I thought I was in heaven. But then you pulled away and I saw the fear in your eyes and I knew that I was wrong. You ran away and you never came back.

Mother dragged me to my Auntie's that night because she had a fever and couldn't look after her house. While I was away I thought about all that happened and even though I knew you were afraid, I thought that we could take on the world together. I feared that you hated me but hoped that you loved me back and I almost ran the hundred miles back home just so I could be with you. I knew that I could make you smile. When we returned, a week later, I knocked for you but your parents said you'd gone. I suppose you'd given me your answer.

Time is running out now and I hope this letter finds you before I go so that I can see your face before me once more; maybe wearing a smile and not a frown? Besides, I have something for you so you'd better come quickly before I change my mind. I can hear you chuckling as you read this and I truly wish that's not my imagination.

If you still care, please come home. The boys will look after you; all you have to do is turn up at the farm and they'll see you right.

With all my heart,

Your old friend Charlie."

It's quiet now and even the birds have stopped singing. My head is full of sadness and grief but even still a small question springs into awareness.

"What did he mean, the boys?"

"Charlie never married, he wasn't like that as you can see. When his parents died and his brother moved to London, he carried on working at the farm. There was a lot to do and some of us helped him out. But he helped us out even more. You see he recognised certain qualities in some of us, boys of the village throughout the years. A mannerism or two out of place, a few sneaky glances in an unusual direction. Knowing that we were different. So he kept an eye on us and kept the bullies away. He was always there to listen to our troubles and to help us along the way. Letting us see that is was OK to be the way we were, the way he was."

"But you mean? That you're...?"

"Yes," smiled the man, "I like guys too."

"But didn't you say that Sam is your son?"

"Some of us can't change what's planned out for us. But hearing about you and Charlie made it easier to believe that in another place, at another time, things might have been different."

"Did he ever...have a partner?"

"No, not that I noticed. He seemed to put all of his energies into the farm. He used to tell us stories of you and him, of the things you used to get up to, the fun you had. When he'd finish, he'd always try to distract us as he wiped away a tear but we all saw and I guess we knew that was why he always went home alone. Because he'd found his perfect match, once upon a time."

I can't speak. There are no words for how I'm feeling and my well of tears has run dry. I barely react as something is pushed into my hand before my companion stands and turns to go.

"For you," he smiles, "because he couldn't give it to you himself."

As he walks away, I unfurl my fingers to reveal an old penny, tarnished and chipped but unmistakably bearing the year 1947. A smile lifts my face as I stare into the clouds, remembering a love that might have been.

-----------------------------------------------

It's colder now and the dusky sky settles softly over the churchyard as I make my way to the freshly-dug mound. A small wooden marker is the only thing that heralds my destination and I settle slowly onto the ground, my legs folding gently beneath me as I lay by my best friend's side. I prop myself up on one elbow and speak to him for the first time in far too long.

"Hello Charlie. Thank you for the letter. I only wish that you'd had the courage to send it a lifetime ago, or that I had the strength to have stayed and listened. But I guess it's too late now and the chance has long passed. Here, I believe this is yours."

I take Charlie's coin from my trouser pocket and place it on the grave. Then reaching into my jacket, I take out an old matchbox stuffed with material. Shaking the contents loose, I pick them up and unfurl my own coin, better preserved than its twin but equally as loved. I place it next to Charlie's and lean back to stare at the night sky.

"Together again, old friend, who'd have thought it. I always kept it safe, kept it clean. I had the silly notion that as long as I could keep the shine, you'd always remember me. I suppose it worked, eh?"

It's been a long day and a long life and the night is so cold. But I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, now that I've come home. They say it's where the the heart is and I think they might be right. Goodnight Charlie, I love you.

©2011 Mark Barwell