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said.
In retrospect, it all sounds pretty trite. But Ollie was a couple of years older than me and seemed to know stuff, exuding an authority which his height and build — he was six foot three, and lean — perfectly matched. The word ‘military’ came to mind. I attributed that to boarding school, but during one late-night conversation he revealed that he’d spent a year at Sandhurst, training to be an officer cadet. (He told me about it in confidence, perhaps fearing his fellow students would denounce him as a fascist if they found out.) At some level he’d always known that the army wasn’t for him, he said. But he felt he owed it to his father, who’d been an officer during the war, to give it a go, and he stuck it out as long as he could. The fact that his father was dead only increased his filial piety. He had died in a tragic accident, Ollie said, adding(his jaw quivering as he spoke) that if ever I met his mother I must be sure not to mention it in front of her. How crass did he think I was? ‘Just because I’m working class doesn’t make me an idiot,’ I was tempted to protest. But I kept my lip buttoned. In truth, I envied him the drama of having a father who’d died tragically rather than one, like mine, who never moved from his chair in front of the television. I also envied him having a mother who indulged him, rather than one whose mission was to stop her son from getting above himself. It seemed that Ollie had done well out of losing a parent, better than I’d done from hanging on to both of mine.
(I’m sorry to sound mean about my mum and dad. But if you had them as parents, you’d understand.)
In the May of my first year at university I began looking for somewhere to live from September, when I would no longer have a room on campus. Ollie, ahead of the game, had made plans to move in with three of his rugby friends. But in the event those plans fell through and we went to see a house together — a three-storey, five-bedroom slum which we signed the tenancy for, along with three Japanese postgraduates who had responded to the same advert. I was frankly surprised to find myself in the position of Ollie’s housemate and best friend. But at the end of an otherwise unhappy first year I took comfort from it. He had the edge on me in almost every way and that’s what made our friendship work. Prole and Nob, Little and Large, Tortoise and Hare. We were the ideal couple.
Ollie was out to greet us even before I’d parked the car. He looked leaner than when I’d last seen him. Too lean, with that stringiness characteristic of long-distance runners, the hollow cheeks, matchstick legs and wafer stomach. I wondered if he might be ill, but he came at us so swiftly through the heat, like a greyhound out of its trap, I set the thought aside. Hoppingfrom foot to foot, he semaphored for me to reverse into a space by the barn. I’d never seen a man look so impatient. Though Rufus was the one yelping as the engine cut, it might have been Ollie.
‘You took your time,’ he said, opening Em’s door.
‘Sorry, awful traffic,’ she said, accepting his kiss.
‘We were starting to think you’d never get here.’
‘Wherever here is,’ I said, climbing out. ‘If it weren’t for your directions we’d still be driving round.’
We shook hands, then — as if a handshake were too stiff — held each other closer for a moment, eyeball to eyeball, his hand on my upper arm, mine on his right elbow.
‘How are you?’ he said.
‘Grand,’ I said, ‘apart from the journey.’
‘Come on, you must be hungry.’
It was Ollie who looked hungry. He reminded me of a photo I’d once seen, of some artist riddled with angst or tuberculosis. Middle-aged barristers aren’t meant to look that way.
‘I hope you didn’t wait for us,’ Em said.
‘It’s only salad. Daisy’s inside somewhere. I’ll show you round. The barn used to be a coffin-maker’s.’
We’d been expecting something posh, and the grass-seamed drive