Read Turning Thirty for Free Online

where do you know me from?’
    â€˜You won’t remember me,’ he said, turning down the radio, ‘but I went to the same secondary school as you, King’s Heath Comprehensive.’ He turned and offered his hand.’Tony Goddard.’
    The name rang a bell. ‘Dave Goddard’s little brother?’
    â€˜That’s the one.’
    â€˜Dave Goddard,’ I mused. ‘Now, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.’ Back in my schooldays Dave Goddard had always been the boy most likely to become a brain surgeon. ‘What’s he doing now?’
    â€˜He’s in Canada,’ said the cabbie. ‘Toronto, to be exact. Met a girl there on holiday and moved out about five years ago. He’s got three kids and a massive house. He’s really living the life.’
    I couldn’t help myself. ‘Is he a brain surgeon, then? He was so smart we always reckoned that’s what he’d do.’
    The cabbie laughed. ‘I know what you mean. He was miles smarter than anyone in our family. But no, he’s not. He’s a lawyer. Specialises in commercial law.’
    â€˜And you’re his little brother?’
    â€˜I was only twelve when you were at King’s Heath. You and my brother were at the top end of the school and I was at the bottom.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I tell you what, though.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You were cool in those days, you know. There were some great stories about you.’
    â€˜I doubt it,’ I said, embarrassed.
    To prove his case he cited some of the legendary events in which I’d supposedly been involved in my schooldays, starting with the time I staged a roof-top protest over the inedible state of our school dinners (true: I got suspended for a fortnight), moved on to the time I streaked naked across the school playing-fields for a dare (false: an urban myth) and concluded with when I organised a policewoman kiss-o-gram for Mr Frederick, my form teacher, to celebrate his fortieth birthday (semi-true: I organised it but the school secretary twigged what she was up to and wouldn’t let her in). It was weird hearing him describe these events with the sort of reverent tones usually reserved for the first man on the moon or the fall of the Berlin Wall. But I suppose when you’re only twelve the kind of once-in-a-lifetime events that you’re actually interested in are the ones that involve sex, nudity and roof-top protests.
    â€˜They certainly were good days,’ I confided, ‘probably the best. But I wasn’t the most popular kid at school, that’s for sure. I was just like everyone else, keeping my head down, trying to survive.’
    We talked about the old days, sharing as much as we had in common. I told him about my life and what I’d been up to. He told me about his life and what he’d been up to, and then he told me about a few of the kids from my year at school that he’d heard about through the ex-King’s Heath Comprehensive grapevine. The names he mentioned were ones that I had long forgotten. People like Peter Whittacker (then, the boy most likely to become a professional athlete) was now a sales administrator for a double-glazing firm; Gemma Piper (then, the girl most likely to go to Oxford and become the new Kenneth Branagh) had been spotted in a TV ad for washing powder; Lucy Dunn (then, the girl most likely to remain ‘nice but dull’ all her life), was now a radio producer at BBC Pebble Mill; and Chris Adams (then, the boy who always smelt of wee) was now the manager of a health-food shop.
    That was the news.
    â€˜Here it is,’ I said, as we pulled into my parents’ road. ‘It’s the one with the immaculate, manicured lawn.’ He pulled to a halt. ‘How much?’
    He clicked off his timer. ‘Nothing.’
    â€˜You can’t do that,’ I said. It was a nice gesture but I wouldn’t have felt