Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (12 page)

Anil and I both looked at Michael. He wanted to tell us something. We didn’t know what. We couldn’t even be sure
Mikey
did. And then he waved it away and looked to the floor.

“It’s… I’ll tell you later…” he said.

And I nodded, and we hugged, because we
would
see each other later. We could see each other whenever we
liked,
now.

And then Anil and I jumped into the sparkling, revved-up Mini and set off.

I was excited.

We were going to find Simon Gibson.

In the late 1980s in middle England, the Toby Carvery was the height of exclusive dining. Not only did they offer quality
meats at reasonable prices, but if you were a dedicated visitor to “Tobies,” you could also buy individual Toby jugs—mass-manufactured
clay jugs in the shape of a grotesque man’s face, which, if you had enough of them on your mantelpiece, could instantly knock
thousands of pounds off the value of your property. Apart from the jugs, grown-ups would unfailingly make reference to two
things when they talked of a Toby—the fact that you couldn’t go back for second helpings, and the invariably excellent parking
facilities.

And now I was returning to that cozy, clay world.

The sky was darkened by storm clouds as we pulled off the motorway to arrive in Colwick, a few miles to the north of Nottingham,
along the River Trent. Anil and I had been swapping anecdotes about growing up, catching up on the things we didn’t know about
each other. We would’ve continued… until we saw it, there, before us… the mighty Toby Carvery, Colwick. It ruled the area,
like a castle on a mountain: a powerful brick square standing guard over the roundabout and the dual carriageway beyond.

Inside, it was glowing. It looked busy in there. Weeks later, I would find the following on the Internet. A review from a
regular punter, keen to spread the word of Colwick’s number one Toby Carvery:

I have been to this establishment twice. On both occasions I took a disabled person in a wheelchair. I had the chicken and
bacon wraps both times and so did he. They were cooked to perfection. You can help yourself to as much veg and potatoes as
you want but you can’t go back for seconds which is a disadvantage.

It also has a decent-sized car park.

I hope that helps.

“Shall we go in?” I said.

“Definitely,” said Anil.

We parked the Mini in the excellent car park and approached the front entrance. The rain had started now, and the Toby Carvery
took on the kind of warm and inviting glow you see in films set in Victorian times. Through the windows you could see families
enjoying themselves—a wooden bar, and red carpets and attentive staff running to and fro.

We were welcomed by a girl in official Toby Carvery clothing.

“I demand to see the manager!” I said, which I had intended to say in an amusing voice but which had seemed to terrify the
girl.

“Oh! Um…”

“We’re old friends,” explained Anil, and I realized I should have said that. But it didn’t matter, because there, just by
the bar, I saw him…

“There he is!” I said. “There’s
Simon Gibson!
”

Simon Gibson had certainly grown up. In the old days, he’d been the scruffy kid at school, with a cheeky face and a fringe
that always needed an inch taken off it. He’d worn the same tracksuit every day of the summer holidays and even though he
had sneakers, he’d always worn his school shoes, until the soles had been peeling off, like in a Charlie Chaplin film. His
brother had called him fat—my mum had reassured him he was “pleasantly plump,” which I think in the end might have done more
damage—but the puppy fat had gone, and now here he was—smart. Suited. In control. He was clearly sorting out some kind of
problem, but doing it with a smile. He glanced over at us, didn’t quite take us in, and then looked again, harder.

“I don’t believe it!” he said.

Simon was rightly proud of his work at the Toby.

“We run a tight ship here,” he said. “We have a laugh, but we get the work done, which is important.”

We were sitting at the special table in the corner—the one only members of the staff get to sit at.

“We take a hefty sum each year, do three and a half thousand dinners a week. About twenty-five staff. But we
do
have fun.”

“That’s brilliant, mate,” I said, genuinely impressed with how big it all sounded. “How about at home?”

“Oh, I’m married now. To Claire. She’s amazing. The best thing I ever did was marry Claire. She’s so easygoing. There are
only two rules she sets for me—no other women, no other men. Other than that, I’m as free as free can be.”

“We’re going out a bit later on in Loughborough with Michael Amodio,” said Anil. “Are you coming out?”

“Right…” said Simon, thinking. “I might have to run it by the wife.”

Luckily, Claire works at the Toby Carvery as well, and Simon dashed off to ask permission.

“We’re with Simon Gibson!” I said, to Anil. “He’s a whole new man! He’s in
charge
of all this!”

It seemed a far cry from the Simon of old. It was great.

Moments later, he was back.

“Right. I have permission. But I can’t be out too late. Claire’s said she’ll get a lift to Loughborough later on and drive
me back in our car. Listen—I only live round the corner. I should put a different shirt on. Come round—you can see my baby!”

“You’ve got a
baby?
” I said.

Simon had
definitely
grown up.

Simon whipped the white rubber sheet away and said, “There she is! My baby! My pride and joy!”

We stood there, staring at a classic white MG—clearly the result of a boyhood ambition successfully realized.

“She’s beautiful!” said Anil, and I kicked myself as I remembered that I too should refer to cars as female.

“What a lovely old woman!” I said.

“I’d always wanted one of these,” he said, proudly. “Of course, we’ve still got the Ford Fusion. Got to have a sensible car,
too. But this… this is my baby. Hundred pounds a year insurance, no tax.”

I made an impressed face using my eyebrows and lips. I never know what to say when people tell me about their car insurance.

“Anyway, I’ll get my shirt… come inside, meet the dog…”

Simon’s front room was as cozy as the carvery, with soft lamps and large sofas, and photos of his wedding scattered about
the place. And, most noticeably, a large and enthusiastic dog who clearly hadn’t seen anyone all day.

“What’s the dog called?” I shouted to Simon, as it tried its best to pop its paws inside my mouth and nose.

“Pepsi!” he shouted.

Ah. I got it.

“You always did like Pepsi & Shirley. Is that who she’s named after?”

“She’s named after the drink,” he said. “The drink of ‘Pepsi.’”

I felt a bit silly asking that. Maybe it was just me who’d become momentarily hung up on those days. Simon had so far seemed
a little further on down the track of accepting adulthood than me. Yes, he was settled, like me, but he’d taken it
further.
He had a proper job with “manager” in the title. He had a
dog.
And he’d even bought his midlife crisis car—about fifteen years before he’d needed to. He was embracing his move into the
world of the thirty-something with gusto and grace. He wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t looking to the past. He wasn’t hung
up on things that were once important to him, like…

Hang about.

What was
this?

“Simon! What’s this? On your wall.”

“What’s what?” said Simon, coming down the stairs with a smart shirt on.

“This!”

I pointed at it.

“Ah…” he said. “That, my friend, is a sealed, framed original
Back to the Future III
movie poster, signed by Michael J. Fox, along with cells from the actual film.”

My God. This was like 1980s
treasure.

“Now
that
is impressive,” said Anil.

“The fact that it’s signed?” said Simon.

“The fact that your wife lets you hang it up in the living room.”

“I told you,” he said, putting his finger in the air. “No other women. No other men. The rest is up to me. Right. I’d better
just feed the dog or Claire will go
mental.
”

Simon took Pepsi into the kitchen and for a moment Anil and I simply stood in front of the poster and stared at its action-packed
beauty. We were the post–
Star Wars
generation. For us,
Back to the Future
was probably the defining movie trilogy of our lives. It was the reason I’d got a skateboard for my tenth birthday—a skate-board
I’d had to carry around every where because the wheels didn’t work properly. But that didn’t matter. Because from that day
forth, I was no longer Indy. I was no longer Daniel-San. I wasn’t even Dr. Venkman. I was
McFly.
McFly with a knackered skateboard, but McFly nevertheless.

“There’s actually more of a reason I’ve got that,” said Simon, closing the door to the kitchen. “I’ll tell you down the pub.”

Anil and I both nodded. As if just
having
it wasn’t reason enough.

“Right!” said Simon, holding up his car keys. “To the Fusion!”

We drove in a convoy back to Loughborough—me and Anil in the Mini, Simon in his silver Ford Fusion minivan.

“Isn’t it funny that Simon’s got a Ford Fusion people carrier?” I said. “It’s the new Simon. If it was still the old Simon,
it’d be a Ford Cortina with no hubcaps.”

“If it was the old Simon, it’d be a nine-year-old boy driving a car,” said Anil. “But it’s funny seeing him drive. It’s funny
how we’ve all been separated, but all gone through some of the same things. Learning to drive, getting our first cars…”

“Your first heartbreak. The day you move out of home. Kissing a lady.”

“You’ve kissed a lady?”

“Once.”

But I knew what Anil meant. You always imagine you grow up with your mates. But you grow up anyway. There are some processes
we all go through no matter what. Processes far more fundamental, of course, than just learning to drive or moving out of
home. Processes that define you, and just you, but which define everyone else as well.

“The past is just as important as the present,” said Anil, wisely. “It’s like… if there’s a wrong in your past, you might
as well try and right it. Like in that telly show. That’s why the past is still there. You can always go back to it.”

I took a moment to think about what Anil had said.

“Anyway, what was her name?”

“Who?” I said, lost in my thoughts.

“The lady you kissed.”

“Oh. Um…”

“See, I
knew
you were lying…”

“Our first pint!” I said, and we clinked glasses.

“To old friends,” said Mikey, and I thought back to the doodle in my address book.

It was a wonderful moment. A moment I couldn’t have predicted just a couple of days before. A moment that meant something.

Here I was, sitting outside a pub in Loughborough, with Anil Tailor, Michael Amodio and Simon Gibson. The old crew. The old
gang. Back together. Three of the first names in my address book. Reunited.

Instantly, the chat began… we talked relentlessly about the times we’d had, and the things we remembered, and the things we
remembered about
each other.
We compared notes, and filled each other in, and laughed and joked.

“Thing I remember about you, Dan,” said Simon. “Always very good at spelling.”

“Yes! Thank you!”

I made a mental note to remind Lizzie of this when I got home.

This was warm, and fun, and felt important, somehow. Like a meeting had been inevitable; like nothing had ever changed.

We discovered that Simon’s dad was indeed—as we had predicted at the time but which Simon had furiously denied—the only man
in Loughborough to have bought a Betamax video. That Anil was the one who changed the lyrics of “He’s Got the Whole World
in His Hands” to “He’s Got the Whole World in His Pants” the morning we all had to stay behind in assembly and apologize to
Jesus.

We talked about the day our primary school burned down—“I’d left 60p in my drawer at school
and
some MicroMachines,” said Simon. “I’ll never see
them
again.”

And then I changed the subject. Changed it to something I’d been wanting to ask since I’d first seen the boys again. But how
to phrase it? How to phrase a question that means so much? That contains so much angst, and worry, and paranoia?

“Can I ask you all something?” I said, slowly. “Has anyone else here…”

I still didn’t know quite how to put it.

“What?” said Anil.

“Has anyone else here,” I said, “… started listening to Magic FM?”

There were coy looks around the table. No one made eye contact. No one seemed keen to speak. Was I the only one worried about
growing up? Growing old? Turning thirty?

And then Mikey coughed once, softly, and spoke…

“I wouldn’t say I was a
regular
listener,” he said.

“So you
do
listen to it?” I said.

“Sometimes it’s on in the background,” said Simon.

Maybe I wasn’t alone!

“But have you ever listened on
purpose?
”

He went a bit red.

“It’s just so
feelgood,
” said Anil. “They do
all
the hits.”

Thank God. Thank God it wasn’t just me. Here we were, four nearly men, each sharing a terrible admission of guilt. Maybe this
was perfectly natural. Maybe this was just part of the process. I suddenly felt such warmth towards my friends. Okay. I hadn’t
seen them in the best part of twenty years. But we were all the same age; we’d gone through the same things in different ways.
We’d continue to for the rest of our lives, even if we never met again.

It made me realize there would
always
be a connection.

Simon was explaining how he’d entered the world of carvery management.

“I started off working at the one in Loughborough… the one down by Forest Gate? I worked there for a while and then the offer
of a job up in Aberdeen came up, so off I went. Then Birmingham, where I met Claire, and then off I went to Colwick. Although
they’re opening up a new one in Banbury next year which me and Claire might have to go off and start…”