How To Make A Friendship Last 45 Years
A very late “thank you” letter.
When I was 12 years old, my parents whisked me from the London suburbs and dumped me in the Wiltshire countryside. Well, I exaggerate a little: we moved to a small town called Trowbridge, about 30 minutes from the lovely Georgian city of Bath. That city was one of the two things that saved my soul.
The other was a friendship. A friendship that, more than 40 years on, is still thriving.
I arrived at my new school (a scrappy state institution, “public” in the sense of being open to anyone) as a definitive outsider. I was small and slight, nerdy and bookish. I already enjoyed clothes: I knew how to iron a shirt and I took pleasure in my navy blue school uniform. My London accent was quickly deemed “posh”. It certainly clashed with the languid West Country burr.
The name-calling soon ramped up. The word “queer” was an insult then. So was its lighter cousin, “poof”. “Bender” and “homo” were also regularly deployed.
The confusing part was that I wasn’t gay. I liked girls — and to make matters worse, they seemed to like me. The bullies were enraged.
To be fair, there was very little violence. It was more like psychological torture. Sometimes they’d hide my bag, or grab it and kick it across the schoolyard. Mostly they ignored me, as if I was a pariah. I felt rejected and alone.
The school was called Clarendon Comprehensive, but nobody seemed to comprehend me.
And then Tim came along. It was his role at school: to look after the new boys and the outcasts. But this act of charity on his part expanded into something richer. From day one, we simply got along. We both loved movies and music and talked incessantly about them. Tim collected Marvel comics; I was building a collection of vintage paperbacks featuring The Saint, one of my childhood heroes.
Most Saturdays, we’d hop on the train to Bath and scour its antique shops and second-hand stores, or the big junk market off Walcot Street. As our teen years progressed, along with our sartorial tastes, we developed an interest in thrift store clothes, adopting beige linen jackets like characters from a Merchant Ivory film. (In fact, our references were a confused mixture of Brideshead Revisted, Miami Vice and The Pet Shop Boys.)
The rest of our time we spent sipping cappuccino or playing mini golf with the intensity of James Bond confronting Goldfinger.
I’d always had a latent sense of humour — my dad was a funny guy — and in Tim’s company it blossomed. I learned how to deflect insults with jokes. I became bolder with girls, even flirty. Tim was tall and blond compared to my short and mousy, but chat and confidence, as everyone knows, make up a lot of ground. Later, other good friends enlivened our duo. But that original relationship helped me grow into who I am.
So how come we’re still friends? After all, it was never a given. I left Trowbridge to study journalism and finally returned to London. Later still, I moved to Paris. We drifted out of contact from time to time, but always found one another again.
I think the secret is a mutual lack of judgement. Tim’s kindness goes without saying. He’s one of life’s nice guys. But he’s never criticized or cajoled me. I don’t think he’s even offered advice. At worst he regards me with a wry amusement, adding a rare teasing remark if I get too pretentious. Mostly he offers encouragement.
And I like to think I’m the same. We took different paths in life, but we don’t think one is better than the other. When I was still single I admired Tim’s stable marriage, his warm relationship with his kids. I thought of him as a role model for when I finally decided to grow up.
The pandemic was a good barometer when it came to friendships. Who did you want to call? And who first called you? When we went into lockdown, my first ever Zoom call was with Tim and his family.
After that, we did a Zoom call almost every week. We’re still doing it. Often the first thing we’ll ask is: “Seen any movies?”
This weekend, I’m travelling to the UK to celebrate Tim’s birthday with him — the first time I’ve been back to Trowbridge since the pandemic.
They say you can’t choose your family. But that’s not true. Tim is definitely part of mine.
