When We Were Young Read online

  Also by Richard Roper

  Something to Live For

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Richard Roper

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Hardcover ISBN: 9780525539919

  Ebook ISBN: 9780525539933

  Cover design and illustration: Vi-An Nguyen

  Book design by Elke Sigal, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  For my nephew, William

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Richard Roper

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Part Four

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By the time it came to the edge of the Forest, the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and, being grown-up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going, and it said to itself, “There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” But all the little streams higher up in the Forest went this way and that, quickly, eagerly, having so much to find out before it was too late.

  —A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Theo

  I was being evicted, which wasn’t ideal. The fact that my landlords were my parents definitely rubbed salt in the wound. That my residence happened to be the shed at the bottom of their garden was perhaps the biggest sign that things weren’t exactly going brilliantly for me.

  The eviction news had been broken to me with a letter posted under the shed door, my name scrawled on the envelope in my dad’s scratchy handwriting.

  Theo,

  I’m afraid this has gone on long enough. You cannot simply continue living here without showing any signs of wanting to move on. It was only supposed to be a temporary solution. Therefore, we are giving you until the day after your birthday this Saturday to find somewhere to go.

  It’s for the best.

  Love,

  Dad and Mum

  We’d had the “moving out” conversation a hundred times in the last two years since I’d slunk home from London, but a formal eviction notice—even one written on the back of a church newsletter touting a “Guess the weight of the cake” competition—did feel like something of an escalation. I decided, after a brief two-hour nap, to tackle the situation head-on.

  As I made my way up the garden, I saw that Dad was teetering dangerously at the top of a ladder as he produced some lethal-looking garden shears with which he began to hack at the ivy clinging to the side of the house. He was wearing his self-styled “garden shoes”—old slip-on office brogues that gave zero protection against things like, to pluck an example out of thin air, garden shears. I wasn’t sure what had got into him since he’d retired. He had taken to filling his days with what Mum had started calling “your father’s little projects”—a majority of which seemed to place him squarely in danger. This meant I’d had to keep up a state of constant vigilance: throwing windows open to release soldering-iron fumes; pretending I’d just happened to find some safety goggles from my old chemistry set and leaving them on his workbench before discreetly discarding the Amazon packaging. I wished he could have taken a leaf out of Mum’s book: Agatha Christie’s backlist and a robust exchange of letters with an orthodontist in the local paper about the placement of a new pedestrian crossing seemed much more on-brand.

  I had no choice but to brave the chunks of ivy raining down so that I could stand on the bottom rung of the ladder, holding it steady, to make sure it didn’t slip.

  “Morning,” I called up to him.

  “Afternoon,” he replied.

  A glance at my watch told me it was 12:01 p.m. First blood had been drawn.

  “I presume you received our letter?” Dad said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it reached the trenches at dawn. And thank you for the chocolate and cigarettes. Morale is strong as we prepare to go over the top.”

  “Ah, that’ll be one of your famous jokes. Not your funniest, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d say it’s about as funny as my parents evicting me.”

  I just managed to keep both hands on the ladder while avoiding a particularly vicious chunk of ivy that came whizzing down just past my ear.

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid you’ve given us no choice. We have been having this conversation for two years now.”

  “Twenty-three months, actually.”

  “Hairs. Splitting. Rearrange. Et cetera.”

  “Well, what about the fact you’re doing this a week before my birthday?” I said.

  “Oh, come on, don’t sulk.”

  “God, I’m not,” I said, sighing, rolling m
y eyes and folding my arms—quickly unfolding them again to grab the ladder, which had wobbled dangerously to one side as Dad stretched to dislodge something from the gutter. (Moss, it would seem, most of which was now in my hair.)

  To my relief, Dad decided to have a break. When he got to the bottom of the ladder, he put a hand on my shoulder. I noticed what looked like liver spots near his wrist. How long had they been there? Had they arrived at the same time as the last patch of brown bristles had departed his beard, leaving it a dirty-snow gray?

  Gently ushering me off the foot of the ladder, he said, “Look, as we have discussed many, many times . . . I know you went through something of a tough time in London. We all wish that the TV stuff had worked out, and as for Babs—the breakup and whatnot—that was a shame, and we were very fond of her. But moping around here isn’t going to fix things, is it?”

  “But I’m happy here, Dad. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  He carried on as if he hadn’t heard me. “The longer you stay here, the harder you will find it to rejoin society.”

  “Rejoin society? You make me sound like I’ve just served a ten-stretch for armed robbery. Or I’m some sort of . . . hermit.”

  “Well, you’re doing your best impression of one. I mean, look . . .” He pointed down to the shed. “Turning my garden shed into your little grotto like that.”

  “Hey, don’t have a go at the shed. I’ve just put fairy lights up.”

  Dad rubbed his eyes.

  I sensed weakness and moved to capitalize.

  “Would you not say I’m a model lodger? I mow the lawn. I unload the dishwasher. I . . . I pay rent.”

  “Not for the last eight months you haven’t,” Dad shot back.

  “Well, no, not technically. But I put change into Mr. Pigglesby nearly every day.”

  We both looked through the kitchen window at the piggy bank on the sideboard. The treacherous little bastard seemed to be avoiding my eye.

  “Besides,” I continued, “as soon as one of my scripts comes off, I promise you I’ll buy you another shed.”

  “And how are the scripts going?”

  “Spectacularly,” I said, though, in truth, I’d not written a word for months.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said, sounding worryingly resolute, “but we’ve decided. You’ve been here long enough. No more excuses. As we explained in our letter, we’re giving you until your birthday. After all . . .”

  Oh god. He was going in for the kill. I braced for the headshot.

  “. . . you will be turning thirty.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joel

  The letter had changed everything. Although I’d learned the news it contained in person the day before I’d received it, it was only when I saw everything in stark black ink that it actually sunk in. From that moment on, the letter hadn’t been out of my sight, hidden away in my left jacket pocket. In the month since it had arrived, I’d been guarding it just as closely as what was in my right jacket pocket—the ring which I was clutching now, checking for the hundredth time that morning that it wasn’t lost.

  I glanced at my watch. It was just after ten. By the time those hands had looped around and were back to the same position, the ring should have a new owner . . .

  Never had I felt more certain of how much I loved Amber Crossley than one rainy summer morning just over two months ago. The city was stirring, and everything was peaceful. I had turned to face Amber, who was still asleep. My eyes were drawn to the faint, pencil-thin scar on her chin, the legacy of when she’d fallen off her bike when she was seven. I remember thinking how much I hated the idea of her being in pain, even more so when I thought of how much of that had been my fault. Well, from now on, I thought, things were going to change. I’d never hurt her again, and if anyone else thought about it, they’d have to get past me first. The little rowing boat we had been on that had weathered furious storms was now drifting through still, clear waters. I knew then in my bones that, at last, everything was as it should be. At that precise moment, Amber had opened her eyes, as if she’d been listening to my thoughts all along. As her eyes had met mine, a smile spread out across her face; slowly, like a ripple on a perfectly still lake. And that’s when I knew I was going to marry her.

  I put the ring back in my pocket and pictured the little cottage in Tuscany I’d booked for the occasion. Its stone walls were being warmed by the rising sun; swallows were darting overhead. I’d carefully planned a spontaneous picnic where we’d head out to watch the sunset later that evening. That’s when I was going to ask her. Amber was on her way there from Rome, where she’d been visiting Charlotte, an old friend. My flight from Heathrow taking me to her was leaving in a couple of hours. It was going to be the most perfect day . . .

  . . . except it wasn’t going to happen.

  Instead, I was sitting in an airless, creaking train, surrounded by screaming babies and self-important businessmen, heading deep into the heart of the English countryside on my way to see someone I’d not spoken to in a decade and who, as far as I knew, hated me with every breath in his body.

  The train plunged into a tunnel. I rested my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, but the motion of the train made me feel nauseous. Then, just as we entered daylight again, came the phone call I’d been dreading. I made for the vestibule. For a moment, I considered not answering, but I cracked after the next ring.

  “Hey.”

  “Buongiorno, m’darlin’! I can’t wait to see you. Please tell me it’s raining in London? It’s so gorgeous here today.”

  I glanced out of the window at the cloudless skies.

  “Yeah,” I said, “bucketing down.”

  “Perfect. Are you at the airport yet?”

  I felt my mouth going dry.

  “Hey, you still there?” Amber said.

  “Yes, I’m here. But I’m . . . This is so shit, but I’m not going to be able to come out.”

  There was a moment where Amber digested this.

  “What do you mean?”

  I tried to push past the disappointment in her voice.

  “Something’s come up.”

  “With work?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s . . .” I was floundering already at the merest hint of interrogation.

  “Wait, Joel, please tell me you’re not . . . Listen, if you’ve had a slipup, then it’s fine.”

  “No,” I said quickly, “I promise. Not had a drop.”

  “Because you can tell me and I won’t be angry.”

  “It’s not that,” I said.

  “Well, then what?” Amber sounded a little exasperated now.

  At that moment, the train began to slow and the guard’s monotone voice came over the speaker:

  “We are now approaching Kemble.”

  “Did I just hear Kemble?” Amber asked. “Jesus, it’s not your mum? Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing’s happened,” I said. “But . . . she called me in a bit of a flap. She’s having one of her down days—but worse than usual.”

  At least this was true, not that it gave me any satisfaction to recall the conversation with Mum where I’d told her about the letter. She’d had some tough days since I’d left, and I knew that she got upset sometimes—especially when she went for long stretches without seeing me—but I’d never heard her cry like that before.

  “Oh, the poor thing,” Amber said. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll fly straight back from Rome, then.”

  “No, you should go on still—take Charlotte with you. You’ve probably got loads to catch up on. I’ll come out when I can.” If things went well today, then I knew that was almost impossible, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I suppose . . .”

  Amber was trying not to sound disappointed for my benefit, which made me feel ten times worse.

  “I�
�m sorry,” I said. “I wish things were different.” And Christ how I did.

  Just then my signal wavered before cutting out completely. I felt guilty at how relieved this made me feel. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept up the pretense.

  We’d reached the station. I saw the Kemble sign go by, its letters rusty brown on the dull white background. As the doors opened, I hesitated. I could just stay on the train, go one stop on to Stroud and Mum’s house. I didn’t have to get off here at all. But at the last moment I stepped down and the train moved off, leaving behind the smell of diesel.

  I walked to the end of the platform and climbed up onto the footbridge, pausing at the top, the tracks below me now. I turned slowly on the spot, taking in my surroundings. A biplane was making its uncertain descent toward the Cotswold airport. To the south, I could just see the top of the church spire above the trees. To the north, the Thames Head pub, the site of my first legal pint. It was just a short walk from there to the field in which two teenage layabouts without a care in the world had made a promise to each other.

  If I’d not had the letter, I might have forgotten about that moment—it would be a regret, but just a footnote. But the words contained on that one page of A4 paper had brought into focus things I hadn’t thought about in years. There were wrongs from the past that had never been righted. People who had once been an ever-present part of my life, only to fade away. And one of them was the curly-haired boy I’d watched teetering on the edge of the Thames Head monument, talking about a future that seemed a million miles away. An idle teenage promise, once forgotten and faded as quickly as the footprints in the grass we’d walked home through, now felt like something I was compelled to honor—even if it meant I was about to become the most unpopular surprise birthday guest of all time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Theo

  Happy birthday, you big silly prick.”

  I leaned down to receive my sister’s deliberately crushing hug. Her arms—built up from years of wheelchair propulsion—were now perfectly suited to squeezing the life out of me. Alice’s house was next door to Mum and Dad’s. They’d bought it up when the couple who lived there had moved out, and used all their remaining savings to adapt it for her: ramps, wider corridors, a specially designed bathroom—the works.