Page 6 of When We Were Young

Will’s mum gave him a stern look as he took his seat. Aidan and his dad were already tucking in to the steaming pot of chilli at the centre of the dining table.

‘What kept you?’ she scolded.

‘I just got off the phone with Matty,’ said Will. ‘He’s got us a gig at the Mean Fiddler.’

Having pooled their savings and recorded a demo, Matty had delivered on his promise within two months. Who’d have thought Matty would be good at that shit?

‘What’s the Mean Fiddler?’ she asked.

‘It’s a music venue in North London. The Pixies have played there, and Radiohead, and The Underdogs.’

‘Never heard of them,’ said his dad, piling more chilli onto his rice.

‘How can you not have heard of them?’ asked Will, incredulous. ‘You’ve got the Underdogs album!’

‘He only got it because he fancies Christie Blackmore,’ said Aidan through a mouthful of food.

‘Is that what her band’s called?’ asked Dad. ‘She’s a beautiful voice, that one.’

‘So, when are you getting a job, Will?’ said Aidan. ‘If you’re well enough to play gigs, you’re well enough to work.’

‘What’s it to you?’ asked Dad.

‘Because it’s not fair. I’m giving Mum money and Will’s not. I’m paying for him to sit at home playing guitar all day. How come Golden Boy doesn’t have to pay rent?’

‘Firstly, the money you give me barely keeps us in toilet paper,’ said Mum. ‘You’d hardly call it “rent”. And secondly, Will can’t get a job yet – he’s still recovering.’

‘Not this again. He had the holiday trots – everyone gets it.’

She flicked Aidan with a tea towel. ‘He was in hospital for four days!’

‘He’s better now!’

Will was sick of listening to them talking about him as if he wasn’t there. His chair squeaked against the lino as he stood. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Is it your stomach? I shouldn’t have made chilli––’

‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll have some toast later.’

As he left the room, Aidan was saying something about Will’s stomach only hurting when you reminded him about it.

What a fucking stirrer.

Will stormed through the kitchen to the garage.

He’d planned to spend the summer island-hopping around Greece with Matty, playing covers in the tavernas for beer money.

They’d been working hard to save up, but Matty spent money faster than he could earn it, so it soon became clear Will would be going on his own.

Will jacked in his supermarket and pizza restaurant jobs and flew out to Corfu earlier in the year.

With only a little spending money, he needed to get plenty of gigs if he was to stay the whole season.

He played one gig in a tiny beachside bar before coming down with an awful stomach bug.

He felt so dreadful he couldn’t get out of bed.

Luckily, two guys he befriended on the first day noticed he hadn’t come out of his room at the hostel.

He woke in hospital on a drip. The doctors said he had a viral infection and severe dehydration.

It was another week before he was well enough to travel home.

It had knocked him for six and he was only just starting to feel normal three months later.

Will flicked on the lights in the garage as the door slammed behind him.

Matty and Will had been friends since primary school.

As teenagers they’d started a band. Will’s parents had agreed to let them practise in their garage on the condition they clear it out themselves.

It was hard work, and it took the first two weeks of the summer holidays when they were fourteen, but they did it and the garage hadn’t changed much since.

They still had the shabby leather sofa they’d rescued from a skip, the same hideous Persian rugs still covered the bare floor, but back then he only had one guitar.

Now he had three, all standing to attention on their stands.

He chose the Strat, took it to the sofa, and sat picking out the melody that had been haunting him lately.

They had trouble with drummers. Their current drummer, Mitch, had been with them on and off forever.

He was like the girlfriend you keep getting back with, even though you know she’s no good for you.

Mitch never practised. He was always late for rehearsals and gigs, and he was tight.

Getting him to pitch in for anything was impossible.

But he had a van. And they needed a van.

Will made a mental note to give Mitch a false deadline for the Mean Fiddler gig. There was no way he’d let Mitch mess this up.

Will grabbed his headphones and a beer from the mini fridge. He’d feel better when things got loud.

On Sunday night, Matty picked up Will for rehearsal. They rented a unit on an industrial estate once a week. It was deserted at weekends so they could play as loud as they wanted. It stank of sweat and stale beer and the toilet was god-awful, but it was what Will lived through the week for.

A figure was squatting by the studio door as they pulled up.

‘Who’s that? That can’t be Mitch already,’ said Will.

‘It’s that skinny kid that hangs around after gigs. He helped carry the gear to the van last time.’

‘Oh yeah, I said he could come along to a rehearsal. Reuben? Yeah, that’s it, Reu.’

Reu jumped up, went to the boot, and started lugging out the gear.

For someone so skinny, he was handy at lifting heavy amps.

He said little as they unloaded the car.

All they got out of him was he was almost sixteen and he’d travelled there by bus, and even that was like getting blood from a stone.

As they waited for Mitch, Reu began assembling the shabby drum kit that was scattered in pieces around the rehearsal room.

‘I wouldn’t bother with that, mate,’ said Matty. ‘Mitch brings his own kit.’

But Reu carried on fiddling and had set it up in no time.

As Will played the intro to ‘Wandering’, Reu joined in with the bass drum.

‘That’s great, Reu,’ said Will. ‘If you can keep time for us, we can get started.’

After a few bars, Reu began playing the rest of the kit.

‘You’ve got sticks?’ asked Will.

Reu nodded.

‘You play drums?’ asked Matty, laughing.

‘A bit…’

They played three songs before Mitch arrived and Reu jumped up to unload his kit.

‘Who said he could come?’ whispered Mitch while Reu was at the van.

‘I did. Why?’ said Will.

‘He drove me mad at the last gig. He must have asked a million questions.’

‘Give him a break. He’s helping you, isn’t he?’

Every rehearsal after that, Reu arrived first and helped them set up.

He sat cross-legged in the corner, tapping away on his knees, his presence a barometer for how a session was going.

The more he bobbed his head and slapped his knees, the better the song.

Each week, he played drums until Mitch arrived, and every time, he revealed more of what he could do.