WordSmith: Saying ‘thank you’ with a song
They’re strangers to me, yet their photographs are in my house.
At the bottom of a cupboard they were in a box with old papers from the past. I asked myself, “Why are they in our house?” I posted a few to social-media where some of the people in the pictures were identified, confirming they’re not related to me. Their identification deepened the mystery of why they were residing in our house.
Then during a walk on a fine Spring dawn, a box at the back of my mind opened, halting me in my tracks as the origin of the pictures dawned on me. Each face floated from my memory on their own mystical cloud of wistful nostalgia. The joy they brought to me returned as bright as the rising sunshine; their faces became reminiscence reels that rolled me back in time.
Roll back with me. I’m with my best-mate in the queue for the roller-disco at the Sports Centre.
“It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight…” My friend entertains the crowd, sparring rhythmically to Survivor’s summer anthem – he’s a natural entertainer.
“Abra-abra-cadabra, I wanna reach out and grab ya…” We grabbed our roller-boots and were soon rolling laps of the sports hall, while collectively singing along with the Steve Miller Band – magic. That hall was our Olympic Stadium, and when on it we were WINNERS.
“Stars in your eyes little one, where do you go to dream, to a place we all know, the land of make believe…” Bucks Fizz’s syrupy song indicated the slow set. Skating on the straight, a hand clasps mine. It’s a girl, she’s smiling at me, “You’re a good rollerblader,” she shouts. I nod my appreciation and continue the circuit in tandem with my mystery girl – I feel gloriously accomplished.
After handing back our roller-boots, my friend and I bask in our rollerblading glory as we walk home. The town feels different at this hour, like it’s sleeping. Only when we pass pubs and hear the muffled revelry of folk drinking in their lands of make believe do we realise it’s still very much awake. As are my friend and I, so we sit on a low wall and shoot the breeze. At some point during our banter my friend creates an emotional pivot, he turns wistful and asks, “Will you remember me when you’re a famous artist?” His question surprises me, “I’ll be dead before that happens,” I say, to lighten the mood. It works, we both laugh and levity returns, “I’ve a surprise for you, I’ll bring it up to you tomorrow,” he says, leaving me intrigued.
And this is where I pivot; it’s my turn to become wistful. I always recognised his knock on our door, three assertive fist bumps that announced my friend’s arrival. In the living room he handed me a folder, I took it and asked, “Is this the surprise?” He nodded.
It was a folder full of photographs, all strangers: a postman, an elder man, a group playing music, a smiling girl with a trophy and much more. “Who are they?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.”
I sat on the couch, bewildered, “Why are you giving them to me?” He sat back, folded his arms and explained, “You want into this art college; they’re for you to practice drawing people and faces, so they are.” The penny dropped, my dream was to get into the National College of Art and Design, and I was forever wittering to my friend of how my difficulty in drawing people and portraits would hinder my chances. When I thanked him, he explained further, “I asked the boss if I could give them to ya, he said I could.”
You see, my friend worked for this very publication as a messenger-boy. The images are press photographs from The Anglo-Celt; and he collected them to help ‘better’ a friend – me. Selfishly, at seventeen, I didn’t fully appreciate the gesture. Now, through the mists of time I see what a wonderful act of selfless support it was from a true friend.
At my college interview a tutor flicked through my sketch books – I knew she was impressed. She looked at me, “You’ve a great eye for a characterful face.” If I could rollerblade back, I’d tell her the truth, “I haven’t, my friend has.” Thanks to him I secured a place at my dream college.
Sadly, he’s no longer with us. Songs played a big part in our friendship, so I’ll end by singing a classic, “Thank you for being a friend…”