Page 10 of When We Were Young

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.

‘Isthatwhat 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 knockedhim 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.’