Coming Home to the Cotswolds – Part 1: The Childhood Friend

The village of Little Harrow had not changed in ten years, which Will found both comforting and unbearable. The honey-coloured stone cottages still leaned together on the hill. The church bell still rang five minutes fast. The shop still sold lemon curd in jars with handwritten labels.

He had come home for his father's funeral, and he had told himself he would stay three days and leave.

On the second morning, walking to the churchyard with a bunch of lilies he didn't know how to arrange, he saw a light on in the old carpenter's shop by the lych gate, and stopped dead.

Ollie Price had been his best friend from the age of six until the summer he turned eighteen, when Will had left for London and not written back for a year. He had been the boy who taught Will to whittle a bird out of an apple stick, and who held his hand when they were nine and the church roof leaked into the pews.

The door of the shop opened. Ollie stepped out, wiping sawdust from his hands on a worn leather apron. He looked up, and his face went very still.

"Will," he said.

"Hi, Ollie."

"You came back."

"For Dad," said Will. "Just for a few days."

Ollie nodded slowly, as if he had expected exactly this answer and didn't like it any more than he'd thought he would. "I'm sorry about your dad. He was a decent man. He used to give me sweets when I wasn't allowed any."

"He gave everyone sweets," said Will, and his voice cracked on the last word.

Ollie stepped forward, then stopped. He looked at the lilies in Will's hands.

"Those are wrong," he said quietly. "You want the white ones. Dad always had white ones on the grave."

"I don't know how to arrange them."

"I'll show you," said Ollie. "Come inside. I've got tea and terrible biscuits."

The shop smelled of cedar and linseed oil. Half-finished chairs stood along the walls, and a small table by the window held a vase of wild flowers. Ollie filled a jug with water, and his hands were steady as he cut the stems and showed Will how to fan the lilies in the vase.

"You were always better at this than me," Will said.

"I was always better at everything with my hands," said Ollie. "You were the one with the words."

"And look where that got me."

"Back here," said Ollie, very softly, not looking up. "I think that's a good place for words."

They sat at the workbench with two mugs of strong tea. Outside, the church bell rang again, five minutes fast, and neither of them moved to answer it.

"Can I ask you something?" Ollie said at last.

"Yes."

"Why did you never write?"

Will set down his mug. The question hit him harder than he had expected. "Because I was ashamed," he said. "Of loving you when we were eighteen. Of leaving because I didn't know how to say it. Of being too scared to find out if you'd feel the same."

Ollie was silent for a long time, his face very still.

"I did feel the same," he said finally. "I've been waiting ten years for you to say it."

Will's breath caught.

"Can I tell you something else?" asked Ollie.

"Yes."

"I still have the apple bird you made me, the first one. It's on the shelf above the sink. I've never let anyone else touch it."

Will looked over at the kitchen door, and then back at Ollie, whose eyes were bright and steady.

"Can I hold your hand?" Will asked quietly.

"Yes," said Ollie. "And if you want to stop, just say."

Their fingers met across the workbench, sawdust and warm tea and ten years between them, and neither of them let go.