Eleven years old
Kath
“Do you mind if I come in too?” Dad asks as we approach Sam’s house. It’s only about a ten-minute walk from ours, tucked just beside the park, but he insisted on coming with me.
The September air is crisp but not cold, the kind of day where the sun pretends it’s still summer even though the leaves are already starting to blush at the edges. We pass rows of terraced houses with chipped paint and overflowing flower boxes, the odd cat sunning itself on a low brick wall.
“Ugh, do you have to?” I know he’ll do something embarrassing. He always does.
“Only for five minutes.”
I guess I don’t really have a choice. The moment the bell rings we hear the barking of a dog, and I turn to my dad in excitement. Sam hadn’t mentioned that they had a dog. The woman who opens the door has the same easy smile as Sam, and hair a touch lighter than his sun-streaked dirty blond.
“You must be Kath and John.” She waves a hand holding a tea towel at us. “It was lovely to chat with you on the phone earlier in the week, John. Come in, come in. I’m Angie. It’s great to meet you, Kath. Do you want a cup of tea? Glass of water?”
She’s far more talkative than I imagined anyone related to Sam could be. We squeeze into the hall and a yellow Labrador immediately tries to jump up at me.
“I’m so sorry.” She drops the tea towel and tries to reach for the dog. “Down, Crunchie! Sorry, are you alright with dogs? I can’t believe I forgot to ask.”
“I love them!” I reach down to pet the bundle of excitement that’s trying to lick my arms and then my face.
“Come through to the kitchen. Sam’s just upstairs. His dad’s away for a work trip this weekend.” Angie picks up the tea towel again and futilely attempts to pull the dog off me.
Eventually she gives up on the dog and leads us through the hall into the kitchen.
It’s a lovely house; the kitchen surfaces sparkle and you can make out a small garden just beyond.
Bigger than the concrete square we have at ours.
I grab a glass of water and then head upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time until I see Sam’s open door.
A bedside radio is on full blast and he’s packing away his swim stuff, his back to me. He’s wearing shorts and some sort of club swimming shirt, and his hair’s still damp. Seems to be his default. I smile when I hear the song.
“I love Green Day,” I say, and he jumps. He sheepishly turns down the volume, quieting the loud rendition of ‘American Idiot’.
I locate the CD case on his bedside table and turn it over, looking at the track list on the back. I remember listening to this the whole drive down to Devon one year. Tom and I were obsessed, though our parents may not have appreciated hearing it for three hours straight.
“Sorry I had it on so loud. I like music. Sometimes I sing to myself in my head when I’m swimming.”
“That’s so cool.” I put the CD down and start poking through the rest of his collection.
My eyes catch on a clump of medals hung over the back of the door handle, and when I look around I see even more scattered across the shelves, and loads of trophies on the windowsill.
“Those are a lot of medals.”
His walls are plastered with swimming posters too.
It’s not what my brother’s room looked like when he was eleven.
His was mostly football stickers, scuffed trainers and half-built Lego sets.
And some weird ancient Rome things—he made a papier-maché volcano for a history project and wouldn’t shut up about Pompeii for months.
“Oh well. I’ve swum for ages.” His ears go pink.
“Do you want to go to the Olympics and stuff?” I don’t know enough about swimming to understand whether his medals are a big deal or not.
He blushes again and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“That would be my dream,” he says, “if I’m good enough.
I think everyone wants to go to the Olympics.
But it’s getting there that’s hard. I’m aiming for Paris 2012 as the first one.
I’ll be sixteen then, so it’s not impossible.
My coach says I just have to really focus on swimming. No distractions.”
Wow. OK, so he is really serious about it. I probably should’ve realised. He trains almost every day, often twice a day, and never complains. He obviously loves it.
“The Olympics would be so cool,” I tell him seriously. He flushes again.
“Kids, can you walk Crunchie?” I hear Mrs Fletcher call up the stairs.
“Coming, Mum!”
The two of us traipse down the stairs, collecting a leash and some treats.
We chat as we walk round the park, weaving along gravel paths lined with early autumn leaves. Sam tells me about his old school, the people at his swimming club, some of the races he’s been to round the country. It’s nice. It’s easy. I like talking to Sam.
That evening, we curl up on the sofa, Crunchie snoring gently at our feet. The living room is dim except for the glow of the TV, and the familiar opening notes of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl fill the room.
“I promise you’ll love this,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “The soundtrack is epic too. Tom played it with the school orchestra last year. It was actually kind of cool. But don’t tell him I said that.”
Ten minutes into the film I glance sideways at Sam.
He’s leaning forwards slightly, brow furrowed in concentration like he’s trying to absorb every scene.
Watching him watch the film is almost more entertaining than the film itself.
Then again, I’ve seen it four times and could probably recite half the lines in my sleep.
“Yeah, that was really good,” he tells me when it finishes, putting the bowl of popcorn to one side and stretching up. “Want to watch the second one together?”
“Obviously,” I say.
He grins.
“You know what?” I add suddenly. “We should have our own code.”
He frowns. “Like the pirate’s code?”
“Exactly, but with some extra rules. Like when you go to the Olympics I have to cheer the loudest.”
He grins at me, blue eyes bright, hair sticking up at odd angles from how many times he’s run his hands through it.
“What else?”
“And you always have to give me piggybacks. That’s rule two,” I say, keeping my face completely serious.
He gives me a look of mock outrage that only lasts a second before cracking, and the two of us dissolve into giggles on the sofa.