“I’m sorry to bring it up, Julian, it’s just … it’s just that I know how you’re feeling. You see, my mum died on the same day your family died.  I know it’s not quite the same but she was the only family I had.”

I felt the anger well up inside me – How can you compare losing an elderly relative, however close, to losing your entire family! I was about to respond in such a manner, but as I turned to face him I was shocked to see tears streaming down his face.  My anger dissipated instantly as he sobbed while trying to get his words out.

“She was the only one I had.”

Except for his intermittent sobbing, we sat in silence for the next few minutes as he struggled to compose himself.  I sipped my beer and, unsure what to say, I excused myself and headed for the upstairs toilet.  When I returned, Bosworth had seemingly recovered and the smile had returned to his face.

“I’m sorry about that, Julian, it’s just that I’d been looking after her, pretty much doing everything for her since she had a stroke almost twenty years ago.  My dad buggered off when I was a kid and it’s just been the two of us.”

I nodded and offered a sympathetic smile; although it definitely wasn’t the same, both our lives had been turned upside down in recent weeks.  I handed him another beer. “Are you still living at your mum’s old house?” I asked.  He took a large gulp, obviously no stranger to beer.

“Yeah, I was born in that house and will probably die there.  I suppose I’m a bit of a home bird.  I’ve hardly been out of Sheffield and I’ve never been abroad,” he said almost proudly, “unless you count Wales – I had an aunt that lived in Cardiff.  I do have a passport though,” he added, “but I’ve never used it in the fifteen years I’ve had it.”  He began laughing again, apparently fully recovered from his earlier breakdown.

Although we hadn’t seen each other for twenty years, the conversation flowed surprisingly freely and I suspect we both found the experience therapeutic as the next few hours sped by.  Bosworth had been a bit of an oddball at school, and we’d never been particularly close friends, but I clearly remember that we’d started taking the same A-level subjects and then, after a few months, abruptly and inexplicably, he had stopped coming to lessons.  At the time no one knew why, and numerous weird and wonderful adolescent explanations were offered for his absence: joining the army and having a sex change, to name just a couple.  But as he explained, again close to tears, the reason became apparent.

“Yeah, I had to leave school in the lower 6th after my mum got ill, and in between working part-time in a record shop I pretty much had to do everything for her.  I was pretty gutted about dropping out of school, but what could I do?”

As I listened I felt a new-found sympathy and, I suppose, a sort of respect for Bosworth.  At school he’d always been very studious, and probably as a consequence always a good source for a piss-take.  Invariably he would come top of the class in most subjects, with me usually demoted to second, to my long-standing frustration.  I suspected that if he’d had the chance to finish his A-levels, he’d have gone onto university, and from there who knows where his life would have ended up.  I doubted that he would still be working in a record shop.

I looked out of the window as the sun was beginning to set on the June evening.  After a good three hours Bosworth was still talking, barely stopping to draw breath.  I was tired, physically and mentally, and unused to any sort of prolonged company and the effort required for a conversation.  Several times I yawned loudly; a none-too-subtle hint that it was time to call it a day.  But he was oblivious to my body language, and with the time nearing 7:00 p.m. I couldn’t rely on subtlety.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get back to the packing.”

He was obviously disappointed. “Oh, that’s a shame, Ju. Haven’t we got time for another quick one?”

“I’m afraid not, I’ve got some things to sort out. We can meet up again though, if you like, have a few beers.”

Bosworth appeared reassured.  “What about tomorrow, it’s the Tuesday quiz night at the New Inn – it’ll be a right laugh.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said as I led him to the front door; and this time, catching me by surprise, the bear hug finally arrived.

“It’s been great, Julian,” he said, clinging onto me as if his life depended on it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, trying to break free from his clutches, and then watched as he walked down the driveway and turned to wave excitedly as he headed down the road.  Returning to the packing and sorting, I couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm for my company; I suppose it had provided a much-needed boost to my self-esteem.  To my surprise I was genuinely looking forward to the quiz at the local pub – the first time in weeks I’d experienced even a modicum of pleasure.

----

I met up with Bosworth a few times over the next week; twice at the pub and once when he turned up unannounced at my parents’ house.  At first I found his humorous recollections a welcome distraction, and though I didn’t see that his bereavement was comparable to mine, I felt that we’d a certain bond, albeit transient, based on our common sense of loss.  But after a week of contact I was beginning to find him increasingly demanding and needy.  I had my own struggles and emotional hurdles to deal with, and I wasn’t prepared to takes on anyone else’s.  We’d last met up a couple of nights earlier, after he’d phoned just as I was going to bed.  He sounded distraught, sobbing uncontrollably, his speech almost incomprehensible. “Julian, Julian, I’m really sorry to bother you, can you come round? … You must come.”

I was taken aback by the state he was in, and at first struggled to make sense of his request. “Bozzy, calm down, it’s late, I can’t come now, but I’ll come first thing in the morning.”

“No, Julian, you need to come now, please, you’re the only one that understands.  Look, I’ll do something stupid if you don’t come.”

Before I had chance to respond the phone went dead.  I momentarily considered my options but knew I had no choice, I had to go.  I was knackered, and with my bed welcoming me, furious.  It was emotional blackmail in no uncertain terms, but he sounded so unstable.  God only knows what he’d do if I didn’t go.

Despite the late hour it was still warm, and short sleeves were sufficient as I walked the ten minutes from my parents’ to Bosworth’s house.  I’d walked past his house numerous times but I’d never actually been inside.  I pressed the bell on the front door, but couldn’t hear it ring, and knocked impatiently on the glass panel.  Within twenty seconds Bosworth’s face appeared, distorted by the scalloped glass.  He opened the door, his eyes red but no longer crying.

“I’m so sorry, Julian, but there was no one else.”  My face must have given away my scepticism and irritation.

“No, seriously, Ju, you’re the only one.” And as if fearing I would run away, he pulled me by the wrist in through the porch.

His house was stuck in a 1970s time-warp, with distinctive brown kitchen tiling and wallpaper, but was meticulously clean and seemingly without a thing out of place.  He led me through the hallway and into a lounge with a similar thirty-year-old décor.  On the floor was an old biscuit tin, the contents of which were neatly laid out in piles on the coffee table.  One stack contained photographs, some old black and white portraits.  The next stack contained documents, including several of the distinctive pale green birth and death certificates, and on top was a UK passport, the now-obsolete dark blue variety.

“Can I get you a drink, Julian?” said Bosworth, gesturing me to sit down.

“No, no, I’m fine thanks, I can’t stay long, I need to get home.”  He looked a crushed and pathetic figure.