Up mountains

Yeah, let's do it," I said, without hesitation, when you suggested taking a couple of days off work and going for a long weekend in the Lake District. Your friend's cottage was free, due to a cancellation, and he'd said you might as well use it as let it go empty.

"Thirty-five years old and still capable of spontaneity."

Of course, a few of my friends teased me, going away with a woman, two divorcees, alone together, balmy summer weather. 'And you used to go out too, didn't you?' they would add, cheekily, as if I’d forgotten.

But that was never going to happen. We knew each other far too well to try any of that nonsense. It was always going to be separate bedrooms. We even kept our toothbrushes in separate mugs.

We drove up on the Thursday night. Well, you drove up, picked me up, no need for two cars, which was great, as it meant I‘d be able to drink.

The cottage was huge, usually let out to about ten people, and we spent the first hour exploring the house, like awed kids in a mysterious mansion in one of those kids stories they probably don‘t write any more.

You got the best room, because you were driving, it had a view of the mountains and an en-suite bathroom.

There was a nice little pub in the village, which was so good we ended up going back every night, had all our meals there. There's no other country in the world does decent pub grub and few better pubs than those in the Lakes. Good food washed down with Cumberland Bitter and I could have a couple of pints as you were doing the driving.

We got up early the next morning and set off for Saddleback. It was a glorious day, the height of summer and the car park was already nearly full by the time we got there.
It took a long time to reach the summit. Not as young as we were. We stopped every few minutes to catch our breath, admire the view, or eat a jaffa cake. We managed to munch our way through a whole packet, and that was just on the way up.

Near the top we stopped to eat lunch. You unpacked a picnic blanket, so that we wouldn't have to get our bums wet when we sat down, even though the ground was burned hard dry by several weeks of sun. We had everything sensible climbers could have, sunscreen, spare clothes, waterproofs (top and bottom), sun hats, rain hats, sunglasses, compass, jaffa cakes (though they were gone by now), nuts, water, flask of whisky (for medicinal purposes). You probably had rhino-repellent tucked away in your bag, just in case, though luckily we didn’t need it. (Say no to rhinos with Rhi-No).

It was a far cry from the last time we'd climbed a mountain together. Thirteen years earlier. There were eight of us, university friends, we booked a cottage during the Easter holidays. We were sleeping together then, having sex together. Going out, if you like, though it only lasted a few weeks. None of my relationships lasted at that time, we were like kids doing a lucky-dip in the sweet shop. In fact, I slept with all the girls on that holiday at some point, for a few days, or a few weeks, and you slept with two of the men.

Christ, we were full of it, weren't we? The energy we had when we were young. Just bounced up the mountain in no time at all. We hadn't packed a change of clothing, emergency supplies, thermos, bottles of water. Nothing! Rick was the only one with waterproofs and the rest of us got soaked in a shower, but we just laughed it off. There was snow at the top of the mountain, but we just slip-slided through it as if we were seasoned yetis pottering around in our back-yard.

Then, when we saw the café, you sprinted towards it, full of desire for a mug of hot chocolate, full of youthful need, no urge could go unmet. A mug of hot chocolate in a café on the top of the highest mountain in Wales. It was then that you slipped, twisted your ankle. Christ, it was hard work getting you down, after you'd had your hot chocolate of course, you refused to leave without it, no matter how much pain you were in.

We all took in turns to help you get down. I tried to do more than my fair share, so that I could hold you closely as you hopped beside me, physical contact a taster for what was to come that night. But it was John who carried you most of the way, well he was twice the size I was, a prop forward in the college rugby team, he could have probably managed all seven of us.

I felt a twang of jealousy as he lifted you on his shoulders for those last few yards, while I trod on behind, shattered. I was right to be jealous, of course, a week or so later and you left me for him. But, as I say, we were all changing partners more often than we changed our underwear in those days. (The latter is certainly true of Sheila, she had the same knickers the whole week we were together).

I seem to recall I was heartbroken at the time, but it didn't last long, another heartbreaker soon came along, or I broke someone else’s, I forget which. By the time of Saddleback we’d been through it all a thousand times, jigsawed the broken pieces of our hearts back together again, as best as we could.

That's what I was thinking about as you unpacked the picnic blanket and the food. The contrasts between that day and this. Sunshine and ice, youth and, well, not quite so youthful. A sex-crazed hormonal mob on an adventure and two old friends on a picnic. Then and now.

We admired the view as we ate our sandwiches (did we ever stop to admire the view when we were young, or did we think we were the view?). You ate your grated carrot and humus and I enjoyed my ham. Made sure you knew that I was enjoying it. I joked that vegetarians had a raw deal, a raw carrot deal in your case. We shared a bottle of water and some fruit and opened a packet of penguins, as the jaffa cakes were all gone.

It was as we sat there that you told me. About the lump in your breast and the results of the scan. That you were starting treatment next week and would I come with you? That you wanted to come here, this weekend, just it case it didn't work out and you wouldn't be able to make it up here again, wouldn't see this view again. The doctor had said it was fifty-fifty but you were sure that you could beat those odds, bloody determined that you would. Though you didn't, in the end, did you?

That night we went back to the pub, by taxi, and got completely pissed. God knows what we said, what we did. Somehow we made it back to the cottage and through the blazing hangover of the next day.

Of course I went with you to your chemotherapy, to as many of your appointments as I could manage, got as much time off as I could, as much time of as I'd have done if you were my wife, or partner. I was with you when you died, watched you slowly fade away, losing the fight one day at a time, and was at your bedside holding your hand when it finally ended.

An no, in spite of the gossip that followed us around, it was never anything more than friendship. What a phrase, you’d think friendship wasn’t a big deal.

When I was married, I thought that was as close as you could be to someone. Sharing a life with them. Organising the bloody wedding; discovering that Sarah and my families got on about as well as matter gets on with anti-matter. Buying a house together (stressful), having a kid together (more stressful). Seven years, sharing everything together, then falling apart together.

But that was nothing, no-where near as close as I was to you those last few months, sharing your death. There really is nothing as close as dying together, well I felt I was dying too, though in the mirror I still looked fit and healthy while you thinned and paled apace, as if you were fast-forwarding to the end of life.

And afterwards, loneliness.

I was completely alone. More so even than when Sarah walked out with Tommy. That was just a wife and child, you can get another wife and child, sometimes they even come back. Dead people never come back.

When I think of you, which I do every day, I think of that pale, empty body on the bed, dying, and you knowing that you're dying and being unable to do a thing about it. You, the most determined, system-smashing, system-working, bloody-minded person I‘ve ever know: a worn out, flaking, helpless husk. As useless as Nick fucking Clegg.

But I also think of the young, sex-crazed thing on Snowdon, sprinting into trouble, then hobbling into even more trouble. Then sitting down, having a mug of hot chocolate, before hobbling into trouble again.

And I think of you that day on Saddleback, scared for your life, but determined to live, still with a full head of hair, still full of hope, still scoffing jaffa cakes and penguins as if there were no tomorrow. Well, now there isn’t a tomorrow, no day after tomorrow, no Thursday next. Nothing.

When I think of you, I think of mountains and jaffa cakes and sex and spontaneity and picnics and laughter. And those last, dark, few weeks.

When I think of you, I still feel completely alone.