You've Got a Friend

Many thanks to vivacious for the great header.

You've Got a Friend

By

James Taylor – 1971.

Life at our little college home in Barnsley fell into a comfortable and mainly enjoyable routine. It taught us a lot; probably more about real life than any college course ever could. We learned to budget, shop, cook, pay bills, manage a home and show consideration for other members of the household. This was our final year, still very hard work with much pressure, but we also learned to economise our time, leaving some for socialising. We made good friends with a group of young men from the local technical college who spent many nights at our house. The neighbours may have had other thoughts but most of the time was spent innocently playing card and board games until the wee small hours.

My Mum was now out of hospital, recovered from her illness and both my parents had started work in new jobs. However, this was to be a year of unexpected knocks and blows, starting in the February when my maternal grandmother passed away after a short illness. It was my first personal brush with death in the family and it hit me hard, particularly her funeral. I found it very difficult to associate a hard wooden casket and talk of sin and condemnation with my sweet-natured, smiling grandma. A few weeks later her beloved old canary Joey dropped off his perch, my grandfather insisting with watery eyes she’d sent for him.

Nigel and I continued to drift along. I guess I was so wrapped up in my final teaching practice and forthcoming exams, I didn’t bother to question where our relationship was leading, if anywhere. His own lethargy and often lacklustre attitude to life probably made him pretty much the same. There were still some good times, particularly when he and Vivien’s boyfriend David came to stay at our house on Shaw Lane. There was many a late night session of shared mixed alcoholic concoctions, anything handy on toast and laughs in our room.

By June our finals were behind us and with just a few weeks left at college it was time to party whenever the opportunity arose. I’d grown close to a student from the art college named Paul and spent a lot of time with him. He’d draw strange sketches and I’d write equally strange poetry to accompany them; quite a compatible and interesting combination.

I also befriended a second year student who was in digs across the road. She originated from Derby, fairly close to Nottingham, so it was convenient to hitchhike home together. We were never really much alike, but maintained a friendship of sorts for many years after leaving college. Elaine was later to become the only person I have ever permanently broken friends with, but inadvertently she did me several favours as a result. Maybe evidence everything happens for a reason and perhaps another story for the future.

Elaine, Paul the artist and myself enjoying our last party at Shaw Lane.

I’d been offered a post teaching at a school in Kirkby-in-Ashfield, about fifteen miles from Nottingham starting September 1971. A simple matter of waiting for exam results and then my career would begin; or so I thought. However, a routine medical at college shortly before we were due to leave revealed my mother had kindly passed on her tuberculosis to me. It was only in the early stages and didn’t require hospitalisation, but it prevented me starting work and I was totally gutted.

So, I left my college, my friends, the house on Shaw Lane and returned home to face treatment for my illness. I didn’t feel sick at all but the daily injections and swallowing tablets the size of dustbin lids soon left me feeling a lot worse. I kept in touch with Paul and saw him a few times after leaving college, but like a lot of my other relationships we drifted apart, leaving Nigel as always the unsteady anchor in my rocky life.

In July I paid a routine visit to my grandfather at his home, but sadly discovered he had passed away of a heart attack in his chair during the night. I like to think my grandma had sent for him too; they were one of life’s rare devoted couples and he had been totally lost without her. He was laid to rest with her almost six months to the date of her passing. Another knock to my already delicate mental state.

Results from college arrived. I had passed my final teaching practice and my exams, even gaining a distinction in English much to my lecturer’s horror I suspect. I was now a fully qualified teacher but seeking employment was on hold for the foreseeable future until I was given a clean bill of health.

In August I turned twenty-one, but there’d be no family party or celebrations for me as it seemed inappropriate. My mother finally relented and allowed me to choose a puppy as my present, although by now I suspect she wanted a dog as much as I did and besides it would keep me in the parental home for a while longer. We brought home a tiny Cairn Terrier and christened her Boo; a name we often had to explain but which was relevant to a song at the time. On the eve of my coming of age my mother went out with Robert, leaving me with Nigel to clean up puppy poop and suffer from nipped ankles. Charming.

In a way I guess I did spend the rest of 1971 teaching, but not in the way I’d anticipated. House training, teaching to sit, heel, stay, come, walk, fetch and generally be a good dog became my mission in life for what was left of 1971. I missed my mates from college and Shaw Lane but I had indeed got a friend, be it a furry, mischievous one who melted my heart with her wagging tail and loving licks.

My twenty-first birthday present and first beloved dog Boo.