A Grin, a Bass Guitar, and a Friendship That Stayed

Alan Hewitson

Today I woke up to news that I did not want to accept. A sentence that should not have been spoken for years to come. It hit me hard. My brain fogged over. My heart felt like it was splitting in two. One of my dearest friends had departed. No illness, no warning just a sudden parting that made my world tilt.

After that call, my mind began replaying our times gone by, especially our first real encounter. It rose to the surface immediately, as if my memory knew exactly where to go to find him.

He showed up with a bass guitar he barely knew how to hold, an amp that buzzed louder than the instrument, and a grin so wide it felt impossible not to say yes. That was all he needed, not skill, not experience, just that grin and the certainty that he belonged with us. And somehow, against every expectation, he grew into a real talent. Watching him learn was like watching someone discover a part of themselves they didn’t know existed.

This was a guy with a strange mix of self‑consciousness and quiet confidence. We had known each other in school but never really became friends until that moment. After that it changed. Suddenly we were inseparable. The bond just grew and grew.

He was there to pick me up when I suddenly found myself homeless. He talked his parents into letting me stay with them. By then I was working, and he was finishing his last year at school. That’s the kind of person he was. Steady, loyal, and braver than he ever realised.

The band, at first, didn’t come to much. I drifted off in a different direction for a few months before finding my way back. We rehearsed in the community centre, an old mansion house, where several bands had permanent rooms. Alan was always keen to do well, pushing us to get gigs. We scrimped, scraped, begged and borrowed to get our gear together.

Finally, we got our break. The Monday Club. This was a church youth group that invited us to play for the kids a few years younger than our 16 and 17 years old selves. We carried our kit from the community centre to the church hall, laughing, complaining, and feeling like we were finally becoming something.

The memories of those teenage years stay with me. The band, the parties, the underage drinking. They’re still vivid, they still remain strong. They might have blurred around the edges now, but the feeling of them is still sharp.

Roll on the years, and I joined the army. Suddenly we were no longer that inseparable pair of lads who spent every waking moment together. Life pulled us in different directions, as it does. But he was always one of my first ports of call when I came home on leave. We’d pick up where we left off without missing a beat. I’d go and watch him play in whatever band he was in at the time, and we’d talk about the what‑ifs, the dreams, the roads we might have taken. For a little while, it felt like being teenagers again. That same easy bond, that same laughter, that same sense that nothing in the world could touch us. Even if it only lasted a short while, it always mattered.

We had our own families and our own lives now and the reunions became less frequent. Yes, we still kept in touch, a message here, a visit there, but for whatever reasons, that old closeness slipped away. Not the bond, though. That remained quietly underneath all the noise that was in our lives, steady and unchanged.

It had been some time since we last spoke, and that hurts now. I feel guilty about the silence, guilty about the lack of visits, guilty about not reaching out more. Part of me knows that’s a silly thing to think, that’s just how our lives were by then. We hadn’t forgotten each other. We hadn’t stopped caring. The bond was still there, even if the conversations weren’t. And we both knew that.

Going back, I still think about that moment now, especially since he’s gone. The way he stepped into something new without hesitation. The way he believed he could do it long before any of us did. It’s strange how grief makes these small memories feel enormous, like they’re holding the weight of everything you’ve lost.

Now it is time to grieve. I will try not to do it in a sad way, because my memories of him are too full of happiness to allow sorrow to take over. He was a loyal and true friend. Someone who made me laugh, frustrated me at times, but gave me something I will never forget …..

A genuine friendship.