As I get older, I become more protective of friendships. People who you have known me for longer have seen different, better sides of me. Few of my more recent friends will have a sense of how much energy I had at my activist best, twenty years ago.
It is not just about age; I have always been watchful of my friends, inclined to see the best in people and determined to forgive when I can. There are very, very people whose friendship I have deliberately neglected. Most, I hope, know exactly why I did.
One of the difficult, ambiguous consequences of the last ten days is that I have a former friend who is now in a position of influence. You might say that was inevitable: given the school I went to, the university, my family. But this is different.
I spent most of my teenage years in rebellion against the class into which I was born. And by rebellion, I really do mean the word, inchoate, unformed and violent, running away from home and then school, getting into trouble with police repeatedly, skipping school at times for weeks on end, fighting with teachers, trying to damage the physical environment I was in, at every waking second plotting my escape...
Many people from that time are now in government: as far as I was concerned they were the kids who sat at the back of classes and nodded to the teacher, the ones who understood nothing, read nothing, wanted to know nothing. The ones who had not been outside a tiny set of distinct places (a couple of streets in London, a country estate). The ones who knew no-one outside the friendships tolerated by their parents. The ones who had never walked through a city, taking everything in.
One, now a Cabinet minister, was never more than a blur of tally-ho subservient goofiness. Nor was his also-promoted brother, save that he lacked the better-known boy’s sly humour. (I remember watching the oldest, the night Pinochet was jailed, wooing an audience of 68-lefties, the way Clinton once did, looking for the person in the room who grimaced at them with the greatest hostility, and speaking to them first). If I really made the effort, there are probably another 10 people like them that I knew as children, who are now in Parliament – but each I saw at a distance. I saw nothing in them that would have justified a greater interest.
But this boy was different. I knew him when he was 5 (when we were best friends), and again with equal intensity between the ages of 14 and 17. We were in the same classes; we chose the same options. I remember him when he was very young, his face like a monkey and the words rushed out of him without caution. I remember him again in adolescence, his words now guarded by sentries (he had a father who worked in diplomacy, possibly Intelligence). Any bookish kid in an environment like ours saw the hypocrisies at once, knew that we were being fed lies and being trained to feed them out in due course. And when we did speak we agreed.
At different times since, I have tried to reconstruct the moment when he made peace with a class, two institutions, a whole way of being. It is a pointless exercise; I once though I knew him well. For more than half our lives, we have not spoken.
I miss him. I am still angry with him. I regret our collective failure to summon into being such monsters of the human imagination as to defeat him and his kind.