Childhood Rivals: A Story of Hope
Andrew stepped onto the porch of his parents’ house, breathing in the warm evening air of the village, and sat on the old bench that creaked beneath him just as it had when he was a boy. A few minutes later, Alex approached the house at a leisurely pace. He was the very same friend Andrew had grown up side by side with, though years ago, something had gone wrong between them…
“So, how’ve you been?” Alex asked, clapping Andrew on the shoulder in that blokeish way.
“Can’t complain,” Andrew nodded. “Got a job, bought a flat in the city.”
“Nice,” Alex grinned approvingly. “Always were the clever one. Not like me…”
“Ah, shut it!” Andrew chuckled. “Mum and Dad told me everything—how you’ve got the finest house in the village. Said the neighbours look up to you.”
“You’re not doing badly yourself—got a flat. Bought it fair and square, same as I built this.”
They both laughed. Then, as if out of old habit, they wandered over to Alex’s place. They fetched bread, eggs, and some sausages, cracked open a bottle of whisky. Poured themselves a measure, winced in unison—neither of them drank much these days.
And then Alex said:
“Listen… You heard about Hope?”
Andrew stiffened.
“What about her?”
“She’s married. Some bloke from the next village over. Teaches at our old school now.”
“Hope?” Andrew repeated, something twisting in his chest. “Didn’t know…”
“I didn’t believe it at first. Thought I’d get over it… Spent three days driving that bloody tractor—still couldn’t shake it. You know?”
He poured another round. They drank, then sat in silence, staring into their mugs of tea.
Suddenly, they both looked up and burst out laughing—just like they had as kids. So hard it brought tears, so hard they nearly choked.
“Well, there you go,” Alex wiped his eyes. “All these years over her… and look how it turned out.”
“Yeah,” Andrew nodded. “Made it a competition, didn’t we? Who was smarter, who lasted longer, who was louder. And she just—poof—walked off into the sunset with someone else.”
“Good on her,” Alex said unexpectedly. “Made her own choice. We did try, though…”
“Right,” Andrew mused. “But not for nothing, eh? You built this place, I run a hospital department now. We’ve both got something to show for ourselves.”
“Exactly!” Alex perked up. “We’re twenty-nine. Life’s just getting started!”
“You were the one who started it, though,” Andrew reminded him.
“Maybe. But you kept it going. Clever git.”
“Means I was just as daft. Both of us were,” Andrew smirked.
“Remember how she’d sit on that bench after school, looking at us both the same? Neither yours nor mine—just… nothing.”
They fell quiet again, lost in memory.
Andrew and Alex had known each other since the day they were born—arrived within hours of each other. Grew up next door, played together, sat at the same desk in school. Inseparable till Year Nine.
Then Hope showed up.
She’d changed over that summer. Gone from a scruffy girl on a bike to a slender lass with a long blonde plait. And just like that, everything shifted. Friends became rivals.
Alex was all wrenches and engines, tinkering with his dad’s old Land Rover. Andrew—books and creatures. One went for the fields, the other for the lab.
And Hope? She watched them both with that look—the one that made your heart stutter.
After school, Andrew left for university, while Alex joined a work crew. Hope enrolled part-time, drifting between them. She’d bring news: who’d earned more, who’d landed a grant. But she never got close to either.
Not even the Army reconciled them. They became men, each on his own path. Alex built his house, bought the village’s first proper car. Andrew became a doctor, published papers. Yet through it all—both still single. Still alone. Still carrying that memory of the girl with the blonde plait.
And now here they were, sat in the kitchen, weary, eyes shadowed with time—and laughing. Bitter and bright.
“You know what? It’s good she’s married,” Andrew said at last. “Honestly. Maybe he really loves her.”
“Maybe…” Alex murmured. “Hope he does. Otherwise… What was it all for?”
They sat in silence. Then Alex slapped the table.
“Tell you what—let’s raise a glass. For her. For us. For life moving on.”
“Aye,” Andrew smirked. “For still being here. And not enemies.”
Alex poured one last round.
“To Hope.”
“To Hope.”
Glasses clinked. Outside, evening slipped into night. Above the old bench, two silhouettes leaned—no longer boys, but not yet old men. Just two lives tangled up long ago and never quite set straight.
And Hope? Well—let her be happy. She bloody well earned it.
