Robert Whitaker drifted down a fogfilled road toward the reunion of his old school friends, a gathering he hadnt imagined for three decades. After leaving the grammar school hed been whisked away to university in Manchester, then slipped into a job in Birmingham, and later, hungry for more, built his own firm in the heart of London. Success rose and fell like tides in a glass of tea.
In the quiet pockets of his mind he reached for the faces of his classmates, scrolling through their pictures on a social feed and sprinkling his own among them. Above all, he longed to see Ethel. In those teenage years he had adored her, though she had never glanced his way. The earnest boy with his books never appealed to her. The last time he offered her a bouquet, she leapt onto the rear of Arthurs motorbike without a sigh for the flowers, roared away, and left a cloud of dust. He never approached her again, watching her vanish into the amber horizon, yearning to ask her to ride beside him, to help her, but never doing so.
Robert had few close friends at school; most of his time was spent hunched over textbooks. Only a handful of mates attended extra maths lessons with him, grinding together for the entrance exams. On the night of the reunion he arrived in buoyant spirits, a small parcel for each old companion tucked under his armnothing forgotten.
They gathered in a cosy café on a narrow side street, laughter spilling over the clink of china, old stories bubbling like steam. Robert stared, halfdreaming, at the group, his gaze lingering on Ethel. She sat far away, thumb scrolling endlessly on her phone, a veil between them. After school she had married Arthur, yet they no longer shared a home; Robert learned she now raised a sick child alone.
Determined, Robert tried to speak, but his words were met with sharp rebuke.
You live in your tidy townhouse and pretend you know nothing of our hardships! she snapped. Ive seen your house! Your wife never works, only flits to beauty salons. You must have a legion of servants you never photograph. Your children study abroad while I tend a ailing son. What could we possibly discuss? You wouldnt understand.
Ethel, am I to blame for your troubles? he asked, his voice trembling.
In this country theres no money for ailing children, yet people like you sit on piles of cash and hoard it! she retorted.
Roberts temper flared; the subject was a raw nerve. He pressed on.
How many sick children have you helped, Ethel?
I have my own ailing one! And sometimes I text for help.
I regularly donate sizable sums to charity, quietly. So who is truly helpful here?
Its simple for you. Parting with an extra hundred thousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My aid counts more because I literally give from my mouth. Do you know how I earn? Each morning I board two buses to work and scrape together pennies!
Patrons of the café watched the exchange. Some nodded toward Ethel; others remained mute.
When the evening waned, Robert slipped out, leaving his parcels on the table and asking the waiter to pass a sealed envelope to Ethel. He walked down the cobbled lane, thoughts swirling. They had all started with the same chances, the same talents. He, Robert, had chosen study over the cheap pints on the back garden, over the cigarettes behind the corner, over the occasional club nighteven though hed still slipped into one now and then. Hed pursued the university that sparked his curiosity, not the local vocational college. Hed taken risks, left his comfort zone, and built his own business.
Hed wrestled with doubt, learned new skills, endured setbacks and loss. Was it his fault that his classmates now judged him for his wealth, for the life hed carved? He hadnt stolen their fortunes; hed earned his own.
How many of you know people like Ethel and the other mates of Roberts class, forever counting other peoples money? Some were born into affluence and received fine education, yet countless others from humble homes, with parents who never went to school, have forged success with their own hands. Everything rests in our own palms, and each of us must choose our path.
