The welloff old schoolmate at the reunion
Thomas Hartley was on his way to the thirtyyearlong class reunion. He hadnt seen any of his former classmates since they all went their separate ways after leaving StCuthberts. Straight from grammar school hed packed his bags for university in Leeds, then drifted into a job in Manchester.
When the paychecks stopped growing, he set up his own consultancy. There were peaks and valleys, as there always are.
At odd moments he felt a tug of nostalgia for the lads hed grown up with. In spare minutes he scrolled through their pictures on social media, uploading his own as well.
He was especially longing to spot Emily Whitaker. Thomas had liked her in the sixth form, though Emily never gave him the slightest glance. He was the dull, bookish type, hardly anyones idea of a thrilling catch. The last time he mustered the courage to hand her a bunch of roses, she leapt onto the back of James Bells motorbike without even looking at the bouquet, roared off and left a cloud of dust behind her. Thomas never approached her again. He drifted away into the horizon, wishing he could have asked her to ride with him, to help her in some way, but he never did.
Thomas didnt keep many close friends from school; most of his time was swallowed by study. He only kept a handful of mates whod joined him for extra maths tutorials, cramming together for the Alevel entrance exams.
He arrived at the reunion in a buoyant mood, having prepared a small gift for each former classmate, not overlooking anyone.
They gathered in a cosy café on the high street, laughing and swapping anecdotes about school days. Thomas watched the crowd, his thoughts constantly returning to Emily. He seemed to be studying her, while she kept her distance, perched at a table far away, thumb scrolling through her phone. After school Emily had indeed married James, but, as Thomas learned later, they no longer lived together; she was raising a sick child on her own.
Thomas decided to speak to her, but the conversation turned sharp.
Do you live in that posh cottage of yours and pretend you understand our troubles? Ive seen your house! Your wife never works, she only pops into salons, Ive seen that too. You must have a legion of staff you never brag about in photos. Your children study abroad, and Im looking after a ill son. What can we possibly talk about? Youd never get it.
Emily, am I the cause of your problems?
In this country theres a shortage of money for sick children, yet people like you sit on fortunes and act greedy!
Thomas felt his blood boil. He detested the topic being raised. He had something to say.
Emily, how many sick children have you helped?
I have my own sick child! And yes, sometimes I send a text offering help.
And I regularly donate large sums to charities, though I never trumpet about it. So who is more helpful here?
Its simple for youhanding over an extra hundred thousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My help counts more because I literally take it from my own pocket. Do you know how I earn the money? Every morning I hop on two doubledecker buses to work and collect pennies!
A few onlookers leaned in, some nodded in Emilys favour, the rest fell silent.
Thomas slipped out. On the side table near the door he left the presents for his old classmates and asked the waiter to bring an envelope for Emily.
He walked away, musing that theyd all started with the same odds, the same talents. He, Thomas, had chosen study over drinking pints in the back garden, over smoking behind the corner, over wild nights at the discothough hed visited a few himself. Hed chased a university that truly interested him, not the local technical college. Hed embraced risk, left his comfort zone, and opened his own firm.
He wrestled with doubts, learned new tricks, endured setbacks and losses. Was it his fault that his peers now led lives he could not understand, condemning him for his wealth? He hadnt stolen their money; hed earned it himself.
How many of you know people like Emily and the other mates of Thomas, who tally up other peoples fortunes? Some were lucky enough to be born into affluent families and receive a good education. Yet there are countless stories of those from modest backgrounds, children of uneducated parents, who carve out success with their own two hands. Everything rests in our own hands, and each of us chooses our path.
