In every class, no matter how many years have passed, there remains a core the old crew who still phone each other, meet up, keep the circle tight. When a milestone rolls around, the same faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programme everything falls into place as naturally as a wellrehearsed chorus.
When the guest list was drawn up, the conversation sharpened. Of course the teachers had to be invited. But the classmates would everyone be there?
Everyone will be, said Simon confidently. Only we havent asked Tom Hargreaves. Hes a drunk, were tired of him.
Tom wont be left out, shouted Emily, her thickframed glasses glinting. He will! Ive spoken to him.
Emily, whispered Grace, the former class monitor, he could get plastered, and that would be awkward. I saw him the other day stumbling, barely recognised me.
Emily sighed. Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Grace added, Maybe for him this reunion matters more than it does for any of us together.
***
Tom had always been a different sort at school. Softspoken, gentle, never raised his voice, never hurt anyone. He listened, helped, was there when anyone needed a hand. His notebooks were immaculate, his letters even, his dictations spotless. Physics and maths came to him as easily as breathing; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his head. At almost every Olympiad he walked away with a certificate not always first place, but always a result. On assemblies he was placed beside the top scholars, and a hand on his heart felt less like pride than a shy embarrassment at the praise.
He dreamed of a military college after Year9. I still remember the day he toured the campus with his form tutor during an open house. He came back fired up, babbling about uniforms, drill, discipline, about learning to be useful. Everyone believed he would make it.
At home, though, the picture was bleak. His father had died years ago, and his mother drank.
One evening, after a severe binge, she shuffled in from the back of the hall, eyes glazed, hair a tangled mess. When the headteacher handed Tom his diploma, she let out a sudden scream: Well done, Tom! My son!
He stood there, face flushed, fists clenched, as if he could sink into the floor. His mothers praise hit him like an unexpected explosion something he didnt need at all.
His plans for the military college fell apart. He feared his little sister would be taken to a childrens home if he left. So he stayed, kept studying, took evening jobs, began to skip lessons, fell in with the wrong crowd, and everything went off the rails.
***
He prepared for the reunion in his own way. He found a grey suit two sizes too big, but spotless. He spent ages choosing a shirt, ironing it, checking each button. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair, doing the best he could. He didnt drink for two days, wanting to be himself when the old gang gathered.
Approaching the restaurant, he hesitated at the door, lingering in the shadows where he was unseen, watching his classmates greet one another, hug, flash phones, laugh boisterously, as if life had become effortless for them.
He stood there, embarrassed and uncertain, as if one misstep could shatter the fragile tableau of the night. It took him an hour before he finally forced himself inside.
***
He stepped onto the threshold hair clean but untrimmed, suit illfitting, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes nervous. Emily called out immediately: Tom, over here! This is your spot!
He moved forward. The room sprang to life: toasts, laughter, music.
Tom drank little, ate little he simply sat, listened, observed. Occasionally a faint smile flickered across his face.
When the evening began to wind down, Tom stood. His voice trembled; each word felt as if years of tightknotted anxiety were finally unravelling: Thank you thank you for inviting me this is probably the best thing thats happened to me in the last fifteen years
His eyes glistened, a lump rose in his throat, shoulders clenched, hands shook. He was exposed, as vulnerable as a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted just as he was.
I Im really grateful Forgive me if I ever well, if I ever hurt anyone
Then the whole table chorused: Of course, Tom! Were thrilled youre here! We wouldnt even have thought about leaving you out!
His sincerity was smoothed over by the generic echo of applause, pats on the back, loud assurances. It wasnt genuine compassion it was polite sociality, a thin veneer of kindness that no one wanted to probe deeper. The hypocrisy was crystal clear: warm words, sliding eyes, staged concern.
Emily watched it all, a thought echoing in her head: You didnt really want him there
But the crucial point thank heavens Tom didnt see the truth. He believed the words because he had no reason to doubt them.
He thanked them, gave a shy bow, and slipped out early. He left the hall quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without a backward glance.
Long after hed gone, the group kept laughing, swapping stories about jobs, lives, old acquaintances. The music swelled, glasses clinked, the night went on.
***
Late that night, Emily, on her way home, spotted Tom perched on a bench outside the block, under a flickering streetlamp. He was huddled, already drunk, eyes glazed, hands trembling on his knees. He didnt recognise her.
She drew nearer, heart tightening: Why did you drink, Tom? You held your own tonight, you were yourself why now?
She stared at the dark courtyard, empty windows, the wavering light, and thought: How many lives break quietly, unnoticed, because no steady hand, no shoulder, no right word was there? If someone had been there, would Tom be sitting here, in this illfitted suit, drunk?
The question hung in the nights silence. No answer came.
