In every form, no matter how many years go by, theres a core group the people who keep the phone lines open, meet up, hold the circle. When a reunion rolls around, those same faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programme all out of habit, easy and cheerful.
When the guest list was drawn up, the discussion sharpened. Of course the teachers had to be invited. But would every former classmate turn up?
Everyone will be there, Simon said confidently. Just didnt ask Tom Hardwick. Hes a bit of a drinker, were fed up with him.
Why wouldnt Tom come? shouted Poppy, the bespectacled one with the thick frames. He will! Ive spoken to him.
Poppy, Vicky, the former class monitor, replied quietly, he could get drunk; that would be awkward. I saw him the other day, wobbling, didnt even recognise me.
Poppy merely sighed.
Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she added, for him this meeting matters more than it does for the rest of us put together.
—
Tom had always been different at school. Softspoken, gentle, never raised his voice, never hurt anyone. He listened well, helped out, was there when someone needed him. His notebooks were neat, his handwriting straight, dictations spotless. Physics and maths came to him easily; formulas seemed to whisper their answers straight into his head. At the Olympiads he usually walked away with a diploma maybe not first place, but always a solid result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top students, and a hand on his heart felt more like embarrassment than pride thats how he took any compliment.
He dreamed of going to a military academy after Year9. I still recall a schoolorganised open day when he rode there with the form tutor. He came back buzzing with excitement, talking about the uniform, the drill, the discipline, about learning to be useful. Everyone believed hed make it.
At home, though, things were different. His father had died years ago, and his mother drank.
One evening, after a serious binge, she turned up for the final school bell, swaying at the back, eyes glazed, hair tangled. When Tom was handed his diploma, she suddenly shouted, Well done, Tom! My boy!
He stood there, cheeks flushed, fists clenched, as if he wanted to sink into the floor. His mothers praise hit him like a stray blast exactly the kind of validation he didnt need.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his sister would be taken into care if he left. So he stayed on, got a parttime job evenings, began skipping lessons, fell in with the wrong crowd and everything went off the rails.
—
He prepared for the reunion his own way. He found a grey suit two sizes too big but clean. He spent ages picking a shirt, ironing, checking the buttons. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair the best he could. Hed not had a drink for two days, wanting to be himself when everyone gathered.
When he reached the restaurant, he hesitated at the door. He lingered just outside, out of sight, watching. He saw his former classmates hugging, flashing phones, cracking jokes, laughing loudly, as if life had become effortless for them.
He stood there, embarrassed and unsure, as if a single misstep might shatter the fragile picture of the evening. After about an hour he gathered the courage and walked in.
—
He stood on the threshold hair clean but uncut, a suit that didnt fit, shoulders slightly slumped, a shy, hesitant look.
Poppy called out immediately, Tom, over here! This is your spot!
He moved forward. The room brightened: toasts, laughter, music. Tom drank hardly any, ate barely anything he just sat, listened, observed. Occasionally a faint smile crossed his face.
When the night drew to a close, Tom stood up. His voice trembled, each word a struggle, as if years of heldin feelings were finally spilling out:
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 slightly. He was defenseless, open, like a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted as he was.
I Im really grateful forgive me if I ever well, if I ever hurt anyone
And the table answered in unison:
Of course, Tom! Were thrilled youre here! We wouldnt have thought of not inviting you!
His sincere emotions were smoothed over by the chorus of smiles, pats on the back, loud assurances not gestures of true compassion but a convenient social courtesy, a cleancut hypocrisy: warm words, glancing eyes, care on display.
Poppy watched it all, thinking, You didnt really want him here
But the crucial thing thank God Tom didnt see the pretense. He believed their words because he had no reason to doubt. He thanked them, bowed a little shyly, and slipped out early, quietly leaving the hall without farewells, without looking back.
After him, the laughter continued, old stories resurfaced, people talked about jobs, lives, whod met whom and again the clink of glasses, the hum of music.
—
Late that night, as Poppy walked home, she spotted Tom on a bench outside the block, under a dim streetlamp. He was hunched, already drunk, eyes clouded, hands resting on his knees. She didnt recognise him.
She drew nearer, her heart tightening:
Why have you drunk yourself, Tom? Tonight you held your own, you were yourself why now?
She stared at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the lone lamp, and thought:
How many lives crumble quietly because there was no steady hand, no shoulder, no true word? And if someone had been there, would Tom be sitting here now, in that suit, drunk?
The question lingered in the nights silence. No answer came.
