15October2025 Bristol
Ive been thinking about how every school, no matter how many years have passed, always seems to keep the same core group of people. We still call each other, meet up now and then, and keep the circle alive. When a milestone rolls around, its the same familiar faces that take charge of the venue, the menu, the programmeeverything falls into place almost automatically, easy and cheerful.
When we finally compiled the guest list the conversation got a little sharper. Of course the teachers have to be invited, but what about the rest of the class?
Everyones coming, said Simon confidently. Only we havent asked Stanley Gormley. Hes always been a bit of a drunkard.
Why would Stanley not be there? shouted Emma, the one with the thickframed glasses. He will be! Ive spoken to him.
Emma, Violet, the former head girl, replied softly, he might get tipsy and that would be awkward. I saw him the other day, barely holding himself together, didnt even recognise me.
Emma simply sighed.
Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she added, for him this reunion means more than it does for all of us put together.
—
At school Stanley had always been different. He was gentle, quiet, and kindhearted. He never raised his voice, never hurt anyone. He listened, helped, and was there whenever someone needed a hand. His notebooks were tidy, his handwriting straight, his dictations spotless. Physics and maths came easily; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his mind. He almost always left the olympiads with a diplomanot always first place, but always a result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top students; a hand on his heart felt less like pride and more like embarrassmenthe took any compliment with a blush.
He dreamed of a military academy after Year9. I still remember the openday visit with our form tutor; he came back buzzing with excitement, talking about uniforms, drills, discipline, and how they would teach him to be useful. Everyone believed he would make it.
Home, however, was another story. His father had died long ago and his mother drank. One day, after a serious binge, she turned up at the final school bell, swaying at the back, eyes clouded, hair a mess. When Stanley was handed his diploma she shouted, Well done, Stanley! My son! He stood there, face flushed, fists clenched, as if he wanted to sink into the floor. His mothers praise hit him like a sudden explosionsomething he didnt need in that form.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his sister would be taken to a childrens home if he left. So he stayed, kept studying, took night jobs, began to skip classes, fell in with the wrong crowd, and everything went off the rails.
—
When the reunion approached, Stanley prepared in his own way. He found an oversized grey suittwo sizes too bigbut it was clean. He spent ages picking a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair, trying to look as decent as possible. He hadnt drank for two days, wanting to be himself when everyone gathered.
Arriving at the restaurant, he hesitated at the doorway. He lingered nearby, out of sight, watching his old classmates hug, flash something on their phones, joke loudly, laugh with the ease that only time can grant. He felt tiny and uncertain, as if a single wrong step could shatter the fragile picture of the evening.
An hour later he finally walked in.
He stood on the thresholdhair clean but still a bit unruly, suit illfitting, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes shy.
Emma called out immediately, Stanley, over here! This is your spot!
He moved toward the table. The others perked up: toasts were made, laughter rose, music played. Stanley drank very little, ate littlejust sat, listened, observed, smiling faintly now and then.
As the night drew to a close he stood up. His voice trembled; each word felt heavy, as if years of bottled-up feeling 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 glittered, a lump rose in his throat, shoulders tightened, hands shook slightly. He was vulnerable, open, like a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted as he was.
I Im really grateful sorry if I ever well, if I ever caused anyone any trouble
And then, in unison, the group chorused, Of course, Stanley! Were thrilled youre here! It wouldnt have been the same without you!
Their rehearsed sincerity softened his raw emotionssmiles, pats on the back, loud assurances. It wasnt genuine compassion; it was a convenient social nicety, a polished façade of concern. Emma watched it all, thinking, You didnt really want him invited YetthankfullyStanley didnt see the hollow underneath. He believed their words because he had no reason to doubt them. He thanked them, bowed awkwardly, and slipped out early, leaving without a goodbye, without lingering, without looking back.
The rest of the night continued with laughter, old stories, updates about jobs and lives, more clinking glasses.
—
Late that night, as I walked home, I saw Stanley on a bench outside the block, under a dim streetlamp. He was huddled, already drunk, eyes glazed, hands on his knees. He didnt recognise me. I stepped closer, my heart tightening:
Why did you drink, Stanley? You held your own tonight, you were yourself why now?
I stared at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the flickering light, and thought:
How many lives break quietly, unnoticed, because there was no steady hand, no shoulder, no kind word? And if someone had been there, would Stanley be sitting here now, in that illfitting suit, drunk
The question hung in the nights silence. No answer came.
