In every yeargroup, no matter how long the calendar has turned, theres always that tightknit core the folks who still call, meet up, keep the circle going. And when a milestone rolls around, the same familiar faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programme all by habit, easygoing and cheerful.
When the guest list started to take shape, the conversation sharpened. Of course the teachers had to be invited. But would all the old classmates turn up?
Everyones coming, declared Simon Harris, eyebrows raised. We just didnt ask Stanley Gormley. Hes a bit of a tippler, you know.
Why not Stanley? shouted Mabel Clarke, glasses perched on a sturdy frame. Hell be there! Ive spoken to him.
Mab, murmured Violet Brooks, the former class prefect, he might get sloshed, and that would be awkward. I saw him the other day wobbling, barely recognised me.
Mabel exhaled a sigh. Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she added, this reunion matters to him more than to all of us put together.
—
At school Stanley had always been the quiet, kindly sort. He never raised his voice, never picked a fight. He listened well, helped out, and was there when anyone needed a hand. His notebooks were neat, his handwriting straight, his dictations spotless. Physics and maths came naturally; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his head. He usually walked away from Olympiads with a certificate perhaps not gold, but always a respectable result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top students, and when someone clapped him on the shoulder it felt more like a blush than a boast.
He dreamed of a military academy after Year9. I still remember his fieldtrip with the form tutor to the openday; he came back brimming with stories about uniforms, drill, discipline, and how theyd teach him to be useful. Everyone thought hed make it.
At home, though, things were different. His father had long since passed, and his mother spent most evenings at the local pub.
One evening, after a serious binge, she staggered in just before the final school bell. She was at the back of the hall, swaying, eyes glazed, hair in a mess. When Stanley was handed his certificate, she let out a sudden shout:
Bravo, Stanley! My boy!
He stood there, cheeks flushed, fists clenched, as if he wanted to disappear into the floor. His mothers praise felt like an unexpected explosion exactly the sort of affirmation he never asked for.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his little sister would be sent to a childrens home if he left. So he stayed, kept studying, took odd jobs in the evenings, began skipping lessons, fell in with the wrong crowd, and the whole thing went a bit sideways.
—
He prepared for the reunion in his own, odd fashion. He found a gray suit two sizes too big but spotless. He spent ages picking a shirt, ironing, checking the buttons. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair doing the best he could. Hed avoided the bottle for two days, wanting to be himself when everyone gathered.
Arriving at the pubrestaurant, he hovered at the doorway, undecided. He lingered just out of sight, watching his old classmates hug, flash something on their phones, crack jokes, laugh loudly, as if the years had slipped by unnoticed.
He stood there, shy and uncertain, as if a single misstep might shatter the fragile picture of the evening. After about an hour he finally gathered the nerve and stepped inside.
—
He stood on the threshold hair clean but not trimmed, a suit that didnt quite fit, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes nervous and tentative.
Mabel called out immediately:
Stanley, over here! This is your spot!
He walked over. The room brightened: toasts, laughter, music. Stanley drank barely a sip, ate hardly anything just sat, listened, observed. Occasionally a faint smile crept across his face.
When the night drew to a close, Stanley rose. His voice trembled, each word felt heavy, as if years of bottled-up feelings were finally squeezing 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 tightened, hands shook a little. He was vulnerable, as open as a child believing for the first time that hed be accepted just as he was.
I Im really grateful Sorry if I ever well, if I ever caused anyone any trouble
Then, in unison, the crowd chimed:
Of course, Stanley! Were thrilled youre here! How could we not invite you!
His heartfelt moment softened under the echo of polite applause, shoulder pats, and booming assurances. It wasnt genuine compassion it was the comfortable, social niceness of people who didnt want to dig deeper. Pure, unvarnished hypocrisy: warm words, sliding eyes, care on display.
Mabel watched it all, hearing in her head:
You didnt really want him there, did you?
But the biggest miracle was that Stanley didnt see through it. He believed the compliments because he had no reason to doubt. He thanked them, bowed a little shyly, and slipped out early. He left quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without a backward glance.
After him the chatter went on, old stories resurfaced, anecdotes about jobs, lives, whod met whom and again the laughter, the music, the clink of glasses.
—
Late that night, as Mabel walked home, she spotted Stanley on a bench outside the block, under a dim streetlamp. He was hunched, clearly drunk, eyes clouded, hands resting on his knees. He didnt recognise her. She moved closer, her heart tightening:
Why did you drink yourself silly, Stanley? Tonight you held your own, you were yourself why now?
She stared at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the flickering lamp, and thought:
How many lives quietly break because no steady hand, shoulder, or kind word was there? And if someone had been there, would Stanley be sitting here now, in that illfitting suit, drunk
The question lingered in the nights hush. No answer came.
