In every yeargroup, no matter how many years pass, the core stays the same the people who keep in touch, meet up, hold the circle. When a reunion anniversary arrives, the same faces take charge of venue, menu and programme, doing everything out of habit, easily and cheerfully.
When the guest list is drawn up, the discussion sharpens. Teachers, of course, must be invited. But will every old classmate turn up?
Everyone will be there, says Sean confidently. Only we havent asked Tom Hargreaves. Hes a drunk now, enough already.
How could Tom not be invited? shouts Ellie, the bespectacled one with the thick frames. He will be! Ive spoken to him.
Ellie, Violet, the former class rep, replies quietly, he might get drunk, that would be awkward. I saw him the other day, stumbling, barely recognised me.
Ellie sighs.
Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she adds, this meeting means more to him than to all of us together.
—
Tom was a different sort at school. Softspoken, gentle, never raised his voice or hurt anyone. He listened, helped, and was there when someone needed him. His notebooks were tidy, his handwriting even, dictations flawless. Physics and maths came easily; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight to him. He usually left Olympiads with a diploma perhaps not first place, but always a result. At assemblies he was seated beside the top students; placing a hand on his heart felt less like pride than embarrassment, because any praise made him uneasy.
He dreamed of attending a military academy after Year9. I still remember him touring the academy with his form tutor on an open day. He came back inspired, talking about the uniform, the drill, the discipline, about learning to be useful. Everyone believed he would make it.
At home, though, things were different. His father died years ago and his mother drinks.
One afternoon, after a serious binge, his mother staggers in at the schools final bell, eyes glazed, hair tangled. When Tom receives his diploma, she suddenly shrieks, Well done, Tom! My son!
He stands with a flushed face, clenched fists, as if he could sink into the floor. His mothers praise lands like a stray explosion in his life exactly the sort of thing he does not need.
His plans for the academy fall apart. He worries his sister might be taken into care if he leaves, so he stays on, works evenings, skips school more often, falls in with the wrong crowd and everything goes off track.
—
He prepares for the reunion in his own way. He finds a grey suit thats two sizes too big but clean. He spends ages choosing a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaves carefully, tames his hair trying to look presentable. He abstains from drinking for two days, wanting to be himself when everyone gathers.
When he reaches the restaurant, he hesitates at the door. He lingers just outside, out of sight, watching. He watches his old classmates hug, flash something on their phones, joke loudly, laugh heartily, as if everything now comes easy for them.
He stands there, embarrassed and insecure, as if a single misstep could shatter the fragile picture of the evening. After about an hour he finally gathers courage and walks in.
—
He stands in the doorway hair clean but untrimmed, a suit that doesnt fit, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes timid.
Ellie calls out immediately, Tom, over here! This is your seat!
He moves toward her. The others perk up: toasts, laughter, music.
Tom drinks little, eats little he simply sits, listens, watches. Occasionally he smiles faintly.
As the night draws to a close, Tom stands. His voice trembles, each word feels heavy, as if years of bottled-up feelings finally burst out:
Thank you thank you for inviting me this is probably the best thing that has happened to me in the last fifteen years
His eyes glisten, a lump rises in his throat, shoulders tighten, his hands shake slightly. He is vulnerable, open, like a child believing for the first time that he will be accepted as he is.
I Im really grateful Sorry if I ever well, if I ever did anything to anyone
Then the group choruses, Of course, Tom! Were delighted youre here! We couldnt imagine the night without you!
His sincere emotions are softened by the uniform response: smiles, pats on the back, loud assurances. It feels less like genuine compassion and more like polite social nicety hollow words, gliding eyes, a show of care.
Ellie watches it all, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him
But the most important thing thank God Tom doesnt see the pretense. He believes their words because he has no reason to doubt them. He thanks them, bows awkwardly, and leaves among the first to exit. He slips out quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without looking back.
After him the laughter continues, old stories are retold, people chat about jobs, lives, who has met whom and again the music swells, glasses clink.
—
Late at night, Ellie walks home and spots Tom on a bench in the courtyard, under a dim streetlamp. He sits huddled, already drunk, eyes glazed, hands on his knees. He doesnt recognise her.
She steps closer, heart tightening:
Why did you drink, Tom? You kept it together earlier, you were yourself why now?
Ellie looks at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the lamp, and thinks:
How many lives break quietly, unnoticed, because there was no hand, no shoulder, no kind word nearby? And if someone had been there, would Tom be sitting here now, in this illfitting suit, drunk
The question hangs in the nights silence. No answer comes.
