In every class, no matter how many years have slipped by, there remains a core the people who still ring each others phones, meet up now and then, keep the circle alive. When an anniversary rolls around, the same familiar faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programme all by habit, easy and cheerful.
When the guest list was drawn up, the conversation grew sharper. Of course the teachers had to be invited. But the former classmates would everyone come?
Everyone will, said Simon Clarke, confident. Only Stanley Grafton isnt on the list. Hes become a right drunk.
How can you leave Stanley out? shouted Eleanor Whitmore, the girl with the thickframed spectacles. Hell be there! I spoke to him.
Ellie, said Victoria Hart, the former class rep, softly, he might get plastered, that would be awkward. I saw him the other day wobbling, barely recognised me.
Ellie only sighed. Its all right. I know hes getting his act together.
Perhaps, she added, for him this reunion matters more than it does for any of us put together.
Stanley at school had been a different sort of fellow. Softspoken, gentle, never raised his voice or hurt anyone. He listened well, helped out, and was there when someone needed a hand. His notebooks were tidy, his handwriting neat, his dictation sheets flawless. Physics and maths came to him as easily as breathing; the formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his mind. At the science fairs he almost always returned with a certificate perhaps not first place, but always a respectable result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top scholars; a hand placed on his shoulder felt less a pat on the back than a shy, embarrassed gesture, the way he took any praise.
He dreamed of joining a military academy after the ninth year. I still remember the openday visit he made with his form tutor, returning full of excitement, talking about the uniform, the drill, the discipline, about how they would teach him to be useful. Everyone believed he would make it.
At home, however, things were different. His father had long since passed, and his mother spent her evenings at the local pub, glass in hand. One day, after a serious bout of drinking, she shuffled in behind the school hall at the last bell, eyes glazed, hair tangled. When Stanley received his certificate, she suddenly shouted, Well done, Stanley! My son! He stood there, cheeks flushed, hands clenched, as if he wanted to sink into the floor. His mothers praise landed like a sudden blast exactly the sort of attention he never wanted.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his younger sister would be taken into care if he left. So he stayed on, took evening jobs, began to skip classes, fell in with a rough crowd, and everything went off track.
When the reunion approached, Stanley prepared in his own way. He found a grey suit two sizes too large but clean combed through his shirts, checked the buttons, shaved carefully, tidied his hair, trying to look as presentable as possible. He abstained from drink for two days, determined to be himself on the night when they would all gather again.
He stood outside the restaurant, hesitant to go in. He lingered in the shadows where he could not be seen, watching his old classmates hug, flash pictures on their phones, crack jokes, laugh loudly, as though life now flowed effortlessly for them. He felt a knot of embarrassment and uncertainty, as if a single misstep would shatter the fragile picture of the evening.
An hour later he gathered his courage and entered.
At the doorway his hair was clean but uncut, the suit hung loosely on his shoulders, his gaze shy and tentative. Eleanor called out, Stanley, over here! This is your spot! He moved toward her. The room brightened with toasts, laughter, music.
Stanley barely touched his drink or his food he simply sat, listened, observed, allowing a faint smile to flicker across his face now and then. As the night drew to a close, he rose. His voice trembled, each word a struggle, as if years of bottled 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 Hes eyes glistened, a lump rose in his throat, shoulders tightened, hands shook ever so slightly. He was vulnerable, open, like a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted just as he was.
I Im very grateful forgive me if I ever well, if I hurt anyone
In unison the group replied, Of course, Stanley! Were thrilled youre here! We never even thought of leaving you out! Their echo of sincerity softened his raw emotion with smiles, pats on the back, loud reassurances not so much compassion as a courteous social nicety, a polished politeness that no one wished to probe deeper. It was pure hypocrisy: warm words, sliding eyes, showoff concern.
Eleanor watched it all, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him Yet the most important thing thank God Stanley didnt see the pretense. He believed their words, for he had no reason to doubt.
He thanked them, bowed a little sheepishly, and was among the first to leave. He slipped out of the hall quietly, without farewells, without lingering, without looking back.
After he was gone, the others kept laughing, swapping old stories, sharing where they worked, how life had turned out for each of them, raising glasses, clinking them together.
Late that night, Eleanor, on her way home, spotted Stanley slumped on a bench outside the block, under a dim streetlamp. He sat hunched over, already drunk, eyes clouded, hands resting on his knees. He didnt recognise her.
She stepped closer, her heart tightening. Why have you drunk yourself, Stanley? Tonight you held your own, you were yourself why now? She gazed at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the wavering light, and thought, How many lives crumble silently when no steady hand, no shoulder, no kind word is there? If someone had been there, perhaps Stanley wouldnt be sitting here, in that illfitting suit, drunk The question hung in the nights stillness. No answer came.
