Sweet Sorrow(118)

‘Keith something.’

‘And those musicians?’

‘Sam and …’

‘Go on.’

‘Grace!’

‘How come you remember all this, Charlie?’

‘I just do.’

‘You know who won’t be there?’ said Helen. ‘Polly and Bernard.’

‘They’re not …?’

‘Yep. Both of them.’

‘When?’

‘Bernard died years ago, Polly earlier this year.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Facebook.’

‘Oh, Christ. Polly and Bernard.’

‘She was nearly ninety, it’s not a surprise.’

‘I know. Still, people get fixed, don’t they, in your mind. Bernard I don’t think I ever spoke to, but Polly – she was always nice to me. Nearly always. I lost my virginity in Polly’s cottage.’

‘Yes. I know this.’

‘Oh God. Poor Polly. Lousy actress, lovely woman.’

‘They could put that on her tombstone. Along with your virginity thing.’

‘Poor Polly.’ We touched our glasses together. ‘I feel sad now.’

‘We could stay here.’

‘No, come on. We’ve come this far.’

And so we drained our drinks and crossed the road, trotted up the narrow stairs to the function room, made our big entrance and recognised no one. The cast of Macbeth was there, the As You Like It gang, the Midsummer Night’s Dream crews (both of them), laughing and telling stories, but from Romeo and Juliet, not one familiar face.

‘Okay, let’s leave.’

‘Five minutes,’ I said. ‘Then we can go.’

To look less lonely, we stood in front of a noticeboard of old black-and-white production photos.

‘Maybe they forgot the camera our year.’

‘There’s Miles,’ I said. ‘So I think that’s the back of my head,’ I added.

‘A much-treasured company member.’

‘I was! I carried that show.’

‘And yet almost entirely absent,’ said Helen, laughing, and I wondered if this was the great peril of reunions: the discovery that we aren’t as essential to other people’s memories as they are to ours.

This could not be said of Polly, and another pinboard was given over to her old acting head-shots from the sixties, hair cropped, kohl-eyed, pure Carnaby Street, and photos of her varied roles and similar expressions, eyes and mouth always open to their full extent. After a while, we were joined by someone who looked like Colin Smart’s dad and who turned out to be Colin Smart. ‘Look how much I’ve grown!’ he said, though he had not grown. We chatted for a while, threw names around and I tried hard to concentrate and not to scan the room over his shoulder. Had I expected something wilder, a last-night party? There were children here, eating crisps at the buffet table, and at the bar I found myself standing next to Lucy Tran, a paediatrician now, brisk and pleasant and funny until talk turned to our old school. Did I still see Lloyd or Harper or that lot?

‘No, not for years. You know how it is. We grew apart.’

‘Good! Good news. They made my life a misery, those boys. Little shits.’

‘Yes, they could be mean.’

‘So could you, Charlie. You weren’t as bad, but you never stood up to them.’

‘No, that’s true. I think about that sometimes. I apologise.’

‘Yes. Well. You got better.’

‘Did I? Christ, I hope so.’

‘Did you ever get my message?’

‘What message?’

‘I wrote it on your school shirt. Last day of school.’

‘I did. “You made me cry”.’

‘Well you did.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’ Some time passed. ‘Anyway …’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Seen who?’

‘Well, you didn’t come here to see me.’

‘No, I just presumed she wasn’t coming.’

‘Oh, she’s here. She’s sitting down somewhere. Look – over there.’

And through a gap in the crowd, I saw her on a chair by the window, one hand resting on the bulge of her pregnant stomach, talking intently to one of the children, a girl, ten years old, who could only be her daughter. As I watched, she reached over and tucked the girl’s hair behind her ear.

‘Aw, your face,’ laughed Lucy. ‘What was it? Oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright …’ She patted my arm. ‘Good luck!’

Fran Fisher laughed at something the girl had said, then sent her off and, in doing so, saw me. She laughed again and opened her eyes wide, clapping both hands to her face. Through gaps in the crowd we made a series of garbled gestures – Look at you! Why are we here? Talk soon. Five minutes? Come find me – and then Colin Smart was there, embracing her over her bump and I stood alone for some time, strangely breathless and unsure of what to do.

‘Hey there!’ A hand was on my elbow. ‘You all right?’

‘George!’ I said, and we performed a little dance, half-handshake, half-hug.

‘Seen a ghost?’