“We’ll just go for an hour…” #121

School reunion

This weekend was my school friend’s AGM. I’ve told you about them before. We were at school together in Barnstaple, North Devon in the mid-late 70s. Bound together after the death of our friend Denise aged just 32 we meet annually, at least, to reminisce, catch up on news, gossip, remember Denise and laugh. Food and drink are normally involved and this time, the beach (Croyde) too.

The AGM coincided with an informal School Reunion at a local pub. Some wanted to go. Others had no interest at all. A consensus was reached; we would go early, go for an hour and then go. Suitably buoyed by a swift one in the local ‘Spoons”¹ off we went.

We arrived at the door, jostling Moira to the front to go in. Four unrecognisable men at the bar stared back at us. One as bald as the day, the other three with thick mops, ponytails or beards. One of the particularly hairy ones looked like he had fangs, until we realised he’d just sipped the froth off his beard. Tumbleweed wouldn’t have been out of place. A surreal start to the evening.

As I glanced across the bar I saw Ian, my first love. He’d hardly changed. Such a friendly, open, chatty man – father to five, grandfather to ten, working for the same local firm for forty-two years. He reminded me of when I ‘made’ him wear pixie boots and eye liner to go to a Hazel O’Connor gig in Plymouth. We were sixteen!

My friends and I looked at people quizzically - some, like Ian, easy to recall, others…nothing. I guess in a school year of two hundred you get to know those in your tutor group, classes or sports teams and that’s it. Particularly if you move away at nineteen as I did. The picture, and our memories, started to clear as we steadied our gazes…

There were Janice and Andrea full of life in full punk regalia, swinging by before going on to a punk revival in nearby Bideford. Stephen and Julie, still married after forty years having met at school aged twelve. And another Stephen now practicing permaculture, living off grid in Spain. The four staring amigos turned out to be Neil, Jeffrey, Andrew and Michael. Nice men.

Marcus, now landlord of the pub, cranked up the jukebox and old tunes rocked out – Too Much too Young, Town called Malice, and Do you Really want to Hurt Me? The lyrics of our youth.

None of the ‘wrong crowd’, as my mother liked to call them, were there. Shame. I have fond memories of us smoking behind the Sports Hall at lunch time, and I didn’t smoke!

I noticed how nervous I was walking up to people I didn’t know now, let alone back then, to ask who they were and what they were up to these days. Strange how shyness, which I’ve mastered the art of hiding, still shows up.

As the crowd started to thin, we girls realised our hour had turned into three and in spite of ourselves we’d had a cracking evening. Heart warming, grounding and fun. A realisation of difference and familiarity.

As we walked out, saying our goodbyes to the remaining few, we felt a collective surge of good fortune. To be together. To share our history. To still be here unlike our dear friend Denise, and sadly a number of others from our year.

You

I know School Reunions aren’t everyone’s cup of tea; you’ve kept in touch with those you want to; you don’t have good memories of school; you lack confidence; think you may feel judged. Or just have no interest in what happened over forty years ago. I get it.

I liked school, feel comfortable with where I am in life, and am curious of others. So, nerves aside, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing everyone’s story. And left with a strong sense of good fortune for the life I have led and have.

As ever, I’m interested in you. Where do you stand on school reunions? Yes please, not in a million years or somewhere in between? Pour yourself a Pernod and Black, my drink of choice in sixth form, and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be younger than you are today, and these precious years fly by, stop delaying, do it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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1. Side note – how on earth can two and a half pints of cider and beer only cost £5.88? Clearly, I’ve lived in London too long or go to the wrong places. Part of me dislikes Wetherspoons; the other part sees, understands and applauds the gap they fill for those less financially fortunate and the community they create for young and old alike.