The class of ‘99’

Harrold Johnson read through the invitation for the hundredth time then folded it up, slipped it back in its envelope, and let out a big sigh. He sat back in his chair, put his feet up on the foot stool-it’s ok they were his indoor only slippers-and stared from the conservatory window at his beloved garden bathed in the evening sunlight. The standard roses he’d planted when he retired needed deadheading and re-mulching. The grass could do with a trim and a feed, and there’s the cups, yes, the cups in the cup cupboard needed rotating so the one’s at the back got even use with the one’s at the front, he thought to himself. No, I’m definitely not going, I’ve got too many things to do here. And there’s a documentary on later about dung beetles. I don’t want to miss that, oh, no, no, no, David Attenborough can’t have many left in him now, don’t want to miss that at all. He tapped his fingernails on the wicker arm of the chair in time with Brenda’s clicking needles and popped a Werther’s original in his mouth, rolling it around against his teeth, satisfied he’d made the right decision. Brenda felt the back of her neck tense up at the sound. She quickly pictured that nice Alan Titchmarsh from the gardening programme on the telly and fought off the urge to stab Harrold in the throat with her spare knitting needle. She stopped and looked up.

“You’re not going to go are you dear?” She said, peering over the top of her glasses. She put down the scarf she seemed to have been knitting their entire married life. Harrold often wondered how long it must be after fifty years. “They’ll want you there, you know it won’t be the same without you.”

Harrold sighed again. “They won’t want me there Brenda, we’ve been through this. They were the worst days of my life. I got bullied in that class every day for three years. I used to dread going to school in the morning, don’t you remember? Oh, they hated me so much. Remember that lad Billy Marsh? He was a nasty piece of work. Just like his dad he was. And, he was a really nasty piece of work. The man had spiders tattooed on his face. . . On his face Brenda! That Billy Marsh put superglue on my chair one day before I got into the classroom. I know it was him. When I stood up to sharpen my pencil, the back of my trousers stayed where they were and the whole class saw my underpants. Every single one of them laughing at me Brenda, every single one. Oh, the embarrassment. I had to spend the rest of the day in a pair of P.E shorts from the lost property box. I was known as Jockstrap Johnson after that. Billy would write it on the blackboard every day before I got to class. Although I never actually caught him doing it I knew it was him, with that smug look on his face. No. he’s the last person I want to see Brenda, the last person.”

Brenda rearranged the heap of rainbow coloured wool on her lap and carried on clicking her knitting needles together, shaking her head to the rhythm she was making. 

“Everyone’s a lot older now Harrold, it was a long time ago. You never know, they might even want to apologise. You should go, otherwise you’ll always wonder what it would have been like. You’ve still got time to get there, and I’ve ironed your best suit and polished your favourite black shoes, I’ll even drive you there if you like-.” 

“Worse still, Brenda, worse still, that Stephany Harris might be there. Such a sweet looking girl you would think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I can tell you Brenda, butter definitely would melt in her mouth. In fact, that girl had such a filthy tongue she could have melted. . . she could have melted. . . well, she could have melted butter easily in her mouth. She used to come and stand next to me, all plaits and pig-tails, and whisper things into my ear that I couldn’t possibly repeat Brenda. I didn’t even know what some of it meant. . .Utter filth. She trapped me in the stationary cupboard one Friday afternoon and tried to show me her

thong. . .Brenda, I don’t even know what a thong is. I still don’t. I ran out of that cupboard so fast I knocked a full box of pencils off the shelf. . . probably broke all the leads in them. I felt terrible. No, no, no Brenda, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I saw Stephany Harris again after all these years. No. I’m staying home, I’ve decided. I’ll not be wanted there at the reunion. David’s on at seven o’clock and I’ve got time to cut the grass and deadhead the roses before then. Even if I have to leave the cups until tomorrow. I’ve still got a bottle of that low alcohol bitter in the fridge as well. I’ve got my evening all sorted. All planned out. I won’t be missed." He popped another Werther’s in and rolled it around his teeth. Brenda clenched. Hard. She pushed the knitting needle into the palm of her hand. Hard enough to stop her lunging for him, grabbing the empty coffee cup from the sideboard, smashing it on his head and bludgeoning him to death with the handle. She took a deep breath.

“Harrold. . .You all left that school a long, long time ago. Don’t you think it’s time to put those ghosts to rest? Once and for all? They wouldn’t have invited you if they didn’t want you to be there. Maybe it’s time.” She hesitated. “Maybe it’s time Harrold, you stood up to the bullies.”

Harrold shuffled uncomfortably in his chair making the wicker squeak and creak. 

“Sad thing is Brenda, I never found out why me. I mean why did they pick on me? It’s not like I’m an annoying person. I actually think I’m rather fun, rather daring even.” He leant forward in his chair, a small grin appearing on his face.

“You know, I didn’t tell you this Brenda, but the other day, I used the same tea bag four times. Four times!”

Brenda shot forward dropping her knitting on the conservatory floor.

“HARROLD! you need to go. I need you to go. You must go. You are going. My gardening programmes on tonight and I’ve been looking forward to it. And, despite everything you’ve told me. . . You were their Headmaster after all.”