School Reunion

I had never met her before. Despite the crowds milling around her, laughing, emptying their glasses with friendly abandon, using this short time to fill the last few decades, she sat alone.

She was one of the few who hadn’t brought a husband. She had found a quiet spot in a wicker chair, in a corner under a tree, by the pool. Before her, but apparently being afforded little attention, a family splashed, oblivious to anyone else. Armbands, rubber rings, giggles and screams. It was the perfect place to sit, undisturbed; to avoid having to make small-talk. The other guests appeared to understand. They gave her the solitude she seemed to require.

Very occasionally a wistful smile shivered across her face and, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished.

I sat at a table on the lawn with the rest of the party. We ate, drank and talked. They were a fascinating group; their lives so diverse, their paths so different. They had reached an age that had brought them ease in their own skin and no competition amongst themselves. They were simply enjoying being together. Most of them had children my age and grandchildren at similar stages to my own boys happily cavorting in the pool with their father.

The lunch, ridiculously billed as a picnic, was lavish and plentiful. There were cold meats, Spanish tortillas, quiches, salads of many colours and delicious warm breads. The wine was as always in abundant supply – the Rioja the sensible choice as the Rosé on the garden table was heating to the point of tasting mulled.

On the surface at least, the argument with my parents had been forgotten; they were basking in the glow of their munificence: hosts and providers, parents and grandparents; generosity personified. As I passed behind her chair, my mother took my hand and held it affectionately to her warm cheek without breaking off her conversation with her old school friend. I was enjoying the break in hostilities, allowing myself to relax into the afternoon: the sunniest of the year. But I didn’t altogether trust it. Experience had taught me, to my cost, that things were not always as simple as they appeared and that, more likely than not, the rumblings would continue undetected until the next time I dared declare my wishes in opposition to my parents’. This was merely a truce, and I shouldn’t trust its permanence.

The afternoon stretched into evening and the last of the guests left. The children were dried and dressed, the cold banished from their bones under sun-toasted clothes. One by one they were loaded into the car. A mood of pure benevolence washed over me as I embraced my father.

“I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that”, I told him.

He laughed, a little self-consciously, and told me he loved me, too. I headed for the car, where my mother was making faces through the window at my boys. I put my arms around her and thanked her for a superb afternoon.

“It’s so sad about Hettie”, she said.

“Has she never been married?” I asked.

“Oh darling, she had two sons. The first was killed in an accident in front of his brother. His brother couldn’t bear it and took his own life in despair”.

“Oh my God!”

“Then her husband left with a younger woman. She said that was the worst bit”.

Somehow I have forgotten what our argument was about.