School Reunion Year 1 by Laurel Aspen

School Reunion
    Penny’s footsteps echo down the long corridor, her heels clicking against the quarry-tiled floor. Early evening sunlight filters through windows set with leaded glass, splashing rainbow colours onto plain stark walls.
    Penny, more properly Petronella, pauses for a moment. A knot of anxiety twists in her stomach, apprehension lines her face. Momentarily she slumps dejectedly then, pushing back her shoulders, continues her journey, carefully checking the small brass numbers on each classroom door.
    Barely an hour ago she’d been the epitome of a carefree young woman, now her demeanour resembles that of someone en route to the dentist anticipating a necessary but possibly painful encounter. At last she finds the right room, a familiar smell of polish tinged with the sweat of generations of hurrying young bodies wrinkles her nose.
    The school stands about her, cathedral-like in its size and silence, a temple of learning designed to demand the obedience and respect of its scholars. The weight of history weighs heavily here. She shrugs back her expensively cut auburn bob, smoothes down the regulation dark grey skirt. Catching her reflection in the glass of a framed picture of scholars from half a century before Penny takes a deep breath and enters the classroom.
    It was four years since she’d left the sixth form at Redbrook Grammar, and Penny Harman usually tossed flyers from the Old Pupil’s Association straight into the bin. Continually starved of government cash the school canvassed alumni in the hope of raising funds, but Penny, with a good honours degree from a respected redbrick, had so far resisted these nostalgia driven appeals.
    But this time the newsletter caught her attention. ‘Last Days…’ it read, ‘your final chance to say farewell to the old school…’ Penny rapidly scanned the rest of the page. ‘Expensive repairs required… Impossible to adapt… Demolish and replace…’ Penny felt a sudden pang of regret. Typical, flog off a beautiful old building to housing developers to stick rabbit hutches on, then throw up a replacement as cheaply as possible and pocket the profit.
    Hence, apparently, a farewell dance, which previous pupils were invited to attend wearing their old school uniforms. Penny scanned the calendar. She’d nothing planned on that day, it’d be a laugh to meet up with a few old mates and, as for the uniform, she was sure it was packed away in her flat somewhere…
    The evening was going well and Penny circulated, chatting with former classmates. Everyone had entered into the spirit of the event and dug out their old attire. Fortunately for Penny her figure had altered little in the intervening years, so the regulation blouse and skirt were a perfect fit.
    In the cause of authenticity Penny had adhered to the privileges permitted senior pupils in her day. Eyeliner, a little lipstick, but no jewellery. Sensible single-strap shoes with just the hint of a high heel. She might easily have passed as a current pupil, albeit an uncommonly shapely and pretty one.
    â€˜Ms Harman,’ a pleasant male baritone showed evident pleasure at her presence, ‘how very nice to see you.’
    â€˜You too,’ replied Penny sincerely. It was Nick Knight; Mr Knight of course, in those days, or ‘Goodnight’ to the many teenage girls who found his self-assured manner and dark good looks much to their liking.
    For the reunion, like several other teachers, he’d dressed in keeping with the theme and worn his graduation gown.
    Mr Knight - ‘Nicolas, please, since we’re informal’ - had been a patient teacher, possessed of a certain old-fashioned air of confidence, which had simply added to his allure. Penny, not to put too fine a point on it, had a massive crush on him during her final year. They reminisced amiably until, abruptly, his tone of voice acquired a harder edge. ‘You did very well at