A small, wooden dais had been created in the middle marquee, just a couple of wooden pallets with a rug spread over them and the stalk of a microphone in the centre. The first course’s dishes were efficiently whisked away, and, rather before he expected, it was time for Pearly’s speech. He needed a pee, but the lavatories were in the school buildings across the field and there wasn’t time. Damn, thought Pearly, but he put on his jacket and a smile, raised his hand to Andrew and walked through to his duty. The sun had gone down on its knees and flamed through the line of macrocarpas at the end of the grounds. The air was warm inside the tents, heavy with scents of food, wine and people. Pearly carried his glass through with him, and finding no resting place for it at the dais, lowered it with a flourish before a snub-nosed old boy at the table nearest to him.

He stepped onto the makeshift platform and rocked with some ostentation to check its stability and entertain his audience. ‘I used to run and tackle all over this field,’ he said, ‘but my balance isn’t so good now, especially after a few glasses of the superb wine donated for tonight’s occasion by Rocklea Estates. My thanks to them, and a welcome to you all.’ So it went on: the success of the various events, appreciation extended to all those who had given time or resources, mention of the oldest ex-student present, reference also to a former principal, generous praise for Nancy and Warwick, special mention of Sir Andrew Nisse, who would respond to the toast after dessert, a couple of personal reminiscences, including his escapade at the girls’ hostel in antediluvian times, and the culmination of a toast to the school and its old boys. ‘To another 125 years,’ proclaimed Pearly, and people rose clumsily because the chairs tended to catch on the uneven grassed surface.

As Pearly made his way back to his group, guests had already switched their attention to the brandy snaps and chocolate mousse. ‘Well done,’ said Warwick. ‘Now you can relax while poor Andrew still has his to go.’

‘I remember that fuss about the girls’ hostel,’ said Andrew. ‘Most of us were jealous.’

‘In a few years it’ll be the girls’ school’s turn for a 125th celebration,’ said Mrs Hollister. ‘Some of the lessons learnt at this reunion could be useful for their functions when the time comes. Not everything’s been ideal, by any means.’

‘They’ll do okay if it’s anywhere near as good,’ said her husband with a touch of asperity.