Dear Rubberjock,
I thought I should write to accept your arrangements for Tuesday next. Do you think I'll recognise you from a photograph? If so, can you please send me one by return. Then, I'll keep a look out for you under the clock in Victoria Station at precisely ten a.m., as arranged. It'll be great seeing you after all the years have gone by since leaving Temperance Street Juniors.
Till then, Charles.

Dear Rubberjock,
Having not heard from you, I tried to ring the number at the top of your letters, but your phone must be blocked or something - I could only make out muffles coming from the other end. However, I hope you could hear what I was saying. Forget about the photograph, as it'll never reach here in time - just hold a copy of that newspaper (the one in which you advertised about the proposed Class of 53 reunion) under, say, your left arm. If you can wear a suit, that'll be fine, and there should be no trouble.
Till Tuesday, then, Charles (Herberts)

Dear Charles,
I hope this does not reach you too late, since unfortunately I can't make Tuesday. One of my aunts has died and is having her funeral. Please ring to re-arrange. I tried to ring you, but there was someone who answered your phone whom I did not seem to be able to make understand me. Have you any foreign people staying at your house? I'll send this recorded delivery, so there should be no problem. Sorry about the short notice. By the way, I have long since given up the old nickname, so I'd rather you did not use it.
Regards, Adrian (Carr)

Dear Rubberjock,
Oops, sorry, I can't get used to your new endearment. Anyway, I am of course writing to thank you for a most splendid day in London. What a big place! The thing that ought to have surprised me most was the consummate ease with which we recognised each other - even though the clock I thought you were going to stand under was the big station one, rather than that travelling clock you brought specially for the purpose. Don't you agree that it was a bit like slipping back into comfortable old clothes, meeting up again? I always feel that the most important relationships one makes along the byways of life's journey are those made before the age of consent. I forgot to ask you whether your "change" was permanent but, if it is, it certainly suits you. The tea dance was the highlight, wasn't it? Launching ourselves upon that ballroom floor was like a brand new cruise liner sparkling all over with deck-lights. I can still feel every eye upon us, even now. In fact, the whole day will stay in my memory forever. Incidentally, I wouldn't worry that nobody but me answered that advert. The two most important people were there!
Yours to Eternity, Chuck. xxx

Dear Mr Herberts,
I found the letter from you pretty weird. I'm beginning to be sorry that I even thought of a reunion. Can you (and others like you) stop poisoning my letter-box. The world is full of too many weirdos (and foreigners) already.
Yours sincerely (very), A. Carr

Dear Chuck,
It was great meeting you in London. I've decided I can't live without you, despite you calling me (what was it?) Rubberjohnny or something. It all seemed fated us meeting and was the best thing that's ever likely to happen to me. I feel as if I really did go to your primary school in 1953 (though, of course, I can't be old enough for that). I can actually see in my mind's eyes the faces that go with all those names you remembered so well. A sea of grubby faces, all now presumably as old as you, leading middle-aged lives that may or may not cross paths and, even if they do, who could tell? I attach a snapshot I took in the underground. Please write back soon. By the way, I hope I've got your address right - the scrap of paper you scribbled it on was blotted (with your tears?)
Yours since even before we met (!), "Rubberthingummy"

Dear Mr Carr,
After our delightful day, those wonderful memories, the thrilling tea dance, the rides on the tube, I do not know how you could write so cruelly. It makes me fear that the world is as I always imagined it - peopled with complete strangers. Did I leave, after all, a bitter taste in your mouth. If so, please forgive me for ever answering the same advert you now wish you hadn't made. Let it rest there, Charles Herberts ("Chuck" for at least one wondrous day).
PS: I just thought it may have been the drink I upset over your pretty frock in the station buffet that has caused you to be annoyed with me. I did do my best rubbing you down with my hankie, after all. That foreign au pair girl has gone, by the way. Apparently, the post office misplaced a letter from abroad speaking of a breavement and by the time it did arrive she had to scoot off pretty smartish to catch the funeral.


Published ‘Voices From The Edge’ 1993