Nicky had reluctantly agreed to the reunion. She had hated the school. A selective grammar school in the home counties was just fine and dandy if you came from the right background and she most certainly didn’t. Some great teachers, of course, but the whole place reeked of petty snobbery. None of the nasty little life-long advantages of a public school, but it still came with the healthy doses of bullying and class prejudice.

But she was here. One of her friends has suggested using the day as an exercise in anthropology. A chance to study the class of ’86 and their journeys through a Britain eating its way through its own decline. Sounded like a fun day out so she signed up.

The day was boiling hot, yet another milestone in a succession of heatwaves, and even the bunting that festooned the pompous ‘Dame Edith Bracken Memorial Gates’ was beginning to wilt. It looked like such a desperate attempt to inject some fun into the occasion and Nicky’s heart sank even further.

Desperate to get out of the sun, she headed for the main hall whose oak panels were meant to suggest grandeur. Some one had put up boards with a bewildering collage of photos pinned to them at ‘jaunty’ angles. Nicky couldn’t help looking to see if she was in them. Luckily her studied attempts to stay insignificant had paid off and she was just going to move on when one collection of pictures caught her eye: production photographs from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1985). There she was, though heavily disguised, thank god, as an Oompa Loompa.

By heavily disguised, of course, what she meant was blacked up. All of them. Probably about ten all together. Except of course for Florence who was one of the tiny handful of girls in the school, indeed for miles around, that was actually black.

Nicky had of course remembered the show. But she hadn’t remembered the blacking-up. Probably blotted it out and for good reason. From anti-apartheid through to Black Lives Matter, Nicky had tried to be a good citizen. That just about summed up the place. Nicky considered running away when a voice stopped her.

‘Is that really you Nick?’

As she turned, she couldn’t help a small gasp of horror.

‘Florence?’

‘That’s me. Grey-haired and proud!’

They hadn’t been that close all those years ago, but the past hit them like a strong wave and they hugged so tightly that Nicky could hardly speak for a moment.

Then she saw Florence see the photograph. Jesus, what is she going to think, thought Nicky?

Then a strong memory of Florence’s brilliant, booming laugh came back to her, just at the same moment as the strong aroma of boiling chocolate invaded her nostrils. But the laugh wasn’t a memory – Florence was actually killing herself laughing at the picture. The smell was just a memory though. Some bright spark had the idea of filling the hall with it when the production was on.

‘Just about sums this place up doesn’t it?’ says Florence.

They looked at each other for moment and then cracked up again.

‘Shall we get out of here and have a pint somewhere?’

Nicky nodded and they practically ran for it.