A Cross of Dandelions and Daisies

By John Dickinson

The roof leaks and the city is in ruins but 13 year old Rebecca is happy; until she comes home to her mother’s naked body in the bath. Fearing she will be evacuated, like other kids during the war, she secretly buries her mother beneath a cross of dandelions and daisies and moves in with her aunt. At sixteen, she attends a dance and her life is changed forever.

Justin is a quiet, shy boy who rarely speaks and loves to draw. He learns through observation and rarely asks questions except of his brother, who hardly ever tells the truth. At 10 years of age, he forms a special relationship with Lindsay, a skinny, shy girl who is rarely allowed out. She sits at the window watching Justin and his friends, believing she can transport her body into their games and that she can kill with her eyes. When Lindsay is abused by her uncle it is time for Justin to take action.

A fast paced adventure and tale of triumph that follows the lives of three unlikely characters who are born into a world rarely seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Dickinson
• Release date: Oct 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9780987208712

Book preview

Chapter 1: Rebecca

Coventry was a city of ruins. Fallen buildings littered the streets, waiting to be shovelled into lorries. Grandmothers picked through the skeletal remains of their homes, searching for reminders of what life used to be. Those buildings not totally destroyed had walls sheeted with plywood to make them habitable. Families who still had homes took in boarders, and co-operatives were formed to make the most of what limited food was available. Water and electricity became luxury items as underground pipes burst and overhead poles collapsed. People stopped bathing but nobody seemed to notice; we all carried the same stink. Dark shadows cradled our eyes and our cheeks became hollow – but we kept smiling. Somebody brought a gramophone into the street and women took turns to crank it up and change the record. We sang every day and every night during the bombing. I never understood why we were so happy; perhaps we believed we would win the war. Or perhaps we had nothing left to lose.

It was in December of that year I returned from the shelter later than usual. In addition to our usual sing-along, some of the ladies decided to put on a bit of a show for the group at the shelter. We rehearsed it for weeks; even sewed makeshift costumes. It was just a short skit using Cinderella as the plot but making it relevant to the war. We included some of the popular war songs, but changed the lyrics to suit the skit and make it funny. At thirteen years of age, I was the only person young enough to play the part of Cinderella, a French maid, held captive by the ugly Nazi sisters. I was made to clean their house and wash dishes while they went to parties with German officers. It ended with Hitler being turned into a pumpkin and the sisters chasing me because I fell in love with a British soldier hidden in the fire-place. It was very silly but we got plenty of laughs and I skipped and sang all the way home.

The house we rented had been damaged by the bombing. Half the roof was missing and only the basement rooms were habitable; we put buckets under the leaks. Mum was offered alternative accommodation but she refused. She said she would rather have a house to herself that leaked than share a dry home with other people. I would have preferred to share, just for the sake of having company, but Mum liked her privacy.

‘There’s no need for all them to know our business,’ she would say.

But this night I was safe; the bombing had been over the other side of the city.

I expected Mum to be home but there was no lamp at the window. Our electricity had been cut off weeks earlier, so after closing the front door to protect from the wind, I removed the candle from my skirt pocket and lit it with a match from the box we kept on top of the light switch. With one hand cupped around the flame, I made my way through the house to light the hurricane lamp that hung over the kitchen table. I extinguished the candle, returned it to my pocket, and used a taper to carry a flame from the lamp to the wood-stove in the kitchen. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove ready for when Mum came home. Removing my gloves to warm my hands, I waited for the fire in the stove to catch properly. When it did I then added two broken chair legs, scavenged from the ruins of the Rialto Theatre, and five lumps of coal, from the bucket next to the stove. I washed two potatoes, placed them into a saucepan of water along with half a turnip, some beans and a few cabbage leaves stolen from an allotment in Violet Street. With the dinner on to cook, I began to relax. I never knew what time Mum would arrive but it was important her dinner was ready when she did.

After an hour, I gave up waiting and ate my dinner, leaving Mum's on the edge of the stove with another plate over the top of it to keep it warm. It was well past closing time where Mum worked but it wasn’t unusual for her to be kept back late. She had explained that the pub was often booked for private parties after closing and it was a part of her job to entertain any special guests. I didn’t really mind, except that I got very scared being in the house on my own at night, especially since we lost the electricity. The stove was fast losing heat so I decided to have my evening wash and get into my dressing gown ready for bed. I filled a saucepan from the kettle, unhitched the hurricane lamp and headed for the bathroom. Shadows bounced across the walls as I walked, tempting me to skip my wash and wrap myself in a blanket until Mum got home; but I remembered by hands were black from the coal. I walked slowly, being sure not to spill any water, heading for the bathroom sink. Once there, I rested the lamp on the bench, put the plug in the sink and tipped the water from the saucepan. I quickly stripped to my underwear for a sponge bath and then pulled my nightshirt over my head and removed my bra and knickers to sponge the bits I'd missed. I was shivering but by washing very quickly my body felt invigorated and soon adjusted to the cold. By the time I was finished I felt clean, fresh and ready for bed. I picked up the lamp and turned to leave the bathroom.

Something caught my eye; a shape in the bath. It looked like a person. Screaming, I ran from the room and stood, terrified, in the hallway, staring at the bathroom door. Holding the lamp forward as far as I could reach, I strained, searching the darkness for movement.

‘Who’s there?’ I called, frightened that I might get an answer, and more frightened when I didn’t.

‘Whoever you are, you’d better run because my Dad’s got a gun,’ I was shouting, ‘Hey, Dad, I think there is a man in the bathroom. Come quick and bring your gun.’

No sound or movement came from the bathroom.

‘I’m warning you mister – you’d better run.’

I waited and watched. My teeth chattering and my shoulders aching from the cold; I wanted a blanket more than ever. I walked backwards towards the kitchen and, without taking my eyes from the bathroom, reached behind the kitchen door and removed an old raincoat. I pulled the raincoat over my shoulders, moved closer to the bathroom, set the lamp on the floor. I stamped my feet, to mimic the sound of a man’s footsteps.

‘Hey Mister, here comes my Dad. Hey Dad, did you bring your gun? You’d better run fast mister; I don’t want you to be shot dead. Last chance -- better hurry.’

I was shivering and my legs were wobbly, but sweat was pouring from my brow. Still no movement from the bathroom. I walked gently backwards into the kitchen and felt around for the broom. It wasn’t where it should have been; I had to divert my eyes for just a second to locate it. It was leaning against the sink under the window at the far end of the kitchen. Fear was beginning to overtake me as I crept over to retrieve it and tiptoed back to the hallway. I felt a little braver with the broom in my hand. I waited for a few minutes, the broom raised over my head, listening, but the only sound was my own breathing. Perhaps it had been my imagination. I lowered the head of the broom to the floor and positioned it behind the lamp. I then used the broom to push the lamp across the floor towards the bathroom. Slowly, pausing frequently to listen, I inched the lamp through the door. The bathroom was small, with only a bath along the side wall, and a sink under the window facing the door. It appeared to be empty but I couldn’t see behind the door or inside the bath, which was bathed in dark shadow. I moved closer and, holding my breath, I raised the broom and poked inside the bath. Something was definitely in the bath. I breathed a sigh of relief. Mum often gathered the weeks washing to soak in the bath overnight. My fear did not fully dissolve but my courage returned enough to enter the bathroom and pick up the lamp. To confirm my silliness and put an end to my fears, I held the lamp high and turned to examine the contents of the bath.

My body recoiled. The lamp fell to the floor. The room plunged into darkness and filled with the sound of screaming. I ran blindly from the room, crashed into a wall and slid to the floor. I stood up quickly and groped my way along the wall until I became trapped in a corner. I pulled the raincoat tight around my body and continued to scream.

‘No! No! Somebody help me. Please God, somebody help me.’

Over and over, I screamed; but nobody came. I crumbled back to the floor. The screaming subsided into sobbing until exhaustion brought sleep.

When I awoke, it was daylight. My joints ached from cramp and my legs numb from being trapped under my folded body. I pulled my legs free with my hands and waited for the pain to subside before standing up. Slowly, I walked to the bathroom and looked again at my mother’s naked body soaking in a bath of bloodied water. I returned to the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind me.

I didn’t go to work that day. Instead, I lit the kitchen stove, put the kettle on for a pot of tea and methodically cleaned the house. My head felt like a pillow had been squashed into my brain. I scrubbed floors and washed walls, all the time with a picture of Mum’s floating body in my mind. By three o’clock in the afternoon, except for the bathroom, there was nothing left to scrub so I made a cup of tea, put one of the kitchen chairs outside the bathroom and sat and talked to Mum through the door. I knew I should tell Mum’s sister what had happened but I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing her the way she was; she needed to be respectable. I entered the bathroom with the chair and sat to talk to her some more.

‘What happened Mum? Did you slip and bump your head? You should have waited until I got home. Why did you need to have a bath?'

I was blubbering.

'Why couldn't you wait until I got home? Are you leaving me? It’s not fair. What will I do now? What will I do?’

I lifted the chain to remove the plug and ran back to the kitchen. About an hour later, I returned. Mum’s body was slumped deeper into the bath and she looked pale with matted hair and a worried look on her face. She was staring straight at me. It didn’t seem right that I should be seeing my mother naked; I determined nobody else should either. Taking two towels from under the sink, I covered her body, then went to the bedroom to select the clothes she should wear.

It took the rest of the evening for me to do what I had to do. I patted her dry as best I could while she was in the bath then rolled her body over the edge and onto a blanket I had spread on the floor. With a cushion from the settee for her head, I patted her with fresh towels to make sure she was perfectly dry. I looked for the wound that caused all the blood but couldn’t find anything – not even a bruise. There was a flannel and a long knitting needle in the bottom of the bath, which she must have slipped on or got stabbed with but without a wound, nothing made sense. Getting her into her clothes was difficult. Even though I had patted her dry, the clothes stuck to her body as though it was wet and the joints of her arms and legs did not want to bend. I did her bra and pants first, to make her decent, then sat her body forward to pull her Sunday dress over her head. When I was finished, it didn’t look right; everything was crooked and nothing sat on her body like it should – but it would have to do – I didn’t know how to fix it.

When the air-raid sirens sounded that night, I didn’t respond; it didn’t seem right to leave her on her own. By dragging the blanket she lay on, I got her into the Living Room. After sitting her up, with her back propped against the sofa, I crouched low to get underneath her and rolled her body upwards. A couple of times she rolled back to the floor when she was half way up, making me giggle. I didn’t think Mum would mind; she had a good sense of humour and enjoyed a good laugh. Eventually, I managed to sit her up, although it was with a bit of a slouch. After straightening her dress as best I could, I got her makeup from her handbag to put a bit of colour back into her cheeks. Before it got dark, I made us both some dinner; I knew she wouldn’t eat it but it didn’t matter. That night, I put a blanket over her shoulders and slept on the rug by her feet.

The following morning I went to work as usual< I told the foreman I was sick the previous day but did not mention my mother, other than that she was not well either. At lunch time the foreman called me over and sent me home. He said that from the quality of my work, I was obviously still not well and I should stay home until I was completely better. I was afraid if I stayed away too long, I might lose my job; but he said not to worry; my job was safe for as long as I wanted it. The last thing I felt like doing was going home so I just wandered the streets without thinking until it began to get dark.

That night I slept on the sofa with Mum. We were both freezing cold so I put her overcoat around her shoulders and we shared an extra blanket. I did not sleep well; my mind raced with thoughts of what would happen to me with Mum gone. Originally, I was supposed to have gone on the train with all the other children to another part of the country, until we won the war; but Mum lied about my age and arranged for me to stay and work. If they knew Mum was dead, I would be sent away. I thought that maybe I could keep it a secret; but how would I live? The local stores were used to me buying our groceries with Mum’s ration book; and with the little extra I earned at the factory, I could get by. But what if I got caught? It wasn’t right to leave Mum on the sofa the way she was, and she was beginning to smell. She would have to be buried. According to Aunt Kate, everyone who died in the bombing was put into a big pit, all piled on top of each other and covered over with dirt. I didn’t like the thought of that.

On the fourth night I walked around to my Aunt Kate, Mum’s sister. Two of her sons, who were a bit older than me, were at the house but when Kate saw the look on my face, she knew something was wrong and sent them out. A couple of times she asked how Mum was but all I could say was that she was not well. Every time I said it, I burst into tears. She changed the subject to bring me up to date on what was happening with her kids and her husband who was now in Europe somewhere winning the war; I wasn’t really listening. After a cup of tea, she sat close and put her arm across my shoulder.

‘Now, tell me what’s up,’ she said, ‘You can’t keep it bottled up forever. You can tell me anything, you know that.’

Tears ran down my face. I don’t think I stopped talking for at least a half an hour. Aunt Kate was crying with me, all the time saying, ‘Poor darling, poor darling, having to go through all that'. She let me talk until I could talk no more and my eyes bled dry, then took both my hands in hers and brought me to my feet.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘you’ll be staying with me for a while. You always said having me for an aunt was like having two mums; well, for now, I’m your new mum’.

‘But what about Mum,’ I said, ‘and what will happen to me? They’ll send me away.’

‘Over my dead body. Oops! Sorry luv, bad choice of words.’

We both giggled.

‘What I mean is that I will take care of what has to be done for your mum and you will come and live with me for a while. Nobody is going to send you anywhere.’

She paused for a moment then turned to look at me with a smile.

‘The question is, does anybody need to know?’

I looked back at her without understanding.

‘What I mean to say is, what happens now is nobody’s business but ours; it’s all family business.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘No neither do I but let me think a bit. Has anybody from your work met your mum?’

‘No.’

‘And you do all the shopping, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told anybody else she’s dead?’

‘No,’ I said, tears coming back to my eyes.

‘Then move in with us. I’ll be your mum and nobody will be any the wiser.’

‘But what about Mum’

‘I know love; seems a bit cruel. We’ll give her a nice funeral; you know, flowers an all. Find somewhere nice in the garden and do it all properly. She’d like that.’

I thought about what she was saying. It sounded nice and it seemed right to keep it in the family. Aunt Kate was the only other person I wanted to know about it. I couldn’t bear the thought of strangers taking Mum away and burying her with all those other people.

‘But what if they find out?’ I asked.

‘How could they? It’s not as if we’re telling a lie. I am your second mother and my maiden name is the same as yer mum’s. I hereby adopt you as my legal daughter; how’s that?’

I smiled and put my arms around her waist. ‘I’d like that.’ I said.

‘One last question;’ she said, ‘Did your mum ever bring her customers home?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well, do you know what she did for a living?’

‘Yes, she worked in a pub.’

‘Very good then; did she ever come home with any men friends after work?’

‘No.’

‘Did any men ever call for her at home?’

‘No; why should they?’

‘That’s all I need to know. I’ll let the pub know she won’t be back. I'll tell them she's gone to Manchester.’

During dinner, Aunt Kate told her sons that my mum had to go away for a while, and to prevent me from being sent away, she was adopting me as her daughter. The boys didn’t seem to care much but said that they missed their own sisters, who had been sent to safety when the war started, and it would be fun to have me around. They even promised to escort me to the local dance the following week.

After dinner, Aunt Kate showed me to my room then left the house. I didn’t see her until the next morning after breakfast. When her sons had left for work and we were alone with the dishes, she took my hand and sat me down on the sofa.

‘How are you feeling this morning, girl?’

‘Much better,’ I said.

‘That’s good. Have you thought anymore about what we spoke about last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how do you feel about me being your new mum?’

‘I’d like that, very much.’

‘Good,’ she said, ‘then come with me.’

She stood, still holding my hand and led me out, into the street.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, holding back.

‘Don’t worry, lass, I’ll be with you all the way. We need to say some words over your mum. After you went to bed last night, I went to the house. You did a lovely job lass; sitting her up like that; very pretty she looked.’

I smiled.

‘I thought it better if I buried her quick. Didn’t seem right for you to do it; took me most of the night but I’ve got a good back, and hard work never hurt no one.’

I followed her to our home, my mind in a fog; nothing seemed real anymore.

‘I took the rug from the bedroom; her favourite it was. Laid it nice and neat in the grave; she looked a right picture laying there, then I covered her up with her blankets so no dirt could get on her face an all. I was very gentle. She’s at peace now; in Heaven with God and the angels.’

She paused to look at me, ‘How you feeling, girl; are you all right?’

I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t sure that I was all right but I was content, and happy for my new mum to take control.

We stayed at our house for an hour or so. I gathered some daisies and dandelions, and made a little cross, which we buried flat where Mum’s head would be, and where it would not be seen. Aunt Kate made three cups of tea, which we drank with some bread pudding, while talking to Mum. Aunt Kate collected what we needed from the house and the ration book, while I stayed to say some prayers and, goodbye.

Over the following months I called in to say hello to Mum every day after work but in February the house scored a direct hit from a bomb and Mum’s grave became a pile of bricks. I didn’t mind really because it made it look more like a proper grave. I tied two pieces of wood together to make a cross and stood it between the bricks at the top of the pile. I didn’t go back after that.

Chapter 2: Rebecca

The war seemed to be going on forever with the bombing raids on England increasing. Almost nightly, the sirens sounded for us to rush to the safety of the air raid shelters to await the sound of aircraft overhead and the boom and vibration of bombs exploding nearby. With the exception of a few near misses, no bomb ever found our section of the old car manufacturing plant that now made bullets, but plenty found peoples’ homes and the city’s cathedral was devastated. I expected God to punish Hitler quickly for this but after a week without Hitler being struck dead, I started to worry that God was losing the war. I then heard that Hitler had invented a bomb that could fly to England without being carried by a plane and I began to sleep with my clothes on.

For three years, I spent most of my days in front of a lathe, shaping brass shell casings for bullets to help win the war. Apart from a skinny boy with bright red hair and a swarm of freckles across his face, there was nobody else my age at the factory. His name was Paul and I liked him a lot. Apart from the foreman and the superintendent, Paul was the only male worker at the factory. All the women workers use to tease us about being sweethearts, which we weren’t, saying things like, ‘don't forget to keep your hands where we can see them, young Paul; we don’t want to see any hanky-panky on the factory floor.’ Or, ‘keep your hands on the brass and yer eyes off her arse.’

It used to make us both blush. We always sat together at lunch time and we became very good friends, often sharing each other’s sandwiches to get a variety. Our lifestyles were very similar, except that he opened his own pay packet and took care of his mum, while I had to deliver my pay packet, unopened, to my new mum, who took care of me. Another difference, which never made sense to me and seemed unfair, was that I was the fastest worker in the factory and we all got paid according to our productivity; I produced more than anybody else, yet my pay was always less. When I asked the foreman, Mister Chambers, about this, he said that it was because I was young and a girl, and that each year I would get a bit more, until I became a woman. When I told Paul, he laughed, which was when I learned that even a woman on full pay, only got half the wage of a man. I was really angry at Paul for telling me that because I thought he was joking just to make me jealous. It was then that we came up with our secret plan.

At the end of each day, I stacked my day’s production next to Paul’s. I always have six or seven boxes more than Paul, three of which I removed to add to Paul’s pile. My pay slid back slightly because of this, but Paul, who got more per box than me, gave me all but two shillings of his extra money. At the end of each week I was taking home one shilling less in my pay packet but I had four shillings more in my pocket. Aunt Kate wasn’t happy with my drop in pay but I told her I had been switched to a new machine that didn’t go as fast. After a while she stopped asking about it. The difficulty then was to explain how I was able to buy the new dress I was saving for. This proved not to be a problem because Paul had a sister who had joined the army and moved to Aldershot. Every time I bought new clothes, I removed the labels, scrunched them into a paper bag and took them home, saying they were a gift from Paul’s sister, who didn’t need them anymore because she was in the army and had to wear her uniform all the time. Mum’s response was always the same.

‘Give it a wash and you’ll not know the difference; it’ll be as good as new.’

By the time I turned 16 years of age, I felt like I was a millionaire, I had 3 new party dresses and a pair of black patent leather shoes. The other good thing about being able to go into a store to buy a new dress was that I could hide a new pair of knickers up my skirt in the change room. I also had a pair of stockings that I hid from mum and a pair of fake diamond earrings, stolen from Marks and Spencer's. What I didn’t have was a reason to wear them until, finally, I was given permission to attend the local dance. I knew how to dance and had plenty of coaching from the older women during the many air raids but I had never danced with a man. I was so excited, I hardly slept during the week before the dance but when the day came, it changed my life forever.

Like slaves at a Persian market, we lined ourselves against the wall; a stroke of lipstick, a touch of rouge; and gossamer in our hair to guard against idle strands drifting out of place. Dresses crisply starched and shoes dyed to match the colour of our frocks. Long slender heels bit into the wooden floor as they forced us to walk on our toes. Most of us sat in uncomfortable, stiff backed chairs as we awaited approval from the local warriors.

The hall was huge, its walls studded with tall arched windows heavily guarded with draped blankets to hide us from the night and the German bombers. The warriors stood in groups puffing on Woodbines and peering through hooded eyes; eyes that dropped to the floor when their gaze was met. The more adventurous, cruised the polished floor, evaluating the pack for the girl of their choice. These were more courageous and searched for eye contact to help them decide which of us were more likely to say, yes when asked for a dance.

It was two months before my seventeenth birthday and my very first adult dance. The lights dimmed, the floor emptied, men cleared their throats, women straightened their backs and the drummer tapped a light tempo to lead the band through the evening. I was feeling very grown up and if I was lucky, my feet would ache so much by the end of the night that I would have to remove my shoes to walk home in comfort. I didn't have to wait long for dance partners as the years had been good to me. The scrawny, sickly image that once glared back through the mirror had somehow transformed into a neatly attractive figure with full bodied, shiny black hair that tumbled upon slender shoulders.

As the mellow tones of a saxophone drifted to blend with the haze of cigarette smoke, the first of the gallant men escorted their ladies to the centre of the room and gently circled and swayed to the rhythm of the opening number. The floor quickly filled and I became lost in a sea of dance and dreams. I was Ginger Rogers and Anastasia with my every partner Fred Astaire. Oh, how I loved to dance.

I’d seen him several times during the evening and each time became trapped by his steady gaze. Without doubt, I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. Certainly, he was the most handsome man in the room. With so many young men away at the war it was unusual to see such a dashing figure without a uniform. His blond, wavy hair reflected beads of light that bounced from the revolving ball spinning high above, and his smile came from somewhere deep behind his eyes. As he walked towards me I dropped my head and studied the cracks in the wooden boards. What if it wasn't me he was aiming for? What if it was the girl at my side? I couldn't risk looking up in case I let slip a smile that might later turn into a look of embarrassment. I stared and waited for an emotional eternity until, at last, a pair of shoes that shone like the sun stopped before me.

‘Would do me the honour of this dance, Miss?’

I slowly raised my head and quickly fell in love. He was so beautiful. When he spoke it was like a thousand Irish harps vibrating in the wind. His gentle accent sent a tingle down my spine and to look into his eyes was to be trapped in a whirlpool. I wanted to answer, ‘Yes! Yes!’ but no sounds came. I simply nodded, stood and continued to study my feet. We made our way to the centre of the floor as the band struck the opening bars of ’Who’s taking you home tonight?’ It was my favourite song.

His name was Seamus and his hold was strong as he led me swirling, shuffling and striding across the floor; it felt good to be in his arms. He was an excellent dancer. Very gently at first, with a turn of a wrist or draw of a hand, he tested my reaction. The more I was able to respond to his subtle commands, the more challenging they became, until swirling and laughing we circled the hall without my feet ever seeming to touch the floor. We didn't speak at all while we danced, which was just as well because I would have been totally tongue-tied. Every time he looked into my eyes my heart sang a love song. At each interval I was afraid he would find me dull, and drift away in search of somebody more interesting, but he stayed, puffing gently on a cigarette, embracing me with his smile and serenading me with his tender Irish accent. We spoke of the war, where we lived, where we worked and of how we spent our evenings. Not that I said very much, apart from responding to his animated curiosity, yet it seemed that he soon uncovered all there was to know about me. He told of his childhood where he roamed the green fields of Ireland to fish on the banks of the Shannon River and of the pranks he played at school.

Too soon, the band struck the opening cords of the final waltz and my enchanted evening drew to a close.

As he walked me home through the darkened, war-torn streets, we held hands and huddled close to protect each other from the damp cold air. We spoke little and only in whispers, as if sharing a special secret. I was not yet seventeen and I was falling deeply, hopelessly in love. Every now and again my knight stopped, pulled me tight against his chest and we kissed; a long lingering kiss that reached deep to uncover emotions that were more powerful than anything I'd ever felt. I had kissed a few boys before but it never felt like this. It was as if he was able to electrify all the nerve ends of my body with his touch, and make them dance with joy. I wanted to sing and dance all the way home. My body ached to be with him forever, so much that I feared my life had become a dream and that I would soon awake to find him gone.

What happened next was brutally unexpected. As we lingered in the small park opposite my home, my gallant hero changed. With what was to be our final goodnight kiss, he became tense, demanding and forceful with a savage strength that I'd never experienced in a man before. I became uncomfortable then confused. I tried to move away. I wanted to run home. I asked him to let go, that he was hurting me, but he pushed his body against mine and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, pinning my arms to my side. I turned my head sideways to escape his lips. I became frightened and began talking quickly, searching for something that would distract him into letting me go.

‘I’m late. My aunt will be worried about me; she’ll be watching from the window. No! Please, not tonight. You’re hurting me. Please let me go. I have to be up early tomorrow. Please, please, let me go. My shoes are hurting me. Watch out, I think I hear somebody coming.’

I tried to step back, but tripped and we fell, my arms still pinned and Seamus on top of me. I began to panic as he covered my lips with his to muffle my cries. The damp grass penetrated the cotton of my dress and I felt one of my shoes slip from my feet. I kicked and began crying, pleading for him to stop.