When Father Pronti got round to him, I could tell by his face that he’d thought about his answer too. ‘And you, Andrew Murphy, what will you be giving up for Lent this year? Chocolate or,’ he gave me a conspiratorial wink, ‘or is it to be lies and stealing like young Beatrice? What’s it going to be?’

‘Catholicism,’ said Andrew. That wiped the smile off Father Pronti’s face, but it sealed the friendship between Andrew and me. After that, we walked home together from school or met up after his paper round and would climb up on top of the coal shed at the side of his house and eat salty chips with vinegar from the paper. I loved it up there. We could watch and comment on people going by on the pavement, wave at others sailing past on the buses. At night, I fantasized about what it might be like to kiss him, an actual boy, as opposed to an imaginary one or the back of my hand.

One afternoon, he arrived at my house looking tense.

‘What’s the matter, Andrew?’ I asked.

‘Is there anyone else in?’ he asked.

‘No. Everyone’s out.’

‘Good, because I want to kiss you,’ he said, and stepped forward and pressed his mouth on mine. My first kiss at last. I wasn’t sure what to do so moved my lips a little and he did the same then he stepped back. ‘What do you think?’

‘Er … nice, soft.’

‘Let’s try it with tongues, it’s called French kissing.’

I was happy to oblige. I couldn’t wait to tell Denise and everyone at school but Andrew must have picked up on my thoughts. ‘Can we keep this between us for now? I want to get really good at it and I want you to tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.’

‘Sure.’ I was flattered that he cared so much about how it was for me. I’d heard nightmare stories from other girls about boys who were sloppy, wet kissers, and who hadn’t asked for any feedback about their technique. We spent the rest of the week kissing whenever we could. We tried soft, harder, with tongues, ear nibbling. It was great fun and we had to admit to each other that we were getting pretty good at it. Kissing felt great.

One night, after I’d gone up to bed, I heard a noise at my bedroom window. I went to the curtains and drew them back to see Andrew outside in our garden. He was throwing stones up to get my attention. It felt daring and dangerous because I knew my mum and dad were down below in the sitting room watching telly.

‘Bea,’ he called up. ‘I have to ask you something important.’