‘Yes,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m quite all right.’

I summon all my strength and sit up. My head pounds and I’m trembling uncontrollably.

‘Please don’t fuss,’ I tell the crowd around me. ‘I don’t know what happened, I just felt a bit…’

‘Head between your knees,’ the nurse commands me.

I do as she says, clutching my knees and hiding my stomach from the gawping on-lookers. I can feel the nurse’s eyes boring into me.

‘Time of the month, is it?’ the nurse’s voice brisk and businesslike.

‘Yes, yes that must be it,’ I nod, my heart thumping. The dizziness recedes and slowly I raise my head.

Someone hands me some water and a sweet biscuit. I didn’t realise my mouth was so dry.

‘I feel much better,’ I say after a drink, which is almost true.

‘Common affliction in young girls,’ says the nurse with authority. ‘Go home and rest. Don’t come back until you are well.’

‘I’ll make sure she gets home,’ Erna says, helping me to stand. ‘Hetty, I’m sorry I yelled at you to run faster, I had no idea…’

‘Don’t be silly, of course you didn’t.’

She’s looking at my stomach. I realise I’m clasping my hand over it. I drop it guiltily to my side.

‘Do you have cramps?’ she whispers.

I nod. Press my lips together, resist the urge to cry.

‘It’s a sign of good fertility, you know. Cramps,’ says the nurse.

‘Come on, let’s go home.’ Erna holds out a hand to take my arm.

The other girls begin to lose interest and drift away.

I lean against Erna as we walk slowly back towards the school building.

A narrow escape. But how much longer before someone makes a correct diagnosis? The weight of impending disaster presses down on me. Like being buried alive, however hard I scrabble, whichever way I turn, I can’t see a way out.

11 April 1939

Dear Hetty,

I know you don’t want me to call on you. Erna told me you need space and time. Well, I’ve tried to do that, for a whole month. And in that time I’ve decided sitting at home and being sad all the time won’t do you any good. The best way to get over your brother’s death is to do things that will make you happy, be in good company. So, I’ll call for you this Sunday. I’ve been saving up and I shall take you out for lunch. I shan’t take no for an answer. I can make you happy, Hetty, I know I can. And I will.

With devotion,

Tomas

I scrunch the letter into a ball and put it in my pocket as I climb the stairs to my room. Slamming my bedroom door closed behind me, I fumble desperately for the fastenings at the back of my skirt. My fingers slip and the clips stay firmly closed. Breathe in. Slow down. I release the hooks one by one. I sewed them on myself a couple of weeks ago, when the buttons would no longer reach the buttonholes.