‘Well then, you can take these up yourself.’ Bex slams her palm on the dryer and strops out of the room.

‘What’s the matter, Emmeline?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing, you know. Mr Hancock planted a fat one on her.’

I am not exactly surprised. This isn’t uncommon – some of the older men do get a bit handsy – but I have always had a strange feeling about Mr Hancock. Still, we all get old, sooner or later, don’t we?

My first kiss happens in the back of a school bus. I’ll never forget it. The boy is tall with round hips that I very much like. He is a well-liked, wholesome-looking boy with well-respected, stocky guy friends. He has beautiful brown eyes, round and soft, and the premature hint of a moustache lining his top lip. I’d never dare to think he might be interested in me.

The trip lasts a whole day. A picture of our class is taken in front of Big Ben, from the other side of the road so that the clock tower can be included in full. Kids crowd into the middle of the picture, like ants to a nest: around the edges, girls hold their fingers in peace signs, up high like majorettes, and behind them, boys hover rock horns over their heads. I am wearing a nylon pink top and keeping my back straight. The boy I like is to the far left, looking at me.

On the bus home, he passes me a note. It reaches me where I am sitting, travelling in between the rows of seats. He’s sealed it with chewing gum and I pop it into my mouth without thinking. It is warm and a little salty.

In the note, he has written, ‘Kiss?’ Below he has drawn two square boxes: one for yes and one for no.

I pull a biro from the bum bag around my waist.

Yes, I tick, quickly. Because I do want to kiss him. But what does he mean? Does he mean right now, right here on the bus, where everyone can see us? Not here, please, I whisper. But what if this is the only opportunity he is going to give me?

I fold the note quickly, pass it back. I sit staring forwards, chewing his gum. The laughter grows louder, row by row, as the note finally reaches the back, where the boy is sitting with his friends. There is a pause. Silence. I stand up, take a deep breath and turn around to start making my way towards him.

I dream about this often.

‘Those boys are forever terrorizing us,’ says Miss Phyllis, as I enter her room. She’s relieved to see us nurses each day; she’s convinced that all the night porters belong to the Soviet secret services.