Grudgingly, the weather improved and winter slouched away before an invasion of buds dripping pale green from still trees. Snowdrops marched across the lawn and the animals started their usual irritating ritual of fornication and non-stop howling. Honey conceived her third litter of puppies by Hector, the rapist collie dog who belonged to the local farmer, and I received a letter from James Merry-Curl.
Dear Gabriella,
I wonder if you would like to come and watch my end of term match. Imogen is coming with a few other people, and it would be great fun to see you again. I am in the team, so I’ll be able to see you after the game.
Love James (Merry-Curl)
I had never been sent a letter by a boy before. It caused hours of glee for my brothers, not least because Merry-Curl had enclosed a photograph of himself looking mean and moody in a cravat and blazer.
‘Va Va’s got a boyfriend!’ yelled Brodie, waving the photograph above his head and passing it to Flook, who at once drew a caricature and stuck both likenesses up on the dresser. Pink with embarrassment and delight, I tried to ignore the boys and tell Mummy about Merry-Curl.
‘I don’t know why he’s written to me. I didn’t like him at that party because he said we were weird.’
‘Well, we’re not weird,’ said Mummy, ‘and I think it would be fun for you to go to the match if you want to. After all, there will be lots of other people to talk to if Merry-Curl is irritating.’
So I went, driven by Imogen’s father, and cocooned in smug importance because I alone among the party had been invited by a boy. Imogen’s brother was also playing in the match, and her father was wearing an old school tie in honour of the occasion.
‘How long have you been going out with James?’ Imogen probed as we swooped silently towards the school in the comfortable, expensive-smelling car.
‘I’m not going out with James. I’ve only met him once and I can hardly remember what he looks like.’
I was not looking forward to seeing Merry-Curl again, but I hoped that there would be other, more glamorous boys there. Perhaps even one like Byron.
I saw thee weep – the big bright tear
Came o’er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile – the sapphire’s blaze
It could not match the living rays
That fill’d that glance of thine.
I pretended that this poem was written for me, and spent the morning before the match looking in the mirror trying to be a weeping violet. Not a success. The school playing-field did nothing to feed my hopes of finding love. Anoraks abounded, grey nylon, black nylon with yellow stripes, fawn and navy blue, inert and hanging limp from puny shoulders. It had not occurred to me to discover what game was being played, and I noted gloomily that it was rugger. I was not interested in rugger. Despair filled my lungs and throat at the prospect of standing on the touchline all afternoon.
I saw Amelia Letson and, relieved to find a diversion from the pitch, I smiled and waved. She ran over, eyes sparkling. ‘Gosh, it’s so nice to see you,’ she gushed. ‘I’m with my cousin Tom. He broke his collar-bone at a point-to-point yesterday.’ Standing back from Amelia’s cluster of friends was a tall, dark-haired boy. He wore a sling on one arm and was staring at his feet. His face was pale. He was not wearing an anorak. He was almost Byronic.
‘Does he ride racehorses?’ I was impressed.
‘Yes, he wants to be a jockey. We’re going to the café in town, Tom doesn’t like rugby,’ and she scuttled off again.
The match continued. The players turned blue with cold and black with mud as they raced pointlessly up and down the pitch. I sulked, avoiding Merry-Curl’s smiling glances in our direction. I wanted to be in the café with Amelia and Tom, fascinating Tom with my blazing sapphire smile and impressing him with my knowledge of horses. It was not to be. Imogen’s brother Edward was kicked in the groin and carried off the pitch, white-faced and whimpering. Imogen’s father, stony with rage, muttered, ‘Appalling bad sports, the lot of them,’ and bundled his agonized son into the car. ‘Come on, girls, we’re going home,’ he shouted. Imogen and I apprehensively edged into the front seat together so that her brother could recline in the back. We did not dare look over at him, afraid of what we might see. I knew from fighting with my own brothers that a blow to the groin was male torture, and my inability to imagine it made it embarrassing and sordid, a maimed initiation into manhood. Imogen’s father dropped me at the bottom of our drive. I slammed the car door behind me, vowing never to attend a match of any description again. A point-to-point would be much more romantic.