Blast from the Past. Cathy Hopkins

in RE. Before that, apart from my brothers, boys hadn’t been on my radar, I only saw them as annoying creatures who were too boisterous and smelt of stale biscuits.

      Mother Christina had been talking to the class about God being omnipresent.

      Andrew stuck his hand up. ‘In that case, why do we only pray in church? If he’s omnipresent, isn’t it OK to pray anywhere, even in the loo?’

      I’d turned to look more closely at who had asked what I thought was a brilliant question, and saw a good-looking lad with an open friendly face and shock of brown hair that wouldn’t be combed down.

      He got detention for being disrespectful and I was sent with him for laughing.

      ‘So God is omnipresent apart from bathrooms and toilets,’ he said later as we wrote out lines from the catechism.

      ‘Good,’ I said, ‘I don’t like to think of God watching while I do a wee.’

      That set us off sniggering again and got us another telling-off. I didn’t mind. I had a new friend. A boy. And with him came a relief that I wouldn’t get called to be a nun. As Catholics, we’d been told about special people who got the vocation and were called to the life of a nun or priest. It sounded wonderful, like an early X Factor, when a hand would point from on high and a voice would say, ‘You, you are one of the chosen.’ My friend Denise and I talked about it a lot. Would we be amongst the special ones, singled out for a life close to God? It was made to sound like a great honour, but I had my doubts and so did Denise, because we had recently discovered that boys might have something more to offer us than being a bride of Christ and living a life of chastity. In the end, neither of us got the call from above and the notion of it was soon forgotten as our hormones took over and anxieties about how to be a good kisser took precedence instead.

      Andrew got detention again soon after his question about omnipresence. It was coming up to Easter and, this time, we were in Father Pronti’s class.

      ‘So Mike Jameson, and what are you going to give up for Lent?’ the priest had asked one of the boys in the class.

      ‘Sweets and chocolates,’ Mike replied.

      ‘Very good, my son. And you Joseph O’Leary?’

      ‘Watching TV, Father.’

      ‘Excellent. And you, Beatrice Brooks? I can see that you’re bursting to give us your answer.’

      I was. I’d thought long and hard about this one. Nothing as mundane as sweets for me, oh no, I wanted to give up something impressive, and to show Andrew that, like him, I didn’t go along with the rest of them. I waited until the room had gone completely quiet so that my answer would have maximum impact. ‘Please, Father,’ I said as the class strained to hear. ‘I’m going to give up lies and stealing.’

      The place exploded in laughter, including Father Pronti. I went scarlet. Why were they all laughing? It wasn’t funny. Not that I made a habit of lying and stealing, but I’d been taught that at times like Christmas and birthdays, it was the thought that counted. Wouldn’t that apply to Lent as well? Surely my ideas for abstention were more along the lines that God was after than giving up Mars Bars or Maltesers, but maybe I’d got it wrong, and cutting out your Cadbury’s was the twentieth-century version of sacrificing a first-born or slaughtering a lamb. Across the room, Andrew gave me the thumbs-up. I knew he’d get it.

      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.’

      ‘OK.’ He was going to ask me out on a proper date, I just knew it. It was coming up to Valentine’s Day and I hoped I’d get a card that year; like the kisses, it would be a first. And if he wanted to go out with me, surely we could go public? In my head, I was already telling my friends the story at school the next day. I’d be one of the in-crowd, a girl with ‘experience’. A boy had come to my window at night, asked me out. My love life had begun.

      I closed the curtains, put on my dressing gown and sneaked down the stairs. I could hear the TV was still on in the sitting room, so I crept past, into the kitchen, out of the back door and into the garden where Andrew was waiting.

      ‘What is it?’ I asked.

      ‘I think I’m ready for the real thing,’ he said.

      Oh god, I thought, sex, he wants to go further and practise that as well as kissing. I wasn’t sure I was ready. ‘Real thing? I … Are you sure?’

      Andrew nodded. ‘Denise.’

      ‘Denise?’

      ‘Yeah. She looks like she’s experienced which is why I wanted to get some practice in kissing before I approached her, but I think I’m ready now. Do you think she’d go out with me?’

      It was a stab to the heart. As the implication hit me, I felt my hopes crumble and my dreams wither. He had been using me to practise. There would be no Valentine card, no date, no showing off to my friends. I wasn’t a girl that a boy wanted for real. I was no more than a confidante, a mate, someone to practise on until ready to approach the real object of desire. God, it hurt, and it knocked my confidence to the floor. I felt such a fool but I knew not to give myself away. ‘Ah … I … yeah, maybe, probably.’

      ‘Can you find out if she likes me? If she does, I thought I’d take her to the Saturday matinée at the cinema.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ I said. I had to get away, get back inside, to my bedroom, to nurse my wounded heart and shattered ego. ‘Got to go, my parents are still up.’