Carole came to tea. Mrs Ash and Fay decided that we would have it out in the summerhouse – if the children were to make a mess, then not in the house. A card table and three folding chairs were set up in the middle of the empty space, the table covered with a tablecloth to hide the green baize. The summerhouse had no heating. With its plates, serviettes, tea set, mix of tiny cucumber sandwiches and cakes, the tea table looked both formal and out-of-place in the bare-floored site of our wrestling practices; with its naked central light bulb, stacked-up deck chairs, old golf sets and wooden box of croquet mallets against the walls.

I felt some trepidation as to what our guest would make of the setting. Marco had been persuaded by Fay to change his shirt and sweater, which had not gone down well. Change – for a girl! At the point at which Carole arrived, he had taken the croquet balls out of the box and was racing them down a side of the room.

Carole was exquisitely pretty. Like a perfect grown-up in miniature. She had auburn hair, green eyes, a heart-shaped face, fine bone structure that would have won my mother’s approval. The tiniest waist. Just perfect.

Marco stopped rolling the balls and contemplated her in an enthusiastic way, which brought me back unpleasantly to my fuzz-ball hair and stocky figure – both of which I tried mostly to forget.

Having been brought through the garden by Fay, who then made her retreat, Carole stood at the door to the summerhouse contemplating the scene within. The small square table in its surrounding emptiness, and her two companions for the afternoon...............

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