Only One Woman

by Christina Jones, Jane Risdon

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

June 1968: Renza is preparing to leave school - and England. Her family is moving to Germany and she can't wait - till the four gorgeous boys who make up pop band Narnia's Children move in next door. She falls head over heels for lead guitarist Scott, but after a romantic summer of love together, Renza has to go. December 1968: Stella meets Scott at a local dance where Narnia's Children are playing. Scott's the most beautiful boy she's ever seen, and she falls for him hard ...As the colourful, exciting final year of the sixties dawns, both Renza and Stella realize there can be only one woman for Scott.

Release date: November 23, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 300

Sample

Foreword

When Jane asked me if I’d like to write a foreword for Only One Woman I was thrilled and excited to be invited to share some of my memories of the 1960s and how the song, Only One Woman, came into being.

When I moved to London in 1968 with my cousin Trevor Gordon and our band, we never expected what was going to happen to us. We played a club in London called the Revolution Club and it just happened that the Bee Gees ex-manager was in the audience. He knew my cousin from when Trevor lived in Australia and actually played and recorded with the Bee Gees; this was back in the early 60s. He gave Trevor Barry Gibbs’ telephone number.

We eventually went over to Barry Gibbs’ house and sat around playing acoustic guitars and singing Stevie Wonder songs and Beatle songs. It just so happened that Robert Stigwood – the Bee Gees’ manager – was at Barry’s house at the same time and wanted Barry to take my cousin and me into the studio to record a song that he asked Barry to write for us.

Before we knew it we were in the studio that same week with Barry, Maurice and Robin, with only a vague idea of a tune that Barry had written for us to record.

So we sang and recorded a ‘la la la la’ melody to begin, with Barry playing acoustic guitar. Trevor changed the melody a little and took a straightforward kind of 3/4 country tune to an R&B soulful melody. Eventually Barry wrote the words and came up with the song “Only One Woman.”

When “Only One Woman” became a number three hit in 1968, in the UK, everything changed for Trevor and me. Suddenly we were recognised on the streets and it was strange.

I will be forever grateful to the Gibb Brothers for giving me and Trevor a career. Since those days my whole life has just been music thanks to my cousin and his encouragement, and also to the Gibb brothers for giving me such faith in my own talent. The rest is music history.

For me, Jane and Christina’s book – “Only One Woman” – reflects very honestly those times and the feel of those times. I can picture myself back in London when reading some of the pages. The 1960s, for me, was probably the most wonderful time in the music business with such bands as The Beatles, The Stones, The Kinks, The Who, and The Bee Gees and more: the list is endless.

This book will take you back to that time; read on readers.

Graham Bonnet,

Studio City, Los Angeles, California

2018.

Renza’s Diary

May 24th 1968 – late

What a flipping nightmare of an evening. I really thought I’d never get home in one piece. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. Someone up there hates me I’m sure.

If only Selina hadn’t lost her handbag at the Top Rank, I’d have caught the last bus back from Reading and I would’ve been home on time. Instead I’d gone back with the others to look for it – thankfully it had been handed in at the cloakroom and nothing was missing. Luckily I had just enough money for the train, which I’d had to run for. Selina’s dad took the others home in his brand new car as arranged, and there wasn’t room for me as well. I reckon he could’ve taken me but Yvette refused to let me sit on her lap in the front, in case I ripped her Mary Quant stockings. Sometimes I really want to do her a mischief.

They’ve got to do something about our local station, it’s just too creepy for words. Steam from the train almost suffocated me as I crossed the bridge to the exit on the opposite platform; all very ‘Brief Encounter’ I remember thinking, in an effort to stop my mind wandering off into ‘Hitchcock-land.’ Talk about cough myself silly, and my eyes stung something rotten as I tried to find my way in the pitch black. The two over-head lamps didn’t help much, they should do something about those flipping lights, I could’ve broken my neck, or even worse, tripped over in my new pink kitten heels and broken one of them.

I slowly took the steps down to the lane beside the station, glancing around me all the while – I admit it, I was a little freaked out. It’s always deserted, and you can never be too careful. Not long ago a dangerous prisoner escaped from the nearby asylum and hid in the waiting room for days before being recaptured. Hardly anyone uses the station since the cutbacks by that old idiot, Beeching, and the trains are a bit hit and miss since they messed with the timetable, so the convict was able to wait for his twisted ankle to mend without much danger of discovery. For all I knew, another Jack the Ripper could’ve been lurking in there waiting for me to pass, that’d just been my flaming luck.

I was in so much trouble. Forty minutes later than agreed. She’d never believe me about the bag, but no other excuse came to mind as I walked down the lane. I was going to be so dead.

Oh God!

I had such a fright. Something or someone, made a noise behind me, so I stopped and listened, but I really felt like running. Some sort of night creature, silly girl, I decided as I walked on. But there it was again. Was someone behind me?

I turned and peered into the pitch dark – I’m still shaking as I write this. I told myself it sounded like a hedgehog – had to be. Don’t panic, no-one comes down here at night I reminded myself. Oh cripes, that lane, I hate it. Anyone could jump out to get you, seriously, I’ve often wondered, who’d hear you yell? No-one, that’s who. There aren’t any lights or houses down there.

I must remember – next time the girls ask me to the Top Rank – to leave early and get the bus on time. Next time, who am I kidding?

I’m going nuts – I hope no-one ever reads this, I’d die, but I started singing quietly to myself – I do that sometimes when I’m feeling a bit nervous – well seriously spooked actually. I turned on to the main road relieved no-one had grabbed me, and headed for our house. That’s when I heard him…

***

‘What time do you think this is?’

Well, I nearly died of fright. I actually jumped. I couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from. It seemed to echo all around me in the dimly lit street. Someone had followed me, that’s what I kept thinking. I hurried past the bus stop when I heard him again. What to do? Should I run? If I screamed, bringing Mum and half the village outside, Mrs Digby would just love that and if I got murdered, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. All this went through my brain at a rate of knots as I tried to work out where the voice was coming from. Would I make it to the gate? Bloody Selina and her stupid bag. I was going to die all because of her stupid bag.

‘You’re out very late.’

I froze. I was partly relieved it wasn’t Mum or Mrs Digby’s voice. It was definitely a man’s. Who the hell was it? I was considering running but I didn’t want to break another heel, not after the last time. The cobbler said he couldn’t repair it if it snapped again. Besides, the bloke didn’t sound like a cold blooded murderer, well, not really. I mean, what sort of killer asks you what time do you call this, before bumping you off?

‘Well?’

The voice sounded even nearer and something made me look up towards the row of shops not far from our house. A window was open in the flat above the hairdresser’s, Shirley’s, and I could just make out a head and shoulders poking through. Someone with long dark hair; definitely a bloke.

Thank God, at least I hadn’t been followed by a crazed axe murderer after-all.

‘Mind your own business. What’s it got to do with you when I come home?’ I stopped walking and stood looking up at him. I couldn’t make out his features in the dark, and being shortsighted, even full daylight wouldn’t have made that much difference anyway.

‘You’re lucky you don’t have school tomorrow, coming back this late.’

Flaming nerve! He sounded like my Dad. Who the hell was he, I wondered. Too young to be one of Mum’s spies surely.

‘Drop dead!’ I turned and flounced off towards our gate, trying hard not to go over on my ankle on the uneven pavement. I had a bad case of the shakes thanks to him.

‘I’ll be watching you. Make sure you get your beauty sleep,’ he shouted just as I closed the gate, anxiously glancing at the house in case Mum or Mrs Digby next door had heard someone shouting at me in the street.

I’d never be allowed to forget it if Mum thought Mrs Digby had heard me making a spectacle of myself in public. Even getting murdered would’ve been my fault, causing her embarrassment in front of the whole village. Perish the thought – a public spectacle, no matter it wasn’t instigated by me. Fingers crossed most people were in bed by now anyway.

Just as I got to the front door, it was yanked open by Mum and she stood aside in the hall to let me pass. Dread flooded over me. She’d heard me shouting. I was dead!

She was about to start on me when thankfully one of the kids woke up, having a nightmare or something, yelling and thrashing about in the room they all shared. With a withering look at me, she stomped upstairs to see whoever it was.

I heard something about ‘chocks away,’ followed by a huge thud. Then Mum yelling, ‘you can’t go to the loo in there! It’s the wardrobe! Get out of there!’ followed by a lot of shuffling about.

That would be my ten-year-old brother Simon doing a parachute jump from the top bunk and then mistaking the wardrobe for the loo – it often happened after he’d been messing about with his Air-fix.

Blessing him and his night-games – for once – I used the commotion to sneak into my room and get ready for bed. Hopefully Mum wouldn’t come into my room, and if she did I would pretend to be asleep. I’d get away with it – but she would certainly start on me in the morning.

I sighed heavily and prepared myself for not being allowed to go anywhere ever again in this lifetime.

Renza’s Diary

May 25th 1968

I left to do my paper-round at 5am, the house silent as I wheeled my bike through the front gate. I glanced up at the flats over the shops to see if there was any sign of life.

The bloke who’d shouted was intriguing me. I couldn’t work out why he’d been so interested in what time I got home. The flat must have been rented out recently because I’m sure the last time Mum had spoken to Shirley, who owned the salon beneath, she said it was still empty and that can’t have been that long ago. It would be nice to have new neighbours – but not ones who were going to get me into even more trouble with Mum.

The air was really fresh and the sun was beginning to warm the ground as I cycled to the next village to collect my papers. The fields were covered in mist which hovered about three feet off the ground, and with the sun shining through the trees as I passed the hedges all green and lush, it looked so pretty, but a bit eerie. I loved this time of morning, hardly anyone around, and so quiet, having the village to myself, except for the milkman on his electric float. I nearly always passed him just before I reached the village pub, The Chequers. He waved and his dog, Silver, who always ran alongside him, barked hello to me.

I got back home about 8am after stopping in for breakfast with Nan, as usual, after I finished my round. There didn’t appear to be any signs of life at the flat I noticed, as I wheeled my bike through the front gate. Mum was in a flap because she had been called in to work apparently, and so it was all go whilst she got herself ready and I helped with breakfast and dressed my younger brothers and sisters. Thankfully, she was in such a rush she forgot to have a go at me. Not that she wouldn’t later on.. Now I had all day to worry about what she was going to do about me being a bit late home and making a show of myself in the street to boot.

Before she left she reminded me to get the washing out of the boiler and put it through the mangle and hang it out, and I had to make sure that Simon went to the local butcher’s to pick up sausages for lunch and the Sunday joint. My Saturday well and truly sorted then.

I had hoped to meet Yvette in town and go for an espresso in the new coffee bar which had opened on the high street. Not having a phone there was no way I could let her know I couldn’t come, unless I could manage to get down to the phone box before lunch to warn her. Everyone seemed to be getting phones except us, it just wasn’t fair.

Yvette had wanted to come to our house with Selina, and had got all funny when I said Mum wouldn’t like it and we should meet in The Cadena.

Actually, you’d have thought they’d have realised they weren’t welcome because they’d both turned up, unexpectedly, on a couple of occasions recently and Mum hadn’t liked it one bit.

No one with manners visits without an invitation, she told me after they’d left. It was embarrassing, she was so rude to them both, and she went on something rotten at me for inviting them without her permission. It was her house, not mine, and she would be the one to invite guests. Nothing I said would convince her I’d had no idea they were coming. They hadn’t told me. I’d no idea why they wanted to visit all of a sudden. As it was they spent most of the time in the back garden being too loud, giggling and showing off all the time. They didn’t even bother reading the magazines they had with them: Jackie and Fab 208. Mum binned them as soon as they’d gone, in case I was corrupted by their nonsense..

I’d no idea why they were trying to show off to Mr Digby, it was a bit sad. And of course it gave Mrs Digby a good reason to moan at Mum about me and my ‘cheap’ friends in our miniskirts, flaunting ourselves in front of her innocent Geoffrey. Huh! If only she knew what I knew about her darling Geoffrey. I dearly wanted to tell her.

Donald Digby, Peg Digby and their mother, take the utmost pleasure in getting me into trouble. Not that I’ve ever done anything wrong, but they spy on me and report stuff to Mum, exaggerating everything, knowing I’ll get hell. Mum always believes them for some reason.

Once, Mrs Digby caught Mum over the fence, telling her she’d seen Dad in a new three-piece-suit and that Mum had better watch out because ‘men of a certain age’ were usually having an affair when they got new clothes.

Mr Digby – Geoffrey, the innocent – is a real creep, he makes my flesh crawl. Always leering at me and making weird remarks on the sly. We’ve caught him several times in our garden, peering through the sitting-room window when he thinks we’ve gone out. The whole family’s more than a bit odd.

After a lot of yelling and some bribery, I managed to get Simon to go shopping so I could cook lunch for when Mum got back at 1pm. I legged it to the phone box before he went, and caught Yvette in the middle of a row with her mum about wearing too much eyeliner and spending all her pocket money on silly magazines.

She went into a bit of a mood when I said I had to stay in to look after the kids again, and I wondered, as I hung up, if she would send me to Coventry again, like she did the time she got funny with me when two blokes on a Vespa stopped to chat us up outside school, and both of them took more notice of me, as if that was my fault.

I was hanging out the washing when someone started whistling and shouting what sounded like ‘I love girls with long blonde hair.’

I looked around but couldn’t see anyone walking up the path beside the houses, so I just got on with making sure I hung the shirts the right way, otherwise Attila the Hun would be on me like a ton of bricks.

‘Hello beautiful.’

I heard a vaguely familiar voice off to my right, and glanced around but couldn’t see anyone. Not that I thought it was meant for me, of course.

‘Over here, blondie.’ The male voice sounded quite nice really and I followed the sound, looking upwards to see a very sexy, topless, bronzed specimen with long blond hair, squatting on top of the wall leading up to the flats over the shops.

My heart skipped a beat and I tried hard not to smile, but I could barely keep the grin off my face. He was talking to me. How about that.

I looked quickly over at Mrs Digby’s in case she was lurking ready to report back to Gestapo HQ that I was flirting with a half-naked god in the back garden. The coast seemed clear. I smiled and silently cursed myself for doing the housework in scruffy clothes.

I didn’t have any make-up on and my hair was a mess – trouble is, I’m not supposed to wear make-up anyway. Trust me to meet a a gorgeous boy looking like this, putting the flipping washing out for goodness sakes.

Standing there with a pair of Mum’s undies in one hand and her bra in the other, I felt a bit silly as he looked at me and I short-sightedly squinted back trying hard to see his features, hoping my face wasn’t too red. Then I realised he wasn’t alone, there was another boy standing behind him.

Before I could hide Mum’s undies, the other bloke stepped forward and said, ‘hello again.’

I realised then it had been him speaking to me all along, not the blond God.

I felt disappointment for all of two seconds until the boy with the long black hair and the most amazing bronzed muscled chest grabbed my attention.

He was the one from last night.

My knees felt like jelly and I could feel the dreaded red hot flush travelling up my neck to my face. I’m never going to be cool and sophisticated. Never ever.

‘Are you going to say anything?’ he asked, as the blond boy next to him suddenly stood up, revealing his tight white jeans and bronzed, well-toned chest muscles; I thought I’d just died and gone to heaven. They were both unreal. Wait until I tell you about this Yvette, I thought, you’ll be eaten up.

‘Oh, yes, um, hello,’ I stuttered like a moron, mentally kicking myself for not being a bit more confident.

‘I’ll leave you two to it then.’ The blond God boy smiled at me, waved and went back up to the flats, leaving the two of us staring at each other in silence.

The air around me seemed to have a funny tingle in it and I got goose-bumps as I tried to release my gaze from his.

‘Broken up for the summer yet?’

I could hear the kids killing each other inside and I remembered I had put the potatoes on to boil ready for when Mum came back on her lunch break.

‘ Um, no, no I haven’t, not yet, but I’m leaving school soon anyway.’

Now why did I tell him that? Why did I say that? It was like telling him we were moving away. And we were. To Germany. To live with Dad, who has been out there for the last six months working for the Ministry of Defence on attachment to an Army Base in the Ruhr Valley.. The back of beyond if you ask me, I’ll die stuck out there

The noise from indoors grew even louder and I knew I’d have to sort the kids and the spuds out before Mum came home. I could’ve cried.

I turned away from him, hurriedly pegged out the rest of the washing, grabbed the basket and ran back towards the kitchen with his call of ‘I love girls with long blonde hair,’ ringing in my ears.

Renza’s Diary

May 27th 1968 – Spring Bank Holiday

‘You talk funny.’ My three-year-old sister Lucy was staring hard at the man in the dirty white overalls bending over the once white sheets, covering the carpet around our hearth.

Mr Fowler, the chimney-sweep and our other next door neighbour, glanced up and gave her a toothless grin. His craggy, soot-lined face was kindly, but sadly marred by his hare-lip. He nodded at Lucy and carried on shoving his brushes up our chimney. I was filled with dread in case she started to copy the way he spoke. He was barely intelligible because he didn’t have a roof to his mouth and Mum had drilled me about watching Lucy and her talent for mimicry, during his previous visits.

‘What you doing?’ she asked, shuffling closer and stepping on to the sheet. She glanced around, knowing she had been told not to go near him whilst he worked.

I kept an eye on her from the kitchen where I was making Mr Fowler a cup of tea and hoping he wouldn’t make too much mess because I would need to clean it up before Mum got in from work.

‘Chimney,’ said Mr Fowler without looking round.

Soot fell in a great black cloud, covering him and the sheets. My sister squealed and ran behind the sofa.

‘Lucy, leave Mr Fowler alone and go out to play with the others,’ I shouted as I placed the cup of tea and Rich Tea biscuits on the soot covered coffee table.

The back door flew open and five-year-old Jasper raced into the room, nearly landing in the hearth. Mr Fowler jumped up, bumping his head on the mantelpiece, causing Lucy to scream from behind the sofa.

When would Jasper ever learn to walk inside the house? He was panting and red in the face. Both knees were covered in grass stains and his backside was hanging out of his shorts. He was for it. After staring at Mr Fowler hard, he shrugged and turned to me.

‘Been playing football with the band,’ he panted, pointing in the direction of the shops, ‘scored millions of goals.’

‘What band, played football where?’ I asked as I grabbed his arm and moved him away from the clouds of soot falling from the chimney.

‘You know. The band. Your boyfriend’s band.’ He giggled as he shouted it out because he knew it would embarrass me.

Mr Fowler looked up and winked at me.

‘You know full well I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve no idea what you’re on about, but if Mum finds you’ve been playing with those boys of Barker, you’ll be for it.’

The boys of Barker were local seven-year-old delinquents, and, for some reason Jasper was strangely attracted to them, much to my parent’s bewilderment.

Jasper could never keep their exploits secret and would come back with tales of what they’d been up to, causing Mum to nearly faint with fear that Jasper would get sucked into their crimes, bringing the full force of the Law up the garden path, in full view of the whole village. Perish the thought.

‘Yes you do have a boyfriend, so. And you kiss all the time,’ persisted Jasper, causing Lucy and Mr Fowler to watch me carefully as I began blushing to the roots of my blonde hair.

Lucy shot past me on her way to the garden, shouting at the top of her voice ‘Renza kisses her boyfriend. Renza kisses her boyfriend.’

Oh my God! If Mrs Digby got wind of this I was totally, totally and absolutely dead.

I don’t have a boyfriend, Mum won’t allow it, and besides, as I hardly ever go out, how the heck I am supposed to get one I have no idea. The girls at school have boyfriends and go to discos and Youth Club, but I’m rarely allowed. I’ve only managed to go to the Top Rank twice recently because Mum’s friend, the Honourable Charlotte Shand, allowed her daughter to go regularly and since she’s not been raped, sold into white slavery or forced into a life of immorality and drug-taking, Mum reluctantly agreed to let me go with my school friends – not wanting to lose face in front of the Honourable Charlotte.

However, missing the last bus and getting back late on Friday led to World War Three and all sorts of threats when she finally decided to have a go at me.. I’m keeping a low profile, being a good girl looking after the kids – unpaid flipping nanny more like – and doing the chores like the resident char lady. Anything for a quiet life.

I’m going to be in so much trouble if they blab to Mum about me kissing boys and such rot. She’d happily believe it.

Hopping from one foot to the other Jasper stuck his tongue out at me. I wanted to strangle him. ‘For goodness sakes go to the loo and stop hopping around like an idiot.’ I snapped going into the kitchen.

My heart sank when I looked out the window and saw Lucy and the other kids talking to Mrs Fowler over the fence. Goodness knows what they were telling her, not that she’d gossip, but even so…

Her house was set back a bit from ours and there was only a wire fence separating us. The Fowlers’ house was Victorian, whereas ours was newly built when we moved in just under eight years ago.

Mrs Fowler often gave the kids sweets and pop if they were outside when she was gardening. The Fowlers were Jehovah’s Witnesses, although originally Mrs Fowler had been Jewish. She once told me she’d found Jehovah when she was having a stout at the ‘Cow and Gate,’ where she used to play the piano on Saturday nights. According to Mum the Fowlers had never been the same again.

Apparently Mrs Fowler, who has known Mum all her life, told Mum all marital relations had ceased from then on.

They’d had the one daughter, so Mrs Fowler had fulfilled her marital obligations. Mum went ballistic when I repeated this conversation one day when we were all having tea with Grandad Rossi. It didn’t go down too well for some reason.

‘Got a message for you from your lover,’ Jasper sniggered, watching Mr Fowler as he waited for my reaction. ‘He wants to go out with you and give you millions of kisses,’ he persisted. I debated chopping his head off instead of chopping the veg for dinner.

‘Oh shut up you little squirt.’ I was getting irritable, what with the soot and the cleaning I was going to have to do, not to mention all the cooking and looking after the brats. ‘I can’t wait to go back to school and get some peace.’

‘I bet you can’t wait to kiss and kiss and kiss.’ Jasper danced around the kitchen.

I waved the knife at him, sorely tempted. ‘I’m warning you!’

‘If you want to go out with Scott, then tell me coz I’ve got to be a secret ‘messager’ and let him know.’ Jasper started fiddling with the carrots I’d chopped.

I smacked his hand away and got a lot of pleasure from the sound of the slap.

‘Stop being such a horrid little boy and go away.’

‘OK then, I’m gonna tell Scott that you love him and want to marry him and kiss him all the time,’ shouted Jasper as he crashed through the back door.

‘Scott who?’ I shouted after him, but he was gone.

Mr Fowler came through the kitchen with his brushes and sheets and a large box of soot, well, what wasn’t covering all the furniture and carpets that is. He said something which sounded like ‘Catch your Mother later,’ but really, I never could understand him. Such a nice man and such a shame, I thought as I resigned myself to the mess waiting for me. I smiled, nodded, and closed the door behind him.

I began wondering about the band Jasper mentioned, who they were and where they came from, and how they knew Jasper. Were they the boys living over Shirley’s? Was that where Jasper kept disappearing to?

Through the kitchen window I could see them sitting on the wall again: the blond God and the sexy black haired one. Imagine if he was this Scott, Jasper was on about… nope, get a grip, he’s far too gorgeous to be interested in me. But then he did shout at me twice…

Watching them both sunbathing on the wall, I wondered if they were famous, but they didn’t look familiar. Never mind that, I can’t wait to get back to class and tell Yvette and Selina about the boys living over ‘Shirley’s.’ They’ll be so eaten up and for once they’ll envy me.

I put the transistor on whilst I got on with my chores, singing along with Brenton Wood and ‘Give Me Some Kinda Sign.’

Trust my life to start getting exciting just as we’re leaving England.

Renza’s Diary

May 30th 1968

Everyone at school wanted to know about the band living over Shirley’s. Word soon got around, and suddenly I was really, really popular for once. Well, being so ‘cool’ all of a sudden might be all right for some, but being the centre of attention isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m not sure I like it. It’s embarrassing. Everyone crowding round me all the time, asking questions – as if I know anything – wanting to come round to the house. Mum would just love even more girls strutting around the back garden, much to the delight of Mrs Digby – I don’t think so.

Even Yvette’s talking to me again after ignoring me because Mum wouldn’t let her and Selina keep coming over… now I get what the attraction was. Not me – they didn’t want to see me. By conning their way into the back garden, they thought they’d get near the band so they could flirt with them – well thanks for nothing – someone could’ve told me they were there. Trust me to be the last to know.

Jasper has spent the last few days ferrying messages to me from the dark haired boy, who it turns out is Scott, he’s a guitarist and the band is called Narnia’s Children. I’ve never heard of them but according to Jasper – the expert on all things band-related – they’re from an island somewhere – he’s forgotten where – and are in England to tour and make records. They don’t look foreign to me.

Anyway, Scott keeps sending me messages asking me out and I keep ignoring them. Every time I walk past the flat he’s sitting at the window shouting out things like, ‘I love girls with long blonde hair,’ and ‘I think I love you,’ and ‘Your legs look great in that uniform,’ and all sorts of nonsense, which is really getting me into trouble with Mum.

Mrs Digby has cottoned on and I saw her grab Mum as she went to the post box yesterday. I got it in the neck as soon as I got home from school. The usual stuff about showing myself up, not acting like a lady and – the best one – ‘wait until I tell your father how you’ve been carrying on.’

Apparently I’d managed to ruin her and Lucy’s birthdays earlier in the week because of the worry and the embarrassment my behaviour is causing.

It’s driving me mad! I’ve done nothing. Nothing!

I c