Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford

control the rising tide of red that made its way from my neck up, or the out-of-control galloping of my heart, then at least I could order other parts of my life.
    Being around boys was the worst thing of all. Boys tease. One of them, a short, freckled boy who had come up with me from primary school, just loved humiliating me. He would always pipe up ‘Let’s hear Ann read!’ because he knew I’d go bright red. I was such an easy target.
    I’d look around at all my friends—amazingly I still had some—and marvel that they appeared so full of confidence. The bonds with my close friends, Brenda, Jennifer and Eileen, saved me from becoming totally isolated, yet I couldn’t even explain to any of them how my world had become so changed. Had I talked to them about my problem, I’d probably have found that they had their own insecurities, but back then I was convinced I was alone in my torment. It was easier one-on-one—the anxiety would fade and I’d catch a glimpse of the real me that I always knew was trapped inside. Day after day, I’d fight this silent inner battle. Later, after the bushfires, I’d wonder if the reason I was still alive was because I’d lived during my teens and beyond, with the intense agony of being so socially dysfunctional; I was used to handling extended periods of intense pain on a daily basis.
    My experience of the opposite sex was limited to one unfortunate, if memorable, date during my school years. Because of my crippling shyness, especially around boys, it came as a complete surprise when I was nearly sixteen, to learn that one of the prefects at school actually noticed me. David took oneof my girlfriends aside and told her he was interested. After my friend then told me, I became conscious of David being around wherever I was—at lunchtime, during breaks, hovering hopefully as we came out of school at the end of the day. This was a big deal—there was a lot of kudos involved in being fancied by a prefect.
    I was even more surprised when David handed me a note on a scrap of paper one day inviting me to go out with him on Saturday night. My friends, as intrigued as I was, urged me to say yes. I’d never even talked to this boy, but decided to take what was, for me, a bold step into the unknown, and accept his invitation.
    Most of my friends had been potty about boys since they were fifteen. They seemed to talk about nothing else, gathering at recess on Monday morning, comparing notes from the weekend and revelling in sharing the details of their encounters, however minute, with anyone who’d listen. I felt completely awkward in these conversations, never understanding what all the fuss was about—I was obviously a late developer in this area. Playing sport was much more interesting!
    My interest piqued though as the first date with David approached. I was actually going out with a boy. I dressed carefully that Saturday evening: a short skirt—but not too short, little blouse and cardigan, and smart white knee socks. Quite conservative—definitely no heels or make-up. I had a clipped, neat pixie haircut at the time, like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music . I’d asked the hairdresser in Nelson to give me that cut which every second woman in England apparently wanted as well. My girlfriends, Brenda and Jennifer, had theirs cut in exactly the same style.
    Much to the amusement of my family, I was palpably nervous before the date, muttering things like, ‘I don’t really want to go’, ‘I won’t know what to say’, ‘I don’t know him’, and ‘How do I look in this cardigan?’ They were probably relieved that I was going out with a boy at last. Women married young then, many before they were twenty.
    David and I had agreed to meet outside the Grand Cinema in Nelson, a four-storey grey-stone building with a steep slate roof rising solidly out of the centre of town. Although I