as he spoke.
Stunned, she’d managed to pull away from him after a struggle and had jumped to her feet. ‘Hey, don’t be a prick teaser,’ he protested, lurching towards her, but she had raced out of The Triangle as fast as she could, disappearing down the narrow lane that led to the back of the cottages and climbed in through her bedroom window, her heart pounding so hard she was sure the whole street could hear it.
She lay on her bed, sore and violated, trying hard not to cry and had decided if being frigid meant you didn’t have to endure men doing horrible things to you, she could live with it. Her mother was right.
‘What was it like? Did you come?’ Lizzie asked excitedly the next morning as they walked through the village to Mass.
‘No, I went,’ Valerie giggled. Now that it was daylight and she had accepted her frigidity and resolved never to let a man ‘maul’ – another of her mother’s contemptuous metaphors – her, she felt a huge sense of relief. She related the events of the previous night as they headed to St Anthony’s.
‘Eewww!’ Lizzie uttered, horrified.
‘It bloody hurt,’ Valerie added indignantly as Mrs O’Connell, the principal of the primary school, click-clacked past them in her shiny patent high heels and green velvet hat, a jaunty white feather curling over the brim. ‘Morning, girls,’ she saluted brightly.
‘Morning, Mrs O’Connell,’ they chorused politely.
‘Don’t be late now and don’t hang around the end of the church. Make sure you go up the front,’ their former teacher instructed bossily as she overtook them and increased her speed. She was the organist and choir mistress, and she was running late.
‘Who does she think she is? Bossy boots! We’re in Secondary now; she’s not in charge of us any more,’ Valerie muttered.
‘Could you imagine her doing it? She has four kids. Maybe she’s a nympho,’ Lizzie tittered, and Valerie giggled. As they neared the church gates the air filled with greeting from various classmates who were already congregated inside the church grounds, waiting for them.
‘Good night, Valerie?’ Frances O’Connor asked slyly. She too had previous experience of Romeo Higgins and his roaming fingers.
‘Fab,’ Valerie said airily, and marched in through the gloomy porch of St Anthony’s with Lizzie right behind her. ‘What a bitch,’ she muttered. ‘She thinks she’s the bee’s knees with her pink leg warmers!’
‘Knobbly knees, more like,’ Lizzie retorted smartly as they genuflected and edged into a rapidly filling pew. ‘And she’s a bandy little cow!’
Valerie smiled at the memory of that Sunday morning last summer. Lizzie was always quick with a riposte. She was a brilliant friend and now she needed support in her new romance. Lizzie was convinced Phil Casey was finally ‘The One’.
‘He’s a great kisser, the best, actually,’ she’d admitted, deliriously happy after their first kiss, and Valerie had tried not to feel jealous. It was hard, though. Now it was all ‘we’ are going here, ‘we’ are going there, ‘we’ are doing this and that. Where once it was she and Lizzie who were the ‘we’, now an interloper had taken possession of her friend, her and Lizzie’s friendship was on the back burner and Valerie was lonely. She was going to feel like a real gooseberry when they went back to the pub for a drink after the match. But she hid her dismay with, to her mind, an Oscar-winning performance for fake enthusiasm.
‘OK, I’ll come. I’ll cheer Phil on for you.’ She smiled at her friend. Lizzie squealed excitedly. ‘You’re the best, Val, you’ll really enjoy it, and there are some fine things in the team. You might get off with someone.’
‘Nope, not interested. Besides, Da would have a fit if I started going with someone. You know that. There’s no point in me even thinking about dating until the Leaving is over,’ Valerie said as they reached the welcome shelter of
Stunned, she’d managed to pull away from him after a struggle and had jumped to her feet. ‘Hey, don’t be a prick teaser,’ he protested, lurching towards her, but she had raced out of The Triangle as fast as she could, disappearing down the narrow lane that led to the back of the cottages and climbed in through her bedroom window, her heart pounding so hard she was sure the whole street could hear it.
She lay on her bed, sore and violated, trying hard not to cry and had decided if being frigid meant you didn’t have to endure men doing horrible things to you, she could live with it. Her mother was right.
‘What was it like? Did you come?’ Lizzie asked excitedly the next morning as they walked through the village to Mass.
‘No, I went,’ Valerie giggled. Now that it was daylight and she had accepted her frigidity and resolved never to let a man ‘maul’ – another of her mother’s contemptuous metaphors – her, she felt a huge sense of relief. She related the events of the previous night as they headed to St Anthony’s.
‘Eewww!’ Lizzie uttered, horrified.
‘It bloody hurt,’ Valerie added indignantly as Mrs O’Connell, the principal of the primary school, click-clacked past them in her shiny patent high heels and green velvet hat, a jaunty white feather curling over the brim. ‘Morning, girls,’ she saluted brightly.
‘Morning, Mrs O’Connell,’ they chorused politely.
‘Don’t be late now and don’t hang around the end of the church. Make sure you go up the front,’ their former teacher instructed bossily as she overtook them and increased her speed. She was the organist and choir mistress, and she was running late.
‘Who does she think she is? Bossy boots! We’re in Secondary now; she’s not in charge of us any more,’ Valerie muttered.
‘Could you imagine her doing it? She has four kids. Maybe she’s a nympho,’ Lizzie tittered, and Valerie giggled. As they neared the church gates the air filled with greeting from various classmates who were already congregated inside the church grounds, waiting for them.
‘Good night, Valerie?’ Frances O’Connor asked slyly. She too had previous experience of Romeo Higgins and his roaming fingers.
‘Fab,’ Valerie said airily, and marched in through the gloomy porch of St Anthony’s with Lizzie right behind her. ‘What a bitch,’ she muttered. ‘She thinks she’s the bee’s knees with her pink leg warmers!’
‘Knobbly knees, more like,’ Lizzie retorted smartly as they genuflected and edged into a rapidly filling pew. ‘And she’s a bandy little cow!’
Valerie smiled at the memory of that Sunday morning last summer. Lizzie was always quick with a riposte. She was a brilliant friend and now she needed support in her new romance. Lizzie was convinced Phil Casey was finally ‘The One’.
‘He’s a great kisser, the best, actually,’ she’d admitted, deliriously happy after their first kiss, and Valerie had tried not to feel jealous. It was hard, though. Now it was all ‘we’ are going here, ‘we’ are going there, ‘we’ are doing this and that. Where once it was she and Lizzie who were the ‘we’, now an interloper had taken possession of her friend, her and Lizzie’s friendship was on the back burner and Valerie was lonely. She was going to feel like a real gooseberry when they went back to the pub for a drink after the match. But she hid her dismay with, to her mind, an Oscar-winning performance for fake enthusiasm.
‘OK, I’ll come. I’ll cheer Phil on for you.’ She smiled at her friend. Lizzie squealed excitedly. ‘You’re the best, Val, you’ll really enjoy it, and there are some fine things in the team. You might get off with someone.’
‘Nope, not interested. Besides, Da would have a fit if I started going with someone. You know that. There’s no point in me even thinking about dating until the Leaving is over,’ Valerie said as they reached the welcome shelter of
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