So far as the hard-core, grunt ‘n slobber faction of readers are concerned – those to whom sex is little more than an animalistic fawning and rutting between like-minded pinheads, actions which fully undermine, if not totally negate the intrinsic beauty of the female form - then this tale is not for you. There are those however with a higher awareness and it is for those readers alone that I pen this memory. It is a completely true recollection.

The year does not matter. When one is fourteen, nothing much matters except being fourteen and enjoying to the full, those opportunities that life deems worthy of your participation in, at that precise moment in time.

So it was, that fate that morning should have tossed Marion clean across the footpath right in front of me on my way to school. Not that she was overweight in any way I stress, she simply slipped on the icy footpath, sprawling face-downwards into quite deep snow. The least I could do was pick her up.

Now when one loses one’s footing, leading to the humiliation of falling over, and especially in the case of a female, this detracts totally from any sense of outer elegance, denting entirely the victim’s dignity. In falling, her legs had splayed outwards and a momentary glimpse of some light-colored material beneath the gusset of her winter stockings had worked its unavoidable retinal magic. As I hooked my arm beneath hers in an effort to pull her to her feet, she reacted as one might expect a young school-girl to, thus affronted.

“It’s OK, I’m fine thank you,” she gritted, seemingly less than grateful for my intercession.

In falling, her satchel had slipped from her shoulders and now lay upturned in the snow which itself lay feet deep, drifted up against the school chain-wire fence. Dislodged from the confines of their leather protector, books, set squares, geometry equipment and her pencil-set were now strewn around her, their final resting places identified by multiple holes in the snow. In hindsight, the scene was not unlike the Titanic wreckage field. Retrieving her possessions in near silence, it was a case of neither of us knowing really what to say.

Handing over her protractor, the last escapee, Marion half smiled.

“Thanks,” she said “Sorry I was a bit gruff just now, I was really embarrassed.” I wondered for a moment if that included my up-skirt viewing option.

“Oh, that’s alright,” I replied. “I’ve never seen you at school, what class are you in? ... I’m Noel by the way.” I added.

Shaking gloved hands she told me her name and confided that it was in fact her first day there, having transferred from Dartford Grammar. I had to suppress a grin, our soccer team having crunched the Dartford “invincibles” 5-nil the previous weekend.

It wasn’t until we actually had gotten to school and had stowed our gear in the lockers that I was privileged to catch a glimpse of the real Marion, sans her winter outer-wear, gloves, scarf and hat. It was worth the wait.

Laughably inexperienced and with all the predatory instincts of Bambi, I still could recognise a sexy young body when I saw one ... and right then, I was definitely looking at one. Slim-hipped but with curves in all the right places, those bright blue eyes looked across the hallway at me from the prettiest of heart-shaped faces. A flawless complexion and full “why-not-try-me-now?” lips certainly dropped my anchor. I think I was in love with her before recess. Judging by several other boys’ double-takes however, I certainly wasn’t going to be having this all my own way. I figured I would keep one step ahead of the herd though and asked her if she would like to see me at lunch time. I think I noticed the beginnings of a blush. At least, I like to think I did!

I couldn’t tell you what I had to eat that day but I remember with undiminished recall every last detail of that lunch period.

Marion, having been billeted to 3B (British equivalent of 9th grade) whilst I was resident in 3A meant that we were unable to sit at the same table. Didn’t stop me from looking across at her in-between mouthfuls though. I was encouraged by the fact that she was sharing her table with seven other girls however, rather than mixed company.

Now the canteen in that school was colossal. One supposes that having to cater for almost seven hundred kids in two sittings, it had to be. We’re not talking prison food either. Steaming hot Shepherd’s pie, the width of the plate with vegetables, heated rolls with cheese followed by rhubarb or apple pie with as much fresh cream as you could take on board, together with just about any soft drink you care to name – and that was a bad day. You paid nothing for it either!

I think it had been a roast chicken Tuesday. Shuffling now the remnants of my dessert around the plate, I noticed Marion about to get up. Informing the dorky sixth-form prefect at the head of our table that I had some assignment to complete, he waved me free to leave.

I already had a spot picked out.

At the northern end of one of the three enormous playgrounds, right alongside the tennis courts, sat the largest of oak trees that had probably been there when Oliver Cromwell was a lad. Around its huge base someone had thoughtfully constructed a circular seating arrangement that could probably have housed twenty children shoulder to shoulder. As it was, there was rarely ever more than half a dozen schoolkids clustered around that tree at any one time. On this day, there was no-one.

The air freezing but invigorating, I see it all now as clearly as I did that day. The great tree denuded of its leaves but with snow piled-up thickly at the confluence of its upper boughs. Icicles hanging like stalactites from the roofs of the Assembly Hall and Science block away to our left. Someone had painted the most beautiful vanilla sky also, that hung over the distant playing fields while more snow clouds were obviously building up in the east.

As Marion talked I just looked at her. I could see the gentlest of curves beneath her woollen jumper and as she moved her arms to emphasise a point once in a while, their presence would be highlighted. I tried shifting my focus of concentration but at the back of my mind was the sexual awakening I had experienced with Ruth just eighteen months earlier and I simply wanted now to see Marion undressed. I think my hands betrayed my physical unrest and how sweet was the feeling when she took them in hers as she talked. So wide was the gulf at that moment between a young girl on the very fringes of maturity and a fourteen year old schoolboy with absolutely no control of either his emotions or his dictatorial hormonal urges.

I have no idea whether the afternoon’s concluding periods included, Latin, Chemistry or French ... all I remember are successive teachers shouting out “Pay Attention Noel,” their pleas falling on majorly distracted ears.

When the final bell sounded at 4.10. p.m darkness had fallen and I walked Marion to her bus stop, pointing out on the way my own home, not so very distant. I asked if she would like to come over at the weekend maybe. Her reply of “I’ll have to ask my dad,” was all I needed to hear. Obviously she wanted to.

In contrast to the laissez-faire if not fully unhinged social dictates of the new millennium, fathers of small children and especially young girls in those days, had a keen interest in “sizing up” the family environment whenever any offer was made for a son or daughter to “come over” for a while. Before relinquishing the reins in any shape or form, at the very least, a phone call would be made to determine the family’s suitability to host their child for even the shortest of periods.

Despite passing the preliminaries, Mr Cardiff was adamant he wanted to “meet” me before granting his daughter leave to visit. Accordingly my father agreed to pick her up the following Saturday morning at which time I might be “evaluated.”

I had never been so well behaved.

At the point I heard Marion’s mother whisper to her husband “He’s such a nice boy Arthur,” I figured I was on easy street. If only she could have known some of the thoughts I was having, looking at her daughter standing there in those figure hugging jeans. More than likely Mr Cardiff already knew. He was staring at me, such as one might ponder a squashed ant.

“We want her back no later than 9 p.m. sharp, alright?” he barked. Dad assured him he would have her home on time.

I was luckier than most.

Our home, being adjacent to a huge park had meant that never in all my childhood had there ever been a shortage of options when friends came over. Every holiday the enormous fairground set-up camp just a ten-minute walk from our rear fence, straight through the forest. Miniature train rides, large well-equipped playground, tennis courts, the Mansion House with its tea-rooms and lavish museum of middle-age weaponry. in Summer, firework displays and the motor boats and skiffs on the lake. Beautiful Olde English gardens to walk through and of course the enormous public swimming center with four separate pools and a refreshment kiosk that doubled as a ball room.

Mid-winter and with the great lake frozen over, kids would spend hours ice skating. It was to this very venue that I took Marion after she had dumped her stuff in our hallway and following our ingestion of a few ham, cheese and cress sandwiches that my parents had kindly provided.

Rugged-up to the max, we could probably have made a decent assault on Everest. One of so many pairs and family groups there that afternoon, just being with her was all I wanted. She clung to my coat-sleeve as I pulled her relentlessly towards the tiny island, now ice-locked center lake, which in summer so many young couples would row out to, for a brief romantic interlude.

As my pace quickened, I unfortunately discovered that my co-ordination skills were not on a par with my directional inertia, resulting in a folding of my lower limbs and the direct placement of my rear-end on the ice. It was also brought to bear that I had no ready-made braking system to hand and was otherwise still travelling at a healthy rate of knots. Marion, in attempting to avoid my ankles, orchestrated her second collapse of the week and lying atop me now was laughing and giggling hysterically. With those wonderfully soft and pliant lips but inches from mine, I kissed her. She stopped laughing!

At the conclusion of a late supper, there was time for little more than a TV show before we had to take her home. Sitting in the back seat, I caught my father’s smile in the rear-vision mirror, as I captured one further kiss just as we negotiated Marion’s driveway. It was 9 p.m. on the dot.