Chapter 2

Abigail Gunstone was no waif like beauty. She was the kind of self-confident girl who flicked her hair regularly, stood tall, and argued with anybody she disagreed with. Her parents had done a good job with her, she would never give in to a boy, man, teacher or other person in authority just because she was a girl. She had to have reasons; if they were good, then she was reasonable. She stood five foot nine in her stockinged feet, not that she had ever worn stockings. She had a good shape to her body, neither too thin like the girls who were convinced that if they lost just another half pound then they’d be just perfect (and Joan Smith, who was still into ballet, practised every day, could out run most boys over a mile and was thin as a rake); nor too large – like Rhona, who claimed to be big-boned but was really just a big eater. Her auburn hair cascaded rather than fell; her bust rose and fell as she walked; her bottom gyrated hypnotically as she walked; she was a boy’s dream. She had had plenty of dates; but she wasn’t one to give herself to any boy for a plate of chips and a coke. She wasn’t a virgin, but she would have been by choice.

Mary Craft was a good Catholic virgin. She had dates, but they were usually to well lit places where a hand on the knee was as far up and a hand on the shoulder as far down as the hand would go. She had nearly succumbed to Mac – Seamus MacFallan – when she was leaving primary school. He was definitely destined for something great or a long prison stretch. He was lovely to look at, lovely to listen too. He had the Irish gift for words. He was three months older than her and had lusted after her newly pubescent body for a while. She had let him kiss her at the end of term party, that was all. When she opened her eyes, she could feel a hand under her skirt, pulling at her knickers. She was tempted to find out what it was all about, but too scared. Now she was pleased. She was good looking, dark haired, well-built, and embarrassed to change in the changing rooms because of her ferociously productive bush which required regular ‘hedge-trimming’ (as her sister called it). She had the freckles and green eyes that reminded everybody of her Irish ancestors.

May’s sister, Amelie was the opposite. Where Mary was dark, Amelie was blonde. Her flaxen hair was what people noticed first. She envied her sister her green eyes, and her sister envied her her blonde hair. Much smaller in the bust and hips, her mother always assured her that she would blossom later, but at fifteen it was starting to look like she was just smaller build. Five foot six to her sister’s five foot seven inches, she drew looks from boys and girls as her hair streamed behind her as she rode her bike to and from school. She did not have a ladylike stance on a bike. It was bum in the air and pedal like crazy. Whereas her sister did not take to sailing because of the activity, Amelie found it too slow. She was still waiting to see if losing her particular cherry was worth it, she wasn’t sure; certainly nobody in her class looked worth it. She did have a slightly stronger view of Rupert on that score, but nothing she couldn’t control.

Rupert, the last of the gang, was good looking too. He realised that his three girl friends (not girlfriends) probably put girls off; but no girl so far was special enough to lose his friendships. He was a wiry five foot ten inches. Not a muscle bound rugby forward, not a slow calculating cricketer; he liked active sports but more than that he liked to test himself against himself, not against others. So long weekend walks (or getting the best from a yacht in a light breeze) were as much fun as cycling down Hobinger’s Hill (which required nerves of steel – once you started, you didn’t stop until you reached the bottom unless you came off). His blue-grey eyes could vary from piercing blue to steely grey in different lights. His brown hair was unremarkable except for being slightly longer than was fashionable. That is what united the four, their lack of need to hit the popularity stakes. They wore (mostly) what they liked rather than what was fashionable. They were popular though, perhaps because they didn’t try too hard.