Crow Stone. Jenni Mills

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      During Latin, Poppy passed me a note.

       We’re going shopping in town after school. Want to come?

      Yes, I wrote underneath, and passed the note back, wondering when they’d planned this.

      ‘Nonne,’ said Mr Clayton, the Latin master, pointing with the chalk to the two words he’d written on the board. ‘And num. Two different ways of introducing a question. Can anyone remember what they mean?’ There was a silence. No one raised a hand.

      ‘Surely,’ said Mr Clayton, ‘surely someone wants to take a guess?’ Surely, no one did.

      ‘Nonne means “surely”,’ he said, strolling between the rows of desks, holding his hands in a steeple as he always did to indicate deep thought. ‘In other words, it’s a question expecting the answer yes. So num …’ He stopped and looked expectantly round the class, his hands still a steeple, waggling his little fingers at us. But none of us was very interested in Latin. ‘Num introduces a question expecting the answer no. Trish, what on earth happened to your textbook? It looks as if you took it swimming with you.’

      While everyone laughed, I found myself wondering whether Poppy would have prefaced the question in her note with nonne or num. She couldn’t have known that my dad had promised me a clothes allowance. She must have been expecting me to say I wouldn’t go.

      Well, too bad. I didn’t have the money yet, but I could choose what I’d buy. I looked at Poppy, with her fuse-wire plaits, her neat, freckled face. She gave me a quick grin and a thumbs-up. I wasn’t fooled.

      I had been in Top Shop before, by myself, but it was different today, knowing I would soon have money to spend. I took my time. Disco Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes thudded in the background. There was so much: rail after rail. I let my hand stroke the slipperiness of a satin halter-neck top. I had to have a pair of those wide trousers with turn-ups. And I’d surely look good in one of those peasant blouses? Nonne?

      Somehow I had accumulated a pile so huge I kept tripping over the trailing skirts as I made for the changing rooms.

      ‘No more than five,’ said the assistant. She had big panda eyes circled with glittery black shadow, and was chewing gum. I began to untangle my armful of clothes, trying to decide which ones to take in, which ones to leave outside.

      The curtain of the communal changing area whipped back. Poppy and Trish came out. Trish thrust her bundle of clothes, all inside out and crumpled, at the assistant. ‘Naff,’ she said. ‘Cheap and nasty, the lot. C’mon, let’s try and find somewhere they sell better stuff.’

      I gave my armful to the assistant, trying to convey that I, too, had suddenly noticed the shoddiness of the material and the crooked stitching. It must be very sad, I thought, having to work in a shop where the clothes were so poorly made, and as I handed them over I mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

      She ignored me, chewing her gum and staring straight over the top of my head. I hurried after Trish and Poppy.

      ‘Tell you what,’ said Trish, when we were out in the street again, ‘let’s go and try on bras. I need a new one.’

      ‘Marks & Spencer’s is at the other end of town,’ Poppy objected.

      Trish gave her a withering look. ‘You don’t buy your bras at Marks, do you? Mum takes me to Jolly’s.’

      ‘Well, so-rree,’ said Poppy. ‘Pardon me for naffness.’

      ‘There’s a much bigger range,’ said Trish, reddening.

      ‘And much bigger prices.’

      ‘Your mum can afford it, can’t she?’

      Poppy shot a glance at me. ‘M & S is better value,’ she insisted. ‘They’ve got some really pretty ones too.’

      ‘Jolly’s is nearer.’

      Poppy gave in, flicking another glance at me.

      I was about to set foot on the white and gilt staircase in Jolly’s that led to the upper floor when Trish caught my arm. ‘Not that way. Lingerie’s on the ground floor.’

      Lingerie. I had never felt the word in my mouth, languid and foreign and erotic. I said it quietly to myself, under my breath, elongating the jjjhhh sound as I followed Trish and Poppy through the department store. I wore pants–that was what my dad called them, his voice pushing out the word so briskly and dismissively I knew he was embarrassed by it. The airing cupboard’s full of your pants, Katie, can’t you put them away? Or drawers, that was what Mrs Owen said. Get them drawers hung out on the line, Katie, to let a bit of fresh air into them. But here they were ‘briefs’. It said so on the price tags. A simple, discreet, elegant word. Something slipped on by lady lawyers with long shapely legs in sheer black stockings. Or loose and silky, like 1930s film stars wore, when they were called ‘French knickers’.

      What would it feel like to wear those? I imagined they would be cool and slithery. You would feel deliciously naked as their wide legs wafted fresh air towards your secret bits. I wouldn’t dare go out in them, I thought. It would be like going out with no pants at all.

      Trish and Poppy were by the bras. Poppy was looning about putting one of the bigger sizes on her head like a cap. The sales assistant, formidably bosomed herself, shot us a disapproving look, and Poppy hastily put the bra back.

      ‘What’ve you got?’ asked Trish, not looking up. The bras rattled on their plastic hangers as she riffled through them.

      ‘Nothing yet,’ I said. ‘I can’t see anything in my size.’

      ‘What size are you looking for?’ asked Poppy, waving a froth of coffee-coloured lace at me. ‘This one’s really pretty.’

      ‘I usually get thirty-two A.’ Usually? I had one bra, and I only wore it on special occasions. It was plain white cotton and it had come from the starter-bra section at Marks & Spencer.

      ‘Poppy,’ said Trish, from behind another rack, ‘can you see anything decent in a thirty-four C?’

      C? Trish was a C-cup? I tried to get a glimpse of her chest through the rows of bras. She couldn’t have grown that much, could she, in the week since we’d last crowded into the changing rooms at school to strip off for a swimming lesson? Surely–num–she wasn’t that much bigger than me?

      Trish emerged from behind the rail, holding three or four black ones, and a really racy plunge bra in scarlet. ‘Come on. They’re going to close in ten minutes.’ She disappeared into the fitting room, closely followed by Poppy carrying the coffee-coloured lace and another in pink.

      I snatched off the rail the first two bras that came to hand, and dashed after them to the fitting room. But this wasn’t like the communal changing rooms in Miss Selfridge and Top Shop. There was a row of slatted wooden doors, like in a Western. I could see Poppy and Trish’s legs beneath one, and started to push my way in.

      ‘Hey,’ said Trish. I caught a glimpse of her breast, a luminous white arc tipped with pink. ‘No room. We can’t all three get in. Find your own.’

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