How a young heart really feels

I lay the blame for my rampant romanticism squarely at the feet of Matthew Hooper (aged 7.)

One day, as I was doing something Very Important in Class 3 (I suspect it was Cutting, or indeed, Sticking) I was interrupted by David Sutton. David Sutton was older than me (I was later hopelessly in love with his brother, Richard Sutton). He told me that I had to go and look in a particular book on the book table because Matthew Hooper had left a present for me.

The book table ran along the whole length of the classroom wall and overlooked the playground. I spent a lot of time there, rootling through for treasures. I loved books and read an awful lot.

I began to search. I can't remember which book it was; the fact of the present rather blocked out that particular bit of information. In any case, a popular children's book. Let's say.

So I found it. And opened it. And inside, lying lined up between the front cover and the first page were three daisies.

From Matthew Hooper.

I took them very carefully and put them in the pocket of my school dress.

On arriving home that afternoon, I filled my flask's yellow lid with water and placed them gently in it.

Then for reasons I can't explain, I put it on the windowsill of the downstairs toilet.

I don't remember ever thanking Matthew Hooper, or in fact even speaking to him. What I do remember is that thereafter and for a while, at the end of playtime when the bell rang and we all had to stand still, he would make sure he was standing next to me. And he would hold my hand.