He had a letter in his hand. I went weak at the knees, dropped the books and picked them up again while the head spoke to the form master. The boys in the front row turned to look at me, blushing bright red at the back, because they heard my name being whispered. Eventually the headmaster called me over, and by way of subtle punishment without giving the others any wrong ideas, or so he thought, he congratulated me for having written a letter of twelve lines without any mistakes. He asked if I had written it by myself, and then invited me to come to his study. We never got there. He took me to task in the school yard, in a sudden tirade. What most offended my sense of moral decency was that he judged it just as serious to have stolen a piece of writing paper as to have compromised the young girl (whose parents had passed on my declaration to him). He threatened to send it to my father. I begged him not to. He relented, but said he would keep the letter, and at the first re-offence would no longer be able to keep quiet about my bad behaviour.

This combination of insolence and diffidence disturbed my parents, confused them, in the same way that my apparent ability at school, which in reality was laziness, made people think that I was a good pupil.

I went back to class. In an ironic tone the master called me Don Juan. I was hugely flattered, especially since he had mentioned the title of a book that I was familiar with and my classmates weren’t. His “Hello Don Juan” and my knowing smile transformed the class’s view of me. Perhaps they already knew that I had got a boy from one of the lower forms to take a letter to a ‘girl’, as they were known in rough schoolboy parlance. The boy was called Messager; I hadn’t chosen him for his name, but it had made me feel confident all the same.

At one o’clock I had begged the headmaster not to say anything to my father; by four I was dying to tell him all about it. There was nothing that compelled me to. I put my confession down to candour. Because actually, knowing my father wouldn’t be annoyed, I was delighted that he should learn of my exploit.

So I confessed, adding proudly that the headmaster had promised me total discretion (as if to a grown-up). My father wondered if I hadn’t concocted the entire romance from start to finish. He went to see the headmaster. During the course of their conversation he mentioned, in an offhand way, what he took to be a practical joke. “What?” said the headmaster, surprised and annoyed. “He told you that? He begged me to not to tell you, saying that you would murder him.”

This lie by the headmaster excused him; it added to my feelings of manly exhilaration. It earned me the instant respect of the class and winks from the form master. The headmaster hid his ill feelings. Yet the poor man didn’t know what I knew: shocked by his behaviour, my father had decided to let me finish the academic year and then take me away from the school. It was the beginning of June. Not wishing this to have any bearing on my prizes, my laurels, my mother kept quiet about it until after prize-giving. Come the day, as a result of unfairness on the headmaster’s part, who in his confusion feared the consequences of his lie, alone out of my class I received the major prize, which brought with it the award for most outstanding pupil.