6. Alone

A normal Thursday afternoon, my head still full of geography from the last lesson of the day, and as I put the key in the lock, I was switching from schoolgirl to housewife modes, wondering what I would cook for our supper.

It wasn�t all that unusual for my Father not to be there, although since he had still not found a proper new job, he usually tended to be slumped in an armchair, watching TV, when I got home. So I made our meal as usual and plated his up to warm up under the grill later. By ten, I was a little miffed at the likelihood that I would have to throw away and waste his meal, and by midnight, I had waited up long enough and went to bed.

There were no signs that he had come home by the next morning -no pair of shoes kicked into the corner of the hall or smell of stale cigarette smoke lingering in the living room. I tapped gently on his door and confirmed his bed had not been slept in.

I tried to forget about it at school, but when I came home that evening to find it precisely as I had left it, my first feelings of unease set in. OK, so he wasn�t the most attentive of parents, but despite his deepening depression and his over-indulgence with alcohol, he was still a cultured, highly intelligent and well-mannered man and it was so unexpected that he should impolitely have left no note, or sent a message or something, to let me know what was going on. By Sunday night, after I had waited in all weekend, feeding on my own anxiety, I was very worried indeed.

But what could I do? I knew so little about him really. And who would be able to help anyway? So I did nothing; pretended everything was normal.

Throughout the following week, lessons were a blur; I sat in class and worked mechanically, and hid in the lavs at lunchtime. The housekeeping fund was too low to pay for lunches that week, for he hadn�t left me any of his dole money. Each evening I would hurry home and fling open the door, hoping to see my Father dozing in his chair by the television.

By the next weekend, I knew I had to do something. I didn�t know what, but as a start, I finally dared to go through his room. I felt so guilty, afraid he would walk in at any moment and catch me and thrash me senseless. His wardrobe was almost empty. It smelt of him, of stale smoke and old shoes. Likewise his drawers. And I remembered to look upwards and his old but expensive suitcases weren't where he kept them. I stripped his bed as usual and replaced the sheets: at least the room would be nice for him when he did return. His washbag had gone. But there was still no note anywhere.

After I had made the bed, I opened a towel over the quilt and emptied the remaining contents of his drawers on to it. Under the bed were a pair of battered cardboard shoe boxes. There were some box files stacked in the corner. I picked my way through the lot.

It was like an archaeological dig, with small clues and layers of history that revealed a frustratingly incomplete account of my Father�s change in fortunes. I think he had burned most of the rest of his papers before we left Mill Hill. These were therefore the few things he had wanted to retain, so they had to be special. I made two piles, to sort things out: Pile A - Admin, on which went anything I could find to do with the practicalities of our life -bank statements, my NHS card and birth certificate and big black passport; Pile B - Personal - hand-written envelopes with his name on, a broken watch (heavy and engraved), an empty Zippo lighter and a leather pouch marked 'collar studs'.

The shoe boxes intrigued me. The first contained all that he had decided to keep from Hong Kong. A handful of black and white photographs, which I hadn't ever seen before, of my Father as a handsome young man, in crisp white shorts against a backdrop of the harbour. Another with him wearing a dress kilt and sporran and dagger down his sock, with lots of beaming young men in sharply-pressed army or navy dress uniforms. And a small, well-thumbed snapshot of my Mother in a stunning embroidered silk blouse, looking so young and happy, smiling broadly at the camera. Despite myself, my eyes watered. There were a few snaps with me in - as a baby in my Mother's proud arms; one which made me giggle, all puppy fat and school blazer, not long after I had started at infant school; a Sunday School group photo; and another that brought back a distant happy memory, sitting astride a pony in the New Territories, that had been taken by Nancy Lu's Dad. There were some embossed invitation cards, an old business card of his with his impressive-sounding job, a Jockey Club race card covered in excited red hieroglyphics, a pack of playing cards from a Macao casino. All manner of bloody cards. Just random mementoes, but he had clearly felt strongly enough about them to bring them to this awful flat. I wondered if he ever looked at them and if so, how he felt, comparing that charmed life then with the one he now had. What had gone so wrong?

It was the other box that was the shocker. I'm not sure that at the time I properly understood what it meant. Now I can make sense of it: in fact the explanation is obvious, but to a fifteen-year-old with a relatively sheltered upbringing, it must have been quite bizarre.

My Father was gay.

The box contained confirmation. An explanation of something that I had never before been able to fathom. Why he had never been able to love me as I had wanted and why he was so distant and secretive. Maybe even why he would beat and humiliate me? There was a clutch of queer porno pictures that repelled me and a paperback book, and some contact cards for rent boys. Pages torn from an old diary, with names and phone numbers. And a bundle of intimate letters that I skimmed until I had seen enough to want to burn them immediately. Several different signatures, different handwriting, and they spanned my whole lifetime. Man�s writing, male names. Innuendo and smut. I replaced the lid and put the box back under the bed, so that I didn't have to see it.

I ran to the bathroom and threw up my lunch. I had no experience of male homosexuality and no opinion either, but it was the realisation of my Father�s secret life that knocked me for six. That I myself fancied girls rather than boys didn�t even seem relevant.

My Father. All that time. Did my Mother know?

That evening, recovered, I diligently worked my way through the remaining paperwork, listing what I needed to do, as acting head of the household, to make things continue as before.

There was no cash. As far as I could tell from the last statement, his bank account was near enough empty. My hopes had been raised when I discovered a jewellery box, my Mother's I supposed - it seemed spookily familiar, but it was empty, save for a stud from an ear-ring. There were depressing letters stuffed at the back of the wardrobe, from banks and other companies, each opened and put back in its envelope. All seemed to mention 'insufficient funds' or to deny 'any further extension to your line of credit'. I arranged them in date order. My stomach churned again � they went back to our time in Mill Hill, no, wait: I recognised our Kowloon address. My Father had had money troubles back then too.

I searched in vain for anything that might have revealed a clue as to where he might have gone. I hoped to find the address of some never-mentioned relative, however distant. Zilch. By the end of the night, I had never felt so alone.

In my heart of hearts, I just knew he wouldn�t be coming back.

At that moment, how I resented being denied a proper, extended family. For if I was ever to need support it was now. But I had absolutely no way of knowing if there was anyone, let alone how to contact them. I had my (real) surname of course, and knew that my Father had originally come from somewhere in the north-east of Scotland. No - it wasn�t worth even thinking about trying to find anyone, with such inadequate and vague clues. I had only been in Britain three years too, and I was still very unsure how everything worked - who did what in officialdom. Neighbours? My father�s associates? I dismissed the notion - Maz�s family were the only responsible adults I knew on the estate and they had long since left for somewhere North and I knew only a couple of my Father�s friends by sight but not name. He would obviously not have wanted to introduce me to any of his other �friends�.

I tried to imagine what would happen if I tried to ask for official help, maybe from the police or school or the council. Each time, the scenario resolved into my being �taken into care� - perhaps moved away out of London, or perhaps made to leave school. Care meant some children�s home and I had unpleasant flashbacks to the bullying at boarding school. I couldn�t face that: I would lose what home I had. And then what if my Father did eventually come back - where would he stay? No: I had to be here just in case. To maintain a home for us both. Just in case. Anything else was not a viable option. I had no plan, but I had at least made my first big, adult decision.

By Monday morning, I had a new resolve.

I had spent 24 hours feeling inconsolably sorry for myself and now it was time to move on. Quite simply, useless little Penny Lee would just have to make it on her own. Things had to be done, I had practicalities to address.

It felt strange, sitting in lessons, knowing that at the end of the day, all the others would go home to whatever family they had, whereas I would return to an empty flat in that ghastly block, and have a sandwich and do my homework and go to bed, all on my own. Yet nobody must ever find out the truth.

At least the pressure of imminent �O� Level exams kept me busy. I just put on a breezy shell of normality when I went out the door. No problem. I took the broken watch to a jeweller up the High Road, who sucked his teeth and shook his head, but I could see the gleam in his eye and I refused to be ripped off and came out with enough cash to buy food for a fortnight. This might work, I dared to hope.

Until the housing association sent a final demand for the rent. Three months in arrears: an amount I had no idea how to pay. A small fortune.

I thought of little else for a couple of days. My mind was still occupied as I was walking home, and I didn't think twice about the car that had slowed to a crawl alongside me.

"Need a lift?" leered the greasy arsehole behind the wheel. It wasn't the first time, by any means. Dirty old pervs often did it to girls from our school. I stopped. Looked him straight in the eye and told him very forcefully to fuck off. I rarely swore, so I suspect he could tell just how very cross I was. He sneered and roared away. But though my heart was pounding and I was scared and angry long after he had driven off, a dreadful nagging idea had formed in my mind, and try as I might, it kept returning. Every time I thought about that housing association letter.

The area to the South of our estate was notorious for it. In the maze of narrow streets and arches behind the big railway stations, it was common to see hookers hanging around on the corners of the street. So normally, you didn't really pay much attention.

That awful idea had to be investigated. So I put on my coat and went out to walk the streets, to see what went on when the dirty old men�s cars stopped and a girl approached. It was daunting -those streets were usually to be avoided, with their sleazy shops and groups of intimidating men hanging around. I lurked as inconspicuously as I could, avoiding eye contact with anyone and hurrying from lamppost to lamppost, to stay in the light. I saw cars come and go, and the women in the short denim skirts getting in and out. I listened to the women�s catcalls, watched them huddling to share a match and catch a welcome drag between cars. I was quite horrified. The idea I had had was a non-starter: there was no way whatsoever I could do that sort of thing, even though it would mean getting the money I needed. Miserably, I started to walk home. I wasn't quite sure what I had expected to learn when I set out, but I was sure that no matter how desperate I was, I could never join these brassy, savvy women and do what they did.

And besides, what if a man did actually proposition me? What happened then? Where did you go to do it? In fact, what was 'it'? All that time ago in Kowloon, I had just wanked the Lam brothers, but they were only lads. Yes, their father had fucked me and sodomised me for months, so I knew quite a lot about that part of it - is that what men expected to do to a woman in exchange for their money? What about sucking a dick? Ugh! I hated the idea of that. And with strangers? Good God, no!

I was ambling back, head down, feeling so miserable at my own ignorance and angrily ashamed that I had even considered such a terrible thing as selling my body, when I heard the shuffle of feet close by and I looked around, startled. Down an alley, a girl was crouching before a man, who was leaning back against the wall. Quickly, I darted back around the corner, then peered back. I watched her, how she used her mouth on him, then hoisted her skirt, yanked down her tights and swapped places, so that he was screwing her against the wall. It was over very quickly. There was no kissing. Just a brief, hard rut, with a bit of groaning. The man pulled off a condom and tossed it over a wall. He said a couple of words, they laughed and the deed was done. I pressed into the shadows as he sauntered past. The woman wiped between her legs, and pulled up her knickers, deftly lighting a cigarette at the same time, with her other hand. I admired her dexterity.

So that was how to do it. Quick, no emotion - just some mechanical actions until the man finished. I thought long and hard. I suppose I could do that. I didn't want to, but yes, I suppose I could.

The next night I went out again after I had finished my homework. I needed to find out more, in case I had got it all wrong. I found parked cars rocking in unlit corners. I watched another tart giving a blow job in a doorway until I was spotted and the man yelled at me. I noted where it all happened and marked up on my tattered copy of the London A-Z gazetteer. I saw which way the cars came and went. And had a piece of inspiration.

I could not imagine competing with these women. I suspected that they would not appreciate my being there. But if I somehow positioned myself further along the routes taken by the cruising men, might I be noticed?

That was how I decided on my own pitch. I had to try it - the only idea I�d yet come up with. I felt sick.

It was another two evenings before I turned my first trick. Twice I had psyched myself up to do it. Twice I had dressed sexily, or at least what I thought would be sexily, using mainly clothes I had actually outgrown! And twice I had chickened out the first time a kerb crawler had pulled up and I had run home in panic. Panting, angry, fit to scream, I sat in the kitchen and gripped the table, castigating myself under my breath. For motivation, I tried taunting myself, reminding the stupid little girl inside my head that it wasn�t as if she were some timid wee virgin - for her being fucked was nothing special. That was all she had ever been good for, wasn�t it, the dirty little bitch. I told her she had been a tart once before and the only difference was that this time she was expecting to be paid for letting a man stick his cock inside her. Stop being so precious, you little slag - just get on with it. I heeded my own taunts.

So I went back out. And it wasn't long before the skinny young girl hanging around on the kerb attracted her first customer. Indian. Fat. Impatient.

From my reconnaissance, I more or less knew the form by now, even the correct parlance. When he wound down his window, I blurted out my tariff, like I�d heard the King�s Cross toms do it. He looked at me and laughed and replied, "Don�t be fucking stupid. Ten for a hand job, kid. I'm in a hurry."

And that's what he got, parked round the corner. He didn't even bother to move from behind the steering wheel. I had had the presence of mind to stuff a handful of tissues in my coat pocket. I tried to keep smiling sweetly and he stroked my hair as I brought him off. There was a moment of panic when I was at a loss what to do with the sticky tissues, but I grabbed the money and ran. But this time it wasn't home: I sat in a shop doorway until I had stopped shaking. I looked at my own reflection in the shop door and could hardly believe that the girl I saw had just done that.

And then I went back out.

This one fucked me properly on an itchy blanket in the back of his estate car. Or rather, expected me to fuck him. I'd not done anything like that with Jin - he had always made me lie there whilst he ground away inside me. Whereas this man wanted me to do the moving. I improvised. He kept on asking me how old I was. �Seventeen�, I replied. He didn't believe me, but that didn't prevent him describing in detail how I should take off my pants and straddle him, bent low, with my head brushing against the roof lining. I handed him a condom (another trauma, buying the packet a few days earlier in a local chemist). He wanted me to rub my pussy up and down him until he was hard and then I awkwardly grasped his thing and lowered myself down on to it. I was barely wet and it hurt. I didn't remember it being like that when I was a kid, but Jin had used a jelly. Cold comfort.

As his mouth streamed obscenities that were making me quite scared, I arched and flexed my back, repeating any twitch and squeeze that earned a moan of approval. His hands were up under my blouse, pushing my little bra aside and kneading my scrawny tits. His fingers dug in when he came and I yelped. I remember trying to look on the bright side - that so long as I was on top, I could control the action, get my body used to it at my own pace, not let it get too deep inside me. When he handed over his twenty pounds, he smirked.

"Don't undersell yourself, darling - usually costs me at least thirty!"

I felt stupid, but wasn't going to show it.

"OK, it'll cost you forty next time," I retorted, surprising myself with such brass.

But that's what he paid the following week. And up front too. I'd learned to demand cash in advance the hard way, the time I pulled up my pants and watched helplessly as the bastard who had just had me in the back of his van put his foot down and took off without paying. Even though I had by then done it a half a dozen or more times, I was not yet a hardened professional and I sobbed all the way home, so angry at my stupidity.

But as I worked my little patch, I also took my first step into marketing. The traditional schooling I had received in Kowloon paid dividends: I could handle a needle and cotton, and with a bit of ingenuity, I converted an old dress that I must have had when I was twelve or thirteen. By unpicking the seams at the hip, letting out as much as I could, then re-sewing, I fashioned a peculiar yet effective outfit, that showed off my long legs and made the most of my small bum. Underneath it, I squeezed into my smallest, tightest pants � comfort wasn�t a luxury I could afford. And my own innovation: a small pot of Vaseline inside my coat, for applying a surreptitious smear between my legs at the critical moment. That just left the bust. I�ve never been blessed with much in that department, and at fifteen I was still pretty flat. I could hardly resort to stuffing tissues into my brassiere � that really would have impressed a pick-up, if he fancied a fumble of my tits. I was rather proud of the solution. I took an old, soft lawn handkerchief of my Father�s and created a lining inside my largest bra, tacking it carefully so that it remained concealed, and then I made a pair of thin pads from cotton wool, that fitted snugly in the two �pockets�. Result � a gain of almost two inches, if I held my shoulders back. With a touch of the eye shadow and lipstick I�d pinched from an open duffel bag in the school changing rooms, I reckoned I could easily pass for eighteen, certainly under the orange tint of the streetlamps. Even if I was only imagining that my ruse worked, I still found no shortage of clients.

I managed to keep it up for eight of the next ten nights. One or two a night. Admittedly, sometimes it took few hours for someone to stop and pick me up, which had me yawning constantly through the next morning's lessons.

I survived. Not just that � I was a damned successful trainee whore.

I made over four hundred and fifty quid. Enough to pay off the backlog of rent. I learned how to insist on my price and not be beaten down, and to turn away if a punter didn't give off the right vibes. The sums spoke for themselves. If I kept on doing it once or twice a week, I could scrape through to the end of term, with luck. So what if I felt dirty and used? Big fucking deal. I could always take a bath. And as for feeling used? Get real, Penny: you�ve been a slut since the age of ten. What was new?

In retrospect I was of course so very lucky. Christ knows what could have happened if I had been picked up by a dodgy punter, or some perv who got off on hurting girls.

That said, each time I went out, I was shaking with nerves. My head was a whirl of conflicting emotions. Shame mostly, even more than worrying about my personal safety. But how else was I going to keep up the pretence of a stable home life? And stay at school and finish my exams? Or eat?

Little Miss Organised, I was. I wrote it all down. Went through the heaps of paper in the sideboard over and over, making a calendar of things to pay - rent, electricity, gas. I didn't know what to expect, but I understood that 'Final notice' and red ink were serious. I didn't know how to pay them at first - I had some money now but I didn't have a bank account. I had found a cheque book of my Father's, but he hadn't used it for months, so I didn't dare use it in case it went wrong, even though I could make a passable representation of his signature - after all, I'd been doing it for ages on school reports and forms.

Converting the little roll of notes into postal orders at the Post Office seemed to circumvent that problem. There! I was sorted. I could send money to these people whom we owed. I was independent. This plan was going to work.

What a weird image I have of myself then, which I suppose must be accurate. Still fifteen, huddled over the kitchen table, cramming for my exams each evening, then closing my books, donning my homemade slag kit and creeping out to roam the streets until I'd got some dosh tucked inside my sock.

When I was arrested, I thought my world had imploded.

Having my collar felt eventually was inevitable, of course. I had so little idea of what I was doing, and wasn't exactly subtle with it, hitching my skirt up a few inches and walking slowly up and down the street, looking for business. The bobby who pulled up behind me was nice enough. I was so dumb that I didn�t think to keep an eye out and I was picked up by two uniformed cops in a panda car. There was no point in protesting - it was obvious what I was doing. I was ordered to get in the back of the car and was taken to the local nick. All very professional; businesslike.

During that short ride, I began to cry. I could foresee the chain of events that would follow. Random thoughts, all of them bad. I would be put on trial and everyone would find out. School would find out. All the teachers and classmates. Knowing that I let men fuck me for money. Taunts in the corridor and boys constantly expecting me to be an easy lay. Friends turning their backs. Murmuring behind my back. And I'd have a criminal record and never be able to get a job. People would know that I was living on my own and I'd be taken into council care and sent to a home. Probably have to change schools after all. And have to put up with social workers prying into my business. A big fine. I couldn't pay that. This was it. Stupid, useless Penny screws up again.

I was put in a dingy interview room with a desk and two hard plastic chairs. They let me stew for about an hour. Over and over, I worked out excuses and strategies, but it always came down to one thing - my attempt at going it alone was over. I had fucked up big time and was about to see my life fall apart. The truth would out.

Another policeman came in and filled in a form. Big man, shirtsleeves and stale cigarette smoke. I was expecting a lecture, some outraged rant about what a terrible thing I had been caught doing. He was older then the chirpy pair in the car, unsmiling with an aura of bad temper. He looked me over and I felt a little shiver, sitting there in my tiny skirt with my parka pulled tight around me. What did he see? A pathetic little half-caste tart? A frightened teenage girl - victim of circumstance? A vulnerable candidate for exploitation, who would give him a quickie just to be released? I was so far out of my depth. I would be whatever he wanted me to be, go along with it.

I stepped down the steps of the police station, reeling. It was so matter-of-fact. Maybe in the early hours of the morning, the policeman had just wanted to get it done. He could have been as exhausted as me. But whatever, he hadn't thrown a wobbly when I gave him my date of birth - I�m sure he didn�t realise I was underage. He just wrote everything down and made me sign. I'd received a formal Caution under the Street Offences Act 1959. A 'prostitute's caution'. The bored cop had told me that was all there was to it. No charge, no magistrate's court appearance. But if I was caught twice more, I'd be fined.

That was not going to happen. I'd no idea what the implications of this caution were, but I was determined not to get caught again. I still needed the money, though: I had to get streetwise.

Which became painfully apparent shortly afterwards.

It was my penultimate GCE exam - Maths I think. I had a two day gap before the final one and so far, touch wood, I thought they'd gone OK. I'd stayed off the streets for two weeks since being busted and my housekeeping tin was almost empty. Cautiously, I ventured out that evening.

With not a little relief, I spotted a familiar car. I'd given the driver a blow job three times already and he used to give me an extra fiver in exchange for my knickers. Liked me to spit his cum into them and then he�s stuff them in his suit pocket. Weird man, but business was business. He was a salesman, I think - the back of his car was always too full of boxes and so we had to drive round until we found somewhere quiet, and I'd do the necessary next to the car. I finished and shoved his money into my sock. He offered to drive me back but I knew where I was, and reckoned I could get home in ten minutes.

He'd no sooner driven off, when two big men in leather jackets appeared beside me. My arms were pinned against me and they not so much dragged as lifted me up and carried me. Round a corner. To a big black car with tinted windows. Just like in the movies. I began to yell and my head snapped back with the force of the smack to the side of my face.

I was bundled in the back and the men climbed in either side. The inside of the car was thick with fag smoke - the driver stubbed it out and pulled away. Long black curly hair. Dreadlocks maybe. My face was throbbing and I was trembling. The grip on my arms relaxed. I hardly dared look at my captors.

"What the fuck you up to, cunt?" grunted the one on the right. Late twenties, skinhead. I was too scared to speak.

A hand clasped my thigh and slid my skirt up. Instinctively, I grabbed it and the man on my left snatched my wrist and bent it up painfully.

The first man spoke again.

"Wha's your name then?"

"P-Penny," I replied weakly. With my wrist gripped painfully hard, the one to my left had free access to my crotch.

"The little bitch ain't wearing any panties!" he chortled with surprise. "Fuckin' little slag."

The skinhead leaned close. His breath was sickly sweet with booze. I wondered if I was going to be killed.

"Well, Penny," he said deliberately, "This is our manor. And we don't like fuckin' whores dirtyin' it up without our say so. And you didn't ask us did ya?"

"I, I'm sorry. I won't do it again..."

"Too fuckin' right darlin'. Now tell me, whose bitch are you?"

"I don't understand," I replied, genuinely having no idea what he meant.

I leapt off the seat. The other man was actually pinching one of my labia.

"Ere, Pete, she ain't got no hair down there neither," he sniggered. "How old are you, darlin'?"

I swung round. This was no time to tough it out.

"Fifteen. Please stop that!"

His face curled into a cruel smile. He was younger, his face pocked with acne scars. "Oh, very posh. Please stop that" he mimicked. My tried to wriggle away, but his finger rasped up into me. I squeaked.

The older one reached out and snapped my chin round so that I was looking at him. There was a sharp sting where my cheek was swelling.

"I asked you who runs you, girl," he growled.

I began to comprehend.

"No-one. I don't do this much. I just need a bit of money," I blurted.

The men exchanged grins. Skinhead's lips pursed and wriggled as he considered my response. He checked his watch, looked me very coldly in the eye and spoke deliberately.

"You are one lucky little slag, Penny. If I didn't have to be somewhere, I'd have to give you a proper slap."

His face was hard and terrifying, illuminated by the regular glare of the passing street lamps. I had no idea where we were or where we were going. I needed to wee.

He tapped the driver's shoulder and the car drew to a halt.

Skinhead moved very close. He put his hand on my left breast and squeezed it hard. His lips were right against my ear.

"Do yourself a favour. Get out of it while you still can, or else you'll end up working for a nice man like me. Understand?"

I nodded emphatically.

"And if I ever see you on our patch again, my associate here will slice your cute little face to shreds. OK?"

Suddenly I was lying on the cold pavement and my grazed knee was bleeding and I watched the tail lights disappearing down the road. My crotch felt warm then wet. A dark stain was snaking across the paving slab to the gutter. I had wet myself. Just like in the toolshed with Jin.

It was a measure of my new priorities that my first reaction was not shock, or fear - I checked that the pair of tenners was still in my sock. And then I crumpled into a snivelling ball on the dirty pavement.

I was somewhere to the East of the City and using the beacon of the Post Office Tower to guide me, I limped home, constantly fighting the tears, staring wildly at cars passing by. The damp cloth of my skirt clung to my thighs and disgusted me. Finding home took an hour and a half.

How I found the strength to sit that last exam I don't know. I ran all the way to school and ran straight back afterwards. Everyone kept asking about my black eye. I pretended I'd opened a cupboard door on it. All the others gathered afterwards, to sit in the sunshine and drink smuggled bottles of cider down by the Regents Canal, celebrating the end of the exams. I was home by then, with the door locked and bolted and chained.

I longed to have Maz there with me, but she was long gone. I wanted my Father. I missed my Mother.

There was one more compulsory school day left, which I attended, but I hardly left the flat for two weeks. I missed the rent payment. Goodness knows how, but I caught a summer cold and rarely left my bed. Until the ache in my belly forced me. My stock of stale white bread and sardines was exhausted and there was nothing edible left in the kitchen.

I saw the postcards in the newsagent's window and placed my own advertisement. Selling off the furniture from my Father's bedroom kept me fed until July, but I spent all day every day inside the flat, still nervously starting with every bang and crash on the outside landing. I spent my sixteenth birthday alone, although I allowed myself a cream eclair from the �open all hours� as a treat to myself. I don�t think I actually enjoyed eating it - the symbolism was far more important.

That cake marked a minor turning point, though. I caught a glimpse of my face in the hall mirror: a glob of cream on the end of my nose and for the first time since, well I couldn't remember, I laughed. Then I thought, 'for Christ's sake, snap out of it'. And so I did. Fuck those bastards. I wasn't scared any more.

Not so much, anyway.

Just two more years of this, was all I had to manage. If I could bear it. I simply had to stay on at school, get 'A' levels, to have a chance of a life afterwards. Sure, I could have tried to find a job instead, but that was not an appealing prospect. What sort of a job could I get at that age - unqualified and inexperienced? Nothing that would pay the rent and bills. Not here in London. Aged sixteen and useless. True enough, I had actually just found some conventional casual work, thanks again to the postcard adverts, but I'd also been to the Job Centre, and seen from the few vacancies on offer that my prospects were pretty hopeless. There weren't many proper jobs that didn't want qualifications and experience and most specified over 18. I didn't even think about seeing if I could claim state benefit - I wouldn't have known where to begin and I feared the questions I might be asked.

No. I needed to finish my schooling, whatever it cost. That was my goal and my GCE results reinforced the decision.

For over half the holidays I had been waiting for results day, with an increasing feeling of gloom. The results would be posted in the window of the school gym but it was mid-afternoon before I forced myself to trek over to see them. A lad from my class was coming out of the gate. He was happy. He called me 'swot' and laughed. I found my name, half way down the list. I had passed all nine, seven with grade 1 or 2. Almost the best results in the Year. Even a grade 2 for the exam I had sat after being roughed up by the men in the car. I was chuffed to bits. I had to get those A levels now.

I remember sitting out on the outside balcony very late that hot August night, enjoying the cool breeze and still on a high from my results. I was wearing some nasty, sticky nylon overall dress, for I'd found some work as a shift washer-up in a big hotel along the Euston Road and was now spending weekday evenings and weekend mornings bent over a stinking sink in a stifling hot basement, up to my arms in hot, greasy water. It was a lovely clear night and I watched the navigation lights of the big jets, sweeping in from the North and turning over the City in their approach to Heathrow. And I saw my way out. Only three weeks past sixteen, but at that moment I knew precisely where my destiny lay. On one of those planes. I was going to be an air stewardess.

That vision spurred me on. Hardly a day would pass when on the way home from Sixth Form, or out on the street, I would gaze up and imagine myself in one those birds, smiling and serving cocktails to grateful businessmen, wearing a tailored uniform, my scraggy hair expensively coiffured, elegantly parading up and down the aisle and dispensing smiling, professional courtesy to my appreciative passengers.

I searched the careers library for details, and was delighted to learn that applicants were accepted with 'A' levels, minimum age 18. That would be me. Just two years on.

It became a fantasy. Some evenings (it embarrasses me to remember this), I would dig out my old Guide uniform and prance around the empty flat in it, practising my elegant walk - toes in line, just a cheeky little wiggle in the hips. I spent some of my precious funds on some lippy and mascara and taught myself how to use it to put on a few years. Once I shoplifted some powder or something from Boots, but spent so long worrying about being caught, I never tried it again. I think it was because makeup was so expensive, I became used to being sparing with it, for I honestly can't recall falling into the teenage trap of piling it on thick. Just enough to make my funny eyes look vaguely sexy, and to even up my lop-sided lips. I let my hair grow, which was just as well, as my clumsy attacks with the kitchen scissors every month had given me a bit of a street-urchin appearance and did nothing to hide my horrid ears.

Now all I had to do was get qualified, and get older. That I would still have to be interviewed and pass selection never entered my mind.

When I was idling about in the public library, killing time to avoid having to go home, I happened upon a poster from the Salvation Army, which mentioned their Missing Persons Service. I can remember stepping back and feeling very excited. Could they find my Father? It wouldn�t be like going to the Police, with whom I really couldn�t afford any further contact. The next day I took a small bag of papers and splashed out on taking the bus South of the river, to register. Returning later, deflated, I was at least more settled, better informed and sure I had done the right thing. I had made the effort, which was the right thing. The busy but kindly lady who had taken all the details had been frank to the point of almost convincing me he might never be traced. But she had said �never lose hope� and I promised that I wouldn�t. I was especially grateful for the way she tactfully avoided asking any questions about my own situation, once she noticed me clamming up.

For a long time, I had a reason for checking the mat for post each morning, but nothing ever came.

The hotel job was awful, but it gave me some income. Cash in hand. Enough to eat and buy a few bits of school uniform second hand from the school shop, when the previous blouse had become just too tight round my bust, or the elbow of the jumper was too thin to darn any more. But I could only manage a shift on Saturday and Sunday mornings once term started.

Working there was OK really, because tucked away off the main kitchen, I didn't have to talk much to people, or ever have to explain myself. Mountains of pots would be dumped on a trolley behind me and all I had to do was work steadily through them, singing along to the tinny transistor perched on a shelf above the sink. Best of all, I got to have a huge free meal twice a week.

School was very different, which suited me. You turned up, sat in the lessons, did the work and went home; although I used to hang around as long as I could, on the pretext of using the library, just to postpone having to traipse back to the empty flat. I don�t think there was any compulsory sport or gym - I can�t remember playing any more hockey there. Quite a lot of my classmates had left at sixteen, but the ones who stayed on for Sixth Form were in the main my type of mates; the ones who were mature enough to want to improve themselves. There were some voluntary after-school activities that I would have loved to join, but these inevitably involved some expense - buying badminton racquets or paying for theatre trips. There was a new computer club which really interested me, but unless you could demonstrate your bona fides in the form of your own BBC Micro or Commodore 64, you weren't considered for its exclusive membership. One of those would have cost a couple of month's rent. Or a week on my back.

No matter how I tried, my secret tin of money always seemed empty. I walked everywhere. I never bought any pretty clothes or went out to the pictures with the others, which earned me an undeserved reputation for being a party-pooper. I would sit in the flat each evening with just a single bulb lit in whichever room I happened to be. My luxury was having the TV on for company, from the moment I got in until I went to bed. I became astute at living on a shoestring, going via the market on my way home to pick up anything being sold off. I could spot a 'reduced' price label from outside a supermarket! But when a big bill arrived, it was hopeless. And I steeled myself for what had to be done. Yet again.

Despite the police. And the scary bastards in the leather jackets.

Sometimes it would be days before I could summon up the guts.

And then I'd put on whatever clothes still looked half presentable, and spread a thin layer of makeup across my face and sneak out of the block as the streetlights were coming on. There were bad weeks, when I could stand out in all weathers for hours and go home cold and despairing and empty-handed.

As time wore on, so neighbours began to comment that they hadn�t seen my Father for a while. I always had a prepared reason. Fooling school wasn�t too difficult - it was not one of those nice middle-class places where parents were expected to demonstrate an active interest, and a scribbled sick note was barely glanced at.

My saviour was called Howard.

I remember him very fondly, despite the circumstances of out relationship. He won�t know it but he made everything possible for me. Often I�ve wondered about trying to track him down and thanking him, but I suspect he might not appreciate being reminded of his role in my little life, so best let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.

His was the first circumcised prick I had ever encountered and he found my undisguised surprise quite funny. After doing it in the back of his car, I was happy to sit and chat for a while rather than scurrying off immediately with my gains. He was so shy, but he told me all about his family and his work and I got to like him. He was refreshingly open and talked to me easily, notwithstanding our commercial arrangement. For my part, I tried to give him a good time, playfully affectionate as he performed.

I imagine he was in his early thirties, although his receding hairline and serious demeanour made him seem older to me. He was genuinely surprised when I confessed that was really only sixteen, and I could tell that seemed to appeal to him.

He was a jeweller, or more precisely had quite recently taken over the family business in Hatton Garden, upon his Father�s death: he himself had worked there since graduating. He clearly found the responsibility stressful and claimed he was shy and found it impossible to meet girls, because of that and the pressures of running the firm. That all seemed most plausible - not like the �my wife doesn�t understand me� self-justifying bullshit from some other punters.

He was the first adult I had ever been able to chat with. As an equal.

Howard began to see me twice a week, and it was a bonus knowing he was coming, so I didn�t have to hang around in public too long. On several occasions, he was so distracted or exhausted when we met that we simply sat in his car, watching the Regent�s Canal, and I listened to him reel off his frustrations and anxieties. Eventually I felt so comfortable with him that I reciprocated and he was the only person with whom I shared the secret of my solitary existence. It quite spoiled the mood and my best efforts to maintain the erection that I had been encouraging for the previous five minutes were wasted. The lovely man listened to my tale, his deep frown growing even deeper and then he turned to face me properly and his eyes were wet and he gave me a massive hug! He insisted we drive up to a Hampstead pub and sat grinning over his pint, watching me devour the first plate of steak and chips I�d ever eaten. When he dropped me back in Camden, and pressed a hundred pounds into my hand, I was utterly stuck for words.

�Same time next week,� he beamed, happier than he�d even been when grunting his way to a climax on the back seat of his nice car.

He was early the following week and delighted to see me.

�I�d like to take you to my place,� he announced, adding thoughtfully when he saw my hesitation, �if that�s all right with you, Penny.�

I wouldn�t have risked it with any other punter, but Howard was almost a friend and so I agreed. We headed West, towards Wembley. I remember recognising the tops of the stadium towers over the rooftops. It looked a lot like where we had lived in Mill Hill when I first came to England - so much greener and more open than the squalid estate where I lived. And the house was amazing.

Howard fussed around me, explaining that his Mother, with whom he lived, spent every Wednesday evening with her sister out in Hertfordshire. She had left him plates of food in the huge refrigerator, which he split with me. The place was big and spotless, with heavy furniture and thick chintz furnishings - a real palace. He opened a bottle of chilled wine and I took the tiniest of sips, not being used to alcohol and unsure of what it would do to me. He was so much more relaxed in the safety of his own home. And more confident. Quite unexpectedly, he jumped up from the table, led me up the thick carpet to his room and stripped me naked. It was fine. In fact I liked it. When we had sex, I experienced my first full orgasm and was completely thrown. I lay there, flushed and panting and hugely embarrassed. That wasn�t supposed to happen.

As a marketing ploy, it worked wonders! Howard was delighted for the both of us. He lay next to me, smiling, tracing his fingers over my tiny tits and gazing with real fondness.

On the way back to Camden, I could see his mind ticking over.

I had no hesitation but to agree to his proposal. It was a godsend. And so for the next nine months, right through to the end of my first year in Sixth Form, I spent Wednesday night in his bed. All night. He would drop me off near school on his way into the City. I no longer needed to offer myself on the street two or three times a week - Howard was more than happy to pay me a hundred for my company, which with the hotel job gave me enough to live on and have a few pounds left over with which to buy some badly-needed new clothes. I even saved enough the first month to replace my broken television with a working one from the second-hand electrical stall on Camden Market.

I actually looked forward to my Wednesday nights. Howard was always so polite and considerate and when he became emboldened enough to ask me to dress up, I was fine with it: I liked to see him happy. When he saw me in my school uniform the first morning after I had stayed, his eyes popped and the following week he had me wear it to the house and got a real kick out of helping me out of it before he screwed me.

The strangeness of waking up in a big, soft bed, with a warm body beside me, was a constant surprise, but once I had blinked and kick-started my brain, I would look around Howard�s large, expensively-furnished bedroom and relax. I would snuggle back under the cover and spend a couple of precious, private moments, simply enjoying the luxury of it all.

It seemed to amuse Howard greatly. Every week or two, I would become part of another of his hidden fantasies, and although I invariably readily agreed to whatever he wanted, my face must always have betrayed my continuing innocence, even puzzlement as to why a particular game or prop would give him pleasure.

He bought some stunningly wonderful and expensive underwear for me. The works - black lacy stuff, stockings, suspenders, and it felt so wickedly sensual against my skin, I had no issues with wearing it around his house all evening, knowing that when the time came for me to make a show of removing it, he would be rock hard and eager. Keeping it stuffed in the bottom of my schoolbag the next day was great fun and I would sneak a peak during lessons and smile inwardly. I was wary about being spanked. He promised to be gentle and kept his promise, and although I couldn�t help being reminded of those dreadful times in my Father�s study in Kowloon, I forced myself to play the part Howard required and he obviously liked having a naughty little schoolgirl in the house, for it was a regular occurrence. In fact we did have enormous fun, playacting little vignettes, but always culminating in the same earnest sex.

One of the high points of being with Howard was the weekend trip to Amsterdam. He was so awkward about asking me, prefacing his request with every kind of opt-out clause, should I wish to decline. Not a chance. All I needed was a new passport.

The following night, I laid my hands on the old one immediately, along with my birth certificate. I knew intimately every document in the flat, having studied each agonisingly carefully in the weeks following my Father�s disappearance, first to see if I could find a clue where he might have gone, and then all over again when I tried to work out how to exist in the big, bad adult world on my own. Anything I thought valuable or important, I had removed to a box wedged up high into the top of the airing cupboard, where I hoped any burglar wouldn�t bother to look.

Dear Howard was a treasure, helping me with the application process and even meeting me in his lunch hour, to take me to the old Passport Office in Petty France and be with me should I have a problem. I let him pay the fee too.

It was a magical weekend. He attended his jeweller�s exhibition or convention on the Friday, immediately after we flew in, leaving me to stare in wonder from the hotel window at the unfamiliar bustle and beauty of the canal and street below. It was such a fantastic experience, walking arm in arm late at night around the cobbled streets, and gawping in amazement at the women in the red-lit windows. I wondered if they could tell if I was one of them too, albeit a skinny little amateur. I felt no career aspirations to graduate to their position.

I was completely happy to do whatever Howard wanted and was not disappointed with his suggestions, taking in the Rijksmuseum and the obligatory canal boat tour, before a long and delicious meal out in some very smart restaurant. What I had feared just didn�t happen - no-one paid a second glance, as if there was nothing odd in a funny-looking half-Chinese teenager dining out with a balding Jew twice her age. I like Amsterdam.

It was quite simply the most fabulous few days I had spent for several years, and when he dropped me back in Camden and I closed the door of the flat behind me, even the usual gloomy old surroundings failed to suffocate me, for I had had a fleeting taste of how life might turn out one day, and I couldn�t wait.

Each week, we learned something new together in Howard�s big, comfy bed, for we were equally inexperienced. But it didn�t matter a bit. We needed each other and I think we were equally fond of each other, and we had almost as much fun being clumsy as we did when it went together properly and the sex was textbook good. Most of the time, I don�t think we gave a second thought to the commercial basis of our relationship. For me, it was the highlight of the week and coupled with the washing-up job, it saw me through the first of my two years in Sixth Form. Howard even patiently answered many of my questions about practical things and thanks to him, I finally began to understand the basics of banking and officialdom in Britain.

So when one September evening he was unusually po-faced and quiet on the drive to his house, I had a bad feeling.

He could hardly look at me as we ate and no matter how hard I tried to draw it out of him, he was curt and evasive. Yes, I selfishly worried for myself, for without Howard�s generosity, I would have to return to the street corner for the rest of my final year at school, but I think I also might unknowingly have been in love with him, such did it hurt me to see him this disturbed. After coffee, he explained. And my comfy arrangement crumbled about me.

�I�m getting engaged,� he announced at last, still avoiding my eyes. �So it would be entirely inappropriate for us to do this any more. I�m sorry. This will be the last time.�

When he looked up, he saw my tears. I couldn�t help it. The dear man leapt off his seat and ran around the table to hold me. He was just a punter after all, a great one, sure, but my reaction visibly touched him. We were like a pair of na�ve lovers in the throes of parting.

�I�m so very sorry, Penny. We�ve had some great times. You�re a lovely kid.�

Proudly, I stifled the tears and smiled professionally.

�No problem. Really.�

Then he reached into his jacket pocket and lifted out a tiny box.

�I was going to give you this in the morning, but it�s probably best to do it now,� he said, at last letting me see the real regret in his eyes. He placed the box in my palm and squeezed my fingers around it.

�That is your parachute. Only to be used in an emergency. You�re a wonderful, sweet and lovely girl, Penny, and life�s dealt you a lousy hand. I just wish I could do more to help you��

I didn�t let him finish. I hugged him so tight and squeezed his cheek so tightly to mine that he was unable to continue. Later we made love. Properly. Unequivocally love, not sex.

The small velvet box contained a cut diamond. It looked so tiny, like a glass breadcrumb. Folded inside the box was some form that declared its provenance. Just before he pulled into the kerb

102 around the corner from my school, he told me what it would be worth if I ever needed to sell it. My knees were still rubber when I walked into my first class of the day. I had no reason to doubt his word. And no more reason to sell my scrawny young body. My emergency was immediate.

At half term, I hawked it around a dozen jewellers until I was satisfied I was not being ripped off and opened my first bank account, shoving the thick wad of notes across the counter with enormous relief.

I really do think often of that lovely, gentle man and how he was so kind to me. I would have done just about anything for him, but he never asked for anything more than a few hours of harmless sex. He saved me, I�ve no doubt. Had I gone back to touting for trade from passing cars, I�m sure that in good time I would have been beaten up or forced to work for pimps, or possibly much worse - such things are nigh-on inevitable in a dangerous occupation in a dangerous area like mine.

As it was, I now had security. A small insurance fund, from which I could draw a little each week to supplement my wages from washing up. Enough even to go to the pictures with some of the others on a Saturday night, enough to buy a skirt and dress that I didn�t actually need, and to go wild on Christmas Day, eating an extravagant curry in a real restaurant next to Kings Cross station, with a napkin and music in the background and a glass of lager shandy. At last I thought my luck had changed.

At school, I really tried hard.

Not just at the schoolwork, though it was no hardship to be a swot, as staying late in the library postponed the prospect to returning to the flat and meant I could complete much of my homework at a proper desk. I also worked at the friendship thing.

There was a remarkable lad in my Year, Tim, whom I used to watch with curiosity. Some how, he managed to transcend the cliques and rivalries and be mates with everyone. People would seek his company at lunch, find ways to work beside him. He was just so damned nice! A good sportsman, true, but nothing remarkable in either the looks or academic abilities departments. I studied him, analysed his entirely natural gift for being a great people person. He avoided conflict, never took sides, backed away if someone else was being aggressive, and yet we all respected and liked him. I tried to emulate him.

It was an uphill struggle. Having for so long avoided taking friendship beyond the classroom (I could hardly invite anyone round to the bare flat), I had a fairly justified reputation for being aloof, even cold. I had once overheard a description of myself as �Iron Knickers�, which could hardly have been further from the truth, of course, but better that than let the truth be known.

I made an effort to lighten up, which without the constant pressure for money, was a welcome change in outlook.

One weekend, as I dozed and tried to put off the moment when I had to slip on the overalls and trot off to the hotel kitchen, I became aware of what my sleepy mind was daydreaming - I was mentally reviewing each and every one of my classmates, and for each, trying to come up with and store a small comment or topic of conversation, to be slipped in at the appropriate moment, as a prelude to fishing for friendship. A calculated piece of planning, to pursue another of my goals. Naturally reticent, I was working out how to project myself. That I was unconsciously working to overcome my own failing came a shock to me and I realised quite how much I had grown up in the previous year or so: suddenly I was in control, independent, no longer an innocent kid. Serious and lonely, yes, but I was surviving. I didn�t yet like myself, but I was prepared to admit to the emergence of a slight, grudging self-respect.

What sort of friend I was, I don�t know, but I offered the invitation to just about everyone in Class. Just like Tim, I could work a room, except whereas his was a natural gift, my efforts were selfish and preplanned, albeit sincerely meant. I rediscovered the ability to laugh spontaneously, and although I still declined any suggestions to go out to pubs or clubs, I was happy to go with the flow and join my peers wasting hours hanging around shopping precincts or idly passing the time down by the canal.

At a dreadful school disco before Christmas, I played my part well enough, rewarded by a couple of inexpert snogs in the playground between dances, which did just enough to re-establish my credentials. It was tame, and almost charming, after the seedy groping and furtiveness of my months on the Game. But it was what I should have been doing at seventeen, normal behaviour, and that was more than satisfactory for me.

It is a truism that everyone remembers their favourite teacher. Mine was Mrs Smith. She was a world-weary veteran, fazed by nothing, who faced a daily struggle uphill imparting her enviable knowledge of the English language and its literary heritage upon a sceptical and reluctant assembly of North London teenagers. It was therefore not surprising that when one of her charges showed an interest, she would reciprocate with warmth and candour. I loved her to bits.

I had to tread carefully, for she was always so encouraging to me, and her ready ear was always ready to listen, and I so much wanted to open my heart to her and tell her about my problems. With Howard gone, she was probably the only adult in my life with whom I could have had a no-nonsense conversation, but I had spent too long trying to do everything alone to take the opportunity to share my squalid world with her. That said, she would always seem to find time for me, even when she was clearly ready to head home to a gin and tonic and an evening with a pile of uninspiring marking. She lent me books from home, suggested new authors and fired me up when I was down. I confided to her my aspiration to be a stewardess and she was instantly enthusiastic, reinforcing my own optimistic assumptions and genuinely delighted that one of her pupils at least, had decided upon a proper goal in life.

Mrs Smith gave me the reassurance I needed at that time, and countered the dampener I received from the careers advisor, who looked at me indulgently when I bubbled about my career aspirations.

�You realise that there is huge competition for jobs like that? And you�re very young � they�ll be looking for experience. Why don�t you look at these? A couple of years� solid office work behind you and then you�ll have a better CV.�

�Oh don�t take any notice of all that, Penny,� Mrs Smith would say, �If you want something badly enough, you�ll get it. You really come alive when you talk about becoming an air hostess � do that at your interview and they�ll have no hesitation in taking you on. I would.�

She didn�t laugh or patronise me either, when I told her I�d written to Lord Marshall, the Chairman of BA. I think my touching naivety must have struck a chord, for just over a week later I received a lovely reply signed by the Director of Customer Service Operations, telling me exactly how I should submit an application and saying how much they looked forward to receiving it. Mrs Smith checked the form for me and wrote a nice letter to accompany it, with her expectations of my performance in my upcoming �A� Levels.

When the invitation to attend a selection day arrived, I sought her out and hugged her at the staff room door, much to the poor dear�s embarrassment.

Thankfully, I had a clear week between my last mind-numbing examination and the great adventure to cross London to get to the training centre. Mrs Smith had left a message for me to see her.

�I don�t make a habit of this, and don�t tell anyone or they�ll think I�ve gone soft,� she said. Then she explained. I almost burst into tears when she took me home.

What a wonderful lady she was. Whilst she prepared tea downstairs, I tried on the elegant dark blue skirt and jacket she had laid out for me on the bed of her spare room. It belonged to her daughter and she had arranged for me to borrow it for my interview. I looked critically at my shabby school clothes, with the frayed collar and shiny skirt and realised that Mrs Smith must have done the same and realised that I probably had nothing suitable of my own, but had spared me the embarrassment of asking. That was such an incredibly nice thing to do. I would have given her more hugs but I didn�t want to make her all flustered again!

She insisted I borrowed a blouse too and I can remember her huge smile when I went down to show her the finished product � her own Eliza Doolittle. After she had fed me, she sat behind her dining table and coached me on interview technique, so gently � coaxing me out of my shell and suggesting things to say without appearing artificial. She forced me to speak up � I have always had a very quiet, rasping voice, with a thankfully neutral accent that has an impish tendency to mimic the pronunciation of people around me, but I rarely spoke outside school and I found it so hard to project my voice the way she insisted. She persevered patiently.

I was fired up, and ready to go. I prayed that I wouldn�t forget everything before the real thing.

And she even ran me home in her own car. I clutched the garment bag and was itching to get inside the flat and try it on again. One other memory sticks from that evening. I remembered my manners and asked her if she would like to come in for a cup of tea (I kept a few bags just in case). For just a second, her eyes let her down and she glanced momentarily over my shoulder at the dirty red brick block and I knew what she was thinking. Then instantly she beamed at me and made her excuse about needing to get back to do some marking, and deep inside I was so hurt and angry and disgusted that I couldn�t repay her kindness. I didn�t blame her at all. Looking back, it was surely a blessing, for had she dared to come to the flat, the rooms now almost entirely bare of furniture, and seen how I lived, it might have become complicated.

Strange thing is, I can barely recall the interview day itself.

I left the flat ridiculously early, shyly self-conscious in the wonderful blue suit. My school shoes had polished up OK, and thanks to an eternity with the hairbrush, my spiky black mop was under control for once. I had to hang around at Hatton Cross tube station for over an hour to kill time and be doubly sure of catching the shuttle to the complex where the selection panel was convened.

First, there was a slide presentation by some high-up and I can remember looking at the other candidates and my heart sinking. They were all older, graduates probably, with experience and self-assurance and nicely rounded CVs. Next there was a brief interview with a man who went through my application form and he barely made any comment �just kept looking at me and I was sure he was thinking �what a stupid little daydreamer�.

Then I think there was some sort of role-play exercise that might have been about helping somebody in the street, who had fallen over � I really can�t recall, except that I felt so awkward in front of the others. By lunchtime, I was sure I had completely flunked it and I was almost ready to quit, although I sat quietly in the loo for a minute and remembered Mrs Smith and how much trouble she had gone for me and I knew I had to last the day. Which then turned out fine! There were some strange written tests that I finished so quickly that I thought I might have misunderstood what to do, so I did them all again just in case, and then there was the panel interview � three or four senior people arranged behind a long desk and little old me primly perched before them, knees and calves together and slightly at an angle, just as Mrs Smith had insisted. Hands in lap (so they can�t see you shaking, dear!), but I remembered to use them sparingly when I needed to emphasis a point, and to remain in eye contact and to smile a lot. And be entirely open. I did disobey her once and attempt a weak joke, but they laughed politely and I got away with it. The serious lady in the middle had my letter to the Chairman in her pile of papers: I recognised the cheap blue notepaper. Oh God � was that a good sign?

I had no idea at all how it had gone.

It was a nerve-shredding week. Thanks to Howard�s legacy, I didn�t feel pressured into making money � I had enough to last for a while and the prospect of being stuck in the hot, smelly hotel kitchen all day was too easily dismissed while the sun shone and I waited for the mail. I don�t think I had given any thought to a Plan B, should I be rejected.

I carefully laundered Mrs Smith�s daughter�s blouse and pressed the creases from the suit and returned it to her at the school staff room. I think she was almost as excited as me, when I told her all about my day.

The letter was just sitting there on the lino. I hadn�t heard the postman; been doing something mind-numbing to fill the time � lining up knickers in the drawer or something, I expect! I didn�t let myself open it. Such a special moment deserved due ceremony. I don�t know why, but I laid the kitchen table and set the envelope opposite my place, and I kept looking at it as I prepared a celebratory fry-up of everything I had left in the cupboard, complemented by a genuine can of Coke that I had been saving for the occasion. At least if it was bad news, I could enjoy a decent meal.

After a single forkful, the self-denial was too great. Controlling my breathing and pressing my hands to the edge of the table to keep them steady, I tore open the flap. Just a single sheet of paper. That was bad news. If I had passed, there should have been a pack of information, shouldn�t there?

At the fiftieth reading, I believed it. I was on my way. Such a pity Dad wasn�t there to share my news.

Next Chapter: 7. A New Direction