My first girlfriend

A bonus of being among the older boys at boarding school was access to the senoir common room in the castle, which we shared with the older girls. The room had tall windows overlooking the quadrangle and a table surrounded by worn chairs. Having failed to draw the attention of girls my own age, I found it easier to talk to these older girls. They were more serious, which made conversation more satisfying.

One of them had her bedroom adjacent to the common room and came in for tea nearly every evening. I started chatting to her while she poured her cup. As the days passed, she would stay longer until it became a habit—many evenings our conversations stretched long enough for me to almost forget the tasks I still had to finish. Her name was Ineke. She was Dutch, two years older than me, with dark, short hair and a thoughtful way of listening that made me feel less foolish than I usually felt around girls.

At school, Ineke didn’t want to be seen “going” with me. I wasn’t sure why at first, though I suspected it was because I was younger—sixteen to her eighteen. Perhaps her friends would have teased her. Perhaps she worried about seeming desperate. Whatever the reason, she made it clear: at school we were friendly, nothing more. Our real encounters happened elsewhere, away from watching eyes. The secretiveness made everything more special.

We had a few encounters in the woods between classes or before dinner, but neither of us felt safe there. Every rustling branch sounded like approaching footsteps. We’d freeze, expecting discovery at any moment, our hearts racing with equal parts desire and fear.

Her family home wasn’t far from school, so some Sunday afternoons she invited me there. Her parents were often out, and we’d have the house to ourselves. We’d settle onto the sofa in the front room, starting at opposite ends like proper guests, then gradually, inevitably, drawing nearer as we listened to classical music on her record player. She disliked the modern jazz I loved—Miles Davis and John Coltrane—but I didn’t mind. Her world was Brahms and Beethoven, music I was only beginning to understand.

One afternoon, something shifted. We’d been sitting closer than usual, our shoulders touching, neither of us quite brave enough to acknowledge it. Then she stood abruptly, and I thought I’d done something wrong. But there was an eager, almost mischievous look in her eye as she crossed to the record player and put on her favourite romantic LP.

Pat Boone’s voice filled the room, singing “Love Letters in the Sand.” The slow, mesmerising melody seemed to give us permission. We moved toward each other and kissed—not just once, but twice. Our lips touched, though not French-style; we were both too shy and too inexperienced for that.

After a while we stood and danced, swaying together to the melodious music. Our bodies touched closely for the first time, and I became intensely aware of every point of contact: her hand on my shoulder, my arm around her waist, her breath against my neck.

When we sat down again, I attempted to discover more. My hand moved tentatively, exploring. But that was going too far for her. She caught my wrist gently but firmly, and I understood. We stayed on the sofa talking until it grew dark and she said I should go before her parents returned.

At the end of my second year, Ineke left school to study at Leiden University. I visited her several times, taking the train on Sunday mornings and returning in the early evening. In her tiny student room, with its slanted ceiling and single bed pushed against the wall, we explored each other more freely—not going far, we were still too cautious for that, just fumbling under each other’s clothes, learning through touch what we were too embarrassed to discuss in words.

But the relationship began to fade. We couldn’t see each other frequently, and gradually we both realised we had little in common beyond this gentle, tentative sexuality.

Years later, I understood that what I’d felt for Ineke wasn’t love, though at sixteen I might have called it that. It was something gentler and more practical: mutual need, mutual kindness, and the extraordinary relief of finding someone equally uncertain who wouldn’t judge my fumbling attempts.