They would tsk and tut as the road crumbled into a distressed path and the sunlight was choked by increasingly thick tangles of Wych, Sycamore, and all the things we didn’t know the names for yet. For us, walking was an impossibility. The deeper you delved into the grounds of the Deathies’ the faster you travelled. Just as the road ghosted into an echo, the boarded up windows of the disgraced school reared up against you and, for those too young to know sensible limits, enticed.

Danny’s downstairs neighbour’s daughter’s friend’s niece was visiting, and much to our pretend annoyance his parents had forced her entertainment upon us. It had been several months since these girls had turned from soggy lumps to people who might actually be kind of nice if you think about it, possibly. Their forcing gave us just enough coverage to have her along and maintain cool begrudgency.

I’ve lost her name now, but she had blonde hair, a choker, and wore a t-shirt by a band called Pantera - which D and I knew better than to ask about and show ignorance. Per her VIP status she got the grand tour, yeah, we pretty much own the place, the toilets with the hole in the floor, the classroom with, How many teachers does it take to murder a student!?, on the chalkboard, some say the girl who got killed still comes at night, don’t worry she won’t come if you’re with us.

Our favourite spot was on the outside of the gothic structure up a fire escape. A white iron ladder bolted into the school’s granite, paint flaking off to reveal the rust that’re why you get all those jabs at school. 10 metres up to a balcony which should have led in and out of the school, but over time had become impossibly jammed shut. And we should know. One day we had made it our endeavour to reinstate the escape route in case we ever got busted trespassing.

But no borrowed hammer on the outside, nor a battering-ram desk from the inside could open that door. The most we could do was look at one another through the dirt encrusted glass window to the side of the defunct threshold and shrug at one another.

Her questions came quick, What our summer plans are, which secondary school are we going to, do we have girlfriends? Answers came easy, lying on cool granite balcony, though answering whilst making eye contact was impossible. No, no girlfriends, though we had both made out with classmates, so, yeah, and...and you?

They’d broken up, too much of a boy, not enough of a man. Well, David and I certainly tried for the next two hours. We must have done well enough, because she admitted that she might like one of us. In a private exchange of hand waving David and I agreed I had been chosen. And with that, time sped up to normal, and then to much faster. Moments of in between, not knowing but could being, and might being, and can you imagining, and summer, and secondary school and life, and what we’ll do, and where we’ll go, and then it was tea time and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

But after tea I was forbidden. Arguments of, Been out all day, spend time with the family vs you want me to be outside, you’ll just be watching antiques roadshow. Then the haymaker, what’s so important about tonight?... but! But!

But, it was impossible to say, because I didn’t know how important it was, far less articulate it, or want them to know about it! There’s a girl, who we’ve never met before or will again and she’s interested in one of us, and it’s summer, and it’s all possible, and it’s all right now!

No, Antiques Roadshow was right now, and then Top Gear. Do you think I like what I do all day? Part of being a grown up is doing things you don’t want to do. And another part is rubbing it in when you already got your way. The next day I found out that it had been David she had liked, and they had kissed, and he couldn’t really describe it, and he was still so sure it was me she liked.

And so, David and I had both been wrong, and my parents had been right - there had been no reason to go out after tea. It hadn’t been important.