And then we have the strangest conversation ever, Mrs Lecoge and I. Even now I can remember each word, clear and strong. Even though we are whispering.

Meanwhile on stage, Romeo and Juliet have just met for the first time – while the other actors dance around them. The Director – the English and Drama teacher – has chosen his main characters well. Juliet is a graceful, pretty girl. Romeo is tall and athletic, his white tunic enhancing the tone of his skin.

Romeo recites his lines.

Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight. For I never saw true beauty till tonight.

And Juliet gazes up at him with adoration. Fake adoration, of course. But she is a good actress.

Yet all those poetic words, all that romance – what’s the point? When they are both going to end up dead? Well, pretend-dead, of course.

And meanwhile Mrs Lecoge and I have our own lines to whisper. We have our own play going, except everything is real. Even if it feels like a dream to me.

Mrs Lecoge says, “Yes, my son’s name is Paul. Paul Junior.”

And I say bitterly, “So he is named after his father?”

And Mrs Lecoge frowns and says, “His father? Oh no. His father is Albert, you know – Mr Albert Lecoge who teaches English and Drama here?”

Am I hearing right? Is this possible? Is this woman the wife of Paul’s kid brother? Is this little boy Albert’s son and not Paul’s at all? Or am I just hallucinating because I want so badly to believe that Paul is mine still?

Yet it makes sense. Albert was only two years younger than us. Back when we were fifteen, thirteen seemed like a child’s age. But now Albert must be twenty-three, an adult. Old enough to have a wife, and a child, and a job as a teacher.

Mrs Lecoge continues – even though the people around us are getting annoyed, telling us to shush.

“Paul was named for his uncle. You know, Paul Lecoge? He’s lives in Jozi now. He’s a hot-shot TV producer.”

I have only one last question. “Is he married, this Paul Lecoge?”

“No. He says he will never marry. Some girl broke his heart, way back in Secondary School. Palesa, I think her name was. He reckons he can never love another woman …” She stops suddenly and gives me a searching look. “Oh goodness! Are you Palesa? Are you? Wait till I tell Albert.”

I stay only a few seconds longer, just long enough to get Paul’s cell number. Then I rush out of the school hall, leaving Romeo and Juliet to get on with their tragic love story.

My heart is pounding, skipping beats, threatening to burst right through my rib-cage. And my smile is so wide that my cheeks hurt.

Outside, I see the English teacher with his broad shoulders. He is pacing up and down on the gravel, no doubt nervous about his play. While I watch, he slips on a pair of glasses as if to confirm for me: yes, I am the kid brother who got sent to sit in the front row on Friday movie nights.

I sit on a bench in the playground, where Paul and I used to sit with our friends at break. And I dial his number.

“Hello,” he answers from far-away Jozi. I would know his voice amongst a million other voices.

“Paul?”

He recognises my voice instantly too. “Palesa? Palesa, is that you? Oh my God!”

We are both silent. Both struggling to breath. Then he says, “I bought the Pumpkin Patch, Palesa. Four years ago. Just in case. My kid brother is renting it. You remember Albert?”

And I know: I am not here at Sweet Waters saying goodbye to my past. I am here saying hello to my future. Hello and welcome and what took you so long?

“Just tell me this isn’t a dream, Palesa. I’m so afraid this is just my mind playing tricks. I’ve longed for you every minute of every day …”

He says a lot more besides: beautiful things. Wonderful things that sing through my cellphone. Things that are too precious and too private for me to write down here. Things that are more beautiful than Shakespeare’s most lyrical poetry. More beautiful to me, at least.

“Just stay there, OK! I’m heading for my car right now. It’ll take me three hours to get there. Wait for me, Palesa. Promise! Promise you will never disappear again.”

Of course I will wait. After ten long, lonely, hopeless years, what is three more hours?

***

Tell us: Do you know any ‘childhood sweethearts’ who have end up happily married?