The Form Photo
During the 1978 Easter holidays, sixteen-year-old Robbie, temporarily freed from the constraints of ‘posh prison’—an all-male private boarding school—and permanently released from the limitations imposed by his orthodontic brace, embarked, with the connivance of his twin sister Kizzy, on a self-directed love-match challenge. Armed with Kizzy’s girls school Form Photo, a set of brass tipped darts board, and a copy of ‘Manwatching’, they sought to give direction to their quest for affection.
Over twenty-eight days, alliances shifted, hearts fluttered, and the illusion of control unravelled.
The events of Easter 1978, though brief, left emotional residues that rippled outward through the summer and into the following years. This is the record of that first chaotic bloom: a study in the beautiful, inevitable failures of adolescence.
Saturday 25th March 1978
Melton Park smelled of petrol and pine needles, as it always did when the private hire coach pulled in after a long haul from Cumbria via the A66, Scotch Corner, and the A1 ‘Great North Road’. Robbie wore a standard-issue boarding school tweed jacket and black trousers. He stood awkwardly at the back of the bus, his school trunk and tuck beside him like props from a BBC production of Tom Browns School Days. He was sixteen, six feet tall and finally done with growing physically; now he needed to grow in his head. He used a dental pick to remove food from his brace. A charming sight for the few girls greeting their boyfriends, he thought. Not that they were looking at him. Not a chance. Not with that face of metal. The others boys were already being bundled into estate cars—Volvos, Saabs, and one gleaming new Audi—with their monogrammed trunks and tuck boxes; mothers fussed and gave orders, fathers like chauffeurs did as they were told, opened a boot, quickly stowed the trunks and tuck boxes, got in the car, their car, and drove off.
“See you after the hols, Jaws,” said Pills, a boy Robbie’s age, but more like 14 in appearance as he waved from the rear passenger seat of a Volvo estate which would then disappear up the Great North Road into Northumberland.
No one had come to collect him. That was par for the course. He lived with his Mum and sister. Mum was unwell. She rarely left the house.
As he contemplated carrying his tuck box home and leaving his trunk to its fate, Robbie’s twin sister, Kizzy, appeared on foot, pushing a battered sack truck she’d liberated from the garage. Not so tall, not that tall at all. But his twin, apparently. Six minutes older than him, so they were told. Her hair was more significant than when he’d last seen it, washed, and conditioner Robbie reckoned. Blow-dried even. She was making the effort for someone. That would be new. She looked faintly theatrical in a long green duffle coat and eyeliner that stretched ambitiously toward her temples.
“You look like a disappointed geography teacher,” she said, cheerfully ignoring his scowl. “Need a hand?”
He nodded.
Together, they heaved his trunk and tuck box onto the trolley and began the slow trundle home, up to the Great North Road, along to the Rugby Club—already filling with the muffled thud of someone’s disco setup—and the infamous stone edifice of No. 45 Bus Stop. Robbie noted it. The bus stop would be necessary. It always was. It was their link to the High Street and friends. To Newcastle and its cinemas. It’s where you copped a snog before you bus arrived, apparently.
Their house, set slightly apart from the others, had a quiet that made you feel uneasy. Their mum was sleeping in, and their father had long ago upped sticks and moved to Manchester with his girlfriend.
Together, Robbie and Kizzy swung open the double doors to the garage. Inside was just one car: their mother’s rarely used British green Morris Minor Traveller, with its wooden frame tucked into one side and a large space left for whatever ‘tart trap’ their mother called it that their father had recently acquired. Robbie and Kizzy were careful not to place the trunk over the oil patch on the concrete garage floor. Both the trunk and tuck box were now redundant until he returned to boarding school. Whether any of the items got washed or even aired out was another matter.
Robbie couldn’t get out of his school clothes quickly enough. His room, with its single bed, desk by the window and fitted wardrobe, was reminiscent of his cubicle back at school. That was a wooden frame around a single bed, a chair, a chest of drawers and a free-standing wardrobe which partially blocked his view from the window of that particular ‘posh prison’, as he called it.
Nothing had changed; he always wished it had. Now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he looked up the corridor that ran along the top of their house to his parents’ room. The door was ajar. His mum was dozing. She could keep an eye on the world, in a way, with the door ajar, noting the comings and goings between bedrooms and the bathroom, at least. He sat on the bed, and she stirred. He gave her a hug. She rubbed her finger along his mouth, gently pressing the brace behind.
“Dentist Tuesday, that comes out. We’ll have your smile back?” She said.
Robbie couldn’t wait.
Sunday 26th March 1978: Easter Sunday
The next morning, Robbie was surprised to be woken by his bedroom door swinging open and his mother appearing with tea and toast on a tray. She was on mission, clearly. No other reason.
“Easter Sunday, Church!” she announced, “The Rev. Jackson says he’s short of male singers for the choir.”
His mother presented the tray as if it was communion. Toast and tea, rather than bread and wine.
Robbie had given up on god the year before, dropping out of being confirmed a couple of weeks into First Communion Preparation as he’s felt too many participants were in it for cash prizes, a booze-fuelled retreat and a day out (he was right). He’d not sung in the choir since then either, though he busked often enough. He could hold a tune.
“There’ll be girls you know: Imogen Mackesy, Katie Thomlinson, the Pennys.”
Robbie’s mind drifted onto the irony of this, his mother, a practising Christian, using the ‘lust of the loins’, a sin he thought, to tempt him to Church. As his mother ran through the names of some girls he’d never heard of he realised that she was thinking too of the unmarried men, recent divorcees (like her) or widowers. Well then, they were in the same game then.
Robbie would say yes. The key to a holiday well spent was to spend as little time as possible at home, even if that meant Church. What is more, Mum getting out of bed was a great sign. Kizzy had written to him about how worried they’d all been, the amount of time she was spending, in her room, sleeping.
Robbie returned to the present as Mum placed a copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern on the tray. She knew which hymns there would be. He’d be singing as a tenor. He should resist bursting in was the counter tenor unless expressly indicated that he could do so in advance.
He would take a quick look. He promised. He looked at the time. He didn’t need to worry. It was only 6.30am.
His room to himself and out of bed to shower, Robbie could look on the positive side – attending church in the choir was always better than being in the congregation. Being in the choir was like being on stage with the lights up; you could see the audience.
“Here’s the church, and here’s the steeple.
Open the doors, and here’re the people.”
The kid’s rhyme inevitably came back to him as he went through the motions with his fingers. This church had family connections. His parents had been married here. He’d been christened here. It provided a kind of authority over him.
His Mum was right; Robbie noticed Fenella in the congregation as he sang his way through ‘Christ the Lord is Risen Today.
He was changing out of his cassock in the vestry when Julie-Anne brought up the ‘Disco’ in the that coming Friday. He’d known Julie-Anne for a few years. At age 12, they’d held hands once and then written to each other from time to time while he was away at school – he’d been away since he was 8. He’d still sit with her occasionally and stroke her rabbit while listening to David Soul. He was asked about attending choir practice and church the following weekend. He was unsure; he had a lot of exam revision to do. A ready made excuse. They were all at it – exam revision. Supposedly.
Robbie made excuses not committing to anything. His twin sister Kizzy had responsibility for matters of the heart. She always gave him the low down on who, why, whether and if he should sniff them out.
Katie Thomlinson asked Robbie about his coming over to play tennis. He wasn’t sure about that either, but appreciated that the tennis club across the road from church were a popular meeting place. Maybe he should play once he’d got the brace off his teeth.
He was still getting letters from Fenny Penny; they’d had a bit of a thing at Christmas. Neither of them had dared kiss as they both had braces on their teeth. They’sd given it a go. A kind of air kiss with tongues which felt creepy and wrong, but it made them laugh, and they’d bonded over it. She’d had her brace out at half-term. He wasn’t sure if she’d still be interested in him though. He hoped so.
Kizzy came to find him. They’d be getting the bus home. Mum had met someone. They didn’t see who, but were glad she was out of the house. They walked down to the High Street to catch the No.45, a short ride away towards Gosforth Park, the rugby club and where they lived.
They talked to boys and girls. Simply to stir a reaction in the stuffed shirts on the top of the bus who were giving Kizzy and Robbie ‘the look’, she announced loud enough for others to hear, ‘I’ve missed my period, I might be pregnant’.
Robbie wanted to disown her. Why would she say such a thing? She thought it was hilarious.
Monday 27th March 1978
“Tea?” He asked.
“That would be lovely,” she said, and he set off to make some, first looking in at his brother’s room. He was off with their father for a couple of weeks. His room smelled of engine oil and Swarfega. He knew his mother was watching. He wasn’t going to nose around his brother’s room. He might later. It was always interesting to see what a boy three years older than him bought in the way of records and magazines. Robbie also looked in on his sister. He tapped on the door but didn’t wait for her to answer. She was trying something on, her wardrobe door open, the full-length mirror showing a reflection of her in a Woodstock revival halter top and flairs with patches on them.
“If you think it makes you look older, you’ve failed” he said.
“It’s for the rugby club disco tonight. Woodstock revival. Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, that kind of vibe.”
“Mum won’t let you go out like that”.
There was a shout from down the corridor.
“I heard that” There Mum cried out, all knowing but yet never quite there.
Kizzy dug her brother in the ribs. He wasn’t going to spoil her fun.
“I’ll dress for Mum like I’m going to a Christian Disco” she explained in a whisper, “and stash this lot in the garage. Space in your trunk for some hippy-girl clobber?”
“You should come? It’ll be fun. Lots of girls. A few of my friends’ll be there.”
Robbie thinks not. He points at his teeth.
“Wear a suit, come as Jaws. I could dig out a pair of Rick’s platforms to give me the height.”
Kizzy knows his pain. Feels for him. She tousled his hair.
“You’re a good-looking boy. Someone’ll have you.”
Robbie refuses.
“Brace out tomorrow. Then, Gosforth, beware!”
“Ok, I’ll check out the talent for you then.”
“Talent?”
“You know. Vital statistics. Who’s got a boyfriend? Who’s interested?”
“I thought it was all ‘personality’ rather than the size of their …. Hips”.
“Scored?” He asked.
Kizzy wasn’t telling, but she was smiling.
“Guess who was there?”
Robbie feigned a lack of interest.
“Cece Noble. I’m surprised. I thought she was waiting for a revival of the Debutante’s Ball. She’s dropping out of school apparently, off to do ballet, so she says”.
Kizzy eyed the door along the landing. She should go in and see Mum. She’d enjoy knowing who was there, too. All the boys. All the girls. All children of someone she’d been at school with, ‘in the day’.
Later that morning Robbie made his presence known at the Tennis Club. Mum had prepared the way. If there had been a waiting list he’d been on it since birth, apparently. He didn’t play much tennis. He was rubbish and didn’t want to be shown up amongst his friends. This was just as well, there were a few in a similar boat to him. They were there to watch each other, not play tennis.
Robbie did a few sketches. If someone came to take a look he’d show them. If they were pretty he’d ask if he could draw them. They invariably say yes. He had his ways of meeting girls.
Tuesday 28th March 1978
Breakfast was a quiet, bruised affair. No one seemed to have much to say.
Mum had spent Easter Sunday night away — with Colin, they guessed — and her absence had left a crack in the plaster of things. The grandparents had been dispatched the next morning, like cautious inspectors. Granny, predictably, had muttered about “living in sin.”
When Robbie got a slightly larger portion of scrambled eggs, it triggered an argument about gender favouritism.
Kizzy, freshly armed with The Female Eunuch, pounced.
Their mother, restless and abstracted, left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a heavy object carried like a sacrament: the family Bible.
She set it down on the table with a thud.
“You need guidance as you enter adulthood,” she said. “You might start here.”
Robbie blinked at the cover. Kizzy leaned in, suspicious.
“What does Dad say?” Robbie asked.
“Is he God?” Kizzy added.
Their mother sniffed, half a laugh, half a sigh.
“No,” she said tightly.
“But he’s told us where babies come from,” Kizzy lied, sweetly provocative.
Unusually, their mother didn’t bite.
She simply returned to her chair, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug like it might shield her from something.
Robbie scraped half his eggs onto Kizzy’s plate in silent solidarity, excused himself, and disappeared upstairs.
He came back moments later carrying a thick hardback: Manwatching by Desmond Morris.
“Dad sent me this,” Robbie said. “Said it would help me navigate life.”
Their mother raised an eyebrow. “It was on TV last year,” she said. “I banned Kizzy from watching the mating rituals.”
Kizzy seized the book immediately, thumbing through the pages with hungry, gleeful curiosity.
Robbie poured coffee. They sat side-by-side at the kitchen table, heads bowed over Manwatching like novice priests discovering a newer, livelier gospel.
Their mother lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame, half-turned to leave.
“Just try not to learn everything from each other,” she said, voice lighter now, almost affectionate.
A few minutes later she reappeared, rummaging through the kitchen mess to produce her own battered copy of Manwatching, its spine cracked, margins dense with pencil notes.
“I was going to give you this,” she said, dropping it on the table beside them. “But I found it… engrossing.
Teenagers didn’t exist when I was your age. We went straight from pigtailed girls to someone’s wife.”
She slung her old leather satchel across her body, tugging it down by habit.
“I’m spending the day with Colin,” she announced casually, like mentioning a dental appointment.
Robbie stared. “Colin?”
“Her latest boyfriend,” Kizzy said, too calmly, as if reporting the weather.
Their mother paused at the threshold, her hand brushing the doorframe.
“We’re all guessing our way through this,” she said. “At least you’ve got diagrams now.”
Then she was gone, her shoes clicking across the flagstone hall.
The house felt different without her — lighter and heavier all at once.
Robbie and Kizzy turned back to the book.
Kizzy already had her pencil poised, her mind sharpening like a blade.
“Well then,” she said briskly, as if opening a seminar.
“Indeed,” Robbie said, grinning. “Pity I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Kizzy pointed directly at his mouth.
“First job: get the brace off. Desmond Morris would call that a barrier to successful courtship.”
Robbie flushed. The brace was coming off later that morning.
After that —
he’d be free.
Free to kiss.
Maybe even to do a bit more.
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