Hilde first arrived in Gosforth like she’d been delivered by Lufthansa. Tall, blonde, with vowels that lasted longer than the bus ride to Jesmond. The sort of girl who could make “I like cake” sound like a political manifesto.
That Easter she was in the background of the Form Photo, smiling politely, probably wondering why all the English boys wore ties like they were choking themselves on purpose. I thought she’d vanish back to Hamburg forever. But no. The following summer — she came back. Voluntarily. Like she’d tested Newcastle once and decided, yes, this is my natural habitat: drizzle and discos.
Hilde was direct. None of Cece’s ballet ducking, none of Tracey’s lipstick grenades. If she fancied a walk, she said, “We vill go now.” If she fancied a kiss, she leaned in like she was checking your tonsils for contraband. It was efficient. Very German.
We went to Whitley Bay once. I tried to impress her with my knowledge of fish and chips. She corrected my pronunciation of “batter.” We kissed under the shelter, wind whipping, her hair smacking me in the eye like a damp towel. Romantic, in a North Sea survival sort of way.
The lads asked how it was going. I said, “She’s keen.” What I meant was: Hilde had drawn up a schedule. Monday = walk. Tuesday = cinema. Wednesday = kiss. Thursday = more kiss. Friday = “vat comes after kiss.”
It didn’t last forever. She went home at the end of August, promised to write, and did. Letters that smelled faintly of Bratwurst and seriousness. I replied once, but my pen leaked, and the page looked like I’d wept on it for a week. She probably thought it was poetry.
That was Hilde. The German Exchange who came back for more. The girl who taught me two things: continental efficiency… and that kissing in a sea breeze is basically mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
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