In 1996, at the age of fourteen, I met a man who changed my life.

In 2020, I called the police.

On 28 March 2024, he was sentenced to twenty-two years in prison.

This is the story of what came before the police. How, isolated and alone, I walked into a world that I was too inexperienced to navigate.

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My mum told me I was gay just before my tenth birthday. Well, she told me about gay people, when I inadvertently told her I was one. It was during a family holiday to Avignon in the south of France in 1991. The drive there was arduous. My older sister Jenny and I had been strapped into the back of the car all day, making each other squeal by poking and hitting each other, or issuing threats to do so. Each time we squealed, Mum sighed louder, and Dad frequently threatened to turn the car around and go home. Once, he even turned himself round to glare at us, which made Mum shout about watching the road, and Jenny and I screamed because if Mum was panicked, we were clearly all about to die.

I quickly learned that, in France, bread was life, so each day started with a walk to the bakery for baguettes. One particular morning, Mum and I left the house early, before it got too hot. Our house was on the edge of the village, and to nine-year-old me the walk seemed long. Our noses were filled with the scents of wild herbs, lavender and pine sap, which would fade later, as the day grew hotter.

‘Mummy,’ I said during this walk. ‘Why am I different?’

She slowed her pace. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, all my boy friends like girls, and I like girls, but I think I like boys more.’

Mum nodded and started talking about friendships. Saying it was how a particular person made you feel that counted, not if they were a boy or a girl.

‘No, Mummy, I mean, all my boy friends talk about liking girls, but I think I like them the way they like the girls.’

Our walk got slower still. Mum explained that while most boys like girls, sometimes boys like boys or girls like girls. ‘For some people, it’s just for part of their life,’ she said, ‘and for others it’s their whole lives.’

‘But how would two boys love each other?’

Mum came to an abrupt stop. She didn’t answer.

‘Mummy? We did babies at school last year, so how do two men do babies?’

Silence. Her face reddened.

‘Mummy?’

We started to walk again. ‘Did… Er… When they taught you about babies, did they tell you about where they come from?’

‘Of course,’ I said impatiently. ‘Ladies have eggs you can’t cook. And men have tadpoles that when added to the eggs make babies.’

‘Erm, yeah, that’s close. So they explained what sex is?’

‘That’s a bad word isn’t it?’

‘No. Well, it depends how you use it. Between you and me, just this morning, it’s okay.’

We reached the village square where the bakery was, along with stalls selling vegetables and cheese, a butcher’s and a café that seemed to only sell miniature cups of coffee. ‘So they explained about vaginas and penises?’ Mum asked.

‘Vagina is definitely a bad word. Mrs Whitlaw said boys can’t say it because we don’t have one.’

An old woman looked round from a vegetable stall because I’d said ‘vagina’ quite loudly.

‘Good morning. Oh, I mean bonjour,’ Mum said to the old lady, blushing. Then, to me: ‘Let’s get the bread and we can talk more on the way home.’

In the bakery Mum peeled my face away from the patisserie display case. ‘So that’s two baguettes and two – er, deux – petite strawberry tarts, um, fraise, s’il vous plaît.’

I didn’t know what ‘petite’ meant, but it was written in a decorative hand on a label by a tray of desserts small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. ‘Do I get a whole one, or do we only get half each later?’

‘If you keep your face off the glass, we get one each on the way home.’

Outside the bakery Mum passed me one of the tarts on a paper napkin. Underneath the shiny strawberries was the French custard that tasted so much better than its British equivalent.

‘So, sex. They told you how it works?’

‘The man puts himself in the woman when he wants a baby.’

‘Well, sure, though maybe Mrs Whitlaw should do a lesson in equality.’ She took a bite of her tart. ‘But it’s not always about babies. Sometimes, when adults want to, they have sex for fun.’

‘Like playing a game?’

‘Kind of. And when it’s straight people there’s a woman and a man. Gay people, there are two men.’

‘And one of them has a vagina?’

‘Not exactly. Two men, so two penises.’

‘So one puts his penis in the other one’s penis?’

‘No. Just let me tell you and then we can have questions. When two men want to have sex there are no babies.’

‘Because two tadpoles?’

Mum blinked slowly. ‘Well yes, kind of. Some men, if they want to, well,’ – she was as red as the strawberries in the tart – ‘they put their, erm, they put their penis in the other one’s bottom.’

‘With all the poop?’

‘I, erm, I don’t think so. Let’s just say it’s magic, okay?’

‘So I should like bums then?’

‘I said sometimes, and if they want to.’

‘So I should like some bums?’

‘That’s closer.’

‘Should I like my own bum?’

‘It’s not about the bums, okay; it’s about adults being in love.’

‘A LIZARD!’ I ran towards the bright green creature that sat watching us in the middle of the path. But I tripped, and the remains of my tart landed where the lizard had been. I looked up at Mum. ‘I only got to eat half.’

‘Here, have mine. And let’s not mention this conversation to Daddy or Jenny.’

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We carried this secret together. I was alone, apart from Mum, and by the time I was fourteen, this was weighing on me.