Tell Me Everything Read Free Page B

beat hard against his chest and echo up into my head, and I wondered whether he could hear the same noises as me. The scuffle of leaves as a squirrel hunted for nuts, a dog barking in a garden somewhere near, the distant sound of a train announcement from the station. No one walking past would be able to see us in our nest of leaves. I wasn't sure how long we could stay there, not moving, but every time I tried to ask Tim what was happening he put his lips down, hushing through my hair, his breath hot against my scalp.
    We were so close I could smell a flowery sweetness on hisbreath I couldn't identify. It was the first time anyone had held me like that since my mother stopped touching me. Since the biology teacher business. I tried not to cry, but just rested my weight against his chest, my head lying on the soft pad of his shoulder.
    We didn't say anything. There didn't seem the need.
    Eventually, he let go of my wrists and we walked out onto the path together. Across the far side there were a few houses with their top lights still on, but apart from that there was no sign of life.
    “Will you?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “Keep me safe?”
    Tim nodded.
    “Tomorrow?” Tim asked.
    I nodded. He put one hand on my head, stroked my hair gently and then, without saying another word, he turned. I watched him leave the park. He walked quicker than other people. He knew where he was going. When I couldn't see him anymore I sat back on the Seize the Day bench.
    I wanted my heart to settle down before going back to Mr. Roberts's shop.

Five
    T his is how I met Mr. Roberts.
    He caught me crying at one of the cafe tables they put up outside the church on the high street during spring and summer.
    Despite the cold, I'd been sitting there for one hour and forty-two minutes, refusing all offers of refreshments, even though I could see the volunteers pointing me out and tut-tutting among each other. Then a plump, peachy woman in a white blouse and flowery skirt—with one of those elasticized waists women her age wear for comfort although they're always having to hoist the skirt back down from where it's risen up under their tits—came out and told me I wasn't to sit there anymore. That the cafe tables were for proper customers only.
    I didn't say anything, just started to cry, and suddenly this old man came up and told the waitress it was all right. That I was with him.
    It was Mr. Roberts, although of course I didn't know that then. I was just relieved that everybody was now staring at him instead of me. He said nothing at first. Just bought me a cup of tea, pushed it over and sat there in silence until I raised my head.
    “What do they mean about being proper?” I asked.
    “I suppose they want people who'll pay,” he said. “They're trying to run a business here after all. Although the Bible does have something to say about merchants in the temple.”
    “I might not want anything to drink,” I said, “but that doesn't mean I'm not proper. They should be more careful about what words they use. Words matter. That sticks and stones saying is rubbish. Names can break you.”
    “I know that, pet,” he replied. “You don't want to worry about church people. They've no taste. They can't see how special you are.”
    This made me cry even harder. Mr. Roberts didn't say anything, just got up so I thought he was leaving me too, but he came back with a handful of paper napkins and handed them to me.
    “Dry yourself,” he said. “And then we'll sort you out.”
    I wiped the tears away and looked up at him nervously, but he shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, and pulled out a sheet of newspaper he had neatly folded away in the pocket of his tweed jacket. It was the racing pages and he started studying the form closely.
    He was right too. As soon as I realized his attention had wandered away from me I started crying again, loud, gasping sobs. When he didn't seem to mind, I ignored the sour looks I was getting from the church woman