Tell Me Everything (23 page)

I stared at her. “So he's not in there?” I asked.

“Oh no, he's in his room,” she said. I began to wonder if she wasn't so much enthusiastic as simple-minded.

“So can I go there and see him?”

“Of course. We're not a prison here.” But she'd skipped off back down the corridor before she could tell me where his room was.

I'd almost given up on finding the room when I opened Mr. Roberts's door. I thought he was asleep at first. It was the first bedroom in the whole corridor I'd looked into that had someone in it, so I peered at the lump on the bed for a bit. Then I recognized the tweed jacket hung up over the chair. The smell of tobacco and overripe fruit.

I half-shut the door again and knocked lightly.

“Come in.” His voice was weak and small. I paused for a minute before I walked in.

“Molly?” Mr. Roberts sat up. He was wearing blue-and-black tartan pajamas, the top unbuttoned so his pale chest was showing. “Molly girl, is that you? What the heck are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Roberts sent me,” I said.

He was searching on his bedside table for his glasses. “Let me look at you,” he laughed. “Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?”

I did a mock curtsy. I'd rolled my trousers up to mid-calf, so that my yellow tights showed over sneakers I'd painted green. My new short hair was tucked under a black beret. I pulled it off to show him though, leaning forward so he could tousle it with his fingers.

“Well, I wonder what Mrs. Roberts has to say about your new look,” he laughed. “She's quite something, isn't she?”

I tried to smile. “Something special. Mr. Roberts, are you terribly ill?”

“I'm being well looked after,” he wheezed. “Can't complain.”

“But you're not old,” I said. “You shouldn't be here.”

He looked down. His hands were spread out over the sheet, and I could see how thin his fingers were. His skin was almost papery white. He'd turned into something we'd sell in the shop.

“It's for the best,” he said. “Mrs. Roberts and I agreed on it.”

“Mrs. Roberts lets me run the shop sometimes now,” I said.

“Does she? I bet she's got it all going like clockwork.”

“We miss you though,” I said. “I … I wondered if you wanted a story.”

He smiled. “That would be grand, Molly. A bedtime story for old times’ sake.” And when I sat on the bed, he put his hand out to hold mine.

“I used to do this with my dad,” I said. “He'd make me tell him how much I loved him.”

“No Leanne today, I suppose,” Mr. Roberts said, and I shook my head. He sighed, shutting his eyes.

“Although this story really is because of her,” I said. “Remember how I told you how she used to steal things and give them to me?”

Mr. Roberts's head moved slightly. I took it as an assent.

“Well, I used to keep them in my bedside drawer. I'd take them out sometimes, line them up on my bed and look at them. There was a lipstick, a small sequined purse, two thin silver bangles—one with a heart linked to it—a book of poems, an enamel fish keyring, a hand mirror with one of those proper handles, a pretty cigarette lighter, some perfume. Nothing very big, but there was a lot of stuff there.

“And then, of course, one evening my father walked in without knocking. He saw everything there and he didn't say a word. He didn't even ask if any of it was mine; he just swept it off my bed with his fist and stormed out. I could hear him shouting at my mother about how I'd been stealing. That she was to take me into school the next day and make me confess to the teachers.

“He was screaming that I was no good, that he was fed up with me, that I didn't have any hope for the future. I could hear Mum just agreeing with him. That's what hurt most. The only person that believed in me was Leanne.

“He came back later that night and took all my clothes, even the nightdress I'd been wearing. He said he wanted to make sure I didn't do anything stupid. Imagine that, taking my nightdress. I wrapped the blanket round and round my naked body but I still couldn't get to sleep.”

“You'd been going out in your nightdress though, hadn't you?” Mr. Roberts looked as if he was speaking from a coffin, but he still remembered everything I'd told him, and not just about Leanne. I stroked his hand to let him know I was grateful.

“Not that night,” I said. “Anyway, the next morning, I persuaded Mum not to come in with me to see the teachers. She's not a strong woman so I knew I'd get my own way. She kept saying that Dad would kill her and that I must promise to confess everything. I will, I said. Your father, she said. My father, I replied. That was enough for both of us.

“Anyway, I went straight to the biology teacher and said I had something to tell her. ‘Can't it wait?’ she asked. She was one of those fluttery sorts. Lots of scarves and always late for everything.

“‘No,’ I said, ‘but I can come back this afternoon when you're less busy.”

“So that afternoon, I told her what I'd been planning since the
night before. I said that I couldn't stand it any longer. That was all I meant to say but my stories went on and on, getting bigger and bigger, wilder and wilder. I was almost scared of myself. I told her that my father had been doing things to me that weren't right. I told her how he'd stripped me naked the night before and had stood watching me until I handed him all my clothes. I told her about all the times he'd made me touch him in bed, the marks on my body from where he'd hit me.

“I still don't think I wanted her to actually do anything though. Just telling someone these things was revenge enough. I walked out of that biology classroom feeling fuller somehow, even though I'd just emptied myself of all that poison. To tell you the truth, I couldn't even remember what I'd said.

“But the biology teacher remembered every word. A social worker called Jane came to the house that night to take me to a hostel. My mother refused to come with me, but both she and my father turned up the next morning. I wouldn't have anything to do with either of them. My father was white with fury. I could see his hands ball up into fists as I stood at the top of the stairs, watching them.

“‘See,’ I pointed his hands out to the social worker. ‘I'm scared.”

“I couldn't stop crying. If things had been bad, now it was like I'd stepped into a nightmare. They took me back to the bedroom and told me I wouldn't have to worry anymore. I kept asking them to find Leanne because I knew she'd help me, but she never came. They must have ignored me, because there was no way she'd have let me down. Not when I needed her so much. The next visit I had was from my mother on her own. She said I wouldn't have to see my father anymore.

“I asked if he'd gone to prison but she shook her head. ‘Never mind about him. It's just you and me now, sweetheart,’ she said.
My mother had never called me sweetheart before. I took it as a good sign.

“We went to stay with Mum's sister in Doncaster that week, for a little holiday, but ended up staying nearly two years. She didn't call me sweetheart again. We never even discussed Dad but I'd catch her looking at me sometimes, just after I came out of a bath, or when I was watching TV in my pajamas, and I'd see the same hatred I saw from my father's eyes. She was judging me. Wondering if I was turning out as bad as he thought I would.

“No one ever had any great hopes for me at school. To be honest, I never really went if I could help it. By then I was too busy eating. I couldn't stop. It was like I wanted to anchor myself on solid ground. To protect myself in a cloak of fat. And then, one day, I just took some money from my mother's purse, told her I was going out to the pub with some friends, got on a train and ended up here.

“I suppose I was looking for Leanne, but can life ever be that simple? Anyway, instead I found you.” I patted his hand.

“So what do you think of me now?” I asked. “Still your good little Molly?”

But when I looked up, Mr. Roberts was fast asleep.

I
couldn't sleep that night, so I was awake when I heard a loud banging on the shop door. I tried to ignore it, so frightened that I almost persuaded myself that the noise was the commotion from my agitated heart, but when it went on I crept downstairs to see what was happening. Tim was standing there under the streetlight. I ran over to hold the door open wide.

“Come in,” I gestured.

“No!” He looked up and down the street like a bad actor.

“You're being followed,” I said happily. “Is it time for us to get going at last?” I licked my palms quickly and flattened my hair down in the mirror. Charlie Canterbury getting ready for action.

“Worse than that,” he said. “I have arranged to do what they say, but they will not win. Here.”

He thrust an old black canvas shopping bag in my hands.

“Take this and guard it with your life,” he said.

I nodded and he looked at me gravely, as if he were taking an impression of my face to remember me by.

“Come in.” I was suddenly frightened, as if I did think there was someone out to get him. “I've missed you so much.”

“Good-bye, my love.” He was already down the street, striding out resolutely. I watched him turn the corner before I shut the door.

When I opened the bag I wasn't surprised to find a jumble of old newspapers. But there was something else as well. A grassy, wet earth smell I remembered from childhood. I scrabbled in the bottom of the bag and pulled out a bundle of white fur. The puppy was so small it fit in my palm, shivering and making a little mewing noise. Tim must have taken it away from its mother; it could only have been about a few weeks old. I prayed this was the only one he'd taken.

“Shhh …” I whispered to it, trying to dredge up a lullaby or something I could sing, to soothe myself as much as the puppy. Unable to think of anything else to do, I took the puppy to bed and went straight to sleep, deeper than I had in weeks. I woke late to delicate little licks and a wet patch in my bed.

T
o my surprise, Mrs. Roberts fell in love with Mata immediately.

She brought in a padded velvet dog cushion for her to sleep on in a quiet corner of the shop, a small porcelain water bowl that she filled with tea at our break times, and a thin pink collar with gold heart studs all the way round that she fixed on as carefully as a lover giving a diamond necklace.

“It's my birthday.” Mrs. Roberts came into the shop one morning with three strawberry tarts in a white bakery box, tied up with a red ribbon.

“Three?” I asked.

“Well, one for Mata.” She laughed. “Did you think I would leave her out?”

I danced around the birthday girl, sitting Mrs. Roberts down on the one good chair and fetching her a cup of tea to have with her cake, a nice plate, even a fork. She nodded as she inspected the tray. I laid it like clockwork these days. “An extra plate for Mata, I think,” she said. I went through to the kitchen to fetch one. There, I had to hold on to the counter for a second. At times when I was least expecting it, the pain from not seeing Tim hit me with unbearable force. Sometimes I could just about manage to split myself off and carry on almost as normal, but at others, such as here now, there was nowhere to turn.

“Mollee,” Mrs. Roberts called. “Are you all right in there?”

I splashed my face with cold water from the sink and came out, chin up, smiling, with Mata's plate. “You spoil her,” I said, as Mrs. Roberts fed Mata a dollop of cream from her own fork. Mata's little pink tongue lapped greedily round her mouth as she started straining up for more.

Mrs. Roberts smiled. “This is very nice, Molly,” she said. “And what about Mata's papa? Have you heard from him?”

I shook my head. I'd told everyone that Tim was away on business. Important business, I'd added.

“Well, he must love you very much if he leaves you such a beautiful dog to keep you company,” she said.

“Did you have lovely birthdays when you were a child?” I asked, changing the subject. “In France?”

And probably because she saw the tears welling up in my eyes again, she told me at last about her childhood, how poor it was, how a fear of poverty kept her awake at night. “Do you know one year I got a potato for my birthday?” she sighed. “My mother had drawn eyes and a nose and a mouth on it, sewn a little sack dress for it, but it was still a potato. And I had to pretend to be happy.”

“I bet you kept it though,” I said. There was something
sweetly familiar about Mrs. Roberts and her potato pet. Leanne, I suddenly clicked. It was exactly the kind of thing Leanne would have done. No wonder Mr. Roberts liked hearing about her.

“We ate it for dinner.” To my surprise Mrs. Roberts clapped her hands together and laughed. “Look at your face, Molly. That's why I've never had children. I might cook them.”

I tried to smile along with her, but I was shocked and it was hard to hide it.

“Oh, you are so young. I forget you have such little sophistication.” I'd disappointed her again, but it was so easy to do. She had such high standards. I couldn't imagine how she put up with Mr. Roberts and all his habits. Maybe that was why he needed me. We all need someone we can feel superior to.

“Mr. Roberts saved me from all that poverty. I owe him my life.” It was as if she was reading my thoughts. “And to go back—” She shuddered at the idea.

I nodded away. Mr. Roberts on his white charger saving young women. I wondered what conditions he had imposed on Mrs. Roberts. There are, after all, always conditions.

“What's wrong with him?” I asked. “He will get better, won't he?”

Mrs. Roberts dabbed at the sides of her mouth with her white napkin. “No, Molly. It's his heart. He's very weak. One shock and that will be it.” She drew one perfectly manicured finger across her neck. “There's no point being sentimental. You English cry too easily over dogs and old men, and always when it's too late. More important to keep him alive as long as we can, and then when it's time … Well, it's time.”

“You won't miss him?”

“I will cry. But on the inside only. It's important to keep the face on, no? This is something I think you're learning.”

I
t soon turned into a competition between Miranda and Mrs. Roberts over who could love Mata the most.