Tell Me Everything (26 page)

“Can't you get it yourself?” I asked.

I was genuinely interested, but Neil just glared at me and didn't answer. “Fran,” he called again.

I went through to the kitchen. Fran was sitting at the table, sucking the top of her pen as she studied a crossword puzzle in one of the magazines Miranda always used to read. “Mr. Bartlett wants a cup of tea,” I said sweetly. “Shall I make him one?”

“Better not,” she said. “Too many liquids after lunch and he'll be up all night.”

I held onto the back of one of the chairs, hoping she'd ask me to sit down, but she didn't. When was Miranda coming back?

“My mum used to do crossword puzzles,” I said eventually. “Sometimes she'd let me help her.”

Fran nodded but still didn't look up. I could smell the vanilla sweetness of cake baking in the oven, touched with ginger and cinnamon. A bright red-and-white-checked mug was sitting in front of Fran, and she was stirring it constantly so the spoon banged against the china rhythmically. From the other room I could hear Neil shouting out for more blood and more tea, seemingly making no distinction between the kitchen and the television screen.

Fran snorted.

“Men,” I said sympathetically, shaking my head.

“So how's your boyfriend?” Fran asked.

“Fine,” I tried to sound positive. “Has Miranda got a boyfriend?” Please don't let him be called Joe, I wanted to say. Please don't let Miranda have lied to me and given away all my secrets.

Fran's spoon almost shattered the mug. “She hasn't had one since that bloody teacher,” she said. “She's told you about him, I suppose.”

I nodded. I was just about to say how romantic it all sounded but just then Neil screamed next door for the wrestler to really bloody that mask and I shut up.

“What's Miranda's secret, Fran?”

“Secret?”

“The last time I was here you said she was being secretive, getting letters and stuff? It's just that I thought you and she told everything to each other.”

Fran laughed. “That,” she said. “It was only about college. She wanted to wait until it was all settled before telling me. Didn't want me to think that all that teacher stuff was happening again and start worrying all over again. A friend of yours helped her as it happened.”

“A boy?”

“Joe. That was his name. To be honest, and I hope you don't
mind me saying, Miranda didn't really care for him. They fell out anyway. Miranda doesn't like nosy people. She's been a great one for minding her own business since Mr. don't-let-me-ever-catch-him Sullivan and his la-di-da ideas. Going to take her to France, he was. Have you ever heard the like? The headmaster hadn't when I went to see him to give him the lowdown. That's for sure. I threatened the police.”

“So Joe was asking questions? About me? And Miranda didn't tell him anything?”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” Fran stood up. “I'm starting to feel I'm in the middle of a bloody inquisition here.”

“When's Miranda coming back?” I cursed myself. Another question.

“Why don't you wait for her upstairs in her room?” Fran raised her eyebrows. “At least you won't have to hear Mr. Let's-Have-More-Blood up there.”

I
bounced up and down on Miranda's bed first of all, relishing its distance from the floor. I'd been sleeping on a mattress for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like.

Then I went over to the dressing table and picked up a white jewelry box. I opened it slowly but the ballerina still popped up and started pirouetting hopefully, her arms straight above her head. Miranda's jewelry was the sort a child gets given on special occasions: a gold crucifix; a tiny ring with the smallest pearl; a silver bracelet that expanded to slip over the hand.

I put them all carefully back and folded the ballerina down before I shut the box. The three dolls were still up there on top of Miranda's wardrobe. They watched me with glassy, unblinking eyes. Her clothes were hanging on wooden hangers, all facing the same way and color-coordinated from black to blue to beige to
white. One red dress stood out, and I held it against me in front of the mirror. Miranda's shoes were lined up at the bottom of the wardrobe, each paired up and held firm with a wooden shoe tree.

I looked through Miranda's books. The titles on the top three shelves covered every emotion from love to hate. Women yearned in the arms of big men on front covers. The only break from the uniform pastel shades and neat line of books was at the end of the row, where five hardbacked children's books stood out clumsily, dog-eared, torn and obviously much read. Miranda had told me once that she was keeping things for her kids. I guess these were part of the inheritance. On impulse I picked one out and put it in my rucksack.

The books on the bottom two shelves must have been from Miranda's course. They were bulging with Post-it notes and scraps of handwritten paper. I picked out an old battered paperback that seemed to be standing on its own,
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
, and turned to the inside page.

Thomas Sullivan, English Dept.

So I wasn't the only one who stole books.

I could hear the phone ringing downstairs as I lay on the floor and looked under the bed.

There were bags and bags squeezed under there. All made of black cardboard, and all tied with the same black ribbon as the one she'd given me before. I pulled one out and tore off the packaging. I couldn't help but gasp as I opened it up. A jeweled jacket of pink and black and gold tweed nestled in black tissue paper. I took it out gently. It was perfect. I ran my finger down the row of black silk buttons, each one embossed with the designer's logo. Even the lining was beautiful. I rubbed the thick pink silk against my cheek.

In the next bag there was an emerald-green satin evening dress. Halter-necked, full-skirted. A red cashmere cardigan was
folded in the third, a pair of gray woolen trousers in the fourth. I draped the black crepe dress I pulled out of the fifth bag against my shoulders, fingered the buttons, airbrushed the waist. All of these clothes unworn, still with their labels on. I'd be willing to bet Miranda hadn't even tried them on.

They were clothes for an older woman than Miranda. Someone who would go out with an older man. One who was going to take her to France. To places like St. Tropez. I remembered her face as she watched me try on that dress the first time I came here. That look of love I'd recognized. I'd thought it was for the dress, or even for me, but of course this was Miranda's fantasy wardrobe for when Mr. Thomas Sullivan finally came knocking on her door and rescued her. So this was why she didn't want to spend time with me after I started wearing her dress. She must have felt I was taking on her dream life. And this was why she didn't want other people's stories either, not even mine. She wanted to keep herself clear because she'd never given up hope.

I swept all of the clothes into one of the bags and cleaned the rest of the tissue paper and empty bags away back under the bed so she wouldn't notice for some time. She'd be better off without all those wishful thoughts creeping up through her mattress and into her dreams every time she slept. If he was going to turn up, he would. Like a bad penny. Like my father.

“That was Miranda.” Fran popped out of the kitchen as I came downstairs, drying her hands on a tea towel. “She's going to be late back. Out with her friends. Other friends,” she corrected herself.

“That's OK.” I was trying to maneuver past her and out of the door so she wouldn't see the bag I was carrying.

“Do you want to leave a message? Or shall I just tell her what it was you wanted? You haven't even had a piece of cake.”

“No, it's OK.” I was nearly at the door. I had to get out, otherwise
I'd want to stay there with Fran looking after me forever, and now that I knew Miranda hadn't been the one to find my father I owed it to her, at least, to leave.

“Haven't you forgotten something?” Fran was laughing. “What about your dog?”

Mata growled as I picked her up and tucked her under my arm. She didn't want to go. On the television the wrestling had finished. Now a curiously orange man was screaming with excitement as a bespectacled woman fit different colored shapes into holes. The studio audience was clapping, and Neil's chair was rocking in rhythm.

“Turn it off,” he pleaded. “Please.”

The chair must have had some kind of brake on it, which meant he really couldn't go through to the kitchen. He was helpless, not just lazy. Miranda had got that wrong. I left him to his rocking though. There was no need for him to ignore me as if I didn't exist.

“We're off now,” I shouted out to Fran as I left. “Me and Mata.”

D
awn was on reception again when I walked into Summer-fields.

“Hello,” she grinned. “A little visitor. How lovely. Shall we just sign you in?”

“I know the way to the room,” I said, walking straight past her.

“I'm not sure—”

But it was too late. I was already on my way down the corridor.

There was no answer when I knocked on Mr. Roberts's door, so I pushed it open gently. How many people must have stood like this before going into one of these rooms, bracing themselves for what they'd find inside? “He's not himself today,” they'd say, trying to pretend that the self they were seeing was only a pretend one and that the young, more vital person they wanted to remember would miraculously appear the next time they visited. That he'd be “himself” again.

Mr. Roberts was asleep. His white hands were crossed over the fold of the top sheet as if in prayer. His breath was coming out in
sharp, painful-sounding jolts. I pulled the chair over to his side, knocking over a bin as I did so.

He opened one eye. “Molly,” he said, before closing it again. A photograph of him and Mrs. Roberts stood on the bedside table. It must have been taken a long time ago at one of those old-fashioned seaside amusement parks. Mr. Roberts was poking his head through a hole in a painted board so he looked as if he was an astronaut perched on a rocket, while Mrs. Roberts stood to one side, a headscarf tied tightly round her head, her handbag clamped to her side. It was noticeable that while he was grinning toward the camera, Mrs. Roberts was caught looking down at her feet. I could tell she disapproved of his high jinks.

Somehow this gave me courage. “Nice photo,” I said. “One small step and all that.”

He coughed and reached for his handkerchief, knocking the glass of water slightly so it trembled but didn't spill.

“Too tired.” Mr. Roberts spoke haltingly, as if each word was emerging raw and sharp from his throat. “Is it time?”

“I wanted to tell you a story,” I said.

First of all he shook his head an inch to each side, and then shut his eyes again. “Special story. Had enough.”

“Enough stories?” I asked, but he shook his head again. “Leanne.”

“That's right. Little Leanne.” I sat back in the chair and steepled my fingers under my chin. My skin felt soft and squashy against my nails. “She needs help. You do want me to protect her, don't you? That's what you said.”

He nodded briefly, shutting his eyes as I began talking. It was the story of how things never went right for Leanne. Everything she tried to do was taken the wrong way. People always expected the worst from her so what happened was that's what she ended
up giving to them. She hid all the bad things she did though, because at the back of her mind she always kept the hope that everyone else could be wrong and maybe she would be all right in the end. Plus she had one friend who helped her. “You,” Mr. Roberts half-smiled.

“Me,” I nodded. “One day, though, she decided to leave her family and set off on her own. She was scared and lonely but then she met up with an older man who offered to help her.”

“Kind?” Mr. Roberts's eyelids were translucent, but when I waved my hand over his face he didn't flinch. I allowed him his interruptions this time. They would stop him falling asleep and would only improve the effect of this particular story.

The man was kind to Leanne but only up to a point, I continued. He kept her in a room above his business and would visit her there from time to time.

Mr. Roberts said something I couldn't hear. I leaned over him as he repeated it. “Bastard.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.” I was watching the flush rise up his neck. His hand fluttered round his chest before settling on his heart. It looked like a claw there, the fingers turning in on each other.

But the strange thing was that Leanne grew fond of this older man. He was never unkind or cruel or anything to her, and after he'd done his stuff with her—Mr. Roberts snorted—he'd stay with her, letting her curl herself into a little ball on his lap and stroking her shoulder gently. He would play with her hair, outline the shape of her body with his fingers, leave little kisses across her neck. He'd hold her close.

Mr. Roberts sighed, and I paused for a moment to let him think about this. He'd bring treats every day for Leanne, I went on. Soaps smelling of lavender and sandalwood for her to bathe
with, heart-shaped chocolates that tasted of real mint, handmade paper too good to write on with rose petals pressed into it, the smallest embroidered velvet shoes you've ever seen.

“Little feet,” Mr. Roberts nodded. “S'right.” I thought back. I couldn't remember ever mentioning the size of Leanne's feet before. Mr. Roberts was smiling now, his eyes shut tight.

“Do you want me to go on? I won't if you don't want,” I asked, but he nodded. It was time to up the tempo.

One day, though, the man came to see Leanne and said he didn't have any money anymore. That she couldn't stay living in her little room but would have to go out onto the streets with everyone else. She wasn't going to be special anymore.

Leanne was crying but there was nowhere else for her to go. She bumped into the man's friend. A big ugly man who Leanne hated. An angry man, and there was nothing the first man could do about it. Leanne had to eat, and he had no money to give her. He didn't even have a potato.

Mr. Roberts opened his eyes. I ignored him and concentrated instead on a spot on the carpet.