Read Online All That I Leave Behind by Alison Walsh - Free Book Online

whether or not it was clean, and then he reached out and took mine, clasping it in his. He didn’t shake, just held it there and gave a little squeeze. I could feel my skin tingle. ‘John-Joe O’Connor.’
    We ran all the way to Macari’s café on Talbot Street, the two of us nearly doubled over with laughter as we hopped through the puddles, and then we took a seat by the window, looking down onto the shoppers going in and out of Boyers department store. And now, here we are, sharing a big plate of chips and battered cod, and it feels good, hot and greasy and I lick my fingers, the salt on my tongue. No knives, no forks, no fine dining. Daddy would have a heart attack.
    ‘I suppose you’re wondering how I found you again?’ He’s leaning back on the seat, so far he threatens to topple backwards, rubbing his stomach, before he gives an appreciative belch. I cover my mouth, my eyes wide. In my house, a belch has never once been heard: people retreat into the privacy of the bathroom to do things like that, behind closed doors.
    I giggle. ‘That’s very rude.’
    ‘But you like it.’ He smiles broadly. ‘You like a man who’s honest about these things. Who doesn’t pretend to be one thing when he’s really another.’
    ‘Hmm …’ I shrug my shoulders, because I have no idea what kind of man I like. The statement seems so odd, when the only men I’ve ever known are Daddy and a few of the boys at the tennis club. I couldn’t imagine Ivan, with his tweed jacket and pullover, his shirt and tie, letting a big burp out like that or talking to me like this man talks to me, directly, as if I’m not ‘a lady’, just, well, a woman, I suppose. Ivan is far too much of a gentleman – all that opening doors and insisting he drive, even though I know perfectly well how to drive myself. I look at John-Joe and I can tell he’s not a gentleman, but there’s something about that that I like: it makes me feel that I know him in a way I’ve never known a man before: as an equal.
    ‘I’ve been trying to look you up ever since we bumped into each other at the Students’ Club,’ he’s saying. ‘I went back a few times, but there was no sign of you. And then I remembered you talking about your “awful secretarial school”’ – he does a very funny imitation of me and I find myself giggling again – ‘and so I tried all of them until I found you. I had to stand outside for a week or so to see if you walked in the door, but it was worth it.’
    I should be scared, I know. That a man – who, incidentally, hadn’t seemed terribly bothered about me at our first meeting– should go to such lengths to find me. Me! But then I thought of Jean Seberg and Jean-Paul Belmondo in
À Bout de Souffle
and how they just found each other, without needing silly things like tennis clubs and respectability. It just seemed so romantic: that he would search the whole of Dublin just for me. And when he lays his brown hand on mine and gives it a little squeeze, my heart gives a little squeeze too.
    ‘How did you know my surname?’ The thought suddenly occurs to me.
    He leans back in his seat again, a big grin splitting his face. ‘You have one of those labels sewn into the back of your coat, like a little schoolgirl. M. Spencer it said. I thought the “M” stood for “Miss”.’
    I blush a bright red and try to stifle a giggle, thanking God for Mummy’s insistence on labelling all my clothes.
    He leans forward then, his expression suddenly serious. ‘There’s a protest on next Saturday. About Vietnam. Fancy coming?’
    My stomach flips, a mixture of excitement and nerves. I’ve never been to a protest before. ‘Will it be violent?’ I ask.
    He looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. ‘You’re very sheltered, aren’t you? Of course it won’t be violent, unless the guards kick off,’ he spits. ‘Bastards.’ And then he coughs. ‘Excuse me. I forget that you’re a lady.’
    I groan. ‘Not all that “lady”