Page 22 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

‘The kids at school say much worse to me.’

She wanted to ask more, but now wasn’t the time. Perhaps later, in the privacy of their home.

They reached the board game café. ‘Milkshake and cake?’ she suggested, hoping to cheer him up.

Max’s face brightened a little. He stopped and peered through the window, into the café.

‘Nah.’ He dropped her hand and continued walking.

Taylor glanced into the café. At the tables some boys she recognised from Year 6 were setting up games, their mothers chatting away at another table. She’d have to bring him here another time, when it wasn’t so busy. She hurried after him.

As they passed Oxfam, she remembered the upcycled jeans in her bag. ‘Wait, Max. I need to call in here.’

He hesitated in the doorway, checking that there was no-one from school in the shop. She would have to sort this out, speak to the school yet again. He shouldn’t be fearful of walking into a shop or a café. This was sleepy little Essendale, not downtown Detroit.

Max went straight to the adult non-fiction books as usual, pulling one off the shelf and settling cross-legged on the floor to read.

The same volunteer was on the till.

‘You’re back,’ she said to Taylor.

‘I’ve brought the jeans.’ She took them from the bag and laid them out on the counter.

The volunteer examined the stitching with all the focus of Esme Young judging on The Great British Sewing Bee. Esme was Taylor’s favourite judge, though she had a bit of a crush on Patrick.

She shifted from one foot to the other, as the volunteer turned the garment over and studied the new back pockets.

‘You did all this?’ said the volunteer finally.

‘I did.’

‘It’s incredibly neat. And the jeans are now very striking. Someone’s going to love them.’

‘Will they go in the window?’ Taylor said. Funny how she’d been so gutted to see her Scrabble pinafore in the window of Hebbleswick’s hospice shop, but now longed for these jeans to go on display here.

‘Definitely.’ The volunteer smiled. She patted Taylor’s hand. ‘I sew a bit myself. Thought I was pretty good at it, actually, but I’m nowhere near your standard.’

Taylor’s eyes began to well up – how embarrassing was this? – and she fumbled in her bag for a tissue, but of course there was never one to be found when she needed one. And then Max was at her side, holding up a tatty copy of some book about trains, saying, ‘Mum, please may I buy this?’

‘That’s just come in,’ said the volunteer. ‘You got lucky, young man.’

Taylor handed over a two-pound coin and Max clutched the book to himself, as if it were a teddy.

On the way home, Taylor felt excited. Excited about the prospect of her jeans being displayed in the shop window, and at the thought of upcycling her boring white shirt. This galvanised her somehow, and, she decided that she would talk to the school and ask – no, insist – that they did something to sort this bullying out once and for all. She and Max would be fine, she decided, ruffling his hair. As usual, he batted her hand away.

Her optimism was short-lived. When she unlocked the front door of the old co-operative in Hebbleswick, she discovered the floor of her kitchen and most of the lounge was covered in dirty, soapy water.

12

Seven thirty a.m.

Harry stretched out a bare arm, pressed snooze on the alarm and snuggled down into the duvet for an extra ten minutes’ doze. He was content for a second, until thoughts of Taylor standing behind him in Oxfam intruded into his consciousness.

Overzealous seamstress.

Got a bit overenthusiastic with the scissors.

He knew that the chances of Taylor ever falling for him were slim at best, but after she’d heard how he’d described her they’d be non-existent.