“Can you play?” Mr. Cavendish nodded at the upright piano.
“Not, really,” I sat on the stool, my fingers tinkling the ivory keys.
“Come in and wait,” he’d said. “She won’t be long.” I’d cycled two miles to play with my friend but she’d gone into town.
“Let me show you how.” He leaned over, hands sliding down towards mine, caressing my eleven-year old breasts on the way. Stubble rasped at my face. I wriggled free; escaped.
“You’re never going there again,” Mum swept it under the carpet.
Many years have since passed. ‘Me Too’ came too late for me.
“Not, really,” I sat on the stool, my fingers tinkling the ivory keys.
“Come in and wait,” he’d said. “She won’t be long.” I’d cycled two miles to play with my friend but she’d gone into town.
“Let me show you how.” He leaned over, hands sliding down towards mine, caressing my eleven-year old breasts on the way. Stubble rasped at my face. I wriggled free; escaped.
“You’re never going there again,” Mum swept it under the carpet.
Many years have since passed. ‘Me Too’ came too late for me.
