The Stopped Heart (15 page)

“Well, I think they're great,” Eddie says. “Both of them. A breath of fresh air, aren't they, Deb?”

Deborah smiles.

“We just don't know anyone with kids that age—teenagers, I mean. It makes a nice change.”

Eddie nods.

“They're welcome here anytime,” he says.

“You're very kind,” Graham says.

Still, Mary is relieved when he suggests the girls go and eat dessert at home.

“They need to let the dog out,” he tells Deborah as he hands Ruby a key.

Straightaway, Eddie jumps up.

“Not so fast. I'm sorry but you're not getting away without seeing my vinyls.”

“Really, Eddie,” Deborah says, “can't it wait for another time?”

He glances at her, rubbing at his hair. Mary notices that he looks quite agitated.

“Not if you're about to make me pack them away ready for the builders to start on the bloody extension, they can't.”

Deborah laughs. She undoes her hair clip and shakes her hair out so it falls all over her shoulders. She looks at Mary.

“You see why we need an extension? Not for ourselves at all, but to house his entire collection of seventies memorabilia.” She looks at the girls. “You think I'm joking? Go on up and see. You won't believe the amount of stuff he's got up there.”

I
DID NOT KNOW WHAT HAD HAPPENED BETWEEN
J
AMES AND
me, but I knew that something had. Even though he was still the same tall, red-haired, annoying person, he no longer affected me in the same way. Something was different. There seemed to be more of him—so much more—as if his eyes now contained a thousand possibilities that I'd never noticed before. His body too—or maybe it was my own body. Where I'd once been hard and worried around him, now I was liquid velvet, the softest thing.

Next day and the day after, we sat together again on the old tree and he told me all about himself. He said that his mother had died when he was ten years old and he was brought up by an aunt who had thrown him out on the streets when he was fourteen.

I stared at him.

Why did she throw you out?

He scratched his head.

It's a long story and not for your innocent ears.

He told me he had worked as a dustman in London for a time and after that as a fish gutter in Lowestoft, where he'd had a sweetheart for a short while but she'd died soon after and that was that.

But don't worry, he said. She wasn't as pretty as you, not even the smallest bit, and that's a fact.

I thought it very unkind of him to be so cruel about a person he had once loved, especially if she'd had the awful misfortune to die, and I told him so.

Oh, he said. But I didn't love her.

Then that's even worse! I said.

He laughed and he reached out his hand and touched my hair and then my face, and I didn't stop him but I told him he shouldn't be laughing about it either.

What? he said. Am I supposed to lie about it, then?

I had no answer to that, but all the same I couldn't get the idea of the poor dead unloved woman out of my head. I asked him what her name was and what she died of, but he said he didn't want to talk about her.

We weren't engaged or anything, he said. I wouldn't have been so stupid as to promise her marriage.

I asked him why that would have been stupid.

Well, because she was already poorly when I met her. It's like horses, isn't it?

What?

You don't go putting your money on a lame horse, do you?

I looked at him and didn't know if he was joking or not. I said I thought he was being very unkind.

He laughed.

Oh Eliza, I'm only teasing. You think I'd really say that about a poor sick woman?

I don't know what you'd say, I said. Especially since I don't know the first thing about you.

Dearest Eliza, he said. But you do. You know everything about me. Everything that's worth knowing, anyway.

And he tried to take hold of my hand then, tried to pull my
face to his so he could kiss me, but I would not let him. And when he wouldn't take no for an answer, I got quite fierce and shook him off. He did not seem to like this very much, telling me that all through his life he'd always been very upset when women pushed him away.

It began with my mother and my aunt, he said. And after that it was downhill all the way.

I pointed out that, while it might be all right to say this about his aunt, it was not exactly fair on his poor mother, since she surely did not choose to die.

But he didn't seem to be listening. He stuck out his bottom lip.

She left me to it, he said.

Yes, but what else could she have done?

He shrugged.

She did not care what happened to me—

Oh, but I'm very sure she did care! I cried.

He looked at me for a moment.

Well, it was very hard for me, being left. I don't know any other way to put it, Eliza. She left me to it and that was that.

I struggled for a moment with this and I thought about trying to explain his poor mother a little more carefully to him. But I could see there was no use: his face was pinched and sad and hard.

Well, I feel very sorry for you, I said. But that's all in the past. There's no point dwelling on it, is there?

His face seemed to brighten.

You're right. There's not. And anyway, I've got you now, haven't I?

I looked at my boots.

What? he said. What is it?

I don't think I want to be anybody's sweetheart, I said.

He stopped and looked at me and he pushed some hair out of my face. He put his hand on the part of my skirts where my knee
was and then he slid it upward, to my thigh. A little flame-like feeling crept and flickered around there under my petticoats. I took a quick breath.

You don't have to be anyone's anything, he said. You just have to be you. And to know that I like you very much.

I like you too, I told him.

You do?

And he looked as if he was waiting for more. But the truth was I had run out of words. I thought he must think me a very raw, dull child compared to his old dead sweetheart.

I want to be with you all the time, he said. I mean it, Eliza. I'd see to it if I could.

I stared at him, not understanding.

What do you mean? I said. How would you see to it?

He shrugged.

I suppose I'd kidnap you if I could.

I didn't like the way he said it—as if it was the most natural and ordinary thing in the world. I thought about it for a moment and then I pointed out that you didn't have to kidnap a person if they were already there.

He nodded and smiled as if he'd already thought of this.

And anyway I wouldn't want to hurt you, would I?

I should hope not, I said, though I still felt worried.

And I was about to wonder whether he'd thought about kidnapping the poor dead woman, but then we heard the sound of my mother calling the little ones in for supper, so all ideas and questions disappeared from my head.

Before we parted, he put his mouth to my ear.

Shall I tell you what I'd really like?

I laughed.

No, thanks, I said.

He looked surprised.

What? You don't want me to tell you? Really, Eliza? You really don't want to know what it is?

I don't think I do, I said.

Why not?

I shrugged. Feeling my face grow tight and hot.

Because I'm afraid.

Afraid? What on earth are you afraid of, Eliza?

I'm afraid of what it is that you're going to say.

He looked at me for a moment.

You're afraid of me?

I swallowed.

I don't know, I said.

Then he took my hand and held it in both of his. He pulled me toward him and he stared into my eyes.

Well, maybe you're right to be afraid. Maybe your instinct is correct, Eliza. But I'm going to tell you anyway—

I tried to turn my head away.

Please, I said.

Please what?

Please don't—and I tugged at my hand, but he would not let go. Instead, he laughed. And when at last he spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper as if the next part was so secret that even the birds and insects around us should not be allowed to hear it.

What I'd really like is to see you with no clothes on.

I stared at him. I couldn't believe he'd said it. It was the most awful and nerve-racking idea. He smiled.

And shall I tell you the really funny thing? The really funny thing—and I know you won't believe this but take it from me, it is God's own truth—is that one day you'll feel the precise same way. One day I swear you'll take them all off for me—dress, petticoats, even your drawers. You'll take them all off and you'll stand there in front of me as naked as the day you were born and I won't
know which part to look at first—your breasts or your belly or your sweet little fanny.

I swallowed and turned my head away. I felt so ashamed I thought I would faint. I began to cry.

But don't worry, he added, letting go of my hand as if he suddenly understood that he'd gone too far. It's only an idea I have in my head. Just a mischievous idea. I'd never do anything to upset you, Eliza, I promise you that, gentleman's honor.

T
HERE
'
S A MOWN PATH THAT LEADS BETWEEN THE REED BEDS
and up to the golf course. On the edge of a wide field, next to the wood. Mary doesn't go as far as the golf course—she never goes up there. Instead, she stops right there in the middle of the reeds where she's never seen or heard another human soul.

Silence.

Cow parsley as high as your head. Nettles. Wild orchids and foxgloves. Lush, damp grass, where it's been flooded and boggy all winter and spring. The occasional molehill. But apart from the squawk of a bird or the sudden eerie splash of something in the water, nothing. Recently, as spring has given way to early summer, she has begun to look forward to coming here.

There's a bench. She knows it wasn't put there just for her. But she can tell, mainly because of the lush, undisturbed brightness of the grass growing up between its slats, that she is the only person who ever sits on it. She did once find the foil from inside a packet of cigarettes here. And another time, a used scratch card, crumpled and soggy and torn. But apart from that.

She comes here often. Every day sometimes. She doesn't bring the dog, even though she knows Graham would expect her to. The dog would want a walk. Or to jump in the ditches. Or to be allowed to go looking for rabbits. The dog wouldn't let her sit alone in silence and think. And this is where she comes
to do that. This is where she comes when she wants to think the thoughts that she cannot safely allow anywhere near Graham or her home.

She's sitting here the day after the dinner at Deborah and Eddie's when he calls her mobile. The sound, breaking the warm, green silence of the afternoon air, making her jump.

“Hope you don't mind, I got your number off your daughter.”

Daughter. Her heart flips.

“Why?” she says. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just felt like calling. Wondering what you're up to. Wanted to see if you're all right.”

“All right?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“I'm out,” she says. “Out for a walk. Why? Where are you?”

He takes a breath.

“Oh, nowhere. Just at work.”

At work. She tries to picture it. A suit, a tie, a computer screen, perhaps some kind of hefty leather office chair. Or else she sees him standing at a window, tie loosened, hair mussed, phone in hand, looking out over something vast and wrecked and urban. A building site. Cranes. Maybe some water or a railway line.

“Are you all right?” he says again.

“All right?” She looks down at the sodden tissue in her hand. “Why wouldn't I be all right?”

She hears him sigh.

“I suppose you just popped into my head.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did. Anything wrong with that?” He laughs. “I can't tell you how glad we are to meet some interesting people at last. People worth knowing. You've no idea how dull most of the folk around here are.”

Mary tells him that the few people she's come across in the village seem very nice.

“Very nice?” He laughs. “You mean very old. You should see Deb's so-called book group. I swear there's not a single person under sixty-five.”

She tells him that people can't help getting old and hears him take a breath.

“Well, you're a much kinder person than I am, aren't you?”

She tells him she isn't kind.

“All the same,” he says, “I mean it. It's good to have some proper friends at last.”

She puts the tissue in her pocket, looks down for a moment at the long grass at her feet.

“But you must have friends.”

“What?”

“You and Deborah. You must have friends.”

He hesitates.

“We don't. Not really.”

“Come on,” she says.

She hears him blow out smoke again.

“You don't understand. We find it hard—I suppose we don't mix that well. We're very shy, Deb and me.”

Mary thinks about Deborah. Her smiling confidence and friendliness, her sheet of long blond hair.

“I don't think of Deborah as shy,” she says.

He says nothing.

She lets the silence happen while she tilts her head back and watches a bird falling through the sky. About to swoop down on some poor little creature, probably.

“What?” he says at last. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I wasn't thinking anything. I was watching a bird.”

She hears him chuckle and something about the sound of it makes her look behind her, glancing back at the tall reeds shuffling in the quiet breeze. She tells him she must go.

“Go?”

“I've got to get back. See to the dog.”