The Stopped Heart (23 page)

“You got time to make me some coffee?”

T
HE FIRST TIME
J
AMES
D
IX TRIED ME, IT DIDN
'
T WORK
. I
WAS
willing enough, but it would not go in. At first he looked annoyed, but then he stopped himself and did up his breeches again.

I don't want to hurt you, he said.

It's all right.

You wouldn't say that if I did hurt you, princess.

I'm not a princess.

To me you are. A real, royal princess.

He lit a cigarette and smoked it. Frowning and looking at me all the time as if he had a big new problem to crack and I was it.

It was a dull, misty day—air warm, sun not broken through yet. We were behind the apple shed where the ground was soft enough and the black-currant bushes grew thick around us. A good and quiet place, we'd thought, for him to show me what it was that men and women do.

At last he threw down the cigarette and stood up.

Come on, he said, and he took me by the hand and pulled me over to the fallen-down tree.

What are you doing?

You'll see.

Roughly, as if he was in quite a hurry now, he pushed me forward over the tree and I felt him pulling up my skirts and tugging at my drawers.

Hey, I said.

It's all right.

I twisted around to see what he was doing and saw that he had undone the flap of his breeches again, but before I could think any more about what was going on, he was already doing it—

I felt it there for a moment, straining, stretching.

No! I cried.

He put his lips on my neck and hotness rushed up through me, up my legs and under my arms and into my throat. I felt his teeth, gently biting.

No, I said again, quieter this time.

It's all right, he whispered. There.

Oh!

You feel that?

Yes.

It doesn't hurt, does it?

A bit.

But you like it?

I don't know.

I
T WENT ON AND ON AND THEN IT JUST SEEMED TO FINISH.
W
E
held very still, listening to our two selves breathing, alive and wetly cupped together on that tree.

I felt the weight of him against me and his man's warmth and
his cigarette breath on my neck. I watched a small black beetle hurrying over the crinkled bark, up and down, side to side, traveling to somewhere that only he knew about.

At last he sighed and put a kiss on my head. Then he stepped back and off and there was a small noise and I felt it come sliding out. Wetness going down my leg. It was pinkish. I used my petticoat to wipe it.

Is that it? I said.

What do you mean, is that it? Isn't that enough?

I saw that he was laughing at me.

W
E SAT DOWN.
H
E SMOKED ANOTHER CIGARETTE, PUFFING ON
it faster and faster now as if he was in a right big old hurry. I pulled up grass. It was lush and damp. One handful after another, arranging the small, green pickings in the lap of my skirt.

The first time you ever did that to a girl, I said, weren't you afraid?

He laughed, then he made a face. Blowing out smoke and straightaway taking another suck.

Afraid? Why ever would I be afraid?

I don't know, I said.

Keeping his eyes on me and still smiling, he ran his fingers through his bright hair. He looked like a cockerel, I thought—yes, the cock of the yard, with his hair all standing straight up on top like that. I felt annoyed and admiring both at the same time. I looked at the pieces of grass in my lap and then back at him. He really was awfully full of himself now that he'd got me to do it with him.

What is it? he said, smiling as hard as he could. What are you thinking now?

I hesitated. For a moment I thought about telling him the truth—that I was thinking about what Phoebe Harkiss had said
about my mother being up the spout and wondering what it had to do with James and if I dared ask him about it. I was also thinking about how I'd like to tell him that, even though I still liked him, he wasn't as great as he thought he was and that, as a matter of fact, I felt quite fed up with him, the way he was always so intent on being amused and in charge of things.

I was wondering if you'd done it with Phoebe Harkiss, too, I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.

Now he looked very angry.

For the love of God, Eliza, what's the matter with you? Why are you always so concerned with Phoebe Harkiss?

I shook out my skirt. Grass falling everywhere and over everything.

I don't know, I said.

He put out his cigarette, smoke coming from the side of his mouth.

That girl is nothing to me. I don't know why you think she's so interesting. Really, Eliza, you've got nothing to worry about. Phoebe Harkiss is not of any interest to me at all.

I looked at him. The little bow of his lip, so awkward and pretty. Apart from the stubble on it, you might have mistaken it for a girl's.

Yes, but have you done it with her? I said.

H
E SAID WE HAD TO DO IT AGAIN.

What, on the tree? I said, thinking I wasn't sure I could be bothered to get up and go through all of that malarkey a whole other time.

He smiled and he took me in his arms. He lifted my hair. He kissed my face. Then he rolled me back so I was flat on the ground. I gasped as he pinned me.

No, he said. Right here.

And he pulled my drawers all the way off this time and parted my legs and got inside—easily because it was still slippery from before—only this time he did it slower and a bit harder, keeping his eyes on me and his mouth on mine, moving and flicking and licking and kissing me.

At first I felt nothing. I thought that my body didn't much care what was happening and it could have been anything at all going on inside me. But then something changed. The feeling of him doing it—it was like the twist of a key, building and turning. I wanted to stop; I couldn't stop; I didn't want to. I was afraid, elated. I was spilling over. I began to scream.

He clamped his hand over my mouth. I could not breathe. I pulled it off. The noise that came out of me, finally—even I had never heard it before.

We lay there. The moments tumbling past us. Every part of me red and startled and wild. My cheeks. My chest. My heart. The whole of the inside of me. I imagined blood, pouring down from deep within me, a wide river of blood pouring out of the very center of my heart. I still could not breathe, could not speak or think—I did not know whether to be upset or not.

He looked at me. He looked me up and down—my eyes, my cheeks, my heart, my face.

Eliza, he said. Whoa. I mean it. You ain't supposed to like it that much.

S
HE TAKES HIM UP TO THE HOUSE AND SITS HIM DOWN IN THE
kitchen and makes him coffee. Not bothering with a proper pot, just getting out the instant, chucking in the granules and the milk and putting the mug down in front of him. She hands him a spoon to stir it and asks him if he wants sugar. He says no. He leans back in the chair and tilts his head and looks at her.

“You're not having any?”

She shakes her head, the smell of his steaming mug nauseating her already. Folding her arms, still standing there, already wishing he would go.

“What is it?” he says.

“What?”

“I get the feeling you're angry with me.”

She looks at him.

“I'm not angry.”

“What, then?”

“I'm not anything, Eddie. I'm just busy, that's all.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.”

He sighs.

“Oh God, Mary. I don't know what's going on between us.”

“What do you mean? Nothing's going on.”

“We seemed to be so close. But now . . .”

Mary stares at him.

“For goodness' sake, Eddie. Nothing's going on. And nothing's changed either. Why does everything always have to be so dramatic?”

His face falls.

“You see? You are angry.”

Mary sighs. Pulls out a chair and sits.

“What are you doing anyway? You're not working today?”

He hesitates.

“I am. I'm working from home today. Well, I suppose you could call it work.” He takes off his glasses, rubs them on his T-shirt, puts them back on again. “What?” he says, when she doesn't say anything. “You find it odd that I work from home sometimes?” He smiles, looking down at the table, putting his
hands on it. Running a finger over the notches and scratches. “I suppose I just fancied a chat, that's all. Thought I'd come and see how you were, that kind of thing.”

“I'm fine,” Mary says, unable to stop herself glancing at the stairs. She wants to have a shower, make the bed, she ought to phone her mother.

She is about to find a way of saying these things when without warning Eddie stands up. Pushing his chair back. The noise of it scraping over the floor starts the dog barking.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I should probably just go.”

“What?” She bends to grab the dog's collar.

He looks at her.

“I didn't realize—”

“Didn't realize what?”

“Well, it's not a good time, is it?”

He looks at the dog, who barks again. Mary drags her across the room and pushes her into the sitting room, shutting the door. She turns and faces him, confused. He runs his hands through his hair, looking at her.

“You only needed to say, you know. That you weren't alone.”

“What?”

“I wouldn't have dreamed of bothering you if I'd known that Graham was here.”

Mary stares at him, confused.

“Graham's at work,” she says.

He blinks at her.

“Who is it, then?”

“What?”

“Who's that upstairs?”

“There's no one upstairs.”

“Then what's all the noise?”

“What noise?”

He begins to laugh.

“You're having me on, aren't you?”

A
FTER HE LEAVES, SHE TIPS HIS UNTOUCHED COFFEE INTO THE
sink. Tries not to look at the carton of already too-warm and separating milk as she puts it back in the fridge. She releases and feeds the dog, who stares at the kibble for a few baffled moments as if she's never in her life seen food before, and then, very slowly, begins to eat.

She goes upstairs. Pausing on the top step before walking across and standing for a moment on the landing. Moving backward and forward, she treads the boards. The floor creaking loudly under her feet. Sunshine is pouring through the big window, but the long passage that leads away from their bedroom is in shadow, the door at the end closed.

She won't have that.

She walks down the passage and flings it open. The room is exactly as she left it after she stripped Ruby's and Lisa's beds. Dust hanging in the bright, empty air. A dead fly on the windowsill. A dark hoodie flung on the only chair. A faint, depressing smell of something like cheap perfume or maybe deodorant.

She looks around her. A mirror put there for Ruby, but otherwise bare walls. The old paper peeling off in places.

Silence. Too much of it.

She leaves the room and goes back down the passage onto the landing, where she crosses to the window and looks down into the lane. No one. The long, snaking ribbon of the road, hedgerows, fields. Not a soul.

What was she expecting? She doesn't know.

In the bedroom, she kicks off her shoes and lies down on the unmade bed, her head on the familiar mess of pillows, knees pulled up, a smudge of dirt from the garden reminding her briefly
of something, though already the memory's ragged and half-gone, sliding from her grip as loose and smooth as a dream—

She pulls up her T-shirt and puts her hands on the warm skin of her belly, shutting her eyes, holding herself, unsure of what's been happening or how or why.

When, across the landing, a door slams loudly, she is half expecting it. She does not flinch. She keeps her eyes closed and stays very still. She is quite proud of herself; she does not move a muscle.

J
AMES
D
IX AND
I
WERE IN LOVE.
H
E AGREED WITH ME THAT IT
was love. (Just like in all the songs, I said. All right, he said, pulling me to him and laughing.) But he added that he had seduced me, did I understand that? And that I was not under any circumstances to tell my father. Or my mother. Or anyone, for that matter.

Tell them what? I said as I gazed at his face, the face that seemed to grow more beautiful and enticing every time he touched me. That we love each other?

He looked at me as if he thought I might be trying to trick him.

Not that, he said. And not the other thing either.

What thing? I said, though of course I understood perfectly well what other thing he meant and just wanted the fun of making him say it.

He frowned at me.

The thing that we do, dearest. The thing that you seem to like so very much.

Dearest. I liked it when he called me that. It gave me a feeling in my heart like birds and ribbons and the petals of small pink flowers flying up in the air. All the same, I could not resist teasing him.

But why not? I asked him. Why can't it be said?

Though of course I knew the answer and, in truth, just the idea that we were having the conversation was making me want to pull off all my clothes and have him do it to me straightaway.

I told you, Eliza, he said, growing impatient now. Because you are hardly more than a child and it was me that seduced you and they would all say I oughtn't to have done it.

Why would they say that? I asked him.

He shrugged.

People are stupid, he said.

I laughed then. I said I did not care a frick whether he had seduced me, nor a fat farthing for what anyone said. I said he could seduce me a hundred times over for all I cared. For it was truly the best thing I had ever known, this seducing. It was wild. The liveliest thing. It was the bee's knees.