The Stopped Heart (6 page)

It's true. She doesn't. Last time she tried to watch daytime TV, she flicked on CBBC by mistake and broke out in a sweat.

He leans over and puts one of his pillows on the floor.

“I don't know what you want to do,” he says. “I thought you didn't want to read. And you've no idea, when I try to suggest things—”

“What? When you try to suggest things, what?”

He sighs.

“Nothing,” he says. “Forget I said that.”

She looks at him. The side of his face. Thick gray hair cropped short. When she met him it was down to his shoulders. He wore a funny kind of hat—was it a fedora? She cooked him beef Stroganoff and she burned it so it was inedible and he said don't worry I'm not hungry and he kissed her for an hour instead.

He yawns, reaches to turn out the light on his side.

“Some people would go to the pub,” he says. “Get drunk and stagger home and never have to think at all.” He kisses her shoulder. “Well, they would, wouldn't they?”

“You want to do that?”

“No. I'm just saying it's what a lot of people would do.”

A silence while they both think about this.

“You feel like reading?” he says.

She tries to remember what a book felt like.

“I don't know. Maybe. I don't know.”

“Order some books,” he says. “Why don't you? Go on Amazon.”

She says nothing.

“Anyway,” he says as he punches his remaining pillows and turns over on his side ready for sleep, “the days are getting longer. We can have evenings outside soon. We can do the garden, stuff like that. That'll pass the time.”

S
O EVEN THOUGH HE CAME FROM UNDER A LIGHTNING TREE AND
no one knew the smallest thing about him, James H. Dix slept on a pallet in the barn and washed at the tap in the yard and spent his days among us as if it had always been this way. As the weeks and then the months passed and winter turned to spring and the days got longer and softer and brighter, it was hard to remember that we had ever been without him in our lives.

The little ones were mad for him. Jazzy trailed him around the place from dawn to dusk, asking him so many questions that, in the end, instead of getting angry with her, he took the easy way out and simply stopped listening.

Lottie stuck on like a limpet, not giving a scoot what he said or did as long as he said and did it to her. Even the twins, normally so thick with each other that no one else could get near them—let alone a stranger with thick red hair and staring eyes and a snake tattooed on his neck—they couldn't get enough of him either.

He chased them around the yard till they wept with excitement. He hid behind trees in the orchard, jumping out at them like a bogeyman, slicing through the air with his imaginary sword. He put them both in the wheelbarrow and gave them a fast, rough ride, threatening to tip them into the water trough at the last moment. They shouted so loud that our mother had to come out and tell them to be quiet, but she softened as soon as she saw James. It was as if he were a saint or something. Nothing about him ever seemed to vex her.

He taught them to dab poppy seeds off the kitchen table with a wet finger.

But don't eat too many, he said. Because they'll give you wild dreams.

And Minnie asked him what a wild dream was and he made his eyes into slits and told her it was lions and tigers and crocodiles chasing you all night long and not giving up till morning.

She threw me a worried look.

What, and biting you too?

James laughed. One moment he'd look very happy and alive, but the next his face would be sweating and he'd look like he didn't know what to do with himself. He set his teeth on the edge of the table and pretended to gnaw it.

What else would wild animals do? he said, and, keeping his eyes on Minnie, he wiped his face on his shirtsleeve.

It's not true, I told the twins. Don't listen to him. He's just making it up to frighten you.

I want a wee, Minnie said, and she ran out of the room.

I wasn't afraid, Charlie said, but he slipped his hand in mine and kept it there.

Another time, James put Frank and two other boys from the village up against the wall in the yard and made them wait with their hands shoved down their breeches while he threw punches at them—left, right, and center—teaching them how to dodge and duck and slide so they could look after themselves if ever they got in a tight spot on the road.

He explained that this was what his own dear father had done for him and hadn't it always stood him in good stead?

And where is your own dear father? said Jazzy, who was sitting on the wall with Lottie, kicking her feet and watching.

James laughed and told her to mind her own business, but I
could see that he was annoyed. He was dark as a pocket when it came to his own personal history.

Is he in heaven with the angels? Lottie asked him.

Maybe, he said.

And are they poking pins in him because he tried to kick the door down?

James gave her a quick, black look.

What door? he said. I don't know what you're on about. My pa never kicked any door down.

Jazzy looked at her and laughed.

Angels don't have pins, you nonny. They don't have any sewing in heaven. Only clouds and stars and great big golden thrones.

They do have pins! Lottie shouted at her. They do! I seen it when I was sleeping.

Jazzy looked at James.

Ah, when you were sleeping, was it? Well, that's what we call a dream, you little goose.

A cloud went over Lottie's face.

It wasn't a dream.

Then how did you see it? Jazzy said, and she folded her arms and waited, still looking at James.

Lottie stuck out her lip.

When I was in heaven, I saw it.

Jazzy frowned.

But only dead people go to heaven, Lottikins.

That's right. I died.

You didn't die.

I did.

Don't lie. Of course you didn't.

Now Lottie began to cry.

I did! After the bad man hit me with the knife, I did.

James looked at her now and clenched a fist.

What bad man was that, Lottie? If a man hits you, you take me to him and I'll give him something to think about.

Lottie's whole face was trembling and the tears were falling out of her eyes now.

I can't, I can't. I can't take you to him.

Why can't you?

She shook her head and held out her hands.

Because I just can't.

I
WAS SCRUBBING POTS IN THE BACK SINK WHEN HE CAME UP
behind me. I smelled him before I heard him. Tobacco. Onions. And something else more alive. The bright, raw smell of a young rabbit when the skin's come off.

He touched my shoulder and I swung around. He was smiling like a lunatic. His teeth were strong and white and only one was missing, toward the back. His breeches were ragged and his shirt was untucked and you could see the inky swirling point of his tattoo.

Did I frighten you? he said.

No.

I didn't mean to.

Well, you didn't.

He stood there not moving, looking at me. I felt my cheeks start to burn, so I turned back to the pans. My hands were sore and stinging and I was in a hurry to get the job done. I tipped the heaviest pan over onto the wooden board to drain. He folded his arms and leaned up against the wall next to me. I didn't look at him, but I felt my skin start to prickle with his closeness.

What's the matter? he said.

Nothing's the matter.

Don't you want us to be friends?

I took a breath.

Not really, I said.

Why? What is it? Don't you like me?

I don't know, I said, and I rinsed another of the big pans and turned it over to drain.

I felt him staring at me.

You're a bit of a princess, aren't you?

No, I said.

Oh, but you are. It's on your face. Princess Eliza. Look at you—you think yourself so very high and mighty and fancy and fine.

And he looked at my face and laughed to himself as if there were something secret and interesting there that only he could see. I wanted to say something but I knew it would be no use, so I buttoned my lip. But I couldn't help glancing at him, and as I did so, the look on his face made my blood freeze.

What? I said.

He shook his head.

You don't know it, do you? he said, laughing again. You've not found it out yet, have you? You've no idea.

I knew he wanted me to ask him what he was talking about, so I didn't. But I could not easily turn my face away and he looked straight into the very center of my eyes and he smiled as eerily as if he had just turned over a card and found he'd won a great fat prize.

You're mine, he said. It's you I came for. It's why I'm here. I can do anything I want to you, Miss High-and-Mighty Princess Eliza.

H
ER BIRTHDAY.
F
ORTY-TWO YEARS OLD.
A
COOL GRAY DAY; HER
heart so small and dry and tight she can barely feel it beating inside her. She wakes and tries not to think of other birthdays. Tries
not to think of anything. She stays very steady. She does not cry.

Graham brings her breakfast in bed. Coffee and croissants and damson jam with a little gingham cloth on the lid. She expresses surprise. And pleasure. Tells him he didn't have to do it. He tells her of course he did. Adding that she needs to hurry up and get dressed because they've got to go and pick up her present.

“What?” she says. “What do you mean, pick it up? Pick it up from where?”

She goes into the bathroom and washes herself. In the mirror these days, what is it? Her face, slowly disintegrating. Lines where there never were lines, shadows where once there was nothing but light.

“What are you doing in there?” he calls. She can tell from his voice that he is on edge, excited. “We've got to get a move on, hurry up!”

He looks almost nervous as they drive out of the village, up the main road to the crossing where he turns left. After fifteen or perhaps twenty minutes on the fast road, trucks thundering in front and behind, he turns off, following a small country lane until it narrows and then peters out and becomes a track.

“I thought about getting it without you,” he says as they bump along the dusty track, birdsong loud in the air around them. “Having it all ready to surprise you when I came home. But then I thought that would be no fun. And anyway, the truth is, I think I might need your help bringing it back.”

Fun? Help? She looks at him, suddenly afraid of what the present might be.

They park outside a low, squalid-looking bungalow. Empty plant pots and broken plastic chairs piled outside. He tells her to stay in the car and he goes across the white crazy paving and knocks. After a few moments he bends and looks through the letterbox. A lot of dogs start barking.

A fat, elderly gray-haired woman in a tracksuit comes out. Mary watches from the car as Graham talks to the woman for a moment and then they disappear together through another metal gate around the back.

She does what she is told. She sits in the car, her hands in her lap, and she does not move. Sun spills from between the clouds and for a moment she is blinded. Then it slides away and she can see again. She thinks she sees someone at one of the windows, lifting a net curtain. Still she does not move. Her eyes straight ahead, her limbs like water. She wonders what would happen if Graham never reappeared, if he never came back at all. Would she just sit here, melting into the car seat, dissolving to dust as the years passed?

But a few minutes later, he does appear, followed by the woman, who turns back briefly to secure the gate. Mary sees that in his hand is a lead and at the end of the lead is a small black-and-white dog. Jesus, she thinks, oh God, oh no. He approaches the car, smiling in a careful, bunched-up way as if he is about to introduce himself to her for the first time. He pulls open her door.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

She stares at his face and then at the dog's white whiskery muzzle.

“We can't have a dog,” she says.

He seems ready for this.

“It's all right.” He holds the lead out to her. “That's fine. I knew you'd say that. It's on approval anyway.”

“It?”

She looks at the lead but she does not take it.

“She. Little collie. Four months old.”

Four months. The dog looks frightened. Graham pushes the lead into her hand.

“I don't want a dog,” she says. “You're not listening to me,” she
adds when he just smiles. “I mean it, Graham. I don't want a dog.”

He hesitates, still smiling, his eyes on her.

“It's all right. Like I said. We've got a bit of time to decide.”

He lifts the dog and puts it in the car. The lead is loose in her hand. The dog gives her a quick, startled glance, then lies down, its body heavy and warm against her feet. It tucks its nose into its tail and holds very still.

“Look at that,” Graham says. “Settled already.”

“She's terrified,” Mary says.

O
UR DOG HATED
J
AMES
D
IX.
S
HE WOULD NOT GO NEAR HIM.
She made sure to move out of his way if he came too close, and she would not even eat the scraps we threw to her if James was in the room. If, out of nowhere, you saw her ears flatten and you heard her growl, you could be sure that seconds later his bright, unmistakable head would go bobbing past the window.

When he found me in the darkness of the scullery, she was stretched out asleep on the floor, but as soon as she felt him, she jumped up and ran off.

I would have run off too, but I knew it would just have excited him. Instead, I made a point of staying level and tight and calm.

What is it now? I said. What do you want?

He looked at me.

Oh, Eliza. Do I always have to want something?

I said nothing. He began to smile.