The Stopped Heart (13 page)

T
HEY LEAVE THE FRONT DOOR OPEN SO THAT
D
EBORAH AND
Eddie can come straight in, but instead they go around the side and rap on the thick, old glass of the back window. Mary gasps at the sight of their dark shapes, sudden and close in the bright evening sunshine.

“For goodness' sake,” Graham tells her, “you're unbelievably jumpy tonight.”

In the kitchen, he offers them gin but Eddie produces a bottle of red wine with such a flourish that Graham is forced to open it.

“I think I might actually prefer a gin and tonic,” Deborah says, picking something that looks like cat hair off her pale linen trousers. “I'm feeling a bit rattled. Just now in the lane, we passed this poor dead dog.”

“A dog?”

Deborah nods.

“Just down the road from here. By the farm track. Some kind of a sheep dog. Isn't that what you said you have?”

“It's not yours, is it?” Eddie says.

Graham glances at Mary.

“The dog's with Ruby, isn't she?”

She nods, indicating the sitting room.

“They're in there, watching TV.”

“Oh,” says Deborah. “Your daughter's here? Of course. Graham said. That must be nice.”

Mary smiles.

“But you're sure this dog was dead?” Graham says.

Deborah looks at him.

“Well, I won't go into the gory details, but yes. Knocked over by a car or something, I imagine.”

“It didn't seem right to leave it there,” Eddie says. “But I don't know what else we could have done.”

“It had no collar?”

“Nothing. I suppose it must have been a farm dog.”

“Farm dogs have collars.”

“Do they?”

“I don't know, but surely they do?”

“Well, it had nothing, so what could we do?”

T
HEY WALK DOWN THE GARDEN, TOWARD THE APPLE TREES.
T
HE
sun is low, the shadows long. Mary hears Graham explaining it all to them, telling them how the place started off as a small farm, hence the yard and the outbuildings. Though he imagines there was probably even more land here once upon a time.

“It's a magical place,” Deborah says. “It really is. And your garden's enormous. Look at it, it goes on forever.”

“We haven't really tamed it yet, as you can see,” Graham says,
as they go down between the apple trees and on through the long grass. “It's all still a bit of a wilderness.”

Deborah tells him she loves wildernesses and he laughs.

“No, really,” she says. “Don't you get sick of all these overplanned and overprimped gardens?”

Mary and Eddie come to the washing line, where Mary grabs a couple of tea towels that are hanging there, forgotten and stiff and warm. She feels Eddie looking at her, cigarette packet in one hand, glass of wine in the other.

“Look, this is going to sound incredibly stupid and embarrassing. But if you can forget we ever met. At the market, I mean.”

She turns and looks at him. His glasses catching the evening sunlight. She notices that he seems tense. He looks at the cigarette packet, then puts it back in his pocket.

“You can smoke,” she says. “If you want.”

He looks at her for a moment as if he doesn't know what she's talking about.

“It's just that I never got around to telling her,” he says, batting away the small clouds of midges. “About the market. Stupid, I know, but it never came up and then—well, if you say anything now, it's going to look a bit odd, isn't it?”

Mary holds the tea towels against her, lifting the other hand to shield her face from the sun.

“Of course,” she says. “Whatever.”

“It's not that I want you to lie or anything.”

She tries to smile.

“I understand. Honestly, it's fine.”

He looks at her for a moment.

“She was very pleased with the vegetables. Deborah was. I never told her you'd picked them. She thought it was all my own doing.”

Mary laughs.

“Oh, good. I'm glad.”

“You did me a big favor there,” he says, keeping his eyes on her till she has to look away.

They continue on down the garden, catching up with the others. When they get to the old fallen tree, Deborah gasps.

“Wow, and look at that. How brilliant. For kids, I mean. Our little nephews and nieces would be all over that—”

She breaks off as she understands what she just said. A quick beat of silence.

“It was a proper orchard once upon a time,” Graham says, rescuing her. “All these trees, you see. Damsons as well as apples.”

“Twenty-three damson trees,” Mary says.

“Twenty-three!”

“And you see the wooden shed?” Graham says. “An old apple shed. That's where they put the apples when they'd picked them.”

“It's still got all the old shelves inside,” Mary adds.

“Old shelves?” Eddie says. “What, the original ones with slats?”

“Eddie's mad about anything old,” Deborah says.

Graham looks at the shed.

“To be honest, it needs to come down,” he says.

Eddie looks at him.

“Why pull it down? Why not use it?”

“What would they use it for?” Deborah says.

“To store apples, perhaps?”

“It's rotten inside,” Graham says. “And I don't think I was cut out to be an apple farmer.”

“I'd be an apple farmer,” Eddie says. “I'd love that. Seriously, I'd give it all up tomorrow to be an apple farmer.”

“Give what up?” Deborah says.

He looks at her for a moment then he laughs.

“Thanks,” he says, “for the vote of confidence.”

They all stand for a moment, listening to the far-off drone of an airplane.

“Well, I think it's all wonderful,” Deborah says at last.

Mary looks at Graham.

“I do feel a bit guilty that we haven't done more to it,” she says.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Deborah says. “You've been here only five minutes.”

“It's a great place,” Eddie agrees.

“We're very lucky,” Graham says.

Eddie looks at him and then at Mary.

“We're so pleased to have you here. In the village, I mean. Aren't we, Deb?”

Deborah smiles.

“He's right,” she says. “We are.”

There's a brief silence. Graham turns to Mary, his face a little stricken.

“We're glad too,” he says. “Aren't we, darling? We're very happy here. It really is the most lovely place.”

I
WOKE AT DAWN, HEARING THE VOICES
I
OFTEN HEARD AS
I
came out of a dream. Sometimes they frightened me, speaking in languages I did not understand and telling me things that made no sense. But not this time. This time they were telling me to get up and make my way down to the bottom of the orchard, where I would find James Dix doing something with Phoebe Harkiss.

Something? What thing? I could not even let myself think about it.

Pulling a petticoat over my drawers, I hurried across the landing and down the back stairs. I let myself out of the kitchen door, careful not to make the smallest sound. Everyone was sleeping except for my father, who would have been up for hours, the dog with him.

It was the stillest, hottest morning. The long grass wet my feet, my knees. I knew I should have put my boots on, but there'd not been any time. My body was only half-awake, my mind too, it felt like a part of me was still in my bed, still away in my dream. And part of me also expected that he wouldn't be there, but he was. And not with Phoebe Harkiss either, but sitting alone on the old fallen-down tree, the same one that had brought him into our lives. I felt myself slow down at the sight of him, my heart, head, and blood at a kind of standstill. There was no time to run, I did not even want to run, so why did the thought come into my mind?

He was smoking a cigarette and watching some half-grown fox cubs that had come out into the sunshine to play.

When he looked up and saw me, it was the first time I had ever seen surprise on his face. It made him look younger, kinder. It made him look like someone you might even trust.

He finished his cigarette. Stubbing it out on the tree and flinging it down as quick as anything.

Eliza? he said.

Though his voice was soft, it was still loud enough to send the cubs running off to hide behind the apple shed.

I kicked at a tussock of grass with my bare foot.

I thought you'd be here with Phoebe Harkiss, I said.

He frowned.

I don't know what would give you that idea.

I tried to think of an answer but I hadn't one, so I stayed quiet. So did he.

Well, you can see for yourself that I'm not, he said at last. I nodded and he pulled another cigarette out of his pocket.

Do you want one? he said.

No.

Have you ever tried?

No, I said, though a boy in the lane had once let me suck on his pipe.

James looked at the cigarette as if he was thinking of smoking it, but then he seemed to think better of it and put it away again.

I don't know what you're doing here, he said.

No, I said. Neither do I.

S
OME MOMENTS PASSED.
H
E TILTED HIS HEAD TO ONE SIDE AND
looked at me. He gave a little laugh.

Well, then, Eliza.

Well, what? I said.

What do you think of me?

I don't think anything, I said.

I saw him hesitate.

Do you think I'm handsome?

I looked away quickly. Rolled my eyes.

He laughed.

What? he said. You don't think I'm a handsome bloke?

I felt my face grow hot. I didn't like it.

Why would you even ask such a thing? I said.

He shrugged.

Why would I ask? Well, let me see. I suppose it's because the ladies always tell me I'm a handsome man.

The ladies?

All the ladies I've ever known have said it, and that's the truth.

I stared at him.

I think you've a great big ugly bucket of a face, if you really want to know.

This made him laugh. But after the laugh stopped and his face was serious again, he didn't take his eyes off my face; he kept on looking at me.

What is it now, Eliza?

What do you mean, what is it?

What's in your head?

I told you. Nothing's in my head.

Oh yes there is. You're always thinking something.

Isn't everyone?

No, not everyone, not the way you do. No one has more thoughts flying around in there than you do. My feeling, if you really want to know, is that you think too much.

I shrugged.

I never said I did want to know, I said.

He smiled.

And you have an answer to everything, don't you?

I had no answer to this, so I shrugged.

He was silent for a moment, watching me. I didn't like being watched, hated the feeling. It made my whole face—nose, eyes, mouth—feel too big for my skin.

Tell me what you think of me, he said.

I thought you said I think too much.

He smiled.

All right, but I want to know.

I think you're a piece of bad luck, I told him, though it wasn't something I'd known till I said it out loud.

He stared at me.

Are you a virgin? he said.

Now I flushed to the roots of my hair.

What?

He gave me a sly look.

You know, like Christ's mother, Mary. The Virgin Mary. I wondered if you were a virgin like her.

I thought of Mary with her drab blue clothes and her long-suffering face and her arms full of big fat baby boy. A lot like my mother, I thought.

I'm nothing like her, I said.

He nodded and smiled as if it was the right answer. Then he patted the old dead tree trunk.

Come here, he said.

No, thanks.

I could take you fishing, he said. We could catch a fish and maybe make a little fire and I'll cook it for you and then we could get married and—

I couldn't help it. I smiled.

You're off your rocker, I said.

He grinned.

I love you, Eliza.

Don't be a twot.

I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. And you like me. Come on, I know you do. Don't deny it. Don't you know it's a sin to lie?

I could have told him it was a sin to talk about virgins and fish fires and getting married to a girl you hardly knew. But I didn't. My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I worried I might faint and I couldn't think of anything worse than falling to the ground in front of James Dix and having to let him carry me home.

I tried to breathe and steady myself.

I don't know what you're on about, I said, and it was partly the truth, because I couldn't decide what I should think about any of the things he was saying.

He was still staring at me, but for once his face was soft and sad, his eyes quite different from how I'd ever seen them look before—in fact, now I thought about it, everything about him was different.

Come here, he said.

No.

I heard him take a breath.

Seriously, Eliza, I don't care what you're thinking, just come here.

I can't, I said.

What are you worried about?

I don't know.

Come here, he said again. Come on, sweet Eliza, this time I'm begging you.

I waited for a moment.

Come on, he said, his voice gentler this time.

Still I did nothing.

Come—it was a whisper this time.

Far off somewhere a bird was squawking, waiting to swoop down over the reed beds. I'd seen them hovering there, waiting to drop down and take a fish in their claws, before rising up again, the poor thing wriggling and slapping about and all the water spraying its bright drops into the silver air.

I listened to the bird and I thought of the fish fanning itself all still and unaware in those brown shallows, then I looked again at him, sitting there and begging me. I began to see it through his eyes. What in the world was I worried about? What could happen?