The Metal Heart

by Caroline Lea

  It wobbles. I grab the wood and try to hold it steady. He flashes a quick grin at me, then pulls himself up onto the roof, lying flat along the solid section and working his upper body up to the broken part.

  ‘Careful,’ I call.

  He nods, then eases himself further up. I watch him inspecting the hole, using his arms to measure the gap. He cranes his neck and looks into the bothy.

  He will be able to see Con in the single room below, lying in the double bed pushed into the corner. He will be able to see the small stove, the battered table, how the damp has stained the walls and swollen the wooden floorboards so that they bow and buckle.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot, wanting to call that he should come away, that he shouldn’t look at other people’s things, at our things.

  He pushes himself back down to the edge of the roof. His expression is grave. ‘She is sleeping,’ he whispers.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is thin.’

  ‘Yes.’ Again, that pain in my throat.

  ‘You can lift the wood for me? Is heavy.’

  I nod, hoist each piece of wood upright and pass it towards him. My arms shake a little but I hold each piece steady while he reaches for it. He moves around the roof easily and seems to feel no fear, while I constantly imagine him falling, the smash of his body hitting the earth.

  He uses the wood to hold down the piece of sailcloth that has flapped uselessly in the wind throughout the winter. I watch him lay each piece gently, as quietly as he can. Sometimes he cranes his neck to look down at Con, then glances at me and nods. She must still be sleeping.

  He is just laying the last piece of wood when I hear him give a cry, as if something has startled him.

  From inside the bothy, screaming.

  On the roof, Cesare scrambles to get down. I watch, as his boot slips, as his hands slide off the slates. I watch as he rolls towards the edge of the roof, his body gathering momentum. His hand clutches for a slate, misses.

  For a moment, he is suspended in the air.

  Then his body falls from the roof.

  He lands at my feet with a sickening thud.

  Cesare

  The shock of the impact travels through his body, jolting his organs. For a moment he feels no pain. Then, when he tries to straighten, there is a searing bolt of agony in his skull.

  Dorotea is there immediately, her hands on his arm as she helps him sit up.

  ‘Can you hear me? Where does it hurt?’

  He nods, puts his hand to his forehead. Wet. And his hand is covered with blood.

  From somewhere, there is screaming and, for a moment, his mind lurches, because a woman with red hair is standing in the doorway of the bothy, hands clapped over her mouth. And he cannot understand how Dorotea can be holding his arm and also watching him, crying out in terror. He worries that the blow to his head must have dislodged something inside his skull, and now he is seeing double.

  ‘Enough, Con!’ Dorotea snaps, and the other woman stops screaming.

  And then he remembers. Of course: her sister, ill in bed.

  She is still staring at him with dread, and he holds up his hands, palms outwards, to show that he means her no harm, but she jerks away and he is aware of the blood on his palm and, mio Dio, there is a whooshing inside his skull, as if someone is blowing a bellows somewhere in his brain.

  ‘Scusi,’ he says, because he cannot summon the English word. ‘Scusi.’

  ‘Can you stand?’ Dorotea asks, and he manages to nod, to follow her into the little bothy, which is barely warmer than it is outside, despite the small fire burning in the grate.

  He tries to protest, tries to tell them both that he is well, really, that he doesn’t want to cause any trouble, that he will go back to the camp.

  But Dorotea gets a cloth and a jug of water and sponges his forehead.

  He grits his teeth so he won’t wince and Dorotea dabs carefully with the cloth. Her face is fixed in total concentration, her focus absolute. With her face so close to his, he can see the delicate skin of her eyelids, which makes him think of white rose petals in water. He can feel the stir of her breath on his cheek. The smell of her is sweet. He thinks of the pear trees outside his house in Moena.

  He swallows.

  ‘Grazie,’ he murmurs, then finds the English words. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’ asks Con. ‘He was staring at me through the roof.’

  ‘He was mending the roof,’ Dorotea says, without looking at her sister. To Cesare, she says, ‘It is not as bad as I thought. Forehead wounds often bleed a great deal. Here, hold this cloth against it. Are you hurt anywhere else? You can move your fingers, your toes?’

  She is brisk, her movements certain but gentle. Under her instruction, he wiggles his fingers and toes, bends his arms and legs, stands and stretches – this sends a shooting pain through his side.

  He groans, puts his hand to his ribs.

  Dorotea says, ‘May I look?’

  He nods.

  She reaches out and slowly lifts his shirt. He stands very still while she grazes cool fingers over his side. Under her touch, his skin stipples. She watches his face, pressing each rib in turn.

  ‘There are some old marks here. Some old bruises?’

  He nods, remembering the quarry. The jab of a guard’s fist into his chest. The thud of a rifle butt into his side. The smack of the baton on his back.

  ‘Do they hurt?’ she asks, brushing her fingers over the bruises.

  He shakes his head. His face and neck are hot. He watches her mouth, the way she bites her lip as she concentrates, pressing on the darkness of the newest bruise. It is painful. He stands very still, not wanting her to stop.

  ‘Badly bruised, I think,’ she murmurs, then clears her throat and says, more loudly, ‘Nothing broken. And your head is bleeding less.’ She lifts the cloth and nods to herself.

  On the bed, Con is still watching. Her expression is unreadable, but there is a sheen of sweat on her forehead and bright spots of colour on each cheek. She coughs.

  ‘You have medicine?’ Cesare asks.

  Con looks at him warily, then shakes her head.

  Dorotea sighs. ‘I was going to Kirkwall, to the hospital, but –’

  Cesare nods. ‘Kirkwall is far,’ he says. He turns to Dorotea. ‘Do not go to Kirkwall. There is a hospital here –’

  ‘For the prisoners,’ says Con.

  He spreads his hands outward. ‘I am a prisoner. I can get medicine.’

  And, as he watches, a smile spreads over Con’s face, and over Dorotea’s too and, for the first time since meeting them, he can see how people might think them identical.

  ‘Thank you,’ they say, at exactly the same time.

  And Dorotea skims his sleeve with her fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He nods, forgetting, for a moment, the throbbing in his skull and the pain in his side. Forgetting the cold and the uniform he wears. He could be anywhere, with this woman smiling at him, with the feeling of her hand on his sleeve still.

  As he walks back down to the camp, he barely sees the barbed wire, barely notes the glare of steel and the lifeless blank of the dusty yard. Again and again, he remembers the brush of her breath on his face, the curve of her mouth as she smiled at him, the slight pressure on his arm as she mouthed, Thank you.

  So he isn’t prepared when, just as he walks through the gates, a guard steps out in front of him, scowling.

  ‘Where have you been? Who gave you permission to wander off?’

  ‘I . . . Major Bates, he say I can help to mend roof for the ladies.’

  ‘Which ladies?’ He is holding his baton in one hand, and Cesare is suddenly aware that there is no one else in the yard. There will be no one to see whatever this guard does to him.

  MacLeod. The name comes back to him, the memory of his anger in the mess hut when he’d ripped the list of names from Cesare’s hands.

  Cesare stares
at the ground. ‘The ladies on the hill. The house is old. The roof has a hole. Major Bates say I can go –’

  ‘Major Bates said? Perhaps Major Bates doesn’t know that I’ll be needing you in the quarry then. I must tell him.’ MacLeod frowns. ‘What have you done to your head?’

  ‘I fall,’ Cesare says. ‘But . . . I must mend the roof and –’

  ‘You must do as I say. I’ll expect you in the quarry after lunch.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But what?’ MacLeod brings his face in close to Cesare’s and, though he can’t see it, Cesare is aware of the baton in the guard’s hand, is aware of the way that the guard’s whole body is tensed, like that of a dog when it sights a rabbit.

  Cesare stays very still. ‘The lady – she is called Con? She is sick. I . . . promise her medicine.’

  The guard raises his eyebrows. ‘Con is sick? Then I will get medicine. I will take it to her.’

  The guard’s slow-creeping smile has no warmth in it. Cesare thinks of the clang of metal on rock in the quarry, the curses and insults that the guards shout at them. It makes him think of the way that, after the thud of the baton, there is a moment of silence, when you know the pain is coming but there is no way of telling how much it will hurt.

  With the guard still watching him, Cesare turns and walks towards the mess hut, his shoulders stooped and, in his stomach, a cold twist of anger.

  Dorothy

  I scrape the spoon along the bottom of the pot, where the porridge has burned, and over the sound of Con talking, I strain for the noise of footsteps, for a knock at the door that will tell me Cesare has returned, that Con will be safe, that I need not leave her alone while I go to Kirkwall.

  I’ve never seen her so weak before. She was always the strong one, the certain one, the one who made decisions. I remember her deciding we should come to this island. I remember her rowing the injured sailors from the Royal Elm over to the little bay, where no one from Kirkwall would see us. I remember the horror in her eyes as she pressed the coat over the man’s face. I remember her silence and fear in the days afterwards, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d done.

  And now she coughs and wheezes and struggles to stand. I look out of the window again and again, searching for Cesare.

  But it has been hours. The sun has sunk almost below the horizon, and he has not come.

  ‘I told you,’ Con says. ‘I told you it was too much to hope for. I shall be well without medicine. There’s no need for you to go to Kirkwall.’ She coughs again.

  The oats are a blackened mess on the base of the pan. I throw it into the sink with a growl of frustration. Con jumps and wheezes.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. I go to her and rub her back, then sponge her forehead.

  When she stops coughing, I move to the window, push the sailcloth to one side and peer out. The lights in the camp are bright still, and there are shadows of men moving around, but they will have to dim the lights soon for blackout. Then it will be another night of darkness, of counting the rattle of Con’s breaths, of holding her hand while she coughs, of smoothing her hair back from her forehead until she drifts off.

  An hour later, there is a light tapping on the door – tentative, as if Cesare is worried he might wake us.

  Thank God! I run to the door and fling it wide.

  And there is Angus MacLeod.

  ‘Hello, Dot.’ He smiles and holds out a small brown bottle. ‘I hear Con isn’t well.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I step out into the cold, half closing the door behind me. ‘How did you . . .?’

  ‘I told you,’ he says, his smile unwavering, as if he hasn’t noticed my anger. ‘I’ve brought medicine for Con. Can I come in?’

  ‘No, you cannot,’ I snap, shutting the door further. The wind picks up and I hope it is loud enough to cover the sound of his voice.

  ‘Ach, that’s a shame. You’re not wanting the medicine, then?’ He drops the bottle back into the pocket of his guard’s uniform. A black baton hangs from his belt. And a gun, glinting in the dim lights from the camp.

  ‘I . . .’ My thoughts scrabble. ‘Con needs the medicine.’

  He nods. ‘You’ll not object to me giving it to her?’ He moves to take a step past me, to go into the bothy.

  I position myself in front of the door handle, praying that Con cannot hear us. ‘Ah, it’s . . . kind of you, Angus. But she’s sleeping, you see.’

  He stares at me for a moment, then nods slowly. ‘Well. She must rest.’

  I hold out my hand for the medicine. ‘Thank you, Angus.’

  He pauses, then places the little brown bottle in my hand. ‘Sulfa tablets, the nurse said.’

  I hesitate. Sulfonamide will cure Con’s infection – it’s what they’d give her in Kirkwall. But I sense these will come at a price.

  I force a smile and nod again. ‘Thank you. How many should she take?’

  ‘There are four in there. One every six hours.’

  ‘But . . . won’t she need more than four?’ Sulfa tablets only work if they’re given over a number of days. I can see, from his raised eyebrows and expectant expression, that Angus knows this.

  ‘I’ll bring more tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Maybe I can see her then.’

  My mouth is dry. I want to push the bottle back into his hand, to turn away, to slam the door and lock it.

  ‘And,’ he says, ‘I hear you’ve a hole in your roof that needs fixing. I can do that tomorrow.’

  ‘But . . . one of the prisoners is already repairing it.’

  ‘Him? Oh, no. He’s not the sort you want around. A troublemaker, you see. No, I’ve sent him back to the quarry to work.’ Angus smiles.

  ‘I thought . . . Wasn’t he working in the commander’s office?’

  ‘He was, but I spoke to Major Bates, told him I needed the man back in the quarry. I said it wasn’t a good idea to have a prisoner up here with two women, all alone.’

  He looks genuinely concerned as he says this. That’s the problem with Angus: he’s always been convincing, even when you know everything he says is fiction. I truly think he believes his own lies.

  ‘Said I thought you’d feel vulnerable, the pair of you,’ Angus says, his face sincere.

  I nod mechanically, thinking of the yellowing bruises on Cesare’s ribs and chest. Imagining Angus climbing onto the roof, staring down at Con while she sleeps.

  ‘So, I will come back in the morning, after the men have started in the quarry. I’ll repair your roof and I’ll bring more sulfa pills for Con. I’ll look after you, don’t worry,’ says Angus.

  He is watching me, his face earnest. He takes my hand in his and curls my fingers around the bottle. ‘Thank you?’ he says, raising his eyebrows.

  I draw a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  And then I go inside, and I shut the door and I lock it and I lean my back against it.

  Con is dozing on the bed; she stirs and sits up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she croaks. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, opening my hand and looking at the little bottle, tipping it so the four pills inside it rattle. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’ll get you some water.’

  ‘What happened?’ she rasps. ‘Did Cesare hurt you?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say again, brightly. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  I smooth my hand over her hair while she swallows the water, watching the bulge in her throat, keeping my eyes averted from hers, hoping she won’t look at me, hoping she won’t see the lie – the first real lie I’ve ever told her – written on my face.

  The night is long, the darkness silty. Con coughs and twists and turns next to me, her body giving off such a heat that I almost don’t mind the breeze from the open patch of sky in the corner of the room.

  In the morning, she seems no better, but also no worse. I watch her swallow another pill and then I pull the sailcloth to one side and look out of the window.

  The light is f
iltering thinly through low clouds, and the camp is still shrouded in gloom and silence – the whistle hasn’t yet blown.

  Angus will take the men down to the quarry, he’d said, and then he will come back up here.

  I’ll look after both of you.

  And suddenly I can’t do it – I can’t watch while Angus talks to Con. Can’t watch his feigned concern and her terror. Can’t stand to one side while my sister shakes in fear and Angus jovially repairs our roof, making conversation as if he can’t see her trembling, as if he can’t sense my rage.

  ‘Can you walk as far as the camp?’ I ask.

  Con puts down her water. ‘What?’

  ‘Can you walk to the hospital in the camp?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to. I want to stay here.’

  ‘You can’t. You need medicine and warmth and –’

  ‘I have medicine. That prisoner, Cesare, he –’

  ‘There’s not enough.’ I take her hand. ‘The hospital will have more.’

  ‘But . . . he said he would bring more.’

  ‘He did –’

  ‘Well, then, I’m not going. I’m not, Dot. Cesare will bring more, and –’

  I press my fingers over my eyes. ‘He didn’t bring it. Cesare didn’t bring it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Angus brought it.’

  ‘Angus?’ She freezes, as if he’s with her in the room, as if he’s spoken her name, as if he’s reached out to touch her.

  I squeeze her hand again, to bring her back to me. ‘He’s coming again later. He says he’s going to mend the roof.’

  The colour drains from her cheeks and the breath wheezes out of her. When I put my arms around her, her whole body is rigid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper into her hair. ‘But if we go to the camp, other people will be there – all the time. He can’t hurt you in the infirmary. There will be soldiers and nurses –’

  ‘I can’t go there. You can’t leave me there.’

  ‘Hush, I won’t leave you. I’ve thought about it – I can be there, as a nurse too.’

  ‘Will they let you?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say. I hope so.