She holds her breath, her eyes filling now.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“I didn’t mean to say this to you, to talk like this. Didn’t want to tell you. I thought—if I could just get myself to work . . .”
Mary hears herself saying something, making some kind of a sound, but she doesn’t know what it is. She holds him. Trying to pull him to her. His wet face. Trying to kiss his rough, hot cheek, missing and instead brushing his ear with her lips.
“It’s all right,” she says.
“It’s not all right.”
“It is, it is. Darling, it is.”
He lifts his head and looks at her.
“I mean it. For so long, I’ve been absolutely fine.”
“I know. I know you have—”
“And there I was, telling you you needed to talk to someone, when all along—”
“Stop it,” she says. “Don’t.”
He stares at her.
“You see, I really did think I was on the way to—but now, today—why suddenly today after all this time? Why now? Why suddenly out of the blue like this?”
Mary is silent. The cold—it runs from her head through the very center of her and right down to her feet. Remembering the trial, the shock when he suddenly changed his plea, the brief couple of seconds when she dared herself to look at his dirty, gingerish face and saw how relaxed he seemed, smoothing his hair and pulling down his shirt cuffs and carefully adjusting his collar and tie, as if the only important thing in that moment was to get himself settled and comfortable.
“It’s not out of the blue,” she says.
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
“But I haven’t thought of him in so long.”
He takes another quick, sobbing breath. Mary stands up and gets the roll of paper towels from the rack. She hands it to him and he tears off a sheet and blows his nose.
“I love you,” she says.
He tears off another sheet. Holds it.
“I know you do. I know. And the terrible thing is, it means nothing.”
She stares at him.
“What means nothing?”
“Love. Our lives together. This. Everything. He destroyed it all, didn’t he?”
“Graham. Please don’t say that.”
“Isn’t it true? Don’t you think it too? Isn’t it absolutely obvious to you? He destroyed us completely, didn’t he?”
Mary says nothing. She looks out the window. Taking her eyes away from him, away from the room, beyond, out. That blue sky out there.
Graham is shaking his head, staring at her.
“I should have killed him. That’s what I keep on thinking. Even if I went to prison for the rest of my life, even if it meant my whole life was over—my life and yours together—even if that was it, forever, it would have made us happier. Wouldn’t it? Admit it, Mary. Anything would have been better than existing in this—this fucking awful limbo.”
FRANK WASN’T WELL. HE’D GONE TOO NEAR A HORSE AND IT HAD kicked him in the stomach. The doctor said he might be bleeding inside. But the pain wasn’t in his stomach, it was in his chest. He coughed and coughed. All night long he couldn’t stop. Afraid he might have the whooping cough, Mother rubbed some pork lard on him, but it did no good at all and he kept on hurting.
My mother was worried. She said the doctor should have looked at him more carefully. My father said he would be fine and they should wait. I heard them arguing about whether they could afford to see another doctor. In the end, my mother won and they put him in the cart and drove him into Ipswich. She couldn’t take the baby, and Honey had a tooth coming through, so I was left with the little ones while Jazzy and the twins went off to school.
I laid the baby on a rug on the floor to kick. And I tied Honey into the big armchair and gave her a crust to suck on. Her cheeks were red and shiny and she kept on dribbling and was properly cranky. Every time I went past the chair she waved the crust in the air and flung back her head and drummed her feet in fury and moaned at me because she wanted to be got out.
Shut up, I said. I mean it, Honey. If you stay there like a good girl, I’ll fetch you your raggy to suck on.
I got on with clearing the grate and sweeping the floor, Lottie trailing around behind me and picking up brown feathers and bits of fluff and singing to herself and getting in the way as usual. It was a bright blue morning, the skies wide and not yet too hot. I’d opened all the windows to let the cool air in.
At last, James came back from the fields. He leaned in through the window and told me to make him a cup of tea and put a sliver of cheese between two slices of bread.
And put some of your ma’s ketchup on it, he said. And don’t be mean with it. I want a nice big dollop, if you don’t mind.
I told him I did mind. I had work to do. I told him he would have to make it himself.
I want you to do it, he said.
I looked at him.
Can’t you see I’ve got to finish all of this before they get back with Frank?
Keeping his elbows on the sill, he fixed me with his eyes.
I don’t think you heard me, Eliza. I’m asking you to do it for me.
Why?
Because you’re my sweetheart.
I shook my head.
I’m busy, aren’t I?
He seemed to freeze then, staring at me. I’d never seen his eyes so cold and hard.
I beg your pardon, he said.
What?
I said I beg your pardon, what did you say?
I shrugged. He fixed me with the same angry stare, but then his whole face softened.
Come on, princess. It’s boiling out there. I’m parched. I’m asking you nicely now.
I sighed.
I can’t.
I’m saying please.
Look, James, how many times do I have to say it? I just can’t.
Pretty please—
Look here, I said. Can’t you just get on and do it for yourself?
He made a furious noise.
All right, he said. That’s it. I’m giving you one more chance. A cup of tea and some bread and cheese and make it snappy.
I said nothing. The blood was going round and round in my head but still I kept on sweeping.
The dog was on the floor by the chair that Honey was in. Normally she’d keep her eyes on the broom, hoping to get a chance to rush and nip at it as she did with any moving thing. But now I saw her eyes were on James Dix. And she was growling.
James hitched himself up on the sill and leaped in through the window. I gasped and was about to rush at him, but I hadn’t even put down the broom before he was grabbing at my wrist and shouting at me. This was enough for the dog. Before I could do anything, she was on him. I saw her teeth, the white part of her eye, her tongue—
He cursed loudly and I heard his boot cracking down on some brittle part of her. I caught my breath as the dog gave a terrible howl and ran to the wall. Honey began to cry.
James was standing in the middle of the room now. His face was steady and he took very small breaths and he did not move and neither did I.
Put that animal out, he said.
I shook my head.
Put her outside now.
I told him I wouldn’t.
Do it, Eliza.
I won’t, I said.
He stared at me.
All right then, it’s your choice. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you.
He grabbed the dog by the neck and dragged her out of the door and into the lane. I watched him do it. She went quite droopy, letting him move her like a sack of potatoes, just hanging there not like herself at all, making no sound nor the smallest attempt to snarl or nip.
I picked up Honey to comfort her. I rubbed my fingers on her hot wet gums and she grizzled and drooled and I kissed her cheek, which smelled of old milk and piss and all the things that babies who haven’t had a wash in a good while smell of.
A few more moments passed and then a
t last James came back in. He stood there looking at me. His face was normal now, but I saw that the muscles in his arms stood out all wiry and hard.
I’m sorry, he said.
I said nothing.
I’m awful sorry, Eliza, really I am. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Will you ever forgive me?
I stared at him, and I pulled Honey close against me, cupping her warm head in my hand.
Where’s the dog? I said.
What?
James, where is she? Where’s the dog?
He blinked at me as if he didn’t know what I was talking about.
I think she ran off, he said at last.
What do you mean? Ran off where?
He shrugged. I think she went into the fields. I’m sure she’ll come back soon. I didn’t go after her. I will if you want. Do you want me to go after her, Eliza?
SHE WAKES IN THE NIGHT AND SHE HEARS THEM, BACK AGAIN now and playing with the tap in the yard. It’s not safe, she thinks, it can’t be safe—it’s dark, it’s cold, so cold, they shouldn’t be playing out there on their own at night. Didn’t I put them to bed? Did I close the door? Why can’t I remember? Is it my fault? How did they get out? I’m dreaming, she thinks. I’m dreaming. I don’t know how this happened. It’s not my fault. I mustn’t think about it. There’s nothing I can do—nothing at all that I can do about this.
But the dream goes on. She’s fast-flying now, swooping over the dark, dark earth.
And there’s a house—here it is, huge, cold, dark, shuttered, dust sheets over all the furniture—and she doesn’t know how, but she knows she’s left them there, and now she walks from room to room, looking for them, calling to them, walking up and down those vast curving stairs, straining to hear where the little voices are coming from.
And now this water—what is it, the water? All the taps running, doors shutting, lights flickering on and off, the house alive around them, keeping them from her.
She sits up and the voices are calling to her, she can hear them plainly now. Mummy. Mummy!
She turns to Graham. Sleeping on his side, eyes shut, mouth slightly open. Calling to him, shaking him. When he doesn’t answer, she flips back the duvet, struggling to get up, before realizing that she is underwater, the water flowing over her, through her, pulling her down.
Gasping for breath. Graham. She tries to shake him awake and he groans. Pushing his fingers into her hair.
“You’re dreaming,” he says, and he holds out his arms to pull her back to bed but she stops him just in time, crying out, grabbing at him, using all her strength to push him off. His whole face—bristle, flesh, the sharp handful of bloodied teeth—coming away in her hand.
She screams. Opens her eyes. Sun under the curtains. Birdsong. Morning.
HE BRINGS HER TEA. MANAGING THE TRAY AWKWARDLY, NEWSPAPER tucked under his arm. Pushing the door open with his foot and then with his elbow.
“What’s this?” she says.
“Waiter service. And it’s not even your birthday.”
She sees that he’s dressed, shaved.
“I didn’t hear you get up,” she says.
“I know you didn’t.” He drops the newspaper on the bed, looking at her. “You had a bad night, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“You were dreaming. You don’t remember?”
Mary thinks about the tap in the yard, the old-fashioned wrought-iron pump. She sits up, confused, the taste of their voices still on her.
Graham picks up his jacket.
“Do you think I need this? So warm out there.” Looking out the window and then back at her.
“Only dreams,” he says. “Remember that. What’s in your head can’t hurt you.”
When he’s gone, she falls straight back into sleep. This time she doesn’t dream of anything. A blank, cold, comfortless morning sleep and even though once or twice she has the chance to wake up, she doesn’t: she keeps herself down there.
She wakes at last to hear the dog whining to go out. An odd, metallic taste in her mouth, a black dryness that wasn’t there before. Picking up her watch, she’s surprised to see that it’s almost midday.
HE CAME AND TOLD ME HE COULD NOT FIND THE DOG. I STARED at him.
What do you mean, you can’t find her?
He shrugged and his face was steady and blank.
Just what I said. As simple as that.
But you took her outside!
Then I suppose she must’ve run off somewhere, in a sulk, I expect.
I said nothing. He watched my face. And I felt all of my blood sinking, heavy and slick, down, down toward my feet.
What? he said. What is it now?
I’m afraid you’ve done something to her, I said as I tried to hold back the tears. Where is she? Please, James, tell me you haven’t done something terrible.
He shrugged, rubbed at his hair.
Well, I won’t lie to you, Eliza—
I stared at him.
What? What did you do? Please tell me she’s all right.
He shrugged.
I gave her a good hiding, if you really want to know. And so what? She had it coming, that animal did. She’s nipped me before now. Honestly, Eliza, that dog has it in for me. There’ve been times I haven’t even told you about—I kept quiet, you see, and all because of Frank being taken so poorly and all that.
I tried not to listen. I didn’t care what he had to say about nipping and Frank and the dog having it in for him. Something cold was in my mouth. I swallowed it back.
So where is she now?
What?
The dog. Where is she?
He blinked at me.
I told you. She wouldn’t come out.
Come out of where?
I don’t know, Eliza. How do I know where she’s gone and hid herself? You calm down now and you’ll see, she’ll turn up.
DOWNSTAIRS, THE DOG IS STANDING BY THE DOOR, GAZING AT Mary, her tail moving rapidly from side to side. She jumps up at the door and the sound of her claws on the painted wood makes Mary’s teeth hurt. Mary lets her into the garden. Then she puts the kettle on and while she waits for it to boil, she wanders out there too, still in her T-shirt and pajama bottoms.
She follows the dog down the wide path Graham has mown between the apple trees, around the washing line and on down to where the old fallen tree lies next to the shed. Leaning back against the tree’s rough bark, Mary looks at the shed. The roof quite rotten, the walls covered in yellow-green moss and lichen, an almost neon fluorescence that, as she gazes at it now, makes her feel ill—
Still, when it comes, it takes her by surprise, even though the relief is instant. She stares into the bright, spattered grass for a quick moment, before wiping her mouth with her hand.
She calls to the dog and walks back up to the house, where she sits at the rough pine table and, not allowing herself to think about what has just happened, she drinks her tea.
I THOUGHT THAT WAS IT BUT I MUST HAVE RATTLED HIM BECAUSE it was just a matter of minutes before he came and found me again.
You mean the whole world to me, Eliza, he said. I want you to know that. Whatever happens, that won’t change. You have no idea how it feels to be a flesh-and-blood man like me and want a girl this much.
I looked at him. The blood was pumping through my head in a dark, blind fury.
Want? I said.
Love, he said. Love. You know I mean love.
I thought about this.
Whatever happens? I said. Whatever happens? What does that mean? What exactly do you mean by that?
He shut his eyes. Opened them again.
No one knows what’s coming to them, he said. It’s a fact, Eliza. There are things over which we have no control.
What things? I said.
What?
What are the things over which you have no control?
He seemed like he was about to answer, but then thought better of it. He held my gaze for a second or two and then he went out into the
yard. Moments later I heard him washing himself under the tap.
SHE IS STILL SITTING THERE WHEN THE DOG STARTS GROWLING. Seconds later, Eddie is leaning in through the open window. Dark T-shirt, jacket, sunglasses.
“Is it a bad moment? Be honest, now. Just tell me to go away and I will.”
She holds herself still for a moment and then the dog begins to bark. Grabbing her collar, she goes over and opens the door a couple of inches.
“I’m not even dressed,” she says.
He looks her up and down.
“Quite fetching, I’d say.”
“I’m sorry.” Trying to smile, she lets the door open a little bit more, the dog still pulling and barking. “I’m actually not that well.”
He blinks at her.
“Well, how about this for a plan? You go up and make yourself decent and we go down to the Queen’s Head for some lunch? My treat.”
She looks at him.
“Eddie, I’m not well. You asked me if it was a bad moment. Well, I’m afraid it is. It’s a bad moment.”
He smiles.
“Food. That’s what you need. You two ever go to that place? I bet you don’t. It’s a bit microwaved. Deborah won’t touch it. But if you order carefully, it’s actually surprisingly OK.”
Mary stares at him.
“I don’t eat lunch.”
“What, never?”
“Not really.”
“Ha! Well, no wonder you don’t feel well.”
She looks at him and sighs.
“So it wasn’t true?”
“What wasn’t true?”
“That if I told you to go away, you would.”
He holds her gaze for a moment, then he starts to laugh.
HE CARRIES THE METAL TRAY OUT INTO THE ALMOST EMPTY garden of the Queen’s Head. A table with a bench and an umbrella, close to the clean gray gravel of the car park. Next to them, a tap with a hose attached, neatly coiled. Beyond that, several hazel wigwams covered in red, pink, and mauve sweet peas, the warm air made exquisite by their scent. She remarks on the scent and he asks her what they are.
She turns in surprise. Watching as he takes off his jacket and puts himself in the sun, unable to stop herself noticing his skinny shoulders and forearms.
“Seriously, you don’t know? Sweet peas. They’re sweet peas.”
“Ah. You know a lot about plants.”
The Stopped Heart Page 15