Oh, it had been such a very long time. Hundreds and hundreds of years, it seemed. I wanted him so very badly.
I tried it fast and frantic and I tried it slow. I tried not to think about what I was doing and then I did, I let myself think of it. In the end, I couldn’t help it, as my cheeks grew hot, I let my mind go wandering away from my own body and off, over every particular part of him—all the parts I’d been trying for so long to stop myself thinking about.
I thought about his face. His eyes. Those hands. His chest, his shoulders, and his wrists. The strength of him and the vigor and the push. The body that was always hard and ready for me. The sweet, sky-high feeling of him reaching out for me—
But it was no use. None of it worked. My body was just my plain old girl’s body, the one I had before I knew him—the one that did not feel or know anything much and certainly did not care what happened to it.
So I stopped my work. I let my stupid fingers drop to the ground. And then, as if it wanted to make its point, the fluttering started up in me again. Not a butterfly at all this time, but a tiny, trapped bird attempting to stretch its wings.
I knew it was all over then. I kept myself exactly where I was and I pressed my face against that warm dry earth. There was no reason anymore not to weep, so I let the tears come.
I cried until there were no more tears left in my face or my body or anywhere else in my whole sorry existence. And after that, I did nothing. I carried on lying there on the ground, my clothes still torn half off me, and I heard the rough, unlikely sound of my own heart beneath my bodice and I couldn’t help listening for the other smaller one that must be beating in there too and something about the act of listening for it seemed to still and soothe me, and calm me down.
Minutes passed. I don’t know what it was that made me lift my head and open my eyes, but something did. And that’s when I saw it. Not the grass or the patch of hot blue sky that soared above or even the black shadows of the hedge or the greenish mildewed wood that was the apple shed, but something much worse.
A FEW MONTHS AFTER IT WAS ALL OVER, A TEACHER FROM THE school called at the house, bringing with her some of their exercise books and artwork. Barely into her twenties—round, pale face, heavy bosom, and big, blue-framed glasses. Miss Savage. It had always seemed the wrong name for a primary school teacher.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said, obviously distressed as she handed over a couple of grocery bags filled with sugar paper and painted cardboard, glitter already spilling out of them onto her hands. “It didn’t seem right to bring it, but it didn’t seem right not to either.”
Mary was very proud of herself. She was calm, welcoming. They sat at the kitchen table. She made Miss Savage a cup of tea, even offering her a piece of cake, which she refused, batting it away with glitter-covered hands. Mary kept on noticing how young she was. How she put her big, young, unmarried fingers around the mug and clung to it with something like gratitude.
“You needn’t look at them now,” Miss Savage kept on saying. “I just couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, that’s all.”
But Mary did. She did need to look at them and right now was the only possible moment. She pulled something green out of the bag, something stiff and curling from its heavy dollops of paint and glue. Egg cartons stuck on, poster paint yellow. Green paper leaves. Some wool for grass. Dancing daffodils. She recognized Ella’s writing, orange felt-tip, turned to brown on the green of the paper.
Her hands trembling. Moving her eyes away. Wanting to put it straight back in the bag but also to crush it in her arms. Greedy to be alone with it. Suddenly resenting the teacher’s presence, yet disliking herself for resenting it. Understanding the risk she had taken.
“It’s very kind of you,” she said. “You are very kind. You did the right thing. We would always have wanted to have them.”
She looked up and saw that the teacher was pulling tissues out of her pocket. Taking her glasses off. Crying.
“It was terrible,” she said. “Taking the labels off their hooks. It took us a while to get around to it. I don’t know why I’m telling you that. I’m so sorry. But it just was. It was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”
LATER, WHEN THE TEACHER HAD GONE, MARY STARED AT HERSELF in the mirror. She stared at herself till the shapes were blurred and all the lines had changed and it looked like something not quite human was standing there.
What kind of a life could she live now? What was left for her? What kind of a person could she possibly be?
Her skin crawled. She itched all over.
She tried changing her clothes, but the new ones were just as bad, so she changed back again. She put on a sweater, but it hid nothing. She put on earrings, tore them off. It was her face, that was it. She thought of the honest kindness of the young woman’s face—upset, plain, open. It made her want to weep.
She tied her hair back and began to scrub herself clean. All her makeup off, everything. But she found she could not bear herself like that either. In fact, if anything, that was worse. Because, when she looked at herself in the mirror, stripped and cleaned of everything that she had once used to disguise herself, she no longer saw herself at all, but them, just them, her two girls staring back at her.
I SAT UP. THE THING IN FRONT OF ME WAS THE THING THAT WE had put in the ditch at Yarrow’s field. It was covered in blood and muck and worms and was lying there in the weeds and grass and staring back at me with dead, accusing eyes.
No. It was not possible. I shut my eyes. I opened them again. It was still there. One of the hands had opened and come away from the body. It was outstretched, the bone coming through the skin, its sharp white fingers reaching for me.
I gasped, pulling myself away across the grass as fast as I could. But as I moved, it seemed to follow, the whole body moving now in small jerks and starts. I knew it would not be long before I felt the bone-cold hardness of those fingers on me.
I began to scream and I did not stop until my father came running from the house to find me.
Get it away from me! I cried.
My father’s face was stiff and white and appalled. He stood there watching as I sobbed and beat my two fists on the ground.
Get what? he said. What, Eliza? Whatever do you mean? Get what?
I looked back at where it had been. There was nothing. Just a patch of scrub and dandelions, a bee hovering in the mild air above them.
My father took a step closer. He was staring at me.
Eliza, he said. Whatever has happened to you?
I felt him looking at my bare legs, my bare thighs and whatever else he could or could not see. I tried to pull my skirts down, but I was crying so much I could not speak or move my hands. I knew I could not explain why I was lying there sobbing and crying with my clothes half off, so I did not try.
I said nothing. I gave a little moan. He continued to stare at me. I could see his thoughts forming and still I could not speak.
Who did this to you? he said. I need to know. Tell me now, Eliza, who did this terrible thing to you.
I said nothing. I did nothing. I did not need to. I realized then that it was very simple. All I had to do was let him look.
HE IS ALREADY SITTING ON THE BENCH WHEN MARY GETS there. He pats the space next to him and she sits down. Feeling him looking at her.
“I like your dress.”
She glances down at what she’s wearing. An old denim dungaree-skirt thing with pockets, grass-stained around the bottom.
“It’s just my gardening dress.”
He smiles.
“It’s nice. I like all your dresses.”
“I don’t really wear dresses.”
“No, I know you don’t. You wear jeans, don’t you? I like all your jeans too.”
Mary can’t help it—she laughs. And before she can do anything he has pulled her to him, putting his arms around her. She doesn’t try to stop him. She waits. Held against him like that. She does nothing.
“
I can feel your heart,” he says after a few seconds have passed.
“Can you?”
“In my chest. It’s pounding in my chest.”
“In your chest?”
“Yes. Straight through from your chest into mine. Can you feel it?”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“To what?”
“To that. Listen. Come on, surely you can feel that?”
She laughs again, trying to pull away.
“No,” he says. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not letting you go. You can struggle all you like but you’re staying right here.”
Mary waits, obedient.
“My arm,” she says at last. “Ow. You’re crushing my arm.”
“Sorry.”
He releases her, but only a little. She feels his lips against her cheek. His breath in her ear.
“Go on,” he says. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“‘I shouldn’t be doing this, Eddie. I ought to go. We really shouldn’t be doing this, Eddie.’”
Mary tries to laugh but doesn’t manage it. She pulls away slightly. Realizing that she is trembling.
“I don’t really care what we do.”
“You don’t?”
She shakes her head and he pulls her to him again. She feels him kiss the side of her head.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“I know.”
He waits a moment. So does she. She can hardly breathe. She does not want to breathe. Heat and light causing the air all around them to shimmer and bend.
“Do you know what this field is called?” he says at last.
“What do you mean, what it’s called?”
“Fields have names. Or they did in the old days. I found a map at the library. There’s one called Glebe field. And there’s Hulver. And Nut Tree. This one is Yarrow’s field.”
“Yarrow? Why Yarrow?”
“Who knows? Perhaps the name of some long-ago farmer. I know there aren’t any Yarrows around here anymore because I checked.”
“You checked?”
“Just in the library.”
“What were you doing at the library?”
“I like to look things up. I always have. The records. Archives. It’s amazing what you can find out.”
She smiles at this. His liking for facts.
“Like my picture,” she says.
“What?”
“The old photo. The one you gave me.”
He hesitates.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten about that. What have you done with it?”
“Nothing. Just kept it. It’s on the shelf in the kitchen.”
“You still like it?”
“I love it.” She doesn’t tell him that some days she is afraid to look at it, that some days it can seem to buckle and twist under her gaze until she is certain she can see something in it that cannot possibly be there. How can one picture contain such a presence, so many shadows? She’s losing her mind, she sometimes thinks when she looks at that picture, going mad.
“Does Graham know about it?”
Mary turns her head.
“What? That you gave it to me? Yes.”
“He doesn’t mind?”
“No, of course he doesn’t.”
Eddie pulls her closer.
“You’re right. Those little girls in the picture—maybe it was their father who owned this field. Maybe he was Yarrow. Mr. Yarrow. I know that you like to think of it as your field,” he adds.
“It isn’t?”
“No. I’m very sorry to break it to you, but it belongs to Yarrow.”
She laughs.
“Yarrow,” she says.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just I like the sound of it, that’s all.”
Moments pass. At last, he lets go of her. Picking up her hand instead and holding it in his. Mary sighs.
“It was a person, you know. The bones. The bones that you and Graham found, under the shed.”
He hesitates.
“I know. Deb told me.”
“She knows?”
“I think Graham told her. Before they came to take them away.”
Them. Mary turns and she looks at him. Tears standing in her eyes. He puts both arms around her.
“Oh, don’t,” he says. “I mean it, darling. Please don’t cry.”
THEY SIT THERE FOR A VERY LONG TIME. HIS ARM AROUND HER. Her head against his chest.
“I didn’t think you’d let me do this,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d ever let me do it.”
She shuts her eyes for a moment, opens them again.
“Do what?”
“Have you this close. Hold you like this. Is it OK?”
She smiles. We’re just friends, she thinks.
“Are we?” he says. She glances at him. She must have said it aloud. “Funny sort of friendship.”
“I don’t care,” she says.
He’s silent a moment.
“We’re friends,” he says. “We’re definitely friends. But if it was up to me, we wouldn’t waste time sitting here like this.”
She looks at him.
“Why? What would we do?”
“You really want to know?”
“I don’t know.”
He sits up straighter, points.
“You see that little dip, just before you get back on the path that leads up to the golf course?” Mary nods. “Well, we’d go and lie down there in the long grass. And I’d take all of your clothes off one by one—pull off your lovely, funny garden dress as well as everything else—and then I’d make very passionate love to you. Twice.”
“Twice?” Mary starts to laugh. “I’m too old for twice.”
“All right. Once then. If that’s how you want it. It would take a while anyway, getting you to relax.”
“Would it?”
“You know it would. You know what you’re like. You’d have all your reasons. You’d say you didn’t like it there and that you couldn’t get comfortable and that you kept on feeling things—”
“Things?”
“I don’t know. Creatures. Wildlife. Mice. Snakes. You’d probably tell me you were afraid of snakes.”
“I’m not afraid of snakes,” Mary says, remembering the python she picked up to show Ella at the children’s zoo. Its surprisingly hot, dry weight in her hands.
“All right, but you’d say you were. And I’d have to reassure you. And then you’d confess to me that it wasn’t snakes you were afraid of at all, but something else.”
“What?” she says, interested now. “What would it be that I was afraid of?” She looks at the side of Eddie’s face. “Tell me,” she says.
He turns to look at her.
“I don’t know. I don’t really know what you’re afraid of. I’m making it all up. I suppose the truth is I’ve only ever kissed you once and I just wish I could do it again, that’s all.”
Mary thinks about this.
“Thank you,” she says.
“It’s my pleasure.”
“I appreciate that you’re so honest.”
He nods. “I am. Searingly honest. Well?” he says.
“Well what?”
“How about it?”
She laughs and so does he. She looks at him.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What do you mean? What are you afraid of?”
She hesitates.
“I suppose I’m afraid that I might start to like you too much.”
“What? You don’t like me now?”
“Yes, I do like you. You know I do. But I might start to like you a lot more.”
“What, and that wouldn’t be a good thing?”
“No, it wouldn’t. You know it wouldn’t.”
“Even though I’d be such a fantastic lover?”
Mary laughs.
“It wouldn
’t be a good thing. And I wouldn’t really care if you were a fantastic lover or not. I suppose I’d just be worried—that you’d be too nice to me.”
He looks surprised. “Too nice?”
She closes her eyes, sun warming her face.
“You’d hold me. You’d say nice things. I know you would. I worry that you’d do it in a way I wasn’t used to and it would upset me because I’d realize no one had ever done it to me like that before—”
She breaks off, thinking about what she’s just said. For a moment she’s quiet. Feeling him looking at her, his fingers reaching for hers.
“Are you all right?” he says.
Mary looks at him. Looks at her hand in his. Tears standing in her eyes.
“And then at the end, you’d ask me if I was all right and just the simple fact of you asking me that would make me want to cry.”
HE SQUEEZES HER HAND AND FOR A WHILE NEITHER OF THEM speaks. She sits there with her hand in his and then at last, very gently, she takes it away, replacing it on her lap. She lets out a sigh. Thinks she feels her blood slowing down, her bones relaxing.
“And then afterward,” he says, “when we were lying together in the long grass and I’d banished all your fears of snakes, I’d ask you if you were still afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Of what might happen. ‘Are you still afraid, Mary?’ I’d say. Or has it happened now, the thing that you were afraid of?”
Mary puts her hands to her eyes.
“It would have happened,” she says. “It would definitely have happened. And I’d tell you that. I’d say, ‘Yes, it’s happened.’ And what then?”
Eddie thinks about this.
“Well, we’d probably just lie there together in the long grass, and the sky would be huge and blue just like it is right now, today—”
“It’s always blue,” Mary says, tilting her head back to look at it. “All this summer, isn’t that just what it’s been? Blue and blue and nothing but blue.”
“And I’d take hold of your hand—like this—and we’d weave our fingers together and block out the sun for a moment.”
“Why would we do that?” Mary gazes at their two hands knitted together.
“Just for a game. Just to see if we could. Maybe we’d have a look for the kestrel, too. But we wouldn’t see it.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because it wouldn’t be here.”
The Stopped Heart Page 36