The Stopped Heart (37 page)

Honey's face crumpled and she began to cry. Lottie turned back to me.

Why did the girl say that James was wicked, Eliza?

My heart missed a beat.

What? I said.

Did he hit the girl very hard? Did he hurt her? Is that it?

For a moment I could not speak. The shock spread through my bones and all my thoughts seemed to come at me at once. Lottie kept her eyes on my face.

Why are you crying?

I'm not.

Yes, you are.

Lottie, for goodness' sake, I'm not crying!

You are crying, don't lie. Every day you cry and cry and me and Honey don't like it, we don't like it at all, do we, Honey?

“I
S IT TRUE?”
M
ARY ASKS
G
RAHAM, WALKING INTO THE KITCHEN
and slamming the cupboard door so hard that the dog jumps out of the way. “Is Lisa coming to stay?”

He looks up from washing the salad.

“Ah. Lisa. I was going to talk to you about that.”

“Just tell me if it's true or not.”

“It's not like that. Who told you, anyway?”

“Never mind who told me. I just want to know if she's coming.”

Graham reaches for a tea towel and dries his hands.

“I was going to talk to you about it tonight. Just that, as we have to go to London tomorrow anyway, Ruby asked if—”

Mary pulls out a chair and sits down. Straightaway the dog comes over and pushes her nose into her hands. She shoves her away.

“She hates this house, Lisa does. Do you know that? Just like Ruby does. They both hate it. They think there's something wrong with it. Do you realize that?”

Graham gazes at her. “What? Something wrong with what?”

She shakes her head. “You've no idea, have you?”

“No idea about what?”

Mary puts her head in her hands. She feels tears coming. Pinches them away.

“Just that they don't like it here, that's all. Both of them, they hate this house.”

“What don't they like?”

Mary shrugs. “They're scared. They think the house is frightening. Creepy. You remember what Ruby said when she first came here? She said it to me all over again the other day. And Lisa feels exactly the same way, apparently. You ask Ruby, if you think I'm making it up.”

Graham comes and stands in front of her.

“I don't think you're making anything up. But I do think you're a bit tough on Lisa. She always seems very happy to be here. And I also think you're perhaps overreacting.”

Mary says nothing. She feels the kitchen doorway darken. Looking up, she sees her.

“It's true, Ruby, isn't it?” she says. “That you find this house scary? Please just tell your dad what you told me.”

Ruby pulls her sleeves down over her hands. She doesn't look at Mary.

“It's all right,” she says in a quiet voice.

“What's all right?” Graham says.

“The house. It's OK.”

Mary looks at her.

“That's not what you told me.”

Ruby hesitates.

“Well, all right, there is something a bit—”

“A bit what?” Graham says.

Ruby takes a breath.

“It's not that I think there are ghosts or anything.”

Graham laughs.

“Oh, great. Well, I'm glad we've cleared that up, then.”

Ruby glances at Mary.

“It's only the man, really.”

“Man?”

Mary looks at Graham.

“She means the man with the red hair. The young guy. The one I saw in the garden. She's seen him too.”

Graham chucks the tea towel on the table. He looks at Ruby.

“In our garden? You didn't tell me that.”

Ruby looks at the floor and shrugs.

“I didn't want to worry you.”

Mary says nothing, looks away.

“Ah, well, you know what?” Graham says to Ruby. “I honestly don't think that chap is anything to worry about. Though I can't say I'm keen on people coming into our garden. We need to fix that.”

Now Mary stares at him.

“You've seen him too?”

“Once or twice, yes. Not in the garden. I'm sure he was up by the woods one time with his girlfriend when I was walking the dog. He waved to me. He seemed quite friendly. The girlfriend seemed nice too. Quite a young girl with very long hair. And I've seen him in the fields. I think he must work for one of the farmers or something.”

Mary looks at Ruby.

“Well, there you go, a farm laborer. So you and Lisa can calm down now, can't you?”

Graham smiles. “Farm laborer. Now there's an old-fashioned word.”

She looks at him. “What would you call it?”

“I don't know. Just laborer sounds a bit Victorian, that's all.”

“Anyway, you don't need to worry,” Ruby tells them. “Lisa's not coming anymore. She can't.”

Graham opens the fridge, takes out a beer.

“Really? Well, that's a shame, darling. Why not?”

Ruby shrugs. “She's got stuff going on in London. I don't know. Parties, and there's this guy she met or something.”

Mary feels herself relax.

“A new boyfriend? That's nice.”

Ruby looks at her.

“Why? Why is it nice?”

“Come on, Rubes,” Graham says. “She's only trying to make conversation.”

Ruby looks away. “Whatever.”

I
N THE MORNING,
G
RAHAM TAKES
R
UBY TO
L
ONDON FOR HER
appointment. Mary waits for them to go, trying to hide her impatience as he unlocks the car for Ruby, then comes back to pick up his wallet and keys, returning once more for his glasses and a kiss—quick, dry, apologetic almost—and then yet another time—

“My phone.” He makes a face.

He is about to leave, but stops in the doorway.

“We're having lunch with Veronica, by the way. Is that OK?”

She stands there in her bare feet on the cool stone flags looking at him.

“What do you mean? Of course it's OK.”

He keeps his eyes on her.

“I don't know. I just thought I should mention it, that's all.”

“Why?”

“No reason. More that not mentioning it didn't feel quite right.”

She looks at him. She sees that he's missed a bit, shaving. A small forest of coarse dark hairs on his jaw.

“It's fine,” she says. “Why wouldn't it be? Have fun.”

He looks at her.

“You know it's not for pleasure.”

“OK.”

She waits again for him to go, but he doesn't.

“It's partly so we can work on Ruby together. Before the appointment.”

“Work on her?”

He sighs.

“In getting her to commit to this therapy, or whatever it is they want her to do. She's got to feel we're united. Supporting her through this together.”

For a quick moment, Mary sees Graham and Veronica sitting together in a candlelit restaurant somewhere. White tablecloths and shining glasses. The united parents of Ruby.

“Of course,” she says.

“Of course what?”

“I mean, it's important that you both support her.”

Graham looks at her.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for what?”

“Nothing. Just thanks.”

A small something inside her—a tight, hot burning thing she hadn't been aware of before—flickers and seems to go out. She ignores the feeling, waiting for him to go. But still he hesitates.

“You're OK?”

“I just said I am.”

“No, not with that. I mean are you OK generally?”

She nods. “Of course I am.”

“There's no of course about it.” He keeps on looking at her. “You promise you'd tell me if you weren't?”

Mary nods, knowing very well that she is long beyond promises. Graham waits for another moment, still searching her face as if there was something else he wanted to say. At last, telling her he'll see her later, he goes.

When she's sure she's heard the car drive off, she takes her tea and walks down the garden, the grass cool and damp under her bare feet, the dog trotting along behind her. She sits on the old bench. Shutting her eyes. Feeling the sun on her face, her neck, and in the roots of her hair. The bird racket above her is huge, vast, and loud. But then at last it stops and there it is, the thing she's been waiting for. Silence.

She opens her eyes.

A small girl is making her way down the garden. Four years old, she'd guess—four at the most, maybe less. She wears a rough, brown printed dress, light hair twisted up on top of her head. The dress is quite undone at the back, almost to the waist, unbuttoned or maybe buttonless. Some kind of grayish underclothes visible beneath it. Something about her familiar.

She is walking slowly through the long grass and carrying something wrapped up in a piece of cloth, holding it out in front of her as carefully as if it were made of glass.

Attached to her by the wrist on some kind of a lead—a piece of string, is it?—another child, this one younger, with the wispy curls and round face of a baby. Her pale skirts are bunched up and tucked into odd, big pants and she stumbles along beside the older girl, trying to keep up, catching at the air now and then with her free hand to keep her balance.

There is a thickness to the air, a stillness. Apart from the children, everything else has stopped—no sound, no living thing anywhere, no feeling of aliveness, of anything alive.

Mary feels her blood rushing in her ears. Her mouth dry, she swallows and, very slowly, puts down her tea. Wiping her hands on her clothes, she stands, gazing after them as they continue on across the lawn, watching as they squeeze themselves through the very deepest and darkest part of the hedge.

She thinks it's over. But the thick silence continues and then she sees her. The older girl—a long-haired teenager, this one—wading through the long grass, her head bent, her step measured and sullen, her face hidden by the grubby cotton flaps of a bonnet—

And then they're gone, and everything resumes. The air bright and light and thin again. Birdsong. Plants and leaves vivid and trembling in the sunlight.

Mary looks at the dog. Sniffing, unconcerned, at a patch of dandelions. She tries to breathe.

After a moment or two, her phone trembles in her pocket. She ignores it. When it trembles a second time, and then a third, she turns it off.

J
AMES WAS RIGHT.
I
DIDN
'
T KNOW ANYTHING.
A
LL
I
KNEW WAS
that it was all Phoebe's fault. What had happened had come down between us like a hard wall of iron. He had no itch for me anymore and no lightness of heart to put it into action either.

I tried not to miss him, but I did miss him. The smell of all his hot, hairy places. The sound of his voice, calling me. His hands on my clothes. The feel of his fingers finding their way through my hair. Even the look on his face after he'd spilled himself into me—a look so tight and harsh and mysterious that when I asked him what he was thinking and he said
Nothing
, I believed him absolutely.

Was it really true that I would never gaze on that face again, never see that look? The nevers were all Phoebe's fault. The things
that would never happen, the pleasures I would never feel again. They kept me awake at night, the nevers did. They made me sick. If this was what love was, if this was how it felt to lose it, then I'd rather not have had it in the first place.

But something else was also making me sick. I wasn't a fool. I knew what was happening. My spit tasted like a mouthful of nails and my bodice would barely lace up. I remembered how, when she was expecting Jazzy—or was it Frank?—Ma had liked to lick the handle of the small, beat-up tin they used to fetch the milk in. I had laughed at the idea of it, amazed and disgusted. But now I astonished myself by wanting to run my tongue along its cool, blunt curve and taste its iron tang.

I tried everything. I danced up and down in the yard till bright spangles of hotness came floating down in front of my eyes. I threw myself off the highest rung of the ladder in the barn and let myself roll around in the rat mess and the dust. I made myself swallow comfrey juice and then vomited until water poured out of my eyes and small red pinpricks appeared on my face. I did everything painful that I could think of that might put a swift and violent stop to what was happening inside me.

And all of it was pointless.

You're looking very bonny, Eliza, Miss Narket said.

Meanwhile the constabulary had come to the village to search for Phoebe. They sucked up the light, crawling along the edges of the lanes and fields, poking and nosing around like a line of flapping black crows. Only unlike the crows, you knew that no amount of hand clapping would be enough to scare them off.

M
ARY HEARS SOMEONE CALLING HER NAME.
S
HE TURNS AND
sees Deborah in a bright skirt and sandals, picking her way down the weed-covered steps into the garden. Straightaway, the dog runs toward her, barking. Mary calls her off.

“Do you mind?” Deborah laughs and puts a hand down to stop the dog jumping up. “I rapped on the window and couldn't get any answer so I guessed you must be out here. I was just on my way to the shops and Eddie said you weren't very well, so I thought I'd come and see if you needed anything.”

Mary stares at her for a moment.

“I'm fine. I'm perfectly well.”

Stroking the dog's head with one hand, Deborah glances up, shielding her eyes in the sunshine.

“But Eddie said he'd seen you and you were looking very pale or something and he was worried about you.”

For a moment, Mary struggles with this.

“I don't know what he meant. I'm fine.”

Deborah laughs. “Ah, well, that's good. Glad to know all's well. I know he's very fond of you.” She looks at Mary for a moment. “He says you've been a very good friend to him recently. And I think he's needed it. I wanted you to know that we both appreciate it.”