The Stopped Heart (12 page)

My mouth fell open. I did not know. And then for a few bad moments, I worried that I did.

I felt my cheeks get hot. I picked up the broom.

Do you know what I'm talking about, Eliza? he said.

My heart was racing. My chest felt like sand sinking down into my knees. A hot, slipping feeling that I hadn't felt before.

Go away, I said. I mean it, James. Just go away.

He looked at me.

I wish I could do that, but I can't. I can't go away from you, Eliza.

Please, I said.

He shook his head.

It's your fault, Eliza. You've brought it on yourself. You are just too quick and too beautiful. Look at me, look at what a state I'm in, I can't take my eyes off you.

My whole body felt quite wild with shock and worry, but I turned my head away as swiftly as I could and began to sweep. I didn't know what James was going to do next but at that moment the gate opened.

It was Lottie. Lottie running and screaming and crying her eyes out. I dropped the broom and took her in my arms.

What is it? I said. Whatever's the matter?

I sat down on the ground and pulled her on my lap. She was heaving and gasping out the sobs. Her skin smelled hot and I laid the back of my hand against her head to check for fever.

James was still sitting on the edge of the trough and watching us both.

What is it, Lottie? he said, but she would not look at him, and I did not blame her.

Leave her alone, I said, but he didn't look at me, just patted his knee.

Do you want to come over here to me? Do you want to play horsey-horsey or leader in the trap?

Leader in the trap was a made-up game they had, just the two of them. Lottie had been quite mad for it recently.

Do you want to? I whispered in her ear, for I thought maybe he had the right idea and it would lift her out of her grumps and fears. James will play it with you if you want him to.

But Lottie lifted her head and she looked at him and her whole face wobbled and then she buried her head in my dress and clung harder to me.

Some moments passed. I did not know what to do about Lottie so I decided to do nothing. I moved to sit more comfortably in the sun against the wall and, keeping her on my lap, I rubbed her back in little circles, soothing her.

At last she grew still. I hoped James would go, but instead he came over and slid down the wall and sat beside the two of us on the ground among the clover that grew between the stones and the straw and droppings that I hadn't yet swept.

I stretched my legs out and took hold of Lottie's hot head and held it so that I could look into her eyes.

Now are you going to tell us what the matter is? I said, but she just shut her eyes and kept her lips tight and shook her head.

Are you hurting somewhere?

She shook her head.

Did something hurt you?

No.

Someone?

Again, she shook her head.

What, then? I said. Were you afraid? Did something frighten you?

Now she nodded hard.

What? I said. Something frightened you? Did it really? What was it?

Tell us what it was, James said. And we'll deal with it. Me and Eliza will deal with it for you; won't we, Eliza?

I did not look at him, for I knew he wanted me to. Instead, I held Lottie so tight against me that I felt the fizz of her small body in my own chest.

Tell me, I whispered in her ear.

I waited, but still she did not speak—just let out another small sob. I sighed and I kissed her head. Breathing in her hair that
smelled of apples and crusts and the hot, damp earth under our doorstep.

Was it a dog? I said.

I felt her hesitate. She bit her lip.

Not a dog.

A cat?

Not a cat.

A lion? A tiger? A grizzly bear?

She giggled.

Stupid! she said.

Was it a teeny tiny little mouse? James asked her in the smallest squeakiest voice and as he said it, he crept one hand, mouselike, around Lottie's neck and slid the other one around and laid it on my knee. I tried to shove it off, but he put it straight back. Its warmth and keenness seemed to set my leg on fire.

Not a mouse! Lottie said, half laughing and half crying as she tried to slap him away.

The feel of James's fingers on my knee was creeping up my whole body and making my cheeks hot. I didn't know whether I minded it or not. My eyes caught sight of the broom, lying on the ground where I'd dropped it.

Lottie, I said. I need to finish all the jobs before Mother gets back. If you can't tell us what it is that frightened you, then I think it's going to have to stay in your own head.

Straightaway, Lottie began to cry again. Sobbing and wailing just as bad as before. She put her thumb in her mouth and then she took it out again. There was wet and tears and dust all down the front of her pinafore.

Upstairs, she said, jerking her thumb toward the house. It was upstairs.

Upstairs?

Yes, I went up the stairs and in the room where we sleep there was—there was—a great big witch with a white face and black hair all tatty and big black boots like that.

She pointed to James Dix's feet. His dusty black boots. He looked at his boots and then he began to laugh.

What? he said. You saw a witch and she had on my boots? Now that's what I call a proper cheek.

Lottie looked straight into his face. For a moment she looked at him very hard as if she'd never seen him before. Then she shook her head.

Not your boots, she said. Not those. Other boots. Not yours.

Ah, James said. Well, that's all right, then.

Lottie ignored him. She put her thumb back in her mouth and she pulled the sleeve of her dress up and held it against her nose.

Tell me more about the witch, I said.

Can't.

Lottie, come on.

Lottie sucked her thumb for a moment. When she spoke at last, her voice was muffled.

Well, she was sticking the knife in, wasn't she?

I caught my breath.

A knife? You're saying the person you saw had a knife?

Lottie nodded.

And she kept on doing it over and over.

Doing what?

Sticking it in! And I cried at her to stop but she wouldn't stop and—and—I didn't like it, not at all I didn't— Look, Eliza, she was doing it like this.

Very slowly and carefully, Lottie made a claw of her hand and drew her fingers down her arm as if she meant to slice through her skin and open herself up. A chill went through me.

That's horrible, I said. You shouldn't talk about such things. I don't understand you, Lottie, not at all. I don't understand where you get these horrible ideas.

James reached out and ruffled Lottie's hair.

Ah, come on, it was a dream, he said. There's no doubt about it. You must have lain down there on the rug and nodded off.

And I thought that Lottie would turn and shout at him for accusing her of dreaming, but instead she turned her eyes on him again very carefully as if she was looking for something.

Was it a dream? she said. Was it? That means it wasn't real.

It wasn't real, James said.

Lottie screwed up her eyes.

Do you swear on the angels' lives that it was?

A dream? James said. Yes, indeed. I swear it, little one.

I felt Lottie relax in my lap. But he did not look at her, turning instead to me and squeezing and rubbing my knee with his fingers.

Get off me, I said, and I pushed his hand off as hard as I could and this time I succeeded because he did not put it back and I was surprised at how sorry and cold and forlorn it felt without it there.

M
ARY SAYS SHE
'
LL TAKE THE DOG FOR A WALK.
G
RAHAM CAN
'
T
hide his pleasure.

“Take some treats,” he says, thrusting a small plastic bag at her. “You can let her off when you get to the path along by the woods. But keep making her come to you and if she doesn't come back the minute you call, then use this.” He hands her a chewed rubber ball. “You only have to hold it up and she'll be at your feet. Trust me. She's obsessed with it.”

Mary goes. But they're barely into the lane before the dog starts to drag and pull, yanking on the lead and panting in an effort to propel herself forward. Before Mary can even react, she
hears a shout. Graham has come out of the house and is waving at her.

“Don't let her pull,” he says. “Tell her to heel.”

She raises her hand to show she's heard and then, as Graham gives her a thumbs-up, she turns the corner.

She lets the dog pull. Liking the feeling of being rushed along, her arm tensing with the force of it, her feet moving with unaccustomed speed over the pavement with its weeds and dandelions and clumps of overgrown grass. She almost starts to run.

They go past the post office and the doctor's surgery and over the little bridge and past the allotments with their hazel wigwams and pieces of colored cloth to scare the birds and on up the road until the gaps between the cottages grow longer and the hedgerow more tangled and unkempt and then, finally, nothing. They pass one man with a small dog and then nobody. Still moving at a brisk pace, they turn off the lane and up the silent track that leads to the woods.

Mary stops for a moment, the dog still tugging and panting. On one side, flat blond fields stretching into the distance; on the other, the darkness of the woods. In that darkness, on the other side of the field, she knows that she can see something—even without looking she knows it's there. A sudden, vivid shape moving between the trees. A flash of bright hair. A pale face. She doesn't want to think about it. She moves on quickly, the dog still pulling her.

Once she gets to the path along the edge of the woods, she does not let the dog off but stands for a moment, uncertain, her breath ragged in her throat. The village is still behind her. She glances back for a moment at the clutter of cottages, the pale brick of the estate, the spire of the church. The dog whines and pulls and so she gives in and they walk a little farther. But once they go around the bend and the village is lost and all that lies ahead is the
wide loneliness of field and woodland, she stops again and looks at the dog, who is suddenly motionless.

“What?” she whispers. “What?”

She looks at the woodland, then back at the dog, who whimpers.

S
HE GETS BACK TO FIND
G
RAHAM STARING INTO THE FRIDGE.
Behind him on the old pine table, a brown pottery dish with a blue-painted edge, full of olives. Mary gazes at it, her whole body stilled.

“Where did you find that?” she says.

“The dish? In one of the boxes. I thought we were a bit short of things to put nuts and stuff in.”

She gazes at him.

“It's the one from Elba.”

“Yes.”

“I thought we agreed. All that stuff.”

He throws her a quick, exasperated look.

“All right, I'm sorry”—grabbing the nearest plate, tipping the olives onto it. “You're right. I should have thought. I didn't think.”

He rinses the dish a little too quickly under the tap, rubs a tea towel over it, and puts it in a cupboard. Looks at her. Mary still doesn't move. She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't do anything.

“They're just coming around for a quick drink,” he says, turning back to the fridge.

“What?” she says. “Who?”

“Deborah and Eddie.”

“What, now?”

He glances at her.

“I said any time after six. Don't worry; they won't stay long. They know we've got Ruby here.”

He pulls out half a lemon. Holds it in the air.

“Is this all we've got? I suppose it's enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“I don't know. Gin and tonic. Vodka. Whatever.” He puts the lemon down on the counter. “Oh, darling,” he says, “come here.”

Still thinking about the dish, she comes. He takes hold of her, kisses her hair.

“I felt it was the least I could do, to offer them a drink. I found him in the lane. Eddie, I mean. He seemed very keen to see us, all of a sudden.”

“All of a sudden?”

“He more or less invited himself around. Wouldn't really take no for an answer.”

Mary takes a breath.

“You're acting as if we have some kind of a duty to them.”

“Come on. You're making too much of this. They're only trying to be friendly.”

She shakes her head.

“I'm tired, that's all.”

“I know. I know you are. So am I.” He reaches out, touches her face. “I'm really sorry for not thinking.”

“Not thinking?”

“About the dish. I'm sorry.”

S
HE GOES UP TO CHANGE.
P
ULLING OFF HER
T
-SHIRT AS SHE
crosses the landing, she stops for a moment at the window and glances down. In the lane, a man and a youngish girl, standing close together, deep in conversation.

She can't see the man well—he has his back to her and the hedge half obscures him—but she is certain about one thing: his bright red hair. The girl is less clear—no more than eleven or
twelve, maybe younger. An odd-looking girl—too young to be a girlfriend, not young enough to be a daughter—with her long hair and limp, colorless clothes.

As Mary watches them she feels a kind of exhaustion sweep over her. As if the sight had somehow touched her physically, sucking all the life out of her.

She moves herself away and goes to the bathroom, a loose floorboard creaking under her feet. Chucks the T-shirt in the basket and squeezes toothpaste onto her brush. Staring at herself in the mirror, she wonders what it is she just saw. But when she returns to the window, it's already too late—they've gone. A young boy in a football strip cycles past.

She stands there for a moment, brushing her teeth—a mouthful of toothpaste, hand cupped under her chin. Looking up and down the lane but there's no sign of either of them. They couldn't walk that fast, so they must have got into a car, she thinks.