The Stopped Heart (19 page)

He stares at her.

“You're not serious?”

She shrugs.

“Well, it's embarrassing, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“Grief. Having to deal with other people's grief.” He holds the cigarettes out to her again. She shakes her head. “All right,” she says. “So what's the question?”

He bites his lip.

“I don't know if I should ask it now.”

“Come on,” she says.

“All right, it's this. Do you think you'd ever try and have more children, you and Graham, I mean?”

“Children?”

She feels herself flush.

“Sorry,” he says. “You don't have to answer if you don't want.”

“We can't,” she says, cutting him off before he can say anything else. “Even if we wanted to, I mean.”

He looks at her. She takes another sip of her Diet Coke, puts it back down.

“After Flo was born, he decided—he was actually very definite about it. He went and had a—”

The word. For some reason she can't bring herself to say it. But he nods.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Were you definite about it too?”

She looks away over the grass for a moment. Remembering Graham as he was then. So young, so certain, with his knitted pullover and his jeans and his black curly hair. Standing in the doorway of their old bedroom, sun streaming in through the sash window, the curve of her daughter's warm head at her breast.

“I suppose at the time I didn't feel very strongly either way,” she says, suddenly amazed at her long-ago and mysteriously oblivious self.

Y
OU
'
RE A PIECE OF BAD LUCK,
I
TOLD
J
AMES.
I
KNEW IT FROM THE
first moment I saw you. Lottie knows it too. She's afraid of you, you know.

My heart was thudding. I thought he would yell at me but he didn't—he did nothing. Just stayed where he was and looked
up from where he was sitting all lamb 'n' lettuce on my mother's creaking rocker.

Did you hear me? I said. Are you listening to anything I say?

He said nothing. I saw that he was smiling.

And I tried my best to look at him with a cold heart—tried to take him in as if I were seeing him for the very first time. The hard brightness of that hair. The dirt on his face. The inky snake of the tattoo that so impressed our Frank. I tried to forget all the love things we had said to each other. The sweet shudders that had run down my whole body when he breathed on my neck.

I waited.

Why is everything always my fault? he said at last.

I stared at him.

Everything isn't your fault. But certain things are.

What things?

You know what things. And that thing that we were doing by the way, it's over. I'm not your sweetheart anymore, James, and I don't want to be ever again.

For a moment he was still. Then he raised his eyebrows and looked at me. Pulled out his pouch and began to make a cigarette.

And all because I showed a bad animal who was in charge?

The dog wasn't bad. It's you who are bad.

He laughed.

Good, bad, what difference does it make?

I licked my lips. My mouth was dry.

What difference? What are you saying? You know very well that it makes all the difference in the world.

He seemed to think about this, but then he shrugged.

Do what you want, Eliza, it makes no odds.

I don't care if it makes no odds to you. It does to me. I don't like you and I won't blow about with you anymore.

He glanced at me then and I was glad. It meant my words had got to him. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it.

You're ditching me?

That's right.

He began to laugh.

Stop it, I said.

I can't. I can't stop it. Because that's very funny.

Shut up, I said. It's not funny.

He leaned across to light his cigarette.

It is, he said. And I'll tell you why. It's funny because I haven't even had you yet. You think you can ditch me before you even know what you're ditching?

My heart was banging.

I'll do what I want, I said.

Do anything you like. Go and hide behind the moon if you want. It makes no difference, Eliza. I'll come and get you when I'm ready.

“B
UT WHAT ABOUT YOU?” SHE ASKS HIM LATER WHEN THE SUN
has moved into the clouds and out again and he's asked for the bill and the air is alive with the sound of bottles being chucked in a bin.

“Me?”

“You and Deborah. Do you think you'll have kids?”

He sighs. “She's thirty-eight, you know.”

“That's not old. It's not old at all.”

“All right, but she doesn't want to. Never has. Says she's not maternal, whatever that means.” He rubs at his face. “And I already have one. So I can't really complain, can I?”

Now Mary stares at him.

“You? You have a child?”

He doesn't look at her. Flattening the curling paper on the metal dish. Peering at it for a moment. Taking out his wallet.

“That's right. I do. A boy. He lives with his mother. In London.”

“You were married before?”

He shakes his head. “Not married. Just someone I— An accident. Not quite a one-night stand, but, well, I didn't know a thing about it till after he was born.”

She tries to think about this. Watching as he places some money on top of the bill. Pushing it to the edge of the table.

“What? You genuinely had no idea?”

He shakes his head. “She wasn't someone I—we didn't keep in touch. I found out in the end because she sent me a text.”

“A text? You mean just like that? Right after he was born?”

“He was about four months old.”

“My God.”

He smiles.

“It was a shock, I suppose.”

She shifts on the seat.

“But—so, what's his name?”

He frowns. “My boy? Ollie. His name is Oliver. Oliver Edward John. Her choice.”

“You don't like it?”

“It's OK. It suits him,” he adds, delight briefly flashing over his face.

“And how old is he now?”

“Ten. He's ten. Well—eleven in October.”

Ten, she can't help thinking. Ten springs and summers, ten Christmases. His mother has managed to keep him safe for a whole decade.

“And what's her name?” she says. “His mother, I mean.”

“Ollie's mother? Tricia. She's called Trish.”

“And does she—is she a good mother?”

He glances at her.

“That's a funny question.”

“It's the only question.”

He hesitates.

“Yes. Yes, I think so. She wanted him, if that's what you're asking. Why?”

She takes a breath.

“I suppose I'm trying to imagine it, that's all. You with a son. I'm quite surprised.”

“Yes, well, that makes two of us.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know you didn't.”

“And what's he like?”

“Ollie?” Eddie's face brightens again. “What's he like? Bloody hell. I don't know. Much like any other ten-year-old boy, I suppose. Noisy. Unstoppable. Impossible. A bit out of control sometimes. Won't eat anything but white food. Glued to a screen for much of the day—far too much of it, in my view, not that I have much say.” He sighs. “I don't get to see him very much.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates.

“Oh, look. It's complicated. It's a long story. And before you go jumping to any conclusions, I should warn you I don't come out of it very well.”

Mary thinks about this.

“But if you didn't even know he existed?”

“I guess what his mother would say is, I didn't behave so very well once I did know.”

“Why not?”

He begins to laugh, stops himself.

“Why didn't I behave well? Oh, I don't know. Why do people do things? It's always complicated, isn't it? I was rattled, I suppose.”

“Scared?”

“It wasn't as simple as that.”

“What, then?”

He is silent.

“I don't know,” he says at last. “You're the only person ever to have asked me that and I suppose I haven't questioned myself too hard about it.” He breaks off, thinking again. “I didn't think I'd be any good as a father. I didn't really know how to be one. My own father—well, it wasn't like I'd made a choice—”

“You didn't get on with your father?”

He looks at her, his face softening. “You don't really want to know all this.”

“Yes, I do.”

He takes off his glasses, rubs at his eyes.

“My mother died when I was ten. A car crash. My father—well, I suppose he couldn't cope. He fell apart. These days I imagine he'd have been offered counseling or whatever. But, well, he was grieving and he couldn't cope, so he sent me away.”

She stares at him.

“Away? Away where?”

He sighs. Looking at his glasses, turning them over in his hands.

“His sister. My aunt. A widow, she had no kids. I don't know if she ever wanted any. But she was OK; she was willing enough. I suppose she brought me up, really. And then, years later, my father married again and he sent for me.”

“Sent for you?”

He makes a face.

“I know. It sounds like something out of some novel, doesn't it? Yes, he decided he wanted me after all, couldn't live without me, in fact. And so he had me move back in. But his new wife—she was barely even into her twenties, this young girl—she didn't
want some spotty, truculent adolescent boy ruining things.” He looks at her. “Basically, she made my life hell.”

She stares at him.

“How did she do that?”

He blinks.

“Oh God, Mary. Let's not even go there.”

“I'm sorry,” Mary says.

He sighs.

“It's stuff I haven't thought about in years—don't want to think about. And it was all a very long time ago. Water under the bridge and all that.”

Mary thinks about this.

“And then what?”

“I ran away. Left home, I suppose you'd call it. Well, I was old enough, just about.”

“How old?”

“Seventeen. Just. I lived on the streets for a while.”

“On the streets? But that's terrible.” She takes a breath. Unable to imagine it. “But what about your aunt?”

“What about her?”

“She didn't want you to come back?”

“Who knows. I never heard from her. In fact, I never saw her again. I don't know. Maybe she imagined I was still with my father. I suppose at that age you don't really think about these things. I was OK, though. I got a place at a hostel. I worked in bars and so on. I was even on the bins for a time—”

“A bin man?”

He makes a face.

“I can tell you it wasn't the worst job I ever did.”

“What was the worst?”

“Yarden's fish factory, down by the docks. Disgusting. Wet and cold, the scales stuck inside your fingernails, you could never
get the smell off. Far worse than the dirt of the bins—” He breaks off, smiling at her. “Anyway, all of this, I suppose it explains a lot about me, doesn't it?”

The sun has moved around the garden and is in Mary's face. She turns her chair, shields her eyes, trying to see him.

“Why? What does it explain?”

“I don't know. What I'm like, I suppose. Why I'm such a waste of space.”

She stares at him.

“What do you mean you're a waste of space? That's a terrible thing to say about yourself.”

He sighs.

“I'm sure it's how Deborah sees me.”

Mary shakes her head.

“Deborah loves you.”

“Does she?”

“Oh, come on. It's obvious that she does.”

“Is it?”

For a moment, Mary just stares at him.

“I can't imagine Deborah ever thinking anyone was a waste of space,” she says at last.

He smiles.

“Well, it's what I'd think if I were her. I'm aimless, aren't I? A drifter.”

“A drifter? What's that supposed to mean? I don't see you like that at all.”

“You don't? You don't think I'm unreliable and aimless and—well, a complete tosser in many ways?”

Mary sits up in her chair.

“Eddie, it's not true. You're not aimless at all. Why are you so hard on yourself? You have a job, for God's sake, a wife, you have a home . . .”

He shakes his head.

“You don't know the truth, Mary. It's not the way it looks. I was always like this, you know, always. I can't really even blame my mother. Even as a young child, I could never settle.”

“Settle to what?”

“I don't know. My concentration span, it was just—zilch.”

“Well, that was hardly your fault—”

“And afterward, long after I'd left my aunt's, for a long time I did just that. I drifted. From job to job. Even from woman to woman.”

“You had a lot of women?”

He smiles.

“You find that hard to imagine?”

Mary shakes her head, even though she does.

“This whole story, all of it, it sounds so incredible.”

His face tightens.

“It's not a story.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know you didn't.”

He sighs. Taps his fingers on the edge of the table.

“I'm not sure I should have told you any of it anyway,” he says.

“It's all right. I promise you it won't go any further.”

“It's not that. It's just—I'm afraid you'll never be able to think well of me again.”

“Don't be silly. This doesn't change anything. In fact, I feel very sorry to think of everything you've been through.”