Just look at that hair, she said.
We looked. His hair was bright red, the reddest I’d ever seen on any person. Thick on top, but shaved short around the sides and over the ears. His face was rough and bitter. He had the look of someone who’d just walked out of a room where bad things had happened.
Not a farm boy, Isaac Roper said. Not from around here.
He’s got city written all over him, my mother agreed. But how come the boots are so clean?
I looked at the boots. They were brand-spanking-new without a doubt. Not a speck of mud on them.
He stole them, I said before I could stop myself.
My mother gave me a sharp look.
How ever could you know that, Eliza?
I don’t know it, I said, blushing to my roots. But anyway, he might have.
LATER, HE LIES DOWN ON HIS BACK IN THE LONG, PALE GRASS. Two or three cups of prosecco in him, face already pink from the sudden warm sunshine—arms spread out, fingers loose.
“Come here,” he says. “Please. Come over here right now and kiss me.”
He does not look at her; he stares up into space. She watches his face. The words floating upward into the bright blue air. She hesitates.
“Come on,” he says again, laughing.
She shakes her head. She says his name. But she does not get up. She sits there on the bench in the sunshine looking at him. His body so familiar, so known to her, so loved. It ought to be possible, she thinks.
“I want to hold you,” he says. He laughs again. “There’s no one around, so why not?”
Why not? she thinks. Trying to remember how it used to feel to want to do such things. The warmth of sudden hugs, the way you could twine yourself around the flesh and blood of another human being just like that, as if it were nothing.
He sits up, putting his hands to his face now, laughing. And she starts to speak to him but he stops her.
“It’s all right,” he says. “It was a joke. I was joking. You don’t have to.”
She watches as he gropes in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry,” she says at last—seeing that he isn’t laughing at all, but crying.
JAZZY HAD CREPT DOWN THE STAIRS. SO HAD LOTTIE, BAREFOOT and half-undressed as usual, followed by the twins, Minnie and Charlie. I think Frank was with them. Honey came behind, holding on to his knees.
Jazzy was ten years old, and Frank was seven. The twins were five, and Lottie was only four. Nobody could remember how old Honey was but she used to be the baby until the new one came along, so she wasn’t that old. Our mother had had some other children too after I was born, but they had died and these were the ones that were left and what with the new baby to boot, she said it was quite enough.
The dog saw the kiddies and wagged her tail and rushed around trying to nip at their hands and feet while they laughed and screamed. At last Frank caught hold of her. But when she saw the man she went stiff all over and began to growl.
What’s up with her? my father said, because our dog was the least suspicioning animal you ever met.
She’s afraid, said Frank. Who’s that man on the floor?
Yes, Jazzy said. Who is it?
I’m afraid! said Lottie, and she looked at Minnie to encourage her, and then they both lifted up their skirts and jumped up and down on the spot, laughing and squealing.
Be quiet, all of you, my mother said.
My father bent down to the man and asked him what his name was. The man groaned.
I knowed his name, Lottie said.
No, you don’t, said Jazz.
I did! I used to know it when I was a little bit dead.
Can you move your legs? my father said to the man.
The man tried. At first he couldn’t do it, but then he could. He moved them a little bit.
Jazzy looked excited.
Are his legs broke?
Not if he can move them, my father said.
My mother was shaking her head and looking at Isaac Roper.
I thought the tree was on top of him, she said. Right on top of his legs, I honestly thought it was.
Well, it wasn’t, my father said.
All the same, she said, still looking at Isaac, I can’t believe it. How is it possible? How can no bones have broke?
What’s broke? said Charlie.
I want it! Lottie shrieked.
It’s a miracle, Isaac Roper said.
Merricales! Lottie said, and then, because she couldn’t think of any more stupid things to say, she began to cry.
My father’s face didn’t move. Anything to do with Isaac always washed straight over him.
It is what it is, he said.
The dog was still growling. I put my hand on her. The growl went down through my hand and into my bones.
Can’t someone shut that animal up? my father said.
She’s afraid, Frank told him again.
She doesn’t want to be killed, sobbed Lottie, even though she was under the table now and no one was listening to her anymore.
Look at the poor lad, my mother said. Whatever on earth is there to be afraid of?
I did look at him then. I looked at him and I knew straightaway that he wasn’t a poor lad. I looked at the dirty face and the bright hair and the eyebrows that met in the middle. I looked at the blue-and-black tattoo of something that went curling right down his neck.
He hadn’t any jacket and his shirt was half-open. You could see a nipple and some reddish hair. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it, I did look.
Something cold crept through me.
I don’t like him, I said.
THEY LEAVE MOST OF THEIR THINGS IN STORAGE, MOVING IN with the barest minimum, just a few pieces of furniture and the stuff they can’t do without. Kitchen equipment. The sofa and armchairs and the TV. Their bed, of course, and towels and linens. Not even all their clothes.
They don’t bring their books or CDs. We’ll get new ones, Graham says, though neither of them believes it. They both know it’s going to be a while before they can face reading or listening to music.
Even though it’s late spring, the house is dark and cold. Some of the plug sockets don’t work and the bath takes half an hour to drain. They find mouse droppings in the kitchen cupboards, and the curtains they got for the bedroom window don’t fit, so they’re woken at dawn with the sun in their eyes.
“It feels like being on holiday,” Mary tells him, when he apologizes for everything that’s wrong with the place. “Except that I don’t quite know what to do with myself.”
His face softens.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“I know that.”
“It’s all going to take some getting used to.”
“I know.”
She watches his face as he comments on the beauty of the old flagstone floors, the huge brick fireplace, the sturdy whitewashed walls with their original thick wooden beams.
“It’s all just as it would have been,” he says. “No one’s gone around ripping out the period detail. It’s all here. Even these little latches on the doors, for instance.”
Mary raises her head from the peas she is shelling and looks at the narrow wooden door that leads to the stairs. The stripped pine with its iron latch. The steep, shadowed staircase just visible through it; the pale, grubby whiteness of a child’s bare foot as she comes bumping downstairs on her bottom—
Her heart twists. She takes a breath, blinks. Looking back down at the colander of peas. Inspecting the green pea sludge under her fingernails.
“Oh,” she says, “Ruby rang.”
“Ruby? What, here on the landline? When? You didn’t tell me.”
She glances at the stairs again.
“It was only just now, about ten minutes ago.”
He sighs, muttering something under his breath.
“I’m not going to rush around after her all the time as if everything’s an emergency,” she says.
He looks at her.<
br />
“Quite right. Of course not. No one expects you to.”
“She expects us to. And so does Veronica.”
He sighs again.
“All right. I’m sorry. I’ll deal with it.”
“You don’t have to apologize. And I’m not sure there’s anything to deal with anyway. She said she just wanted a chat.”
“A chat. It’s never just a chat. How did she sound?”
She hesitates.
“OK. She was perfectly polite, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did she ask how you were?”
Mary laughs. “Of course not.”
“And sober? Did she sound sober?”
“You mean not drunk?”
“I mean not under the influence of anything.”
She thinks about it.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“You think so?”
She lifts her head.
“I didn’t know it was my job to police her.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t.”
He sighs.
“All right. I’d better go and call her.”
IT WAS NEARLY MORNING. THE STORM HAD WORN ITSELF OUT. All that was left was a sour yellow flashing in the sky over toward Laxfield.
The man was lying on the floor with his eyes closed. Isaac Roper and my mother were smoking and laughing and passing the time together like they always did. I saw my father noticing and, as usual, I felt my stomach bunch up. The dog was still growling and my father told Frank to put her in the cupboard. He didn’t want to do it, but he did.
Why doesn’t she like the man? Minnie said.
Is it because he’s bad? said Charlie.
Of course he’s not bad, my mother said.
We don’t know the smallest thing about him, Isaac Roper pointed out. He could be a felon or a murderer.
Well, the dog doesn’t like him, Frank said.
She thinks he’s bad, Minnie said.
Bad! shouted Honey, as she pulled herself up to stand, holding on to the arm of the chair. Ba-ba-bad.
Lottie had crept out from under the table. She had her eyes on the man. She was sucking her thumb and fidgeting with her chemise, which only half covered her.
I used to be a dog, didn’t I? she said.
Lottie, I said when I saw that she couldn’t keep still and kept on twisting about and clutching at herself, do you need the pot?
She blinked at me as if I wasn’t there.
All right but a long time ago when the bad man came and he kicked the door down and he stamped all over my head, I did?
Did what?
Used to be a dog.
You were never a dog, my mother said. You’re talking nonsense, Lottikins. And Eliza’s asking if you want the pot.
I was about to get it, but then there was a quick wet spattering on the floor.
Oh, Lottie! my mother said.
Lottie looked down at what she had done. She blinked.
But later I will be, won’t I? she said.
MINNIE AND CHARLIE PICKED UP FEATHERS FROM THE FLOOR and blew them around while I mopped up Lottie’s mess. Jazzy was sat under the table singing to herself and undoing the tassels of the big heavy cloth. Honey was on Frank’s lap, though he kept trying to push her off. He asked if the dog could come out of the cupboard yet and my mother said yes.
But what if she bites the man? Jazzy said.
She won’t do that.
But what if she does?
Look at her. She’s afraid to go near him, I said.
I was right. The dog went straight over and sat by the door with a rattled look on her face. My father had to go and get the animals up. He was getting his boots on. My mother looked at him.
We should get the doctor, she said.
He doesn’t need a doctor.
Why? said Jazzy. Is he going to die?
We’re all going to die, said Isaac Roper. Praise Jesus but it’s the truth that we will all die.
Like me, I died, Lottie said, but no one was listening because we all knew it was a great big booming lie.
My father left the room, slamming the door behind him. A quick, unhappy silence, then the air closed up around it.
Well, if you want my opinion, I reckon we should get the constable, Isaac Roper said at last.
My mother cupped the baby’s head in her hand as if it were the softest piece of fruit she had ever held.
The constable? Whatever for?
Isaac scowled and rubbed at his chin. The rasp of his nighttime beard made my teeth hurt.
Who is he, Sally? What do we know about him? How do we know he’s not escaped from somewhere? He could be a murderer. A swindler. A housebreaker.
Oh, come on, my mother said.
How do you know he’s not dangerous? We’ve no idea at all about him.
My mother yawned.
He’s just a young man, she said. I don’t think we need to worry about him. I’m sure he’ll be on his way in the morning.
I looked at the man. His eyes were shut, but he had the fierce tight look of someone not asleep.
The baby was whickering and my mother began to undo her chemise. Isaac Roper watched her. Honey, too, seeing it was undone and wanting the milk, got up off the floor and lifted her arms in the air and started to cry. My mother ignored her and at last she stopped her noise and fell asleep on the rug.
The night was almost over, but the blackness was still there; it wouldn’t be light for a while. Apart from the sound of the cows across the yard, the kitchen was quiet. My mother changed the baby over to the other side. His small hand stayed up in the air while he sucked.
All you children should be in bed, my mother said.
Isaac Roper was filling his pipe. I watched him: a quick bad memory of walking past the scullery door on a hot afternoon and seeing my mother with her face buried in him. His hands strung through her hair, pressing her down against the flap of his breeches.
I don’t like the look of him, Isaac said. If it was my house I wouldn’t want him in it for a moment longer than was necessary.
THE NEXT DAY, ON HIS WAY TO BLAXHALL, ISAAC ROPER WAS struck by a train and died on the spot. No one expected it. But lots of things happen in this life that are not expected.
It was easy enough to look for reasons. Maybe we should have covered up the bedroom mirrors during the storm, as Miss Narket’s married niece later suggested. Or maybe Isaac should not have been in such a hurry to cut down the old holly tree in Glebe field that winter, since it had been there for fifty years and everyone knew that felling a holly could change a person’s luck.
Maybe we should have listened when Jazzy said she’d seen a single magpie shrieking and hopping like a mad thing in the lane that morning. And maybe we should have sent one of the kiddies to seek out another one quick before the bad luck of the singleton could take root.
Or maybe, it occurred to me later, Isaac should have thought twice before he accused a perfect stranger who was lying on our kitchen floor of being a housebreaker or a murderer when he didn’t know the smallest thing about him.
TWO
THE FIRST TIME GRAHAM LEAVES HER ALONE THERE, MARY IS lost. She does what is necessary. Puts the breakfast things in the dishwasher. Wipes the table. Stands looking at the crumbs sticking to her hand, then goes over to the tap and rinses them off.
Drying her hands on a tea towel, she finds herself opening the front door. She stands there, looking out, feeling the heat on her face. Not unpleasant. Sunlight and warmth pouring in, showing the dirt on the old stone floor.
In the lane, birds are singing. A white van goes past. A kid on a bicycle shouting. Somewhere far off across the fields, a dog barking. A little way away she can see a man. Red-haired. Young. Her heart stirs at the sight. His lean, quick shape moving along the hedge.
She comes back in and shuts the door. Standing there, waiting, she doesn’t know for what. After a moment, without knowing why, she bolts the d
oor. A sudden, velvety silence. She likes it.
When the landline rings, she jumps. Her mother.
“I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“I’m all right. How are you?”
Her mother hesitates.
“Really? You’d say if you weren’t?”
“We are. We’re fine. We’re doing OK.”
“Really? What are you up to?”
“Well, Graham’s at work.”
“And you?”
“I’m just here, sorting things out.”
“And the house?”
“It’s fine. It’s good. A bit of a mess still. You’ll have to come and see it.”
“I will. I’d like to do that. Maybe without your father. If you don’t mind looking into trains and having me for a night or two—”
She is about to tell her mother that would be fine and then try to fix a date as far in the future as possible, when her tone changes.
“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry”—sobbing now—“I’ve been trying not to call you. Your father told me off. He was really quite angry with me. He said I should wait. You’ve no idea. I’ve been trying so hard to leave you alone.”
Mary stares at the old pine kitchen table with its marks and its knots and whorls. Placing her hand on its rough, cool surface.
“You don’t have to do that. I never said you had to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Mum. Come on. You’re allowed to call.”
She is about to continue when something—a sound from upstairs, a sudden heaviness on the floorboards, the quick shudder of a door closing—makes her stiffen and turn. Her mother sniffs.
“It’s a new life for you, darling. I understand that. I do, you know. I know you both want a fresh start.”
Holding the phone, Mary walks to the bottom of the stairs, pulls open the door. Staring upward, eyes on the shadows.
“That doesn’t mean not talking to family.”
She hears her mother take a quick, wet breath.
“But we don’t really talk anymore, do we? Not the way we used to. It’s not that I expect you to call me. I know how busy you are. But this is very difficult for us too, you know. Your father said—”
Mary shuts her eyes. She sees her father’s long, pale face, his hands, his trousers belted a little too high. The raw, bloody, animal sound he made when they sat him down that rainy night and told him.
The Stopped Heart Page 2
