(1990) Sweet Heart

  ‘Lies death.’

  ‘I think you should go back to him.’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  Two women stared in through the window of the boutique and pointed at a coat. One said something and the other nodded. They moved on.

  ‘I think this is incredible!’ Laura said. She pressed the stop button on the cassette player.

  ‘Sure you do,’ said Charley, ‘It’s not happening to you.’

  ‘Let’s hear that bit again.’ The tape rewound for several seconds, then Ernest Gibbon’s voice:

  ‘Why are you crying? Where are you?’

  There was a long silence, while the tape hissed. A girl in culottes opened the door of the shop, changed her mind and went out again.

  ‘Dunno.’ The voice was strange, not her own voice. It was a rural working girl’s accent.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Gibbon, his voice steady, lethargic.

  A minute passed.

  ‘Up an ’ill. There’s a rock.’

  ‘Can you describe the rock?’

  ‘Like an ’eart. It’s got initials. Like lovers’ initials.’

  ‘Do you recognise any of the initials?’ said Gibbon.

  ‘D loves BJ. ’E wrote ’em.’

  Laura stopped the tape. ‘BJ! You said the piece of paper in the locket was signed Barbara, didn’t you?’

  Charley nodded.

  ‘You see?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘It’s working, Charley. Don’t you see?’ Laura seemed irritated.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Oh, come on! Barbara J.’

  ‘Laura, I just dug up someone’s locket.’

  ‘Your locket! It’s your locket!’

  ‘It wasn’t my handwriting.’

  A woman came into the shop. She made for a rail of blouses and began flicking through them.

  Laura lowered her voice. ‘You’re not going to have the same handwriting.’

  ‘I don’t want to go on any more.’

  ‘Why not? Christ, Charley, you must! Really!’

  Charley looked at the customer. ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  The woman held up a blouse as if it were a mouldy cabbage. ‘Hrumph,’ she said, hung it back and hoicked out another.

  Charley turned to Laura. ‘What are you doing after work? Want a quick drink?’

  ‘I — I’d love to, but I’ve got —’ She hesitated. ‘Dinner party. I’m having a dinner party.’

  ‘Anyone interesting?’ Charley wondered why Laura was blushing. Because she had not invited herself and Tom?

  ‘No, just some friends I haven’t seen for a while — people I met on holiday. I don’t think you know them.’

  ‘How about Wednesday?’ Charley said. ‘Maybe catch an early movie. There are several films I want to see.’

  ‘Wednesday? Yes, that sounds great. I’ll check my diary.’

  The customer held several blouses up to her face, comparing the colours against her skin. She hung them back untidily; one fell on the floor and she ignored it.

  ‘Why don’t you want to go on with your regression?’

  ‘Something’s telling me to stop, that’s why. I had this strange feeling’ — she shrugged — ‘that I hadn’t any business digging it up.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Laura said.

  The customer marched over to a row of dresses.

  ‘What has Tom said about the tin?’

  ‘He’s sceptical, even more than I am.’

  ‘You’re still sceptical? Come on!’

  ‘Maybe I imagined it. I don’t know. I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation.’

  ‘There is.’ Laura smiled and looked at her intently. ‘You’ve lived before.’

  It was just before seven when Charley turned into the lane. The Citroën bounced through a deep pothole, springing her up and down in her seat.

  There were stories of sportsmen who carried on playing to the end of a game with broken legs. The mind was a strange thing. You could carry on, you could believe anything if you tried hard enough; for a while.

  The Indian summer was ending. The evening sun shone through the open roof, but the air had an autumnal chill and she felt a coldness that would not go away. Charley knew she believed the discovery of the tin was coincidence the way a footballer believes his broken leg is just bruised, the way a drunk believes he’ll feel fine in the morning.

  She was frightened.

  As she passed Hugh Boxer’s house, she heard the sound of a power tool in his workshop. Viola Letters was in her front garden dead-heading her roses. Charley stopped the car, and climbed out.

  The old woman came to the gate, her eyes red, a smile mustered on her pallid face and enough gin on her breath to anaesthetise an elephant. Her finger was still bandaged. ‘Thanks awfully for the flowers,’ she said, ‘it was jolly sweet of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Charley said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Like a snifter?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got some chores. I must get home. I’ve been in London.’

  ‘Hardly ever get up there these days. All my old chums are dead or gaga.’ She smiled sadly. The cat glared at Charley and kept its distance, as if Charley carried some pestilence. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I’d noticed the handle was a bit wobbly. I hope you weren’t hurt.’

  ‘A few splashes. Nothing. I’m sorry, I really feel awful.’

  ‘You mustn’t. I should have thrown the bloody teapot away.’ She gazed around her garden. ‘The Alexanders have done well this year, don’t you think?’

  ‘They’re pretty. What’s that one?’ Charley pointed to a pink tricorn-shaped bud.

  ‘An Admiral Rodney. No relation, I’m afraid.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘I — I don’t suppose I could rope you in for something else?’ the old woman said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It’s this Wednesday afternoon. We have a jumble sale in the church hall. Doreen Baxter usually does it with me, but she’s ill.’

  ‘I’m meant to be helping a friend with her shop in London on Wednesday, but I could probably change that. I’ll give her a call when I get home and ring you back.’

  ‘Very kind of you, dear. Don’t worry if you can’t.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

  Viola Letters blinked. ‘Kipling was right you know. Never give your heart to a dog to tear, but we always bloody do.’ Her face crinkled as she fought to keep her composure. ‘Still. I shan’t get another one, not at my age. Wouldn’t be fair. Peregrine was thirteen. Kipling said a lot of wise things. Shame he’s gone out of fashion.’ She mustered a smile again. ‘I’d like to invite you and your husband to supper one evening.’

  ‘You must come to us.’ Charley ran her finger along the top of the fence. ‘I don’t seem to be terribly good news for you, do I?’

  Viola Letters gave her an odd glance, as if she were about to say something, but changed her mind. In that moment, Charley had the sensation that she had stood at this fence talking like this to the woman before. She looked up at the dark stone wall, at the crenellations against the metallic blue sky, at the small mullioned windows, like the windows of a keep, and the feeling grew stronger.

  ‘I suppose I’d better get on. I’ll call you about Wednesday.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Viola Letters said, and Charley had the feeling that she felt the same thing. ‘And thank Tom for the flowers, will you?’

  Charley promised she would.

  The phone stopped ringing as she fumbled with her key, and Ben, inside, was barking excitedly. As she pushed open the door, picked up the groceries she had bought on the way home and stumbled into the dim hall, she heard the click of the answering machine. Half the floorboards were up, and lengths of unconnected piping lay around.

  A voice in the kitchen echoed around the house. She ran down the passageway.

  ‘… marvellous fun, great food. Great party tricks
! Talk to you soon, bye!’ It was Richard Howorth. There was a clunk. She dumped the groceries on the kitchen table and rushed over to the machine and lifted the receiver, but he had already hung up. The light winked busily, six messages. Ben was thrashing his paws against her waist.

  ‘Hallo boy, hallo boy! Yes, yes, yes, it’s good to see you too!’ She knelt and hugged the dog while he splashed her face with licks. ‘Have you had a lousy day? Have you? Yes, I know, it’s no fun being locked in. Did Bernie let you out? Take you for a walk? Let’s go, shall we?’

  Ben raced out of the front door and over to a duck that was waddling beside the mill race. The duck took off in panic.

  ‘Ben! Wicked! Wicked boy!’ she scolded.

  Ben wagged his tail. Long shadows lay across the grass and the drive. It would be dark in an hour. She stared up at the woods. At the hill. The hill with the heart-shaped rock on top and the locket buried in the sandy soil.

  A flicker of recognition sparked deep inside her and faded. The roar of the water seemed gentler. The chirruping and trilling and distant cawing of the birds sounded like an orchestra tuning up for the evening’s performance. A thrush swooped down near her and pecked at the grass.

  She crossed the wooden bridge, pausing to look down into the clear water, brown in the fading light, then climbed up the short mossy bank on to the level patch where the stables had once been. She rummaged around with her feet through the long scrub grass for a sign of stones, foundations, but could see nothing. She sniffed as she thought she noticed a smell of burning, but it had gone, and she walked the width and length, criss-crossed the patch, but there was nothing there, no hint that there ever had been anything other than grass and weeds and earth.

  On the opposite bank, across the stream, the house was bathed in a glow from the setting sun. A pile of bricks and building materials lay near the bottom of the steps, covered in plastic sheeting, with two long ladders laid out on the grass next to them.

  Up above, at the edge of the woods, was the row of old sheds, a donkey shed, a privy, and an open-sided woodshed. Next to them, running along to the paddock, was the hen run and the kitchen garden.

  Cattle lowed and a sheep gave out a single bleat as she walked back over the bridge and along the gravel past the barn. Viola Letters had been so sad. She wished there was something more she could do for the old woman.

  The blisters from her Wellingtons and the scalding tea made her limp slightly as she climbed the bank. In the paddock beyond the fence two chestnut mares stood silhouetted against the red ball of the sun, and she would have liked to have taken their photograph; except her camera was somewhere at the bottom of a packing case. Time, though. There was all the time in the world for photographs.

  The hens clucked and tutted inside the compound that Gideon had fixed. Molly, the white hen, ran in a small circle clucking in fright at Ben. Daisy, white with black speckles, strode out of the henhouse rocking from side to side like a fat lady carrying shopping and pecked at some corn. Clementine, the prettiest, brown with a gold collar, poked her beak through the mesh as if she wanted to have a private word. Ben stared, uncertain still what to make of them.

  Charley filled the hopper with feed pellets, ran some water from the stand pipe into the watering can, and filled the drinking bowl. She went to the back of the henhouse, squatted down and unlatched the flap of the nest boxes and slid her hand in. The red bantam they had christened Boadicea gave an outraged squawk and flapped away. Where she had been were two brown eggs, still warm. The other boxes only contained the plaster dummy eggs.

  She relatched the flap and went into the run. ‘Bedtime, ladies!’ She herded the hens into the henhouse, closed the door, carefully shooting the top and bottom bolts, and walked away with a feeling of satisfaction, putting her hand into her pocket and touched the two eggs nestling there. She liked eating their own produce. Early days, but a start.

  The kitchen clock said seven forty-five. She put the eggs in the basket on the table, picked up the phone and began dialling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tom lay on top of her, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, heart thumping, sweat running down his body. He rolled gently off, cradling her small shoulders in his arm and ran his fingers through her short razored hair.

  She turned to face him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Her eyes looked serious; she opened her mouth, then closed it and studied him further.

  He glanced past her at the darkening sky through the window. Going to rain, he thought, watching the winking lights on the roof of Chelsea Harbour Tower in the distance. The room was snug and pretty, white shag carpet, white wicker furniture, all white except for a few green plants; another woman’s bedroom; the pleasant unfamiliar smells, different soaps, talcs, perfumes; sensuous; forbidden ground.

  He felt the soft skin of her back, his fingers following the contours of her shoulder. ‘On Saturday, at dinner, you said we had been lovers in another life. What did you mean?’

  She gazed into his eyes. ‘I think we’ve been lovers before. We might meet up in another life and be lovers again.’

  Tom wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I hope you have such lovely skin again,’ came out.

  She kissed him lightly. ‘Charley’s a very lucky lady.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘To have you as a husband.’ She pulled away and rolled on to her stomach. He traced a finger slowly down the small of her back and was about to reply, then realised what he was going to say would sound banal.

  She kissed him softly on his eye. ‘You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be doing this.’

  Tom said nothing.

  A compact disc played on the far wall. Tiny columns of blue lights beside it rose and fell in tune with the music, which came out of thick padded speakers. The assured voice of Tanita Tikaram. Meaningless words sung with meaning. Tom heard those kinds of words in his office all day. His mind tuned out of the music and into the traffic noise from the King’s Road below. There was a dull ache in his dried-out balls.

  Guilt ate him up.

  Every day of the week someone like him sat on the other side of his desk in the office. Good-looking guys and ugly guys, smart guys and dumb guys. Nice guys and creeps. He’d never thought that one day he could be in the same equation. Never start something you can’t finish was a rule, a maxim, by which he had always lived. You kept order and control over your life that way. The divorce courts were full of people who had started things they could not finish.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his back. Laura tidied his hair, tousled it, tidied it. ‘Have you ever sensed anything odd in your new house?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, odd?’

  ‘A presence.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Only this strange rapist at the barbecue.’

  ‘I mean it. You don’t think there’s anything there?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘When I went to the loo upstairs I sort of — felt something.’

  ‘Has Charley been feeding you some claptrap?’

  She slipped out of bed. ‘No. I don’t know what it is. I don’t think I’d particularly want to spend a night there on my own.’ She went through into the bathroom. As she closed the door there was a warbling sound beside him that made him jump. It paused, then warbled louder.

  ‘Answer it, Tom, it’ll be the plumber,’ Laura shouted.

  He fumbled, picked up the receiver and pulled it to his face. ‘Hallo?’ he said breezily. ‘Laura Tennent’s phone.’

  ‘Tom?’

  It was Charley.

  He felt as if he was sinking in an express elevator. For a moment he toyed with slamming the phone down. Christ, she’d never know for sure — not absolutely for sure. But it was too late, he had hesitated too long. ‘Darling, hi.’

  ‘Tom, what are you doing?’

  ‘Just popped in to have a look at — a letter — rather nasty letter Laura’s had. Ah. From Bob.’ Bob was Laura’s husband.

  ‘Bob?’

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; ‘Yes, he’s creating a few problems — the house. I’ll get her for you. I think she’s outside with the plumber.’

  ‘Isn’t she having a dinner party?’ she said, with faintly disguised hostility.

  ‘Dinner party? No — I. No, I don’t think so.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘I thought you were having a partners’ meeting?’

  ‘I — Laura rang, rather distressed. I —’

  ‘What time will you be home? Are you going to want any supper?’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way now. Be on the next train, whenever it is.’

  The bathroom door opened and Laura came out.

  ‘Hang on, I think I can hear them.’ He jammed his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Charley,’ he hissed. ‘I told her I’d popped in to look at a letter from Bob. About the house.’

  Laura took the receiver. ‘Charley, hi. Dinner party? Oh, yes, I am. It was really sweet of Tom to pop over. I got home and found this absolutely stinking letter from Bob.’

  Tom went to the window and stared out. Shit, he thought. Warm air and fumes from the King’s Road traffic below wafted around him. A taxi rattled up, a stream of cars, a bus. Shit. Shit. Laura rattled on.

  Doing OK, keep it up, girl. Keep it up.

  ‘No, he’s on his way now. He’s been so sweet — so helpful. Plumbing? Plumbing, did you say? Plumber here? No, I thought you were the plumber phoning.’

  Tom’s heart sank.

  ‘Want another word with him? OK, see you on Wednesday. No? Oh, all right. Bye!’

  She sat down on the bed beside Tom, and lowered her head. Neither spoke for a moment. He put his arm around her.

  ‘How did I do?’ she said, turning to look at him.

  He stared gloomily back. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Just great.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Is she a good screw, the bitch?’

  Perfectly reasonable explanation. Of course there’ll be a perfectly reasonable explanation. Of course.

  She forced a smile on her face and tilted her head. ‘Hi, darling! How was your meeting?’

  Ben looked up at her, puzzled.

  It was dark outside now. A cloying blackness pressed against the window panes. Laura had warned her about that, been right about that: the countryside was dark, black, a million times blacker than London.