The Heart of the Matter

by Lindsay Armstrong

  But really, for years her confusion had been swamped by grief and pain. For Easter Monday was the last day she had seen her brother Ian alive.

  And anyway, the rift between her parents was well and truly in the open after Ian's death, as a conversation Clarissa overhead one night demonstrated. Not that she understood the undercurrents, but the bitterness was impossible to miss.

  ‘I didn’t agree to flying lessons for Ian, Bernard! You didn't even consult me!'

  'Why should I have actually, I did.' Clarissa's father's voice was raw and rasping. 'You said—oh! "Should I wear this green and blue..." something or other?'

  'For heaven's sake! I probably didn't even hear you.'

  'Do you ever, Narelle?'

  'Yes. Too often.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  There was silence, then Narelle said, 'Bernard, I can't believe he's dead ...'

  ' You can't.'

  'He was so young.'

  'I'm glad you noticed. Has it occurred to you that Clarissa's suffering?'

  'I ... I suppose so,' she admitted.

  'You suppose so?'

  'She'll get over it...’

  At that point Clarissa had crept away.

  Ian had been buried at Mirrabilla and whenever Clarissa was home from school she kept fresh flowers on his grave in the small family cemetery. Sometimes they were only little posies of wildflowers, but Rob, who always visited Ian's grave too, when he came home, said it didn't matter—that Ian would probably have preferred them anyway because they'd been picked from the places he'd known so well. Rob had suffered very much too, Clarissa knew, because sometimes he stopped and lifted his head just as if he was expecting Ian to come flying down the stable path.

  She was nearly thirteen when Rob qualified as a mining engineer, an old hand at boarding school but for all that one of the quietest girls in her class, and she still cried into her pillow on the first night back each term. But she had discovered an inner sense of fortitude and did have some friends.

  'It's not so bad now, is it, Clarry?’ Rob had said to her once.

  'No,' she had answered honestly.

  But being nearly thirteen had posed some more problems for her, and not only the one associated with Rob qualifying and going away. Problems of puberty and a maturing body which embarrassed her somewhat...

  'Well, well, Clarry,' Mrs. Jacobs said, 'who would have thought it, but you're going to have a lovely little figure in a few years' time.'

  'You mean I'm going to keep on ... growing like this?'

  Mrs. Jacobs laughed. 'Don't look so horrified! I'd say you're going to end up just right for your height. In

  the meantime, I don't think I can let these school dresses down any more, and you need some new bras. I'll speak to your mum. Provided I can catch up with her,' she muttered beneath her breath.

  And that had been the essence of another problem for Clarissa. For not only was there an ever-widening gulf between her parents, but they seemed to be growing further and further away from her. It occurred to Clarissa that her father had never got over Ian's death and might never do so. If it had to be either of us, perhaps it should have been me, she'd thought once with a shiver.

  In fact Rob's qualifying proved the least of her problems, for he got a job in a South Coast colliery and until the unbelievable happened, when she was fifteen, the status quo was more or less retained, because he often spent weekends with his father.

  By the time she had turned fifteen, she had got more used to this new Clarissa Kingston who now had a clearly defined waist, slender rounded hips, long legs and a bust. Not that anyone else seemed to notice it. Certainly her own circle of men treated her not one whit differently. Although she did begin to understand dimly that they had gradually tightened their highly effective, protective circle about her, so that there was never any doubt on Mirrabilla that the boss's daughter was off-limits. It was an invisible thing, though, for the most part, except perhaps at times like shearing-time, when there were strangers on the property. But then Mrs. Jacobs was equally on guard in this matter.

  So it confused Clarissa a lot to find that she was beginning to think differently of Rob. And to find herself wondering about his girl-friends, which she thought he must have, although he never brought any home to Mirrabilla. And to wonder sometimes, with

  great daring, what it would be like to be kissed by him.

  For even in a greatly liberated age where these matters were much discussed at school, and magazines smuggled in that explained so many mysteries in almost horrifying detail, she could somehow never progress beyond the stage of being kissed. And even that left her feeling guilty and breathless. Guilty, because she couldn't help feeling she was undermining her very special relationship with Rob.

  Naturally she went out of her way to prevent this becoming common knowledge—and least of all known to him.

  Then the blow fell. Peter Randall died after the briefest illness, leaving Bernard Kingston in possession of his will and two letters.

  'I don't believe it!' Narelle Kingston exclaimed in tones of shock. 'Why was he so secretive? Rob's father?'

  'He said—in his letter to Rob—that he and his father had come to hate each other, that they were totally different people and that his father had not been able to come to terms with the fact that his only son was not interested in making money, had little use for it—even deplored people who pursued it. He also said, and I think this has hurt and bewildered Rob, that he could see a lot of his grandfather in him. I tried to explain to Rob that he might have meant the fascination for mining that was in his blood. That was how Robert T. Randall started his fortune, in silver, lead and tin mining. It's still the backbone of Randall's Inc.,' Bernard said.

  'What are you going to do?'

  'I have no choice but to contact Robert T. Randall as requested in the will, Narelle.'

  'My God, if only I'd known!'

  'Rob?'

  Clarissa peered through the gloom of the old shearing shed.

  Rob Randall looked up and stared at her bleakly. Then a wry smile twisted his lips and he made way for her to sit next to him on an upturned crate.

  'This takes me back,' he told her, 'to your seventh birthday.'

  ‘I wish I could help you, the way you helped me then,' she said with difficulty.

  He sighed and put an arm around her shoulders. 'But you do, Clarry, you do. I just wish I could take you with me.'

  Clarissa closed her eyes and if she hadn't been so sad, she could almost have died of joy. 'Then ... you're going to your grandfather?' she said tremulously.

  'Yes.'

  'But you don't feel right about it?'

  'I...' Rob hesitated. 'I can't help feeling I'm being disloyal to my father.'

  'What's he like?' she asked.

  'He's very old with a lot of white hair and a very arrogant manner, Clarry. But he ... well, he broke down and cried, and he said there were some things he could never forgive himself for. He also said—and this is really ironic—that if I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps and breed sheep for the rest of my life, I had his blessing. Then he asked me ... what I'd done with my life so far, and we discussed it and— we're two of a kind, it seems, in that respect.'

  'I think your father always knew that,' she said, recalling a conversation she'd had years ago with Peter Randall and suddenly understanding it. 'I don't think he minded.'

  'How do you know?'

  She told him.

  'Did he actually say that?'

  'Yes. I didn't know what he meant at the time, but now it makes sense.'

  Rob was silent for a long time. Then he pulled her close and said huskily, 'Thanks—I guess that evens the score. Actually it far outweighs anything I did for you on your seventh birthday.'

  'It wasn't only then. Will you come and see me sometimes, Rob?'

  He held her away from him and something in those very blue eyes sharpened briefly. Then he said, 'I'll never forget you, Clarry.'


  'I'll be grown up soon, Rob,' Clarissa heard herself say quite out of the blue, and she blushed with horror.

  He smiled down at her, but his eyes remained serious as he said, 'Not too soon, I hope.'

  'Why?'

  'Because, these things take time. You don't have to rush it. And anyway, we'll always be friends.'

  The Are Rob had built up was still casting flickering shadows on the bedroom walls as Clarissa came out of her reverie briefly with a sigh.

  And that was Rob's way of telling me it was no good cherishing any romantic notions of him, she thought. And that was why he stayed away—one of the reasons. The trouble was, it didn't change the way I felt at all.

  But what I'll never understand is how I could have reached eighteen and not really known the trouble Mirrabilla was in...

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I don't care!' Narelle Kingston said stubbornly. 'You're turning eighteen, you're a Kingston and this will be your coming-out party.'

  'Mum, I honestly think we should forget it,' Clarissa said desperately. She had barely recovered from the death of her father and the last thing she wanted was a coming-out party. 'It just doesn't seem right! I loved Daddy even if you didn't,' she added, and turned away abruptly.

  If there had been anyone she could have confided in about the increasingly savage nature of her parents' relationship before Bernard Kingston's death of a heart attack, it might have been Rob. But it was so long since she'd seen him; she knew he had forgotten about her. Although, he had come to her father's funeral. But she had been so consumed by grief for a man she hadn't really known that well, she had been hardly able to talk at all. Only to feel instinctively that one by one the mainstays of her life were disappearing, and to feel so much regret that she hadn't had the chance to get to know her father better.

  'Clarissa,' Narelle said with a suddenly steely look in her grey eyes, 'before you pass judgment on me, my dear, go out and find yourself a man with impossible expectations and try to live up to them.'

  Clarissa turned back, her blue-grey eyes suddenly blazing, and her mother had flinched and all of a sudden looked a little old. 'Darling, I didn't mean that,' she said rather tremulously. 'He was a better man than I am, Gunga Din ... God knows. But he would have liked to see you ... well, you're the last Kingston, Clarissa. It's been a proud name. He would have wanted this for you, I know. Did they teach you to dance at school? They certainly charged enough in fees! I must think about a dress.'

  The dress was exquisite, but it was much more than that. It altered Clarissa's image both subtly and quite dramatically.

  'Well,' said Mrs. Jacobs eyeing Clarissa critically on the night of the party, 'I hope she knows what she's doing.' Clarissa looked perplexed. 'What do you mean?' 'Nothing,' Mrs. Jacobs said vaguely. 'Hair up too!' Clarissa regarded Mrs. Jacobs steadily and fondly. For here was one mainstay at least that showed no sign of disappearing. She now knew something of Mrs. Jacobs' history, enough to understand her almost Victorian outlook on life. For Mrs. Jacobs had been born on a sheep station, married without ever leaving that property, widowed within a few short years and, to cut a short story even shorter, had never been exposed to city or any other kind of broader life. Which was not to say that she wasn't a jewel amongst housekeepers or didn't know the finer points of life when it came to cuisine—or, for that matter, a whole host of other things.

  She had always insisted, for example, that Clarissa go out and about on the station wearing long sleeves and trousers in the fiercest heat. 'Got to look after your skin,’ she'd said. 'You don't want to be dried up like a prune before you're sixteen. And keep your hat on.' She had even gone further. She had insisted that pure lanolin—and Mirrabilla was a better place than most

  to come by that—was wonderful for complexions, to which Clarissa certainly appeared to bear mute testimony. But it was odd, Clarissa had often thought, that lanolin was about the only part, except perhaps for its wool, of a sheep that Mrs. Jacobs could bear. She certainly never ate mutton or lamb or served it.

  She also believed that young girls should be trained in all the housewifely arts, and had so trained Clarissa. 'Never know when it might come in handy,' she'd said frequently. 'You can rely on a man being charmed by other things only up to a point.'

  But otherwise, on the subject of men, she had never had much to say.

  Yet on the night of Clarisa's eighteenth birthday party, it was a subject she did have on her mind, although Clarissa didn't know it only that something was bothering Mrs. Jacobs.

  'My hair looks nice, though, don't you think, Mrs. Jacobs?' she said.

  Mrs. Jacobs' face softened and she patted Clarissa's cheek and agreed with her, then left her, making some excuse about checking up on the hired help. But as she wandered around the old homestead, it was obvious that Mrs. Jacobs was worried. And not about the state of the house she had prepared so carefully for this party. In fact she stood in front of one of the many beautiful flower arrangements for at least two minutes, and didn't even notice that some water from the vase had spilled on to the beautiful Chinese rosewood table it stood on—something that would never have escaped her attention otherwise.

  But finally she roused herself and walked away muttering, 'Man bait, that's what it is ...'

  It could have been said that Clarissa's dress was just that. Only it was much more subtle, which was

  probably why she herself didn't realize what the beautiful white dress was all about. The colour, for one thing, seemed suitable for an eighteen-year-old, although she had been vaguely surprised her mother hadn't chosen blue, which was what Clarissa wore a lot of, especially a certain misty blue that did great things for her eyes. She didn't know that in choosing white, her mother was proclaiming her virginal status for all the world to see.

  Then there was the style, a strapless heart-shaped bodice that clung to her figure, as did the rest of the dress to below her knees where it frothed out. But a filmy little cape that buttoned at the neck and skimmed her shoulders, and parted tantalizingly at the front when she moved discreetly covered the bodice.

  It was this mixture of restraint and a superb cut and fit of the rose-patterned taffeta and tulle dress that proclaimed something else for the world to see! That there was a lovely slender and curved body with high tender little breasts and long legs beneath the rich material. And with her hair piled on top of her head and threaded with little white flowers, not much make-up and only a faint glossy colour on her young lips, Clarissa looked quite bewitchingly desirable.

  She created a sensation, just as Mrs. Jacobs had known she would, and feared. Mrs. Jacobs had more than an inkling of the true state of affairs on Mirrabilla and a certain cynicism towards Marelle Kingston. But when she saw how every man present eyed Clarissa discreetly and not so discreetly, many of them old enough to be her father, her blood began to boil and she thought, no ... she wouldn't! Would she...?

  As usual, the party in itself was rather an ordeal for

  Clarissa, and although she didn't know it as she stood by her mother's side, her inner nerves communicated themselves externally in a way that added to her attraction so that she looked regal and poised and cool when in fact it was the chill of her old enemy, shyness.

  Then, after dinner, she caught sight of a dark head amongst the throng, and turned to her mother to say in stunned accents, 'You didn't tell me you'd invited Rob!'

  'Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, I thought he wasn't coming—he's left it rather late. Where is he?'

  'O-over there,' Clarissa stammered.

  'Then we should go and greet him,' Narelle said serenely, and shepherded Clarissa through the crowd until they stood behind Robert Randall, who turned slowly.

  There was a moment's dead silence.

  Clarissa stared up at him with her heart in her eyes for an instant, thinking dazedly, it's been three years-how could you?

  But almost immediately her thick lashes veiled her eyes as her mind reeled with shock. Because, it was as if so
meone else was standing before her. Not her Rob, but a man she didn't know. A man who was commanding the attention of most of the people in the room, respectful glances from the men, admiring glances from the women—a tall, dark stranger, a man of the world, very obviously, a man of power and with something in the lines and angles of his face which suggested that power had brought him some disillusionment.

  Then her mother was saying, 'Why, Rob! I'm so glad you were able to come. I have to tell you we've really missed you. Mirrabilla hasn't been the same

  without you, has it, Clarissa?'

  Robert Randall said automatically, 'Hello, Mrs. Kingston.' Then, 'Happy birthday, Clarry.'

  'It's not my birthday today,' she murmured foolishly.

  'I know that. It was two days ago, but...’

  Clarissa's lashes flew up, but to her consternation the band struck up for the first dance of the evening and her mother said, 'I think it would be quite fitting for you to dance this first dance with Clarissa, Rob. On behalf of her ... father.'

  A curious thing happened—or so Clarissa thought. Rob turned his head slightly to look at her mother, a look that her mother returned boldly, and for some reason the air crackled with tension. Until he said, 'It-would be a pleasure.'

  They danced in silence—not only because they were the focus of attention, the only couple on the floor, but because Clarissa's heart seemed to be thumping in her breast quite unnaturally. Then the tempo changed and the spotlight went out to a round of applause and other couples streamed on to the floor.

  Only then did Rob break the silence. 'You've grown, Clarry. Taller.'

  'It could be my hair,' she shrugged.

  'What's wrong?' he asked.

  'Nothing!'

  'Come outside on to the verandah with me for a moment, then,' he said, releasing her body but keeping hold of her hand.

  She hesitated, and then followed him out to stand a little awkwardly in a pool of light.

  'You look very lovely,' he told her.

  'Th-thank you.'

  'But, also a little hurt and reproachful. I can understand why.'