Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  Gerald waited until we both had mugs of coffee and were seated, carefully apart. Looking solemn, he ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Victoria, I think we should be married."

  I felt frustrated by his good nature and his imperviousness to my moods, to what I said and felt. I said in a reasonable, conversational tone, "Why do you want to marry me? I haven't got enough to offer you. I can't share things the way others do."

  "It's you I want."

  "That isn't a very convincing reason to change what we have."

  He was prepared to argue his case. "Marriage is a commitment. It's not just being with someone. We'll solve our problems together. I'm not saying there won't be difficulties, but we start with the basis of a sound relationship because we have the same interests, the same views..." When I didn't speak, he said, passionately, "I love you."

  I knew he wanted me to say that I loved him too, but it was an impossible statement. I didn't, couldn't, love anybody — at least, not in the way he meant. Miserable, awkward, I said, "To love someone means you want to go to bed with them, have sex with them. You must realize by now that's... not important to me."

  He leaned forward to put his hand over mine. "Darling, it's not so big a problem that it can't be fixed. We'll work on it together."

  "It's not like learning to ski, or developing a good backhand in tennis!"

  He smiled faintly at my intensity. "I love you," he said quietly. "I love you enough for both of us."

  "Don't — please."

  Gerald didn't ask for clarification. He nodded soberly. "You're tired. We both are. Don't come to any sudden decision. Just know I love you and I'll wait for you."

  I felt trapped, held fast by tentacles of his longing. "I don't want you to wait for me."

  He shrugged. "Victoria, it doesn't matter what you say — I can't help it."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first newspaper clipping had been precisely cut out and neatly folded. Now its yellowing paper was splitting along the lines of the folds. The photograph of the crash site was blurred and confusing, but the newsprint was still clear:

  TWO DIE IN CRASH FIRE Tragedy Orphans Little Daughter

  A fiery death awaited Isabelle Woodson (32) and husband Frank Woodson (41) yesterday when their car left a straight stretch of country road near Wiseman's Ferry, plunged over an embankment and struck a tree. The bodies, burnt almost beyond recognition, had to be cut from the wreckage. Their only child, young daughter (Victoria, 7) was spending the day with relatives and so escaped the inferno.

  The second clipping was obviously from a suburban newspaper:

  BUSINESSMAN INCINERATED

  Well-known local businessman, Frank Woodson, was killed in a tragic accident last Sunday when his car ran off the road and burst into flames near Wiseman's Ferry. There were no witnesses to the tragic crash, which also claimed the life of his wife, Isabelle. Woodson was President of the Chamber of Commerce for the last two years, and his company, Woodson Enterprises, which distributes a wide range of training films for business, sport and pleasure, is one of the success stories of our area. Frank is survived by seven-year-old daughter, Victoria, who is being cared for by relatives.

  The last clipping mentioned my parents only in passing. Headlined FATIGUE A KILLER, it went on to warn about "the too often disregarded factor in fatal car accidents of driver fatigue," and in the sad catalog of fatalities and other crash statistics, my mother and father's accident was listed.

  It must have been my Aunt Felice who clipped out each item and put it away. I wondered why she had kept them, because when I was growing up, any time I'd asked her about my parents her face had grown stony and she'd avoided detailed answers. I could understand her not telling a child the full story about the crash and fire, but even when I was an adult Aunt Felice had remained reticent. I glanced at the clippings again. If they had been kept for me, along with the other papers, why hadn't I been given them long ago? Perhaps she'd decided they were too upsetting... or maybe she'd forgotten that they even existed.

  I sat back with a sigh. The in-tray on my desk was stacked with papers. The top memo announced URGENT in red letters, but I didn't take the time to read it, especially since its source was Administration. Anything genuinely urgent would have been imparted by the efficient verbal network that covered the entire university. This unofficial system had ensured that everyone I met that morning believed that I faced imminent marriage to Gerald.

  Swiveling my chair to stare out at the windy day, I tried to remember the recurring dreams that had filled my sleep with disquiet, and sometimes terror. Images solidified, then dissolved. I was a young woman dressed in a dazzling white dress with a scarlet sash across the breast, cowering as Uncle David hissed between thin lips: "You're evil! Evil! You were born to sin." I was an adult, consumed with unfamiliar desire, holding out my arms to a faceless, nameless person. I was a little girl, drenched with shame, crying while the bright light poured down on my nakedness. I was kissing Reyne, held safe in her arms... until she pushed me away.

  I turned back to my desk, checked a number, and punched it in. I wasn't sure I'd get my cousin, who was an insurance assessor and therefore constantly in and out of his car, but John answered on the first ring. The background noise of traffic through his car phone didn't hide his enthusiasm. "Vicky! This is an unaccustomed pleasure — speaking to you twice in twenty-four hours."

  Now that I had him on the line, I wasn't sure what to say. "John, I've got a favor to ask..."

  "You've got it, whatever it is."

  I smiled at his trust. "It might be something you don't want to do."

  "What is it?"

  "Zoe's given me a box of papers and photos concerning my parents. Since you're older than me, you're more likely to remember things, and I've got a few questions..."

  "Do you want to sit down and talk it over?"

  "Yes, but I'm out of Sydney for the weekend, and tonight I have to pack and try to finish off university work..."

  His voice on the car phone faded then strengthened. "Are you lecturing this morning? No? I'm on my way to a job not far from the uni, so I'll call when I'm finished and see if you're free."

  "Thank you," I told him warmly.

  An hour later we met in the university cafeteria, ordered sandwiches and coffee, then went outside to sit in the sweet summer air. John was grave and, I thought, reluctant to give his memories too much weight. "When you came to us, Zoe was eight and I was thirteen-and-a-half."

  "So you'd remember things I couldn't."

  John half-smiled at my quick words. "At thirteen I was old enough to remember people and events, but not to really understand what was going on. I don't think I can be much help, Vicky."

  "But my father was your uncle, your father's brother. You must have seen him and my mother fairly often."

  John reflected as he chewed on a sandwich. "I don't think I can add anything to what I've ever said before. I remember Auntie Isabelle as quiet, but strong, if you know what I mean. I liked her because she treated me like a grown up, and would always take the time to sit down and talk."

  "Did you like my father?"

  My cousin frowned over the question. "I suppose I did. My picture of him is of someone loud, enthusiastic. He was the younger brother and Dad always used to say he was spoiled as a child."

  "What did you think of him?"

  "He always wanted to be out doing something — flying a kite or playing touch football." He narrowed his eyes in thought. "I don't think Mum really approved of him, somehow."

  I handed him photocopies I'd made of the newspaper clippings. He read the articles with his usual methodical care, then handed them back. "Vicky, it isn't any good worrying about the past. Just forget it."

  "I feel as though you're avoiding something. What aren't you telling me?"

  His face was creased with concern. "I don't know anything I haven't told you."

  "What about the accident? Aunt Felice would never discuss it with me, but she kept
newspaper clippings. I don't even know how it happened..."

  "No one knows how it happened. The car just ran off the road."

  "There must have been an inquest — at the very least, a police report."

  He shrugged. "I'm sure there was, but all I can tell you is that the accident wasn't discussed at home." He touched my hand. "If no other reason, we didn't mention it because you were there."

  Still puzzling over the crash, I said, "Was my father a good driver? Were you ever in a car with him?"

  "Doesn't matter, does it?"

  "What?"

  "I thought you knew. It was your mother who was driving."

  Zoe snatched up the phone with an impatient, "Yes?"

  "It's Victoria. I've just been talking to John about my parents' car crash."

  There was a fractional pause before she said briskly, "I'm just on my way out. I'll call you later."

  "Just one thing. When did you find out my mother was driving the car when it crashed?"

  She gave an irritable sigh. "Mum told me — not long before she died, actually."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Why would I? What was the point? You didn't need to be told things from the past that might upset you."

  With certainty, I said, "There's more, isn't there?"

  "I don't know what you mean," she snapped. "I haven't got time to talk, Victoria. If you want to continue this later — fine — but right now I'm running late..."

  I knew Zoe well enough not to persist, but I managed to extract a promise from her to meet early in the next week when I was back from the promotional trip to Melbourne.

  For so long the past had seemed unimportant, inconsequential. Now it seemed full of unexploded mines. Questions boiled in my mind, and no one but John and Zoe could supply the answers. I'd never met any of my parents' friends and I had no relatives who'd known my mother and father. There was Uncle David, but although he had some lucid moments, I doubted if I could rely on the fragments of his memory for information.

  Christie grinned at me. "It's certainly not my bright idea to drag you into the city to photograph you in a room full of matching leatherbound books, but the editor insisted."

  I glared at the shelves of heavy tomes arrayed behind me. "These are law books, Christie, not literature."

  She fiddled with her camera. "So who'll know? The idea's to contrast your modern image with the literature of ages looking down on you. Any old, impressive books will do."

  The university library had many leatherbound reference books, but no one section held anything like the row after row of subdued leather jackets with discreet gold lettering that sat on richly polished shelves.

  I checked my watch. "I don't want to miss my plane."

  My complaint earned a placatory gesture. "Relax. I'm driving you to the airport as soon as I finish here."

  "Friday afternoon traffic can be heavy..."

  Christie was regarding me critically. "You're going to blend in with the books too much."

  "You saying I look like an ancient tome?"

  "Not so ancient, Victoria, and I do like your new hair style, but I did ask you to wear something bright."

  I looked at Christie's fluorescent pink shirt. "I don't have anything quite that arresting," I said tartly.

  "No matter." She rummaged in her bag. "I brought along a few things to add a bit of color."

  I was wearing a dark blue dress cut on simple lines. In a few moments Christie had arranged a brilliantly patterned scarf at the neckline. "Don't argue," she said, "I know what I'm doing."

  While she was checking camera angles I said, "I'm getting to see a lot of Reyne. She's already in Melbourne covering the Eiesley trial."

  "Hope Vera Eiesley gets off."

  It was a sensational murder trial, with a mother accused of killing her local priest when she discovered his long-term sexual abuse of her son. The case had generated intense media attention. A well-organized support group for Vera Eiesley had embarked on a fruitless campaign to have her murder charge reduced to manslaughter. The final summing up of the trial was today, Friday, and the jury was expected to begin deliberations during the afternoon.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to be in jail for years, enduring all the petty indignities and loss of privacy. "Juries don't often accept temporary insanity as a valid defense."

  Christie snorted. "Frankly, in her place I would have killed him myself, and expected to be congratulated for it." She grinned at me. "But then, I never pretended to be well-balanced like Reyne. She can always see both sides of a question."

  "She can?" T said doubtfully. Reyne had seemed to me to be a person of deep, hard-held convictions.

  "I don't mean she doesn't have strong opinions of her own. She never lets them get in the way when she's doing a story. Reyne can achieve something I've never claimed to have — objectivity."

  I raised my eyebrows. "About everything?"

  There was a knowing edge to Christie's smile. "Except when she's in love."

  Disconcerted by the turn the conversation had taken, I made a vague affirmative sound. Christie began to take photographs, talking as she did so. "Actually Reyne's only been back to her usual self for the last few months — turn your head a little to the left, please — since she broke up with Geraldine..."

  I found I was keenly interested in what she was saying. "Mmmmm?" I murmured as an encouragement.

  My prompting wasn't necessary. Christie said freely, "The actor, Geraldine Cornwell. Reyne took it hard when they broke up eighteen months ago."

  I recognized the name, having seen Geraldine Cornwell in several stage productions. She was not only beautiful, but her acting had an intense, vulnerable edge that caught at the heart. "Were she and Reyne together long?"

  Christie didn't answer until she'd arranged me to her satisfaction. Squeezing off another series of shots, she said, "Four, five years."

  Although I wanted to know more, I didn't want to appear too eager. I said offhandedly, "Longer than many marriages."

  "It was a marriage, Victoria. Not in the strictly legal sense, perhaps, but a marriage nevertheless."

  Although the hint of censure in her voice decided me that a change of topic would be wise, I heard myself saying, "Why did they break up?"

  "Irreconcilable differences, as the saying goes." She put down the camera and surveyed me deliberately. "But you'll have to ask Reyne herself... if you really want to know all the details."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hugh Oliver had the same need to fill silence with conversation as Leila had demonstrated. Something about publicity must attract people who were either alarmed by quietness, or were challenged to fill an empty space with an avalanche of words. I endured a non-stop dialogue from Hugh during the hour or so it took to fly to Melbourne, then he talked in the limousine Rampion Press had provided, continuing our one-sided conversation right up to the door of my hotel room.

  "No, Hugh, I'm too tired to get changed and then go out for dinner. I'm going to get room service and have an early night."

  Hugh was not happy to have me escape. "But, Victoria, there are Rampion executives here you should meet." He gave me his most winning smile. "You'll feel much better after you have a chance to freshen up." He tried his little-boy look. "And I did happen to mention that you'd probably be available."

  "You didn't mention it to me. And I'm not." To forestall further discussion, I added firmly, "I've got a copy of the schedule and I'll be ready on time in the morning. I'll see you then, Hugh."

  It gave me great satisfaction to close the door on his concerned face, and to luxuriate in the silence. I thought with pleasure of an evening alone. I'd deliberately left work papers behind and had brought a new novel that for weeks I'd been promising myself to read. First I rewarded myself with a long, hot bath.

  The telephone rang while I wallowed in the water's soothing caress. I grinned, thinking of Hugh at the other end of the line poised to make one last fruitless attempt at persuading
me to leave the sanctuary of my room.

  A red Message Waiting light was blinking discreetly on the handset when I emerged wrapped in the hotel's thick white bathrobe. Although tempted to ignore it — surely it was only Hugh — I finally picked up the handset. I was unprepared for the jolt of pleasure when I found it was a message from Reyne asking me to call her at her hotel.

  I tried to analyze my reaction as I waited to be connected to her room. It was probably, I thought wryly, caused by sheer relief that the message wasn't from Hugh.

  "Victoria? Now don't tell me Rampion's got you working tonight. I'm unexpectedly free, and I thought we might have dinner, if you were available."

  I smiled at the familiar cadence of her voice. "Hugh did his best to rope me into something, but he retired hurt when I said I was too tired and was going to indulge myself with room service."

  "Would you like a partner?"

  "Pardon?"

  Reyne chuckled. "I meant I'd join you for room service, if you don't feel like going out." When I didn't reply immediately, her confident tone became tentative. "I'm sorry, I didn't think... You must be tired..."

  My temperate evening had suddenly taken on a glow of warmth. "I think it's a great idea. How long will you be?"

  The wait for Reyne to arrive had a curious quality — calm anticipation of subdued delight. I knew very well that I should be cautious. After that kiss at our last meeting, she might place a wrong interpretation on my friendliness, but I resolutely put this thought to one side. I dressed in casual clothes, brushed my hair into the clean lines of its new, shorter style, examined my face critically in the bathroom mirror. I didn't look quite the same. Somehow my expression was more relaxed, less guarded.

  We didn't touch when Reyne arrived, although I wanted to give her a light hug, to say that she made a difference to me — though if I'd been asked, I knew I couldn't explain what it might be.