Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  "As if I would," he said, all injured innocence.

  "You were seven when your parents died and you went to your aunt and uncle's?" Reyne's tone was businesslike and her expression one of professional interest.

  I matched her attitude. Staring at the miniature recorder on the table between us, I said, "Yes. My parents died together in a car crash."

  "Where were you when it happened?"

  "With Aunt Felice and Uncle David — the relatives who brought me up — that day I'd been left there for some reason."

  She flipped over a page in her notebook. I looked at her face intently, as though to print it on my mind. "Do you remember being told your parents were dead?"

  "Only very vaguely. I doubt that Uncle David would think it his duty to tell me, and, knowing my Aunt Felice, she would have said something like, Your mother and father have gone to heaven, Victoria, and then carried on as usual."

  Reyne looked up. "Not a warm, sympathetic woman?"

  The description made me smile. "Not by the wildest stretch of the imagination."

  "And your uncle?" She raised her eyebrows at my succinct description of Uncle David. "He sounds a perfect husband for your aunt."

  I felt embarrassed, as though I'd been disloyal. "Look, they did their best by me, and in case it sounds too grim, I did have my cousin John."

  "I've met John. He's obviously very fond of you." She looked at me measuringly. "And I've interviewed your other cousin, Zoe."

  "Yes, Zoe." I made a face. "Zoe said she tried to protect my privacy, but basically I only had myself to blame if personal questions were being asked about me."

  "She gave me some photographs." Reyne slid one across the polished surface. "Do you remember this being taken?"

  I was immediately reminded of the photographs crammed into the envelope in my desk drawer. I hadn't looked at them again after the first hasty glance, because they disturbed me too much. Reluctantly, I picked up the black and white print. The images were crisp. I judged it'd been taken just before my parents died, because I looked very much as I did in the early photographs after I'd moved in with my aunt and uncle. "I've never seen this before," I said.

  Frozen in what seemed to be a happy moment of time, I stood between my parents, smiling. My mother's arm was around my shoulders; my father stood slightly apart from us, hands behind his back. I could see traces of my mother's face in my adult features, but, apart from the dark springy hair, I could detect little resemblance between my father and myself.

  I became unaccountably sad. "I don't remember anything about it." I turned it face down on the table. "Reyne, I'd rather you didn't use it in your article."

  "Why? It's ideal. It's a really clear print, you look happy, both your parents are in it..."

  "I don't want you to use it!"

  She blinked at my vehemence. "Okay, but it's the best one of your parents I've seen."

  "I don't want any of those early photographs in the article."

  Reyne sat back. "Why not?"

  I waved away the question. "I want to ask you something — this is nothing to do with the interview." When she nodded, I went on, "I want to get details about my parents' accident. It seems to me you'd know where I should start looking."

  She was openly curious. "Any particular reason for your interest?"

  It was a relief to tell someone outside the family. "For some reason, no one told me it was my mother driving when the car ran off the road. I didn't even know they'd been burnt to death until I was almost an adult. I can understand why a child wouldn't be given the details, but once I'd grown up..."

  Reyne looked at me intently for a moment, then said, "Okay, give me any details you've got and I'll see what I can find out for you. There are newspaper morgues, of course, but I presume you want information from something official, like a police report or inquest."

  "I'd be very grateful. John says I should forget the past, but..."

  "It's always best to know. Always.”

  I didn't argue with her confident words, but I was stingingly aware that there might be things in my past that might have the power to shatter my comfortable life.

  I was irritated, rather than pleased, when Gerald met me at the airport. "Thought I'd surprise you."

  "You have."

  He wasn't the least put out by my ungrateful tone. "And you'll be delighted to know that Tao graciously accepted that I'd been deputized to feed and entertain him."

  Immediately contrite, I took his arm. "You're such a good friend, Gerald."

  The airport was full of people, all apparently in a hurry and most displaying either anxiety or resignation, both expressions appropriate for air travel. As we began to walk against the tide, he said, "Victoria, you know I want to be much more than a friend." Seeing my closed expression, he went on conversationally, "And who is looking after Tao while you romp around the United States? Do I win the prize again?"

  "My next door neighbor has a niece who's willing to stay in my house and meet Tao's every whim."

  Gerald found this amusing. "No one could meet Tao's every whim. He's the most demanding cat I've ever met."

  "He is, isn't he?" I spoke more in admiration than censure, and Gerald smiled at me.

  "You love that cat more than anything, don't you?"

  "It's possible."

  "I'd like to think one day you'd love me half as much."

  He'd spoken lightly, but I felt the weight of his affection like a demand. "Let's get the luggage," I said.

  In his car, I kept glancing at him. He was one of those people who always keep just under the speed limit and look with scornful superiority upon those unfortunate enough to be pulled over for traffic violations. I couldn't help comparing him to Reyne. Gerald was cautious and dependable — Reyne promised the exhilaration of life lived with the accelerator down to the floor.

  Why couldn't my life continue as it had? Why wasn't I content with what, before, had been quite enough for mild happiness? Now I was restless, unfulfilled. I wanted more, much more. I craved companionship, love. But not the insipid, temperate affection that Gerald offered — it was the darker, deeper passion that Reyne represented that enticed me.

  Passion? All I knew was an echo of passion, a shadow of physical delight. I believed Gerald would accept my limitations — he certainly had in the past — but Reyne? I could never believe she'd docilely agree to such inequality in our responses. She would always want me to share the sharp delights of passion... and I couldn't.

  "What's wrong?" said Gerald. "You look positively miserable."

  I could imagine his startled reaction if I told him my real thoughts... I'm contemplating three life choices, Gerald: first, a socially acceptable marriage to dependable you; second, a lesbian relationship with exciting Reyne; third, the bland, and safe, alternative of leaving things just as they are now.

  "Just thinking of all the marking I should have done before I left for Melbourne," I said.

  I had all of the old photographs spread out on my desk when the phone rang.

  "I'm shopping in town this morning," said Zoe, "so I'll call into the university on my way. I should be there about ten. Are you going to be available?" Her tone made' it obvious that she expected I would alter any previous engagements to accommodate her.

  "Zoe, this is good of you —"

  "Yes it is, Victoria. I don't approve of stirring up past unpleasantness, but if you insist..." Her tone made clear the unspoken conclusion to her sentence, then you can suffer the consequences.

  She arrived on schedule, striding into my office with such indignant energy that her high heels left a line of indentations in the carpet. She didn't wait for a greeting. "What do you hope to gain from raking over the past?"

  "Until a few days ago, I didn't know there was a past to rake over, Zoe."

  Her irritation changed to a curious mixture of reluctance and sympathy. As she sat down — even this action an emphatic gesture on her part — she said, "I'll tell you anything I know, but I wa
rn you, it isn't much." She mimicked deep thought, drumming her fingers on the armrest of the chair. I was sure, however, that Zoe knew exactly what she was going to say, so I didn't prompt her.

  She took a deep breath. "Those last weeks before Mum died, she wanted to talk about the past, get a few things off her chest. We discussed lots of things that won't interest you, but she did keep returning to the day your parents died." She shot me a look. "You knew Mum — you had to drag things out of her if you wanted to know anything."

  I sighed. "Please, Zoe, this is important to me. What did she tell you?"

  Reyne called from the airport. "I'm back. Do you want to see me?"

  My sudden joy showed in my voice. "Of course I do. When?"

  "Tonight. I might have something on your parents' accident by then."

  "I've seen Zoe, so I know something too."

  I'd tried to sound offhand, but Reyne said, "Not good, obviously."

  I wanted — needed — her comfort. "Come early, please."

  For the rest of the day I plunged determinedly into work, burying my thoughts and feelings under an avalanche of marking, lecture preparation, faculty meetings and reading. I tossed aside a professional journal of impeccable tedium as Jane put her head around my door. "That Super-8 projector you wanted — I've organized it with Ted in the library. You want to use it there, or will I get him to bring it up to your office?"

  I wanted to be alone when I viewed the two reels of film. "Can he deliver it here? I won't need it for long, and I'll use the wall for a screen."

  Jane glanced at the wall. "Rubbish. I'll get you a screen. Now, do you want Ted to load the projector — he's hinted you'll never get it right — or will you wing it yourself?"

  Somehow I was reluctant to let anyone else touch, let alone see, the film. "It can't be that difficult. I'm a professor, remember."

  Jane grinned obediently at my levity. "Yeah," she said facetiously, "but don't forget you're a woman, too."

  In quite another context, I thought about Jane's comment as I drove home. Reyne was a woman — a fact whose significance I'd hardly regarded up till now. During the course of my life I'd met homosexual people. I knew several lesbians, both as students and colleagues, and I couldn't remember ever giving their sexuality or their relationships more than a passing thought.

  Of course, I had to admit with a wry smile, I'd hardly given any relationships more than a passing thought. But that wasn't the case now. Whatever I had with Reyne, it wasn't yet what others would call a relationship — but it already had the power to shake my ordered life and send my disciplined mind into areas never before explored.

  I dissected relationships with an academic's skill. They were the stuff of literature — relationships successful and unsuccessful, calm or violent, equal or unequal, moderate or passionate. I'd written so confidently about love and passion as I'd studied the writings of others, yet when I was faced with actuality I realized I knew nothing that would guide me now.

  Heart, mind and body. That would be what Reyne expected because that is what she would give me in return. It was a contract where she would always be short-changed.

  I could only partly control my heart and mind. My body was unresponsive to my will where lovemaking was concerned. I'd wanted, in the past, to experience something, not necessarily the tumultuous physical reactions so beloved of popular literature, but even a flutter of response. Sometimes — rarely — when Gerald had been even more patient than usual, and I'd had enough alcohol, I'd felt the stirrings of desire. I recognized it intellectually, observing it in Gerald's labored breathing and cry of release. I doubted if I would ever feel — or need — that relief.

  Tao had taken a liking to Reyne. When she arrived he deigned to be stroked and admired, and eventually packaged himself neatly on her lap and sank into a contemplative state, only twitching his whiskers irritably if she moved.

  I watched Reyne sip her white wine as I nursed my gin and tonic. I didn't feel like drinking or eating. I just felt like sitting in quiet companionship. I'd meant to enjoy inconsequential conversation until the pizzas were delivered, but I surprised myself by saying baldly, "Christie told me about Geraldine Cornwell."

  Reyne looked at me levelly. "Did she? Did you learn all you wanted to know?"

  "I didn't want to know anything in particular." I knew I was blushing and that made me furious. "Christie volunteered the information. I didn't ask."

  "Do you want to know what Gerry means to me now?"

  "No," I said quickly, then, "Of course I do."

  "I suppose I love her..."

  I couldn't understand — or believe — what pain a few words could cause. I took a breath to make some commonplace comment to hide my injury, but before I could speak, Reyne went on, "But it's not like before. Now I feel a kind of regretful love, that we had so milch... and it ended." She shrugged. "The cliché's true — you can't ever go back."

  In the silence that followed I felt conflicting emotions: I was happy that Reyne didn't love as she had before; I was despairing that I could ever fill such a gap in anybody's life.

  "To change the subject," said Reyne briskly, "I've got some information about your parents. There was an inquest, of course, because it was a case of violent death. The finding was inexplicable accident. The car was on a straight stretch of road, there were no skid marks and the weather was good."

  "Zoe said her mother told her that my parents had a violent quarrel the day they died. My mother had actually walked out on my father a week or so before, had gone to stay with Uncle David and Aunt Felice."

  Reyne nodded agreement. "That was raised at the inquest as a possible reason for your mother losing concentration and running off the road." She frowned. "I find it a bit strange that your mother would go to her husband's family for help, rather than to friends or relatives of her own."

  "I'm sure she had friends, but no living relatives. Anyway, it was clear she was welcome there and my father wasn't. Zoe's mother said that when my father arrived and he and my mother had the heated argument, my Uncle David got involved and came close to physically attacking him. My mother prevented a fight by saying she'd go out with my father and discuss things."

  "Do you know why your mother was driving?"

  "My father'd been drinking. She insisted she should drive."

  The story seemed remote, like some old black and white movie, until Reyne asked, "Do you have any idea what the argument was about?"

  I felt inexplicably ashamed. "Yes. It was about me."

  She looked puzzled. "Your parents were arguing about custody?"

  I thought of how irritated Zoe had been when I'd hammered her with the same question. "Aunt Felice didn't give Zoe many details. She just said they were arguing violently about me."

  Reyne frowned her dissatisfaction. "From memory, that isn't what your aunt said at the inquest. You weren't even mentioned."

  "My aunt was a witness?" I asked in surprise.

  "And your Uncle David. In their evidence they both implied that although there'd been considerable conflict in your parents' marriage, the meeting that last Sunday was friendly, and they went off together to discuss a reconciliation."

  Perplexed and frustrated, I stood and began to move aimlessly around the room. "Then why did my aunt tell Zoe that they were quarrelling violently about me?"

  "Perhaps you'll never know, unless your uncle —"

  "His mind's gone," I said harshly.

  I felt cold, disconnected, full of sour unhappiness, and, as Reyne looked at me, I knew I couldn't bear her concern, her pity. I made my tone dismissive. "Reyne, I can't imagine why I'm making such a fuss about something that happened so long ago."

  Tao complained bitterly as Reyne moved him from her lap. She came over to me and opened her arms.

  Resentment spilled into my voice. "I'm not a baby to be comforted."

  "Would you comfort me, if I needed comforting?"

  I stepped, half unwilling, half yearning, into her embrace. "Do you e
ver need comforting, Reyne?"

  "Often."

  She seemed so strong to me, so sure of herself. "I can't believe that." The line of her mouth was enticing.

  "Believe it," she said thickly. Her body was tense against me.

  Her kiss was urgent, compelling, but I turned my head to break the contact. "This isn't going to work. I can't. You know I can't..."

  She was sliding her palms over my back, her fingers tracing patterns that made me shiver. I reached back and seized her hands. "Let me touch you."

  Reyne was breathing hard. "I don't need to be aroused. That should be clear to you."

  "Please."

  She was indulgently patient. "So what are we proving here? I can climax any time."

  I put my hands under her jacket and pulled her against me. "God, you're so conceited," I said against her throat. She stood still, her reluctance plain. "Just to please me."

  As she nodded agreement, I undid the fastening of her jeans, slid the zipper slowly down. She smiled lazily. "Going straight for the jackpot?"

  "No. Not yet. Maybe not at all."

  The power was exhilarating. My fingers traced fire on her skin, tightening her nipples under the thin material of her bra. "Undress me?" she said.

  "You're so impatient."

  We began to kiss again — deep, slow kisses. One part of me tried to observe with detached interest. Technically, I believed I knew what to do. I'd read enough erotica, both heterosexual and homosexual, to be an expert on the subject in an academic sense. But actuality was something very different. Nothing had prepared me for the smoothness of Reyne's skin, the heat of her body, the heavy beat of her pulse — nor for the response that was uncurling in me.

  First, I thought it was the power that my mouth and hands had to arouse her that intoxicated me. But then I heard myself gasp, and realized that in the core of me a heat was growing — a demanding, exciting warmth that washed down my thighs, hollowed my stomach.

  "Reyne!"

  But as she pushed me gently back onto the bed the light from my reading lamp fell across my face like a slap. I pushed her away as she began to undress me. "No. Don't."