0 comments/ 41779 views/ 26 favorites The Heart of a Child By: Starlight I slammed out of the flat and without waiting for the lift, hurtled down the stairs to emerge into a back alley. Leaning against a wall, I vomited. She had not been expecting me as I was supposed to be away for a couple of days on a job. The trip had been cancelled and I thought to give her a pleasant surprise. It was a surprise all right. Letting myself into the flat at around 10.15 p.m. with the key she had given me nine months before, I found the place seemingly empty. She normally went to bed around 11 p.m., but on the off chance that she had retired early I went to look in the bedroom. Opening the door I saw that the dim reading light by the bed was on, the one we kept on when we made love. Then I saw them. The bed covers were turned back and they lay naked, his mouth over her nipple and hand searching her slit. It was she who became aware of my presence and gave a little shriek. He turned away from her breast to look at what had startled her and she struggled to sit up, covering her breasts with a sheet. For around twenty-five seconds we stared, paralysed. She tried to say something, but I turned on my heel and fled. When I had finished vomiting and had cleaned myself up with my handkerchief as best I could, I went in search of my car. I roared off with a screaming of wheels and nearly cannoned into another vehicle as I turned the corner of the street. I told myself to slow down. No point in getting killed – or was there? My name is Brendon Carter. I am aged thirty-two and work for a small firm of consulting architects, specialising in high-class restoration and extension work. I have the grand title of "Junior Partner." As an architect, I kept an eye open for what was happening in the world of art, and met Rosemary at an exhibition of modern art. She is an artist, and we got talking about one particular painting, and one thing leading to another, we arranged to meet again. After years of on again off again affairs and one nightstands with a lot of women, I began to date Rosemary regularly. It took a month of dating before we made love for the first time, and to cut a long story short, I fell deeply in love with her. I decided that this was it. She was the one I could spend the rest of my life with, so I asked her to marry me and she said, "Yes." From that moment on I was scrupulously faithful to her, and assumed that she was the same to me. We had been due to get married about a month after the night I discovered her in bed with the man. In a split second, my world fell apart. The home we would have built, the children we would have, the joy in each other's company, the love and love making – it all came crashing down. The question beat incessantly in my head, "If she did it this time thinking I would not be around, how may times had she done it before when I was away, and how often in the future would she do it? I was not about to find out. As befitted an architect, I had a modest but distinctive house in one of the more affluent suburbs. Arriving home the phone was ringing as I entered the house. Unthinking I answered it, and Rosemary's voice sounded in my ear: "Darling, don't be silly, it was only…" I slammed the phone down, not wanting to hear her excuses. I felt ill, and was caught up in grief for the loss of my hopes and the betrayal of my love and faithfulness. I slopped out a glass of whisky and took it in a gulp and felt even worse. The phone rang again, and I didn't answer it. I rang several more times until I unplugged the connection. I did not sleep that night, but lay on the couch seeing over and over again the mental image of the two of them in the bed, his lips on her nipple, hand searching her cunt. Beating in my head was the word, "Slut, slut, slut…" And I wept for my lost love. In the morning, I restored the phone connection to contact the office to say I was unwell and wouldn't be in that day, and failed to disconnect again. Almost at once, it rang, and thinking it might be the office returning my call, I answered. It was she. "Darling, you're being very childish and old fashioned…" I cut her off. Two days later a letter arrived from her. I shall not bore you with the whole epistle, but in substance it said that she had gone to an art exhibition, got talking to this man, they had a bit too much to drink, and "You know how it is, darling! And after all, it had only happened once." Yes, I knew how it was, and could prophesy how it was likely to be in the future. I suppose a major factor in these situations is our pride. Falling in love is to open oneself to the other person in such a way as to be hopelessly vulnerable. To be in love is to be exposed to the other person, to tell our deep secrets, to make our confessions along with our avowals of love and fidelity, and also to rejoice in the hopes for the future. Along with this is the pain and anguish when separated from the beloved one. The constant glad thoughts of the other's presence in one's life, and the guiltless rejoicing in the act of love making. I had loved and been betrayed. In a few seconds, my little world came crashing down, and I began that most dangerous and futile of all emotions, to hate. After my day of grief stricken self-pity, I returned to work, a depressed and heartbroken wreck, pale and unshaven. I began not eating properly and my concentration failed me, a dangerous fault in an architect. I felt constantly unwell and became subject to diarrhea. My colleagues looked at me curiously, trying to work out what was wrong. I confided my pain in no one, but Rosemary did confide in a mutual "friend". Rosemary had made several attempts to contact me, all of which I failed to respond to. Her final fling was to send the friend to see me. This lady no doubt meant well, but in her attempt to comfort me she made things worse, and certainly betrayed Rosemary's confidence. "Darling," she said, using the empty term of affection used so blithely in the art world, "Didn't you realise? Rosemary's been doing what she has always done, and been screwing around behind your back. You know very well she's not much of an artist, she'll never make any money with her work, and she saw you as a nice comfortable bankroll. You've had a lucky escape, you silly boy." She went on to deliver what was, I suppose, Rosemary's real message. She would forgive me my silly behaviour if I came to see her and apologised. She would still love to marry me and we would have a wonderful time together – or words to that effect. I heard the "friend" out, said I wanted to hear no more of Rosemary, and bade her goodnight. I wept again, but this time for my naive blind stupidity, my inability to see when I was being duped. Thoughts of revenge crowded my mind, but eventually I found the maturity to dismiss them. In fact, I did not need to manufacture my own revenge, as nature did it for me. The last I heard of Rosemary was just twelve months ago, and I learned that she had become HIV positive, the result of an unprotected promiscuous life style. By that time, the only emotion I felt for her was pity. My work became increasingly sloppy, and this led to my being called into the office of the senior partner. He was kindly in his approach, saying how he had noticed I had been looking very "off colour" lately. He went on to praise my work which, until recently, had been very satisfactory, but…" The upshot was, I had to hand over my present assignments to "Young Carstairs." He went on, "I think a couple of weeks in the country would do you the world of good. We've had a request from a Mrs. Meredith Blye-Smyth to do something about her place. The 'old duck' doesn't want to make the place larger but, would you believe, wants to make it smaller without spoiling the character of the house." I failed to see where a "couple of weeks in the country" came into it. It sounded like some big place in the well-off suburbs, with the owner intending to sell off part of the land for old people's unit, or some such project. Then the partner enlightened me. "The place is up in the High Country, about 50 kilometres from a small town called, 'Bindi Bindi.' Some ancestor came out here in the eighteen fifty's gold rush and struck it rich. Instead of wasting his wealth on whores and gambling like most of them, he was stoical enough to head for the High Country and start rounding up brumbies (Australian for wild horses). He got lucky again and made money. As result, he built a copy of an English Manor House called Blye Manor up there in the hills. It has been passed down in the family and finally came to the "old girl" who wants us to do this job." I didn't like the sound of this, especially as it was really a demotion, and the place was at least a couple of days drive, much of it through mountain terrain with winding dirt roads. I started to protest, but the partner cut in. "Brendon, its this or your resignation. Look, the job will take two…three days at the most. The old girl has said you can stay at the house, and I don't want to lose this contract because of what might follow." I looked at him quizzically. "Those hills have got lots of imitation English manor house and places like that. There are a lot of wealthy buggers buying them up for country retreats. If we do a good job on this one – and the old dear sounds as if she's loaded – there could be more of this sort of work coming our way. When you've finished you can take off to wherever you like for the rest of the fortnight. It's Tuesday today, you can start on Friday. I'll phone her to let her know you'll be there by Saturday." I seemed to have no alternative but to take on the project. I had some comfort in the fact that I would get away for a couple of weeks, so putting a brave face on it, I accepted. As I left the senior partner's office he called after me: "By the way, someone told me she writes arty farty novels that no one but university English lecturers want to read. I believe you like that sort of stuff – just thought you might like to know. Give you something to talk about with the old girl. Get on the right side of her." For the next two days, I busied myself handing over my projects with bad grace to "Young Carstairs." Friday morning I began the long drive to the High Country and the "old girl", Meredith Blye-Smyth's English style manor. The first day took me across the low coastal hills, then out on to the plains beyond. A seemingly endless ribbon of road stretch in front of me, at times nearly lulling me into sleep. Thoughts of Rosemary kept jerking me into wakefulness, and I dwelt upon my bitter memories of that night. I had decided that women were not to be trusted, and I would have no more to do with them. The High Country appeared on the horizon, bare mountaintops rising above forests of gum trees like baldheads above Tudor ruffs. It was evening and low dark clouds brought on the darkness even before sunset. I stopped at a third rate motel in a small township, the name of which escapes me. As I signed for my room the scruffy motel owner commented, "There'll be snow up there in a couple of days," pointing a dirty thumb in the direction of the mountains. I had not taken account of this. It was early in winter, and I should have thought of that, but I comforted myself with the hope he was wrong. The room I occupied was intensely forgettable, and that is what I shall do, forget it. Next day I began the climb up the winding hill's roads. I now had to concentrate on driving. It was that, or a long fall down sheer drops. I reached the town of Bindi Bindi around midday and stopped for a meal at the pub. I asked about the state of the road to Blye Manor. I was informed that the bitumen road ran out about twenty kilometres the other side of Bindi Bindi. Beyond was the dirt road. I was reassured that this dirt road was "in good nick," as the grader had been up there for the last three weeks, "Getting ready for the season." By that was meant the skiers who would pass that way going to the snowfields. I was told once more, "She'll be snowin' before long, mate." I began the final leg of my journey, ascending by a tortuous road with bends that made you almost double back on yourself. I came to the end of the bitumen and entered upon a well-graded dirt road. The twists and turns got more agonising and I began to wonder if I would ever reach my destination. I passed a grader working on the road and got a wave from the driver. I now discovered that despite the length of time the grader had been working on the road, it had not got any further than were I saw it. From now on, the road was pitted with potholes and corrugations. At last, with relief, I saw a sign pointing to Blye Manor. I turned off the road, and to my surprise found myself on a sweeping bitumen drive. It curved down to a little valley, and looking across at the other side of the valley, I was amazed to see the house set on a plateau, looking as if it had been transplanted in miniature form from rural England. I stopped the car to take in this strange sight; a bit of England set in the Australian High Country bush! Starting off again I drove up to the house, parking my car on the drive before the front door. I went up to the door and pulled on the old-fashioned bell handle. There was a tinkling sound from within, then the sound of footsteps approaching. A woman who in the dim light seemed to be aged in her late twenties or early thirties opened the door. "Mr.Carter?" she queried. "Yes, I've come to do some work for Mrs.Blye-Smyth." "I know," she replied, "I'm Meredith Blye-Smyth." I almost shamed myself by blurting out something like, "But you're not old enough," but managed to stop myself in time. We shook hands and then she stepped out onto the front steps and looked up. "It'll snow before morning," she said, then stepping back into the hallway went on, "Let's go down to the kitchen, we do most of our living there. It's warm and I've got a meal just about ready for you." I followed across the echoing hallway, down a short passage and through a door into a brightly-lit room. I had noted the word "we" when she invited me to the kitchen, and I wondered who the "we" was. Now I found out. A little girl about three or four sat by a log fired cooking stove, playing some sort of game with wooden blocks. "This is my daughter, Amanda. Amanda, come and say hello to Mr.Carter." Amanda rose and approaching me solemnly said, "You can kiss me on my cheek, Mr.Carter." I behaved appropriately and received a wet kiss in return. In the light, I was able to make a preliminary survey of Mrs.Blye-Smyth. She stood about five feet seven tall. Slender, with a heart shaped face, serious brown eyes, slightly turned up nose and a mouth that seemed ready to smile but didn't. Her most striking feature was the cascade of auburn hair that fell in wavy disarray down her long neck and over her shoulders. I did not consider her beautiful or pretty. I think "striking" was the word that came to mind. The kitchen seemed as large as some houses. The equipment was somewhat old fashioned, but scrupulously clean. The oddest feature was a very up to date computer on a table in a corner. It looked strange in its setting. I was going to ask a question and began, "Mrs.Blye-Smyth," when she interrupted me, "Please, call me Meredith. Mrs.Blye-Smyth is such a mouthful." "Then you'd better call me Brendon," I replied. That settled I forgot my question, and Meredith began to serve my meal. I expect it was a good meal if her later offerings are anything to go by, but I was so busy taking in my surroundings I hardly noticed what I was eating. Actually it was not so much the room and its furniture and fittings that engaged my attention, but Meredith. She moved with such grace. She seemed to have the suppleness and flow of a ballet dancer. I forgot for a while that I was supposed to be a misogynist, and enjoyed watching her move around the kitchen performing commonplace tasks. If she had nothing to recommend her regarding looks, her movements would have captivated, but she did have looks. Managing to remind myself that I had no further interest in women, I wondered whether we were to start talking business that evening. Questioning Meredith, she suggested that we wait until the morning, when she would explain fully what she wanted done. Amanda was taken off to bed and on her return Meredith and I sat by the cooking stove. I decided to use the piece of information the senior partner had given me, and said, "I understand you write novels." "Yes," she replied, "novels no one seems to want to read." I simply gave a questioning, "Oh?" "People say they are too heavy, whatever that means. It's strange, but the closer I come to writing from actual experiences, the less people believe what I write." We talked on for an hour or so, then it was time for bed. I had not moved the car since my arrival or brought in my suitcase and other gear. Meredith suggested I put the car in the garage, as "It will snow before morning." I began to think, "People up here have a snow fetish." She came out to show me the garage and help me in with my things. I was taken to a bedroom with a large double bed, and was informed, "This is the old guest room." I was surprised to find it quite warm given the dropping temperature outside. The reason was a hot water radiator fed from a back boiler in the kitchen stove. Radiators were located in all the bedrooms. I slept well that night for the first time since the Rosemary incident, but before dropping off I found myself thinking of Meredith, and had to speak sternly to myself. The morning proved the prophets correct. A thin layer of snow lay on the ground. I made my way to the kitchen and found Meredith and Amanda were already up, and Meredith getting breakfast. "Hurry up, Amanda," Meredith said, "Mrs.Armitage will be here for you soon. She's spending the day with one of our neighbour's children," she said, addressing me. It had not occurred to me that there were any neighbours in this wild country, and I said so. "Oh yes," she replied, "There are a lot more people here than you might think. There are the ski slopes not far from here, and they have quite a large permanent staff at The Lodge. Then there are some farmers in the valley just over the back of the mountain behind us. There are some road workers, and some men who live and work at the Hydro Dam with their families. That's where Amanda is going." Meredith went on to explain what the senior partner had already told me, that a lot of the houses scattered across the hills were being bought up by rich people, and used as country retreats. In addition, some houses had been bought to be used for seminars and training courses for managers and people like that. She made the place, which to me had seemed a mountain wilderness, sound like a busy metropolis. When I strolled outside for a breath of air, I found it hard to believe that it was all that busy. The thin carpet of snow stifled my footsteps, and the air seemed to crackle with the cold. Everything was still, and not even a bird seemed to be moving. Returning to the kitchen and its warmth, we began the run down of Meredith's requirements. They were simply stated, even if they were not going to be so simple in the execution. First, she wanted the house to be reduced in size, which essentially meant the removal of additions that had been tacked on over the years. In doing this, she wanted the integrity of the house retained. Second, she wanted to modernise the place, mainly by bringing in more electrical power and using portable gas containers. Without even looking at the place I pointed out that what she proposed would be very costly. She laughed. The Heart of a Child "I've got all the money needed to do the job." She gave another chuckle, "And it's not from novel writing. My family has been miserly for generations. They've hoarded money until it ran out of their ears. You'll only have to look at the awful, cheap additions they built to see what I mean." Amanda being sent on her way with Mrs.Armitage, who announced, "There'll be more snow before nightfall," we wrapped ourselves in our parkas and went on a tour of inspection. I saw how right she was about "awful additions." I took photographs of the house from many angles, and made some preliminary measurements. This and my preparatory notes took up most of the day. Mrs.Armitage's prediction came true, and about mid afternoon it started to snow again. Amanda returned in time for the evening meal, having thoroughly enjoyed her day. She came and sat at my feet beside the stove and asked where I came from? Did I have any little children? Would I be staying long? And would I play a card game with her? The card game was her triumph. She beat me every time. This little domestic scene reminded me of what I had hoped for with Rosemary, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. I wanted to pick the child up and hold her, but realised this would be an uninvited gesture. When she had gone to bed, I began a rough outline of what might be done to the place. Meredith listened intently, making intelligent remarks and suggestions. In the process, I learned that she had only recently come into possession of the place and the family wealth. She did not intend to spend all her time in the High Country, and had a house in the city. I slept well again that night. The senior partner must have been right about getting away to the country, but in the morning, a difficult situation presented itself. During the night, a tremendous snowstorm had come in, and a telephone message had let Meredith know that the road was blocked in both directions and would remain so for some days. This meant I was stuck there. I still had work to do, and fortunately, it could be carried out inside the house, but I was not sure I relished an extended stay. For Meredith the snow meant that her domestic helpers were unable to get through, so anything that needed doing in the large house had to be done by those inside it. I questioned the food and fuel supply and was told that this was always allowed for in the high country, and there was plenty of both and would last for at least three weeks. "Three weeks?" I rang the senior partner and told him of my dilemma. "Oh well, old boy," he said, "looks like you've got your holiday in the country, doesn't it! See you when you get back. Look after the 'old girl' won't you. Got a lot of business riding on her, you know." He rang off. I spent that day investigating the foundations of the place. Everywhere I went Amanda followed me wrapped in her parka. She said very little, but watched my activity with grave attention. More than ever I wanted to hold her, to give her love, but I dare not. This was the little one I had so longed to have with Rosemary, but all that was dead. O God! Why give us the power to desire that which you so easily take away? So deep was my hurt, that I could not even allow my self to have a moment of love for a little child. I wanted to be loved and to love, but…even a little one? I proceeded with my work…"Please God don't let me feel ever again. Take from me this reproach of love. Let someone else love this child…O God, I wanted this so much…! That night I returned to my pattern of broken sleep. This time not inspired by Rosemary, but by Meredith and Amanda. My preliminary work was almost done, and if it were not for the snowfall, I would have been on my way. It had continued to snow, blocking the road even more, and the news was, that the snowplough would not be able to clear it at our end for at least three days. Normally I would have returned to the office, prepared plans and drawn up specifications for presentation to Meredith. Unable to do this, I worked on the kitchen table making rough sketches of what I proposed, and trying to work out what the costs might be. The kitchen was the warmest room in the house. During my inspection of the place I had passed through cold rooms that seemed not to have been used for some time, but they were furnished with items that would have raised a fortune at an antique sale. Apart from the kitchen, the only rooms with any degree of warmth were the bedrooms, and even here, the hot water radiators were having a battle to keep the temperature up. On the afternoon of the fourth day of my incarceration, I was working at the kitchen table when Amanda came and stood by me. She put her hand on my knee sand said; "Can I sit on your lap?" I stopped what I was doing, and lifting her up said, "Of course." Meredith was working at the sink and called across, "Is Amanda bothering you?" "Not at all," I replied, as Amanda snuggled up to me. The child sat staring solemnly into space, in that way some children have, without speaking. I decided not to disturb her reverie but instead sat silent, looking at her. I could see that in adulthood she would strongly resemble her mother, even, I suspected, in the rhythmical grace of her movements. Still staring Amanda said in a dreamy sort of voice, "When he's not busy my daddy will come to see me." I had wondered about Mr.Blye-Smyth, if there were such a person and where he was. Amanda followed up her statement with a question; "Do you think he won't be busy when the snow goes away?" I felt rather than saw Meredith tense and not knowing the situation, but sensing distress, I played it safe, or at least that was my intention. "I don't know, darling." The term of endearment was out before I could check it. "O God, why can a little child bring tumbling down our resolve never to love?" Amanda drove the sword of her words even deeper. "Perhaps he will come soon!" There was a choking lump in my throat, so I simply said, "Yes." She got off my lap and left the room to look for the cat. Meredith spoke. "I suppose you've guessed that he won't be coming? She wonders why she hasn't got a daddy around like the children she plays with. Every day she asks me, 'Will he come today?'" Without probing into what was not my business I felt I had no way of responding adequately, so I tried to return to my work, and found myself staring at the paper with tear blurred eyes. On the fifth day I was still shut in, so I sat with Meredith for a couple of hours going over what I proposed for the house, and showing her my rough sketches. "When I can get back to the office I shall draw everything up properly and send it to you for approval." "No need to send it," she replied, "We shall be back in the city for a while when the snow is cleared." I asked her where she lived in the city, and she gave an address in a suburb adjacent to mine. I had reached the limit of what I could do until getting back to the office, so I had another prowl round the house, followed as usual by Amanda. There were books everywhere, and among them, I came across a novel by Meredith. I decided to read it. I might get some more insight into her, though why I should want to…? Well, what ever my reason, I tried. The senior partner had been right, it was heavy going, but as I had started to read it in the kitchen and Meredith had seen what I was reading, I felt I had to slog on. Amanda had taken to either playing near me, or sitting on my lap and leaning against my chest. This evening she was playing with the cat, teasing it with a piece of wool. Struggling with the thick text of the novel, I found my mind starting to wander. It had been over a month since I had last had sex with Rosemary. Since then, I seemed to have lost interest, but now I felt the pressure beginning to mount. I began to contemplate Meredith. In the warmth of the kitchen, she wore only jeans and a cotton shirt. As she went about her tasks, I could see the movement of unbridled breasts, and I admired her slender waist, gently swelling hips and high tight buttocks. I wondered what her legs were like. Since first meeting her, I had tried to find a word that would describe her. As I have said, she could not be called beautiful or pretty. "Attractive" somehow did not cover the case. The only word I could come up with was "Harmonious." Even this did not really say what I wanted to say, but it was all I could think of. Her looks, movements, voice all seemed to be in harmony, regular, just right. The one exception was the wild array of her hair. It tumbled in waves and curls, shining and maddening. The very contrast to the rest of her made it seductive, and I wanted to bury my face in it, to feel and smell its sparkling cleanliness. Amanda climbing on my knee interrupted my musings. When she had burrowed against me she asked, "You're not my daddy are you?" "No, little one, I'm afraid I'm not." "I wish you were my daddy." "Oh God, I wish I was," I thought, but said, "That's a lovely thing to say." "Would you like to be my daddy?" How heart rending the innocent questions of a child can be! I said, "It would be nice." "Would you come and see me when you weren't busy?" Tears pressed against the back of my eyes. I knew Meredith was listening intently. "Yes, darling, I'd come and see you even when I was busy." "I thought you would." She burrowed deeper, like a little animal hiding from a predator. We sat in contemplative silence for half an hour. What she was thinking I did not know, but there beat through my brain over and over again, "The child I might have had!" Meredith said, "Time for bed, Amanda. Say good night to Mr.Carter." "Good night, daddy." It was too much, and pretending to go to the toilet I gasped, "Goodnight, darling," and fled. I hid in the toilet for nearly fifteen minutes, weeping for her and myself. We had both lost something precious, and while I knew mine was lost for good, she still tried to cling to her hope. When I mastered myself, I returned to the kitchen. Meredith was there, and without looking at me said, "I'm sorry about that Brendon. It must have been very embarrassing for you." I said something trite to the effect that it was quite all right, then Meredith said, "I haven't asked you, are you married, Brendon." "No," I replied shortly, then in a burst of imprudence asked, "Where is Mr.Blye-Smyth?" She hesitated for a moment then said, "Mr.Smyth" (emphasising the Smyth)," is no longer in our lives, if he ever was." I said nothing, waiting to see if she would go on. She did. "He left me when I was five months pregnant with Amanda. Went off with a nineteen year old girl from his office, and has never even bothered to see his child…(she choked)…his lovely child…" The tears came, the awful wrenching tears forced from the depths against one's will. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but could not bring myself to invade her private space. Coward, I feared she would repel me, add one more rejection to my life. So I sat, helpless to be of use. She controlled herself and said, "Sorry, I don't often talk about it." "It's okay," I said lamely. Soon after I retired to bed. There went buzzing through my head thoughts of Amanda and Meredith. The focus finally came down to Meredith and I got an erection. I had to relieve myself with my hand, and as the pent up sperm shot out of me I had the vision of her before me, and I cried, "I want you, Meredith." Next day the snow had stopped and we learned that the road would be clear within an hour. I knew I had to flee this place. I was getting too involved. The child had got under my armour plating and I must get away. Worse, I had actually started to desire Meredith. I who would never desire woman again – never love again. As soon as I had packed the car, I shook hands with Meredith and kissed Amanda on the cheek. "You'll come and see me when you aren't busy, won't you?" I fled, barely able to see the still dangerous icy road. I have no recollection of the journey home, but two days later I was back at the office a week before my leave was up. I wanted to bury myself in work, to excise the memories of those two in the High Country. There was much hearty back slapping from the senior partner, "Got yourself snowed in did you?" As if I'd manufactured the snow! I raced through the work and when the plans were complete got the office secretary to ring Meredith to let he know she could examine them and decide. The call to Blye Manor got no response, but the call to her city home did. The secretary dropped me in it, because Meredith must have asked if I was in the office, and she said I was. "Mrs.Blye-Smyth would like to talk to you," she called out, so I had no alternative but to speak to her. "Hello Brendon. I wonder if you'd like to bring the plans round to my house this evening, if you're not otherwise engaged. Come have dinner with us." I was about to make some excuse not to go, but then she added, "Amanda keeps asking when you won't be busy." The knife to the heart. I accepted. The house proved to be a modest but well designed affair. I rang the bell and heard little feet running to answer it. There was a struggle to get the door open, and then Amanda was there. She extended her arms to me to be picked up. She kissed me and said, "You're not busy tonight, are you." "No my sweet, I'm not busy tonight." She pointed the way and we ended up in the kitchen, where Meredith was presiding over cooking pots. "Sorry I didn't answer the door, but Amanda was so excited because you were coming, I had to let her answer." We exchanged the usual "How are you?" formalities, by which time we were ready to eat. Amanda kept up a barrage of questions and relating her own doings, so Meredith and I had little chance to talk. After dinner, it was time for Amanda to go to bed. On Meredith's return, we got down to studying the plans. She seemed genuinely pleased with my suggestions and despite the huge cost that would be involved, asked me to put the job out for tender. She went on to explain that she did not intend to live there, but once the work was completed, would advertise the place for lease. It'll suit some rich guy admirably," she said with a wry smile. The business completed, I made to leave, but Meredith stopped me. "Brendon, you ran away from us at Blye Manor, didn't you? I know because you told me you had a fortnight's leave, and you haven't taken it. You must have gone straight back to work. And you didn't really want to speak to me on the telephone did you?" I tried to find a response that would not hurt her, but before I could get started, she went on: "What I'm going to say isn't for me, it's for Amanda. You must see the effect you've had on her, and unless I am a very poor judge, I can see the effect she has had on you. She knows in her heart that her daddy is never going to come and see her, so she chose another daddy she thought would come. She chose you." "I have no right to dictate how you should respond, but please understand that Amanda has focused her love on you. You have reached the heart of a child, and there is no more tender place than that in the world." "I'm not trying to blackmail you, Brendon, but as her mother I felt you should be fully aware of what Amanda feels for you. She's even been boasting to her friends that her daddy was coming to see her today." She stopped. Did she know how she had torn me to pieces, telling me what had been so glaringly obvious to me? She spoke again, very low. "Let me make it easy for you. Would you like to come and visit Amanda from time to time?" "Yes." "Good. If you could give me a ring just to make sure we are here when you call…" "Of course." "Do you want me to stop her calling you daddy?" "No." There was a long silence as we both contemplated what had been said, then: "If at any time you'd like to tell me what it is that has hurt you so badly, I'm a good listener." "Thank you, but how did you know?" "Because you ran away from us." "Oh." Thus began my regular visits to Amanda. In time, the three of us went out together – to the zoo, picnics, things like that. As trust grew, I was allowed to take Amanda on her own. I made no move towards Meredith. After that sexual contemplation of her at Blye Manor, I had fought to set aside that aspect of our relationship. "No more women," I told myself for the hundredth time. A turning point came one day while the three of us were out shopping. We had set out to buy a tricycle for Amanda. It was to be a fifth birthday present from me. Meredith decided she needed some item of clothing, so we went on to that department. Meredith was just holding up a rather fetching piece of nightwear, when she froze. "What is it?" I asked. "It's him!" I did not need to be told whom she meant. It was her ex-husband. I looked over at the next counter and saw him. I had once asked Meredith why she had married him, and she had answered very simply, "I mistook what I saw on the outside for what I wanted to be on the inside." I saw what she meant now. A tall, handsome man with dynamic looks about him. He glanced in our direction then began to turn away only to suddenly turn back. He focused on Meredith, then his eyes swiveled to me. I was holding Amanda's hand and I saw his eyes turn on her, dwell for a few seconds, and turn away. A slight sneer flitted across his face and he turned to a young woman, pretty, but with a blank sort of face. He said something and she gave a brief laugh. "You fool," I thought. "Don't you know what you're missing? The joy of having a child's little hand in yours. Trusting you, loving you. The privilege of guiding into life, to gradually open ever expanding horizons. The sincerity of a child who in its naivete speaks the truth, good or bad, whose words of love are the most precious treasures one can receive." In that moment I pitied and hated him. Pity because of all he had thrown away and hate because he had once had what I so dearly wanted. "So that's the woman he left you for?" I said. "No, she's the third since then. You see, he's empty inside." Meredith was white faced and shaking. "Come," I said, "Let's get you home." By the time we arrived at her house, she had recovered some of her usual equanimity, but was still pale. Amanda went into the garden to race around on her new tricycle, and Meredith spoke. "I always thought it would happen some day. I would see him. It's been a sort of dread, not knowing how I would react. Its over now and I don't have to fear it any more." "What was it you feared, " I asked, being fairly sure I knew. "I feared that the old love I had for him would still be there and I would have to go through the grief of loss all over again." "And now?" "It was a shock, but when he could not even greet me, I only had confirmed what I had discovered long ago. He is a straw man. He looks good on the outside, but there's nothing of value within. In a way seeing him has finally set me free." I wondered if I needed the same liberation from Rosemary, but I thought not. The circumstances were different. Meredith had been deserted when she was at her most vulnerable – the time when a woman needs care and security. I had walked out on Rosemary and there was no unfinished business …or was there. Was I not still a rejecter of women? But if I was, why did I associate with Meredith. Of course! It was for Amanda's sake - my beloved child…Mine? Work on Blye Manor dragged on. I had to visit it frequently to keep an eye on the quality of the work and the progress. Amanda and Meredith would accompany me at times. About twelve months after the work began, it was finally pronounced complete, and Meredith started the process of leasing it. The Heart of a Child One evening when I had called on Meredith to get a final signature on a document to say she accepted the work, Amanda dropped a minor bombshell. She was now attending school, and was therefore in contact with a wider group of children. They obviously talked about their home life, and this gave rise to Amanda's explosive question. "Daddy, why don't you live with us like other daddies?" I groped mentally for an answer, and I could see Meredith was doing the same. "Well…your mummy and I…we…we don't…we're not…" Meredith tried to come to the rescue. "We are a different sort of mummy and daddy. We like to live in separate houses." "Why?" "We just do, darling." "Don't you and daddy love each other?" "Well, in a way…" "What way?" She turned on me, "Do you love me 'in a way' as well?" "You know I love you very much." "You don't love mummy very much, only 'in a way'?" The logic of a child can be very exhausting to we prevaricating adults. I decided flight was the best remedy (strange how often I had fled from these two). I did not allow Amanda's disconcerting questions to deter me from visiting her. And that raises an odd matter! I always thought of visiting Amanda, not Meredith. Now why was that? In these days when sex has become the substance of male-female relationships and not an outcome, it must seem strange that Meredith and I had gone so long without getting into bed together for sexual, or any other, purposes. At the same time, you will no doubt acknowledge that we were two people struggling to overcome deep hurts. We both had the humiliating knowledge that we had made bad choices in our partners, or in my case, my would-be partner. I think we must have both been like soldiers picking their way across an unswept minefield. I suppose we had both thought that things could go on as they were indefinitely, and certainly they might have gone on a bit longer if it had not been for Amanda's questioning of our relationship. It was this that set me off masturbating at night with Meredith as my fantasy. Again, it was Amanda who set matters off. "Are you and mummy married?" "No." "Why aren't you married?" "Well, we just aren't." "My best friend's mummy and daddy are married." "Well, some mummies and daddies aren't married." "Is it because you and mummy only love each other 'in a way'?" "Yes…well no. We just haven't thought about getting married." "If I ask you to, will you think about it?" For all the disconcerting nature of these questions, Meredith was fighting to suppress her laughter at my struggle to answer. When Amanda had left us we looked at each other and laughed. Then, for the first time since meeting her, I crossed to Meredith and kissed her. It was a very gentle, chaste kiss, and as we broke she looked up at me intently. "Don't do that unless you really mean it. We've both been hurt enough. I know how you love Amanda, but I want love for myself as well, not love via my daughter." I had never told her the Rosemary story, but I thought now was the time. A little child had led me to myself. She had shown me how I could love again, and that had brought me to see I was still capable of that other sort of love – a man for a woman. I still had the courage to risk the dangers of loving. I knew who the object of that love was. I related my tale of murdered love, and I felt no pain in the telling. It was behind me now. Meredith listened carefully, and at the end said, "Yes, I see it's over now. Like me, you've been liberated." I rose to leave, but Meredith stopped me. "There is something I'd like you to know. I want you to know this, not to trap you, but to let you know you have the freedom of choice. You don't have to walk away from us again, either physically or emotionally. You can, but you don't have to. We love you very dearly, Amanda and I. Your kindness and consideration. The wonderful way you've given yourself to my little girl." She had been very serious to that point, then suddenly she smiled and said, "Now I'm going to risk the lot. If you ask me to marry you, I shall say 'Yes.'" "Then say 'yes' right now." "Yes. Do you want to come to bed with me tonight?" "No." "What? Are you telling me you don't want me sexually?" "No, far from it, but from her questioning I think our little girl is bit old fashioned, so let's make it an old fashioned courtship. It won't be too long to wait." When we told Amanda of our decision to marry she gave an artful smile, but only said, "How soon do we get married?" I took note of the "we." It was three months later when we married. We worked out with the priest a special vow for Amanda and I – a sort of symbolic acceptance of me as her father, and she as my daughter. As Meredith and I got into the car to leave for our honeymoon, Amanda, who was to be cared for by my newly acquired mother during our absence, drew both our heads down to hers and said, "I knew I'd get you two together," then kissed us both. Crafty little devil.