The Heart of a Child

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.