A Very Secret Affair

‘So why are you complaining? Most of the old ducks in Bangaratta are ga-ga over him. Lord knows why. He’s not that good-looking.’

Was the girl blind? The man was sensational-looking!

‘And he’s over thirty if he’s a day,’ Sam tossed off airily.

‘Oh, over the hill, definitely.’ Clare’s tone was drily caustic. ‘And thanks heaps, Sam. Am I classified as an old duck these days, am I?’

‘Well, you are twenty-seven, sis. Twenty-seven and still single. Gosh, you’re not even living with a guy. That might not make you an old duck, but it certainly makes you an old maid.’

‘You don’t live with a guy in Bangaratta, Sam. Not if you’re the town pharmacist.’

‘Then why come back, sis? Why didn’t you stay in Sydney?’

Why indeed? Clare thought bitterly.

‘You seemed happy there. This small-town life is not for you, you know.’

‘So what’s for me, Sam? Do tell me.’

Sam cocked her head on one side and gave her sister a brief but nonchalant once-over. ‘Damned if I know, sis. But I know one thing. You shouldn’t live anywhere near Mum. You two just don’t get along. Gotta go. See you, sis.’

Samantha kicked the grey in the flanks and galloped off, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. Clare stared after her young sister, who looked older every time she saw her. She not only looked older but she was sounding older too.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have come home. But a fifteen-year-old teenager couldn’t know what it was like to live in a big city, all alone with a broken heart.

Clare was walking towards the front steps, thinking bleak thoughts, when the front door was flung open by a tall, formidable-looking woman with short permed blonde hair, a big bosom and sharp grey eyes. Just my luck, Clare thought ruefully, to inherit the eyes and not the bosom.

‘Oh, it’s you, Clare. I thought I heard a car.’

Clare sighed. Occasionally she did crave to hear something like, Hello, darling daughter, how nice to see you, is there anything wrong and can I help you? As for a hug…she couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her. Hugging was not part of Agnes Pride’s arsenal.

‘What’s up? You look frazzled. Perhaps you’d better come in for a cup of tea.’

Agnes was off down the hall before Clare could stop her. She followed her mother resignedly into the large, country-style kitchen at the back of the house, pulling out one of the high-backed wooden chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.

‘Sam’s growing up,’ she remarked as she sat down. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be letting her go off on her own too much in future. Who knows who or what she might meet on the road, or in the bush?’

Agnes looked up from where she was filling the kettle with water, her mouth tightening. ‘This is the country,’ she said sharply, ‘not your precious Sydney. Out here, girls are quite safe on their own. Besides, Samantha is fifteen and she’s only going down the road half a mile to her friend’s house. And it’s not as though she’s walking. She’s riding a horse.’

‘A horse is no match for a man, Mum. Not if he’s got rape on his mind.’

‘Rape? Girls don’t get raped out here,’ she scorned. ‘We’re a decent community, with decent morals.’

‘Girls get raped everywhere, Mum,’ Clare pointed out. ‘Often by men they know.’

There was a short sharp silence as Agnes stared over at her daughter.

‘Dear heaven,’ she said at last. ‘Is…is that what happened to you in Sydney, Clare? Is that why you came home so suddenly?’

‘Good lord, no. No, nothing like that!’

‘Then why did you come home out of the blue, then? You never did tell me.’

Clare opened her mouth then shut it again. She’d never felt comfortable confiding in her mother, who rarely gave constructive advice, only criticism. Agnes’ staunchly old-fashioned morals had always precluded Clare’s telling her the truth about her relationship with David. Her mother would have judged her harshly, then called her a fool. Clare craved sympathy and understanding, not condemnation. She knew only too well she’d been a fool!

‘I just felt like coming home,’ she hedged. ‘I missed Bangaratta. Look, Mum, I haven’t come out just to chat. I found out that someone has put me on the main table next to your guest-of-honour tonight and I—’

‘What?’ Agnes burst out. ‘You’ve been put next to Dr Archer?’

Clare realised immediately that she’d been wrong. It hadn’t been her mother’s doing at all!

‘I’m going to give that Flora Whitbread a piece of my mind when I get there tonight,’ Agnes blustered. ‘I told her specifically that you didn’t want to be on the main table. I even offered myself in your place. And what does she do? Puts you there anyway. Really, that woman’s getting too big for her boots!’

Clare cringed at the thought of poor Flora getting an earful tonight. Frankly, if she’d known it was Flora’s idea she might have gone along with it right from the start. She liked Flora. The old dear had a good heart and worked her socks off as president of the local progress committee. It had certainly been a feather in her cap to get someone like ‘Dr Archer’ as guest-of-honour for their local débutante ball. Flora was also hoping that the publicity might bring a real doctor to the small country town. Permanently.

Bangaratta’s only doctor had retired last year due to ill health, and, while advertisements had been placed in newspapers all over the country, no one suitable had answered. Locals were having to travel to Dubbo for medical treatment, which was a highly unsatisfactory arrangement, especially for the elderly. Flora had vowed to move heaven and earth to rectify the situation.

‘Flora probably wanted someone more Mr Sheffield’s age to sit next to him,’ Clare said by way of excuse. ‘I guess she must have been desperate. All the other eligible young women in town are going to be debs. Don’t say anything to her, Mum. I’ll just sit there and suffer in silence.’

Agnes snorted. ‘Suffer indeed! Most women would give their eye-teeth to be sitting where you will be tonight.’

Clare let that slide. Already she was feeling a little annoyed with herself for having backed down. The sacrifices one made for one’s home town! Her Tuesday nights would never be the same again.

Agnes finished making the tea, carrying a tray over to the table. No teabags for Agnes Pride. Two cups were poured, the milk added then one cup and saucer put precisely in front of Clare, the other carried down to the opposite end of the oval table. Agnes sat down, her back straight as she lifted the cup to her lips, her sharp eyes flicking over her first-born as she sipped the hot liquid.

Clare fell silent while she drank down the hot tea in long, painful swallows. Why did her mother always have to look at her like that? As if she was attempting some sort of mental make-over, yet all the time believing a satisfactory result was impossible.

‘You really should get your hair cut, Clare,’ Agnes said. ‘Down, it looks straggly and unkempt. And that bun you wear for work makes you look like a spinster. A little make-up wouldn’t go astray either. You have a very nice complexion and your eyes are quite lovely, but there’s always room for improvement. Not only that, how do you expect to catch a man’s eye wearing trousers all the time? Men like to see a woman’s figure.’

‘My first priority in life is not to catch a man’s eye, Mum. And I don’t wear trousers. I wear jeans. A man can see as much of a woman’s figure in jeans and a T-shirt as a dress. Sometimes more.’

‘So we’re to look forward to your showing up at the ball in jeans tonight, are we?’ came the tart remark. ‘I’m sure Dr Archer will be impressed.’

‘Matt Sheffield is his name, Mum. Dr Archer is the character he plays on television.’

Agnes’ blank blink showed she was as much a victim of the illusion as Mrs Brown.

‘I do happen to own a ballgown or two,’ Clare continued. ‘I have one that is especially nice. Still, I doubt anything I could wear or do would genuinely impress a man of Mr Sheffield’s ilk.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. You can be quite attractive when you want to be.’ Agnes plonked her cup noisily into the saucer. ‘Tell me! Why do you dislike Mr Sheffield so much? Have you met him before, is that it? I know you used to go to the theatre a lot when you lived in Sydney.’

Clare put down her cup also, rattling it slightly. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But handsome male actors are all tarred with the same brush. They think they’re God’s gift to women, when in fact they’re from the devil.’

An image filled her mind, of a curtain going up and a man stepping on the stage, a rivetingly handsome man. He’d looked like a Greek god. But there’d been nothing heavenly about David in the end. He’d consigned her to hell and left her there.

‘You’ve become very cynical, Clare. Sometimes I wish you’d hadn’t gone away to Sydney.’

‘You and me both,’ Clare muttered, a curl of pain squeezing her heart.