The Wrong Door (11 page)

In the weeks leading up to her eighteenth birthday Clare had been in a state of anxiety. She had allowed Peg and Marla to convince her she should have a party at home. After spending years trying to pretend to the outside world that her family life resembled something like Susan’s, Clare wasn’t keen to invite everyone in for a peek. But she hadn’t known how to convey that to her mother and sister without offending them. So reluctantly she agreed. It was to be a party for fifty people in a marquee in their back garden.

As the date drew closer, everything about the preparations spelled disaster. Peg wanted to make her a dress but Clare thought that it would look home-made and not classy enough in front of all her new university friends. Marla wanted to do all the cooking but Clare didn’t trust her to do it right. Susan had assumed she would invite the girls from their year at school and so had mentioned it to a few of them, but Clare hadn’t intended to because she couldn’t imagine them mixing with
her new friends. And to top it all off Peg’s best friend Viv and her husband Gerald had telephoned asking when it was, clearly expecting that they would be invited. Clare couldn’t imagine them mixing with anyone.

She thought it was all going to be terrible and her new university friends would realise the shameful truth about her – that she didn’t come from a nice suburban family with TV-show parents and she wasn’t at all cool. She had poured it all out to Mr Sanjay down by the shed, sitting outside on their two stools while he set up the chess board. She had ended her tirade with, ‘It’s my birthday. Don’t you think I should be able to do what I want to do and everybody else should just shut up and go along with it?’

It was obvious to Clare he had to agree. She sat back and waited, almost with a feeling of triumph, at the picture she had painted. Remembering it now made her cringe. What a spoilt, self-centred brat she had been.

Mr Sanjay said two words in reply. ‘Leather shoes.’

She gaped at him. She wanted to protest, to make him realise the seriousness of the situation. How unfair the world was being to her on her birthday.
Her
birthday. But the words died on her lips.

‘You are white. It’s your move,’ he said.

Later, after he let her win and was setting up the board for a second game, Mr Sanjay asked what she would have liked to do for her eighteenth birthday if it had been left entirely up to her.

‘I just wanted to go out and feed the poor,’ said Clare.

‘Ah ha. A noble ambition. Then it is indeed a tragedy,’ said Mr Sanjay, his mouth twitching.

‘That’s right. I am glad you finally understand,’ replied Clare.

And then, instead of going back into the house to scream and cry and cancel her party, she stayed for another game with her Indian friend. A week later, the day after her birthday, while Clare was still revelling in the glow of throwing a fabulous party, she found pushed under the front door an envelope grandly addressed to Miss Clare Dalton of the Dalton Family. Inside was the photograph of Mr Sanjay’s shoes. She had pinned it inside her wardrobe so it would cheer her up whenever she opened the doors. Seeing it tonight made her feel more alone than ever.

Gwennie found the business card in the wastepaper basket in the bathroom. She was throwing out the toothpaste and saw it lying there, which reminded her she had been looking for it. She had no idea how it came to be there but lately she was finding lots of things in unusual places. She thought of it as part of her condition, grief. The process of grieving felt like an all-consuming sickness that robbed her of the ability to do the simplest things. Sometimes she found herself standing in a room with no memory of why she had gone in there. Other times she found it too hard just to run a bath.

She re-read the card:
Cynthia Ainslie-Wallace,
medical researcher, Nepean Hospital.

Finding it caused her to forget her original reason for going into the bathroom but that didn’t matter. Gwennie took the card into the study. She dialled the number.

‘Hello, Cynthia. It’s Gwennie Darvill speaking. You visited my home –’ she hesitated, trying to recall what day it had been, then gave up, ‘– the other day. I am afraid I wasn’t much help. I wondered if you could see me again. I’ve been thinking about it and I would like to talk to you further.’

Ms Ainslie-Wallace must have been surprised but she didn’t let it show. She agreed to drop by the next day. When she arrived Gwennie was shocked by how vague her recollection was of this woman. If it hadn’t been that she was expecting her, she would not have believed they had ever met.

Cynthia got straight to the point. She sounded like the researcher she was, quoting facts and figures. Gwennie forced her mind to focus, listening for anything that might explain Pete. ‘We have noted an unusual increase in reported cases of pneumonia presenting at Blue Mountains Hospital in Katoomba over the March–April period. Normally we get a couple of cases each year and usually in the elderly. What has made this outbreak so abnormal is that it has occurred mainly in men aged between forty and fifty. They are generally non-smokers, and fit and active.’

Gwennie nodded. ‘And this is just in the Blue Mountains area?’

‘Yes. From Wentworth to Blackheath.’

Gwennie had not been to either of those places. She excused herself and returned with Pete’s road atlas. Cynthia pointed out the region.

‘Isn’t that odd, for so many fit men that age to get pneumonia in such a specific area?’ asked Gwennie.

Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes, Mrs Darvill. It is very odd. That’s why we are investigating. I work for the Public Health Unit at Wentworth Area Health Service. The Blue Mountains falls under our jurisdiction. On a hunch I have been casting our net wider and because so many people from Sydney visit the Blue Mountains I am following up reported cases of pneumonia in people throughout the city who are not elderly or infirm. My unit is concerned mostly with preventative health care.’

She started to talk about their funding and charter but Gwennie was gone. The voice became a distant hum in the background as Gwennie remembered Pete in hospital. It was a memory she hadn’t allowed to surface. She didn’t dare. It rose unwittingly and in an instant she was back there. The smell of antiseptic. Harsh overhead lights. White linoleum flecked with grey. And Pete in an oxygen mask, lying on a stretcher in the hallway.

There was a tube of blood coming out of his right index finger. A triage nurse with a thick Irish accent was explaining very gently to Gwennie what they were doing. All the while Gwennie wanted to scream at Pete to get off the trolley.
Oxygen levels are low
…
a cannula in his vein for
antibiotics to stop the infection
…
we’ll need a chest X-
ray
…
a bed as soon as one is available …
It had seemed surreal. Pete had been suffering from flu for four days. A particularly vicious new strain had been going around Sydney. Neither Pete nor Gwennie had thought much of it. Their local GP had prescribed some antibiotics and lots of bedrest. The only clue that Pete was really sick was that he took the doctor’s advice. Instead of trying to soldier on and work from his bed he had told Laurelle to cancel everything.

On the fourth day he should have been getting better but he wasn’t and during the night he had difficulty breathing. It had been a horrific sound, deep and gravelly. But what really scared Gwennie was the look in his eyes. It had been panic. Pete was terrified. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. All the way to hospital he had been unable to speak, just making a dry rasping sound, clutching her arm and imploring with his eyes. She spent the next twenty-four hours waiting around at the hospital while Pete died in front of her.
Your husband is
not getting enough oxygen. Because of the infection his
lungs are like soggy honeycomb. They can’t suck in
enough air …
All around them were other people in pain, lying next to him on trolleys in the corridor, queuing for chest X-rays. People in chairs wrapped in blankets, their faces grey and their families looking so scared. It was what Gwennie remembered most – the fear. It infected everyone.

She remembered the young man on the trolley behind Pete. He was delirious with pain but the
staff wouldn’t give him painkillers until they had established his condition. He had been hit by a motorcycle and had suspected head injuries. Until the staff were sure, they wouldn’t jeopardise his life by making him comfortable.

‘You need patience to be a patient,’ commented one nurse wryly.

Gwennie felt she had walked through the doors of hell. Her mind snapped back to the present.

Cynthia was looking at her strangely. ‘Did your husband have a connection with the Blue Mountains?’

Gwennie gazed at the woman sitting politely on the edge of her couch. Blue Mountains? A connection? Was he having an affair with Clare Dalton? Did they meet each month in the Blue Mountains? Why did he buy petrol and a can of coke in Katoomba? The questions raced around her head. She glared at the nosy woman with the shiny, sculpted bob and she hated her. ‘Get out of my house.’ She said it quietly at first, then louder. ‘Get out of my house.’ Then she opened her lungs and gave vent to all the rage that had been building since the day Pete died.

‘Get out. Get out,’
she screamed.

Terrified, Cynthia gathered her bag and papers and fled down the hallway. Gwennie followed, screaming unintelligibly. She stood on the front step and continued to scream until Cynthia’s car sped down the street and out of sight.

Marla sat on the edge of Clare’s bed, holding two mugs of tea. ‘Can I get in?’ she asked.

Clare made room, moving across to lean against the wall. Marla slid beneath the doona and handed her sister a mug.

‘How was your meeting last night?’ Clare asked.

‘Oh, pretty interesting. I was surprised by how many people turned up. I don’t know what I was expecting but they just didn’t look like alcoholics. Still I don’t suppose I do either. Or I hope I don’t.’

‘I always imagine alcoholics lying in gutters wearing newspapers,’ said Clare. She winced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’

Marla smiled. ‘That’s okay. That’s what I thought an alcoholic looked like too. Well, guess what? They don’t. They look like me.’

‘So what were the other people like?’

‘It was quite a cross-section. Male and female.
The youngest would have been in their twenties and the oldest in their sixties. Some were well dressed, looking like they were about to go to a nightclub. But most were like me, in jeans. It was pretty casual. The head bloke is American. His name is Isaiah and he seems to run the show. He’s a bit over-the-top and treats everyone like his long-lost best friend. But at least with someone like that running it you don’t have to feel like a complete idiot when you arrive.’

‘Do you think they can help you?’

‘I hope so. They say the first step is to admit it, that you have a problem. The road to your first AA meeting is the longest. But now the hard work starts. I need to replace those habits with other things. Like exercise.’

‘Oh great. Do you want to come jogging with me in the mornings?’

‘What time do you go?’

‘Usually around six, but we can make it seven if you prefer.’

‘I would. Okay. Tomorrow morning. We’ll start the week with a jog.’

Clare sipped her tea. ‘Marla, why do you drink?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that, little one. I wish I did.’

‘Mum says it is to make yourself feel better, that you aren’t happy with who you are.’

‘So you and Mum have been having a chat about me, have you? What else did she have to say?’ Marla sounded annoyed.

Clare was quick to reassure her. ‘Nothing. She
told me to mind my own business. She said that I should respect your privacy.’

Marla looked partly mollified. ‘Oh, she did, did she? Good on you, Mum. It makes a nice change to have her keeping out of my business. Well, little one, I think that’s good advice.’

‘Why did you two work so hard to keep me in the dark? I’m an adult. Don’t you think it’s time you both stopped protecting me?’

Marla ignored the question and switched the conversation. ‘It’s going to be different for you. You have brains. You’re smart. Your whole future stretches before you.’

‘What’s going to be different for me?’ Clare was exasperated.

‘You can be anything you want to be. And you will have done it all on your own. I am so proud of you. Don’t let some man ruin it for you. There’s plenty of time for that later. You are right to concentrate on your studies now. Graduate. Make something of your life. Then take your pick. Choose any man you want.’

‘Did you have a date last night, after the meeting?’ asked Clare.

Marla looked surprised. ‘Oh, little nosy person. No, I didn’t have a date. I had a coffee with the other people then I caught a taxi home. That’s it.’

Clare seemed disappointed.

‘Honey, men are the last thing I am interested in right now. They are nothing but trouble. Have you not listened to anything your big sister has told you?’

Clare nodded absently.

‘What about you? Are you still seeing Jeremy?’ asked Marla.

Clare shook her head. ‘Marla do you want to get married and have a family? You’re thirty-eight and you still live at home. Doesn’t it drive you nuts still living at home with your mother? If I wasn’t studying I would be out that door so fast you wouldn’t see me for dust.’

Marla looked hurt. ‘One thing at a time. I would like to stay sober. That is my first goal. And then maybe, who knows, I could go back to school at night, get my teaching degree. I always thought I would have made a good schoolteacher.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a nurse?’

‘A nurse? Did I say that?’

‘Yes, you did.’

Marla shrugged.

‘Oh well. A nurse then. Though I’m not so sure I would want to clean up other people’s vomit. But I think I could be a good teacher. I’d like that. Then I could get a little apartment, with a balcony where I could grow something, with enough room for you and I to live.’

‘You want me to come with you?’ Clare was surprised and touched.

‘We both have to move on eventually. It’s not good for us all to be cooped up here together in this house. There’s too much … stuff. You need to get on with your life and I need to get on with mine. As soon as I am able to afford it, I will be off. It will be the best thing for all of us. A fresh start.’
Marla chatted on about the sort of apartment she would like for them.

Clare cut across her. ‘Does Mum ever talk to you about Dad?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too painful for her. It was … a terrible shock for everybody when he died.’

‘What was he like?’

‘I don’t really remember. I was too young. It’s all so long ago.’

Clare had built a picture of her father from the few snippets that she had collected over the years. He had been an ambulance driver, which she thought showed what a kind and compassionate man he was. And she knew he loved his trains. She inherited his elaborate train set. As a child she had spent many happy hours playing with it, pretending he was beside her and having imaginary conversations with him about which engine was his favourite.

Clare had asked Marla and Peg about her father many times. Marla claimed she couldn’t remember and Peg refused to discuss him. Eventually Clare had stopped asking. But privately she had never stopped wondering. The death of Mr Sanjay had brought lots of insecurities and unresolved feelings to the surface and now she needed to understand her past.

‘It’s not fair. I hardly know anything about him. The way Mum avoids it I wonder what she’s hiding. Was he really rich and famous? Royal? Black?
Chinese? Or was he a midget and you and I got Mum’s tall genes? I know you both are hiding something.’

She expected Marla to laugh but instead her sister looked serious. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that Mum might be trying to protect you? That she might be right and you are better off not knowing? And has it occurred to you that by bringing it up you are hurting other people?

‘What does it matter what your father was like? He ain’t here. He ain’t ever been here. But you are. And Mum is and I am. Whether you like that or not. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got an incredible future ahead of you. You will be the first Dalton woman to graduate from university. You are going to be some very important person one day, probably running the country and ordering Mum and me around.

‘No man helped you achieve that. There was no doting dad putting you through private school. Mum’s hard work and your brains did that and no-one could be as proud of you as we are.’

Clare demurred. ‘I want to be a vet. I don’t know how much help that will be for running the country.’

‘Don’t undersell yourself. You can go as far as you want to go.’

‘I’m glad you’re proud. But I would have to say that one man did help me …’

‘Oh, not your Indian boyfriend next door?’ groaned Marla.

‘Don’t be vulgar. Mr Sanjay was old enough to
be my grandfather. And for your information, he died a few weeks ago.’

Marla looked stricken. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I know how fond you were of that old bloke. And he was kind of sweet really.’

Clare winced at the word ‘sweet’. It wasn’t an adjective that sprang to mind when she thought of Mr Sanjay. Quick, alert, funny, quixotic, kind, unassuming, wise. But sweet? It sounded patronising.

‘I spoke to him a couple of times, you know,’ said Marla.

Clare was disbelieving. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yes. The first time was after you had a flaming row with Mum. You were about fourteen and she didn’t want you talking to him. As far as Mum was concerned he was a man and therefore you should not be interacting with him in any way. But you seemed quite keen on him so I thought I better check him out.

‘I remember we had a chat about the neighbourhood. He told me an old eastern saying. Better the neighbour in the same community than a relative living in a distant place. I thought that was rather lovely.

‘Then I saw him out the front trimming the lawn and we had a bit of a chat about his hollyhocks. He was quite the gardener, wasn’t he? And I spoke to him a few other times. Nothing too memorable but there you go. Clare, I am sorry. Is that what has brought up all this family stuff? It’s made you restless.’

Clare nodded. ‘I suppose so. In a way. But I have always hated living in this house of secrets. I know you and Mum fight over things that went on a long time ago. I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me. Actually there are many things I don’t understand.’

‘I’m sure it has been hard for you,’ said Marla. ‘It’s been hard for all of us. But about the past, I think Mum is right. Some things are better left alone.’

‘Like what things, Marla? What?’ Clare stared at Marla, waiting.

Marla stared back, her lips pursed. The moment stretched. Downstairs a telephone rang as Clare continued to look at Marla, her eyebrows raised in query.

Peg opened the door. ‘Telephone for you, Clare.’ She was surprised to see them sitting up together in bed and was obviously pleased. ‘Well, doesn’t this look cosy.’ She smiled at them both. ‘I’ll tell whoever it is to call back.’

Marla pulled back the covers and leapt up, clearly grateful for the interruption. ‘It’s okay. I have to get up anyway. I’ve got a lot to do.’

Clare glared after her. ‘Next time you won’t get off so easy,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Nor you, Mum. I’m getting it out of one of you.’

Clare stared at the foolscap pad. She wanted to get this exactly right, the words, tone and particularly the sentiment. It was terribly important that she convey to Mr Sanjay’s son what his father had
meant to her. Just thinking about her old friend and their little talks made her eyes fill with tears. If I miss him this much, what must it be like for his son, she thought.

Writing to his son was also a way of reconnecting with Mr Sanjay. She wanted to pay him tribute. And if she was honest with herself, she didn’t really want to let him go. Clare had been staring at the blank page, agonising over how to start, for ten minutes already. She thought of various sayings and proverbs Mr Sanjay had often quoted but any way she tried them seemed clumsy and heavy-handed. And they were two things Mr Sanjay had never been. He could sit there quoting great philosophers, writers or Jerry Seinfeld, with equal ease. His manner was always gentle and teasing.

She also wondered about the young man she was writing to. Was he very Indian? Should she be strictly formal so there was no misunderstanding of her idiom? Or should she be relaxed and friendly to convey some of the affection she held for his father? The little impression she had gleaned of Shree Sanjay was that he was reserved with a serious, earnest manner. He had seemed uncomfortable and disconcerted when she spoke to him. But then it was his father’s funeral. He could be completely different under other circumstances. It had been a dignified service, which Clare felt was in keeping with the man she had known.

She sighed and got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. This was turning out to be the hardest letter she had ever written. She knew so little of
this man, her old friend’s son. Mr Sanjay had said only that he was a doctor at St Vincent’s and that he married an Indian girl a few years ago.

After another half hour the page was a mess of crossed-out phrases and inserted words but finally she was satisfied with what she had written. She read it through one more time.

It wasn’t perfect but Clare couldn’t think how to make it better. So she carefully copied the letter onto her best notepaper, signed it and sealed it in an envelope ready to post to St Vincent’s Hospital.

Gwennie drove down the freeway, past the turn-off to Homebush, site of the 2000 Olympics. The houses on their quarter-acre blocks gave way to empty fields. The occasional horse grazed. She passed the turn-off to Penrith where that nosy woman worked. On and on she drove, not stopping, interested only in getting to Katoomba.

She parked in the main street. It was picturesque and quaint with beautifully restored art deco buildings. Now that she was here she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Echoes of Pete? A sign saying Pete Darvill slept here? Clare Dalton sashaying down the footpath in her red dress?

Gwennie walked the length of the street getting a feel for the town. It was busy, with all the shops typical of a large country town – a couple of real estate agents, a hardware store, a newsagent, a dress shop, a travel agent, two outdoor clothing shops, an art gallery and lots of cafés. But she couldn’t see what would have brought Pete here. Would he have visited the art gallery? He was an artistic man. Maybe, she thought. She avoided Lilianfels. It made her think of the teacher from school who held her wedding there and, though it was irrational, she worried she might bump into her now. She stopped at the stylish Paragon Café. It was like stepping back to another era. Hand-made chocolates filled the glass-top counters and original Australian magazines from the thirties stood atop a period sideboard. She picked up a copy of the local newspaper,
The Blue Mountains Gazette,
breathed
in the aroma of fresh coffee and chocolates, and waited to be seated.