The Wrong Door (22 page)

Gwennie allowed herself to be pushed along, too tired and indifferent to care. Clare could see from the corner of her eye her mother framed in the doorway, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together, but not making a move to stop them. Clare half-led, half-pushed Gwennie to the car, straining with every step to hear a sound that may indicate her mother was coming up behind them. Gwennie was almost a dead weight, her feet moving only when Clare had pushed her forward enough to start the momentum.

Clare had a strong feeling of déjà vu. Then it
came to her. She had been in a similar situation not so long ago when she collected Marla from the university party. Her sister, the alcoholic. She had learned a lot about her sister recently, shocking things that stirred up a kaleidoscope of feelings. She loved her, felt sorry for her and despised her, each in turn and sometimes all at once.

Now she was learning about her mother. Clare was consumed with self-righteous anger and, in a way, she wanted her mother to try to stop her. Jealousy and her rage against the unfairness burned inside her. She was primed for a fight. But Peg stayed where she was, staring after them.

Gwennie sat sideways in the passenger seat looking at the beautiful woman driving. There was something about her that made Gwennie anxious, if only she could remember what it was. Her head dropped forward. She was tired, so very tired.

Clare awoke, curled up on a couch, with Gwennie sitting a few metres away in a swivel chair glowering at her. Gwennie was turning a pair of scissors over idly in her lap, passing them from one hand to the other. The hair on the back of Clare’s neck started to rise as she became aware of Gwennie’s presence. The blinds were open letting in the weak dawn light. The last vestiges of sleep dissolved as Clare struggled to sit up. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in an awkward angle without a pillow. She wondered how long Gwennie had been there, watching her.

‘How are you this morning?’ she asked carefully.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Gwennie.

It was not the reaction Clare was expecting and she searched her mind for something that might explain such hostility. She had brought this
woman home, put her to bed then, rather than going home to face Peg and Marla, she had lain down on her couch.

‘I’m sorry, but after I brought you home it was too late to get a taxi so I just crashed here. I didn’t think you would mind.’ It sounded perfectly reasonable and Clare expected the woman to look embarrassed, apologise and offer her breakfast, or a lift home or
something.

Gwennie did no such thing. She glared at Clare, biting her lip and continuing to play with the scissors in her lap. Her eyes were two inscrutable, narrow slits. ‘I know about your affair with my husband.’ She spat out the words, her top lip curling with disgust.

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to penetrate Clare’s brain. ‘Your husband? Peter Darvill? What on earth are you talking about? As far as I know I’ve never even met the man.’

Gwennie’s eyes bored into her. ‘What an extraordinarily brazen woman you are. I am not a fool. I know all about it now, Clare Dalton. I know all about your little trips to the Blue Mountains every month …’ Her grip tightened on the scissors. ‘… All your little secret meetings. It’s been going on for a long time, hasn’t it? In fact it never stopped, did it?’

Clare was bewildered. What had she blundered into? Who
was
this woman? Why was she talking about the Blue Mountains? It must have something to do with Marla, if only Clare understood what. Had Marla been having an affair with her
husband? This woman was clearly on the edge and Clare was terrified that anything she said might push her over. She raged inwardly at Peg. Why the hell hadn’t she told her what was going on? To save Marla? Huh! Again that left Clare in the lurch.

‘I’ve never met your husband. I promise you,’ said Clare. She looked levelly at the other woman.

‘Oh, what rubbish,’ said Gwennie. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know him. You came to his funeral for God’s sake.’

As Clare stared at Gwennie confusion gave way to understanding. The woman in the funeral car with the grief-stricken face. It was a frozen moment that Clare would never forget. The woman was Gwennie? Of course. That’s why she had looked vaguely familiar when she saw her on the road yesterday. And Pete Darvill was her late husband. Clare could recall little of what the minister had said about him. It had all been so polite and distant, like he hadn’t known the man he was talking about. Clare had been thinking the whole time of Mr Sanjay. She really hadn’t paid attention.

‘That was your husband’s funeral I went to?’

‘What do you mean? Why are you asking that?’ said Gwennie.

‘Oh my God.’ Clare shook her head. ‘I came to your husband’s funeral by mistake.’

Gwennie frowned with disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘On the same morning as your husband’s service there was a service going on in the next chapel for my Indian neighbour, Mr Sanjay. I went to your
husband’s service by mistake. When I realised my mistake, I left.’

Gwennie considered Clare for a moment, looking her up and down as if she were some odious creature beneath contempt. ‘Oh yeah? And this?’ Gwennie picked up a photo from the desk and flung it at her.

The move was unexpected and Clare didn’t react in time, missing it as it flew through the air. It landed on the rug at her feet. As soon as she saw it she recognised the image. It was from the same series Marla kept in her cupboard. Marla laughing into the handsome young man’s face. Carefree and beautiful. Love, passion and tenderness evident in both their faces.

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked.

‘Oh, so you do recognise it?’

‘Yes. My sister has one just like it. In fact a whole series. They were taken when she was about fifteen.’

Gwennie frowned. ‘Marla?’

Clare nodded. ‘It was taken in 1979. And the boy with her, that’s her boyfriend Micky. He used to send her love letters. They were just kids.’

Gwennie studied the photo. ‘But that’s Pete, my Pete.’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t know your husband, Pete. Actually I don’t know Micky either but on the back of her photo Marla has written the name Micky. Was your husband’s middle name Michael?’

‘No,’ said Gwennie. ‘His middle name was Fraser. Peter Fraser Darvill. That’s what he signed
on our marriage certificate. And on the deeds to this house. I’ve seen his birth certificate and his death certificate. They both say Peter Fraser Darvill.’

‘That is strange,’ said Clare. ‘Did he have any brothers?’

‘No, no family at all. His parents died long before I met him and he was an only child.’ The aggression faded from Gwennie’s face leaving just a bewildered sadness. She knew this young woman was telling the truth. She should have been happy and relieved. But she wasn’t. She felt hollow.

Clare wished she had Marla’s photos – the whole set – to show her. She thought of the box in the top of her sister’s cupboard. Perhaps she could somehow get them to Gwennie. But what would that prove? ‘Why did you come to our home last night?’ asked Clare.

Gwennie’s rage was spent. She knew she had tried to kill this young woman, this Clare Dalton, though she didn’t think Clare was aware of that. It was her hatred of Clare that had kept Gwennie going, fired her up and helped her avoid the truth of Pete’s death. But it had all been a waste of time – a silly, perverse game. Pete was dead and she was alone. She would never ever see him again. He would never hold her in his arms, ask about her day or play silly word games with her while they drove places.

Now she remembered seeing Clare driving, her violent reaction, her own car going off the road and coming to rest at the foot of a road sign. It all came back to her in startling clarity. So she could kill someone. If she felt angry enough she was
capable of it. It hadn’t just been an idle thought, she actually had tried to do it. The realisation didn’t upset her. If anything, she felt apathetic. Overriding every other emotion was heartstopping, overwhelming desolation.

Pete was dead. Dead, dead, dead. And that’s the way it was. Everything else could just go to hell. Clare Dalton. Marla. The mystery of the Blue Mountains. She hoped the whole shebang would disappear down the plughole. She didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone. It had all been a mistake. She turned to Clare.

‘I don’t feel very well. Can you go?’ she said.

Clare was disconcerted by the abrupt command. She still had so many questions. This woman, or at least her husband, was connected to Peg and Marla. But how? Nothing made any sense. She didn’t want to leave so instead stayed sitting on the couch. ‘Maybe you should see a doctor. You know you had a car accident and might have hurt yourself,’ she ventured.

Gwennie shot a look at her. The car accident … did she know what Gwennie had tried to do? Clare’s face showed only concern. Gwennie was relieved. And determined to get rid of her. She was exhausted. ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll call as soon as you go.’

Reluctantly, Clare followed her down the hallway. Gwennie didn’t offer to ring a taxi or drive her home. As Clare stepped onto the verandah Gwennie closed the door, leaving Clare to follow the sound of the traffic to a main road.

Gwennie walked back down the hallway, her bare feet making no noise on the polished floorboards. They were cool and smooth underfoot. She entered the bedroom. All about her the house was quiet. She felt around in the wardrobe for Pete’s dressing gown and put it on. She could hear noises from outside – a dog barking, the occasional car – but they were too distant to engage her.

She closed her eyes and breathed in Pete. She felt cocooned, wrapped in Pete’s smell, in their bedroom, in their house. Keeping her eyes closed she walked slowly out of the bedroom and down the length of the hallway, turning left into the kitchen, walking blindly past the bench, through the huge open-plan living area, avoiding furniture. With her feet carefully finding their way, she navigated the two steps down into the study. She paused for a moment, turned and moved back through the house ending up back at the front door. Then she started to repeat the circuit, eyes closed, arms by her side, shuffling soundlessly across the floors and around the furniture, circumnavigating the house.

The taxi pulled up at Dadue Street and Clare paid the driver. It was just 7 am and she wondered if Peg and Marla were up. If they weren’t, she would wake them, she decided. She would stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream until they came out of their rooms and answered every single question. It was with that thought and in that mood that she strode through the front door.

She found Marla and Peg sitting at the kitchen table in their dressing gowns. It was obvious from the pregnant silence that greeted her that their conversation had stopped as soon as they heard her.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Peg.

Clare put her bag on the kitchen bench and turned to face them.

‘I’ve been staying with Gwendoline Darvill. Pete’s wife. You know Pete, don’t you? Pete Darvill?’ She looked from one to the other.

Marla was pale with large circles under eyes. She looked tired and sad but also alert. The cornered, mad look she had the previous night was gone and Clare was relieved.

Peg also looked tired, but in control. She eyed her daughter. ‘No, as it happens I don’t know Pete Darvill.’

‘Oh puh-lease.’ Clare showed her disdain. ‘I’ve learned a hell of a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours, Mum. And not much of it good. So don’t toy with me. I’m not in the mood. I watched you try to poison a woman in our living room. That’s not
kind,
Mum. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Peg shook her head. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about. You have no idea …’

Clare put her hand in the air and cut her off.

‘Enough!
’ she shouted. ‘Enough. I know what I saw. I know you tried to poison that woman in our living room. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t want to hear any more lies and evasions and “it’s none of your business”.’

There was silence in the kitchen. Clare glared at
the two women. Peg glared back while Marla looked at the floor.

‘What
is
it with you two?’ Clare’s voice crackled with frustration and emotion.

Peg was unrelenting. It was time to try her sister.

‘I know all about your boyfriend Micky Darvill and the fire that killed Charles Dayton. And I know that you changed your name from Marlene Dayton to Marla Dalton.’

She spat it out with a sense of triumph. ‘I know all about it, so for God’s sake stop with the lies.’

Marla flinched. She looked caught out. Peg stayed composed, her large frame draped in a navy cotton dressing gown that billowed around her. She was perfectly still in the centre of all that fabric, her back erect and her hands clasped together in her lap.

Marla pushed aside her chair, moving herself deliberately away from her mother’s dominating presence. ‘You’re right, Clare. I have been thinking about this for a while now and I would rather it wasn’t like this but … One of the twelve steps of AA is to make retribution and apologise to anyone you might have wronged. I guess they don’t hold much store by guilt and carrying it around. I can’t think of a better place to start than with you.’

Peg hissed at her. ‘Shut up, Marla.’

‘No, you shut up, Mum,’ snapped Clare.

Marla moved still further away from her mother. ‘It’s all right, Clare. Don’t blame Mum. She’s just trying to protect us both. She doesn’t want you to be upset and she doesn’t want me to … well …
It’s a very ugly story, Clare, but you seem to have worked out some of it.’

‘Tell me,’ pleaded Clare.

‘Yes, yes. I will. You need to know and God knows I need to tell you. But you have to sit down and you have to stay there and let me finish before you say a word.’

Clare nodded. She felt a tingle of apprehension. It was what she so desperately wanted but now it appeared she was coming face to face with the truth, she was scared. She sat down at the end of the table, as far away from her mother as she could.

Marla turned to Peg. ‘And you have to stay there and listen. If you disagree with anything I say you can tell me so at the end when I have finished. I know this is going to be hard for you but you need to stay for Clare, for her sake. She is going to find this very hard and she is going to need you to be here.
I
need you to be here. Okay?’

Clare expected an argument, another Peg and Marla all-out skirmish, but Peg stayed strangely quiet. She and Marla exchanged a long meaningful look then Peg gave a profound sigh. It seemed to come from the depths of her soul and in its wake her whole posture slowly relaxed. As Peg gave in, Marla seemed to gather strength. The scared child of the previous night was nowhere to be seen. Instead Marla was in control.

Clare was bewildered by the undercurrents and nervous about what was about to be revealed. She tried to prepare herself for a shock, expecting something unpleasant and searched her mind for
any advice Mr Sanjay had given her that might help.
Do not weep; do not wax indignant. Understand.
It was a line from a book by a Dutch Jewish philosopher that Mr Sanjay loved to read. Baruch Spinoza. She had often recalled his lovely words when she dreaded another round of outrageous behaviour from her sister. Trying to keep that point of view, no matter what Marla said or did, was what Mr Sanjay had called a sporting challenge. Okay, thought Clare. Give it to me straight, Marla. I’m ready.