The Wrong Door (26 page)

‘It was the perfect place for Micky to stay. Our own girls were a bit younger. Jilly was sixteen and Amanda about fifteen. They immediately adopted
Micky, who we renamed Jimmy, and he just became part of the family. He calls me Terri but he believes I am his mother. And honestly that is how I feel.

‘He is a happy, loving boy. He has no anger, no fire in his belly. He is happy as long as he is here on the farm.’

The tears poured down Clare’s face unchecked. She could no longer hold back the torrent of emotions. Her shoulders heaved as she gave vent to it all. Gwennie and Terri both looked at her. So absorbed were they both in their own feelings about that night they hadn’t noticed the effect it had been having on her.

‘Why does it upset you so much?’ asked Gwennie.

‘Micky is my father,’ sobbed Clare.

Gwennie’s eyes widened with surprise.

‘I wondered,’ said Terri quietly. ‘Oh my dear. This must be very painful for you.’

Clare continued to sob.

Gwennie passed her a tissue. ‘I had no idea. And your mother is Marlene?’

‘Yes, only she calls herself Marla now.’

Gwennie remembered the beautiful woman with the sad eyes from the AA meeting and their conversation about secrets. How she had hated her. God how self-absorbed she had been, consumed with her own grief. For the first time since Pete had died, she felt some empathy for someone else. Clare and Marla. They too had suffered, and still were suffering.

A hairline crack appeared in the wall she had
constructed around her grief. She put her hand on Clare’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Clare. This must be awful for you.’

Clare wiped her eyes. ‘It is a bit of a shock. But I’m okay. Go on, Terri.’

Terri looked uncertain. ‘Well, that’s it really. Jimmy has no idea about what happened, no memory of life before he came here. Peter used to come once a month to check that he was okay. Jimmy didn’t know who he was but still he grew to look forward to his visits. Peter was so good with him. He never gave up on him. He paid for all his upkeep.’

‘Why couldn’t he tell me that? I would have understood.’

‘Of course you would have, my dear. I don’t think he ever doubted your understanding. But it would have made you an accessory after the fact to a murder, and he wouldn’t do that.’

Terri walked with them to the car. The late afternoon sun was low on the horizon casting a deep golden glow across the long dry yellow grass that covered the property. The cicadas started their evening chorus.

Gwennie raged inwardly. It didn’t matter what Pete’s motivation had been, she felt cheated. The man she loved, who shared her bed, had had secrets. Big ones that he had to work to keep from her. He had kept a piece of himself tucked away. It went against everything she believed about their relationship. As they walked Gwennie paid little attention to where she was stepping, consumed
with thoughts of Pete. She stumbled and grabbed Clare’s shoulder to stop herself falling. They looked down at a pile of feathers.

‘Bloody birds,’ Gwennie muttered. ‘What is it with them lately? Everywhere I go there’s dead birds.’ She poked at the carcass with the toe of her leather shoe. It let out a puff of dust. Gwennie kicked it and the dust billowed around her foot.

Clare pushed Gwennie away roughly. ‘Don’t breathe in that dust,’ she told her. ‘Move away.’

Gwennie jumped with surprise, not sure what was going on but reacting to the urgency in Clare’s voice.

Terri shared her surprise. ‘It’s just a dead parrot. We have a lot of those at the moment. More fallout from the bushfires I’m afraid. The fire destroyed their natural habitat and most of their food. A lot of them are weak and diseased. We have been finding carcasses all over the property.’

‘There’s nothing harmless about a dead parrot,’ said Clare. ‘They may carry the psittacosis virus and if they do it just takes a whiff of that dust or of their droppings to infect a human. And psittacosis is one disease you don’t want to get. It can kill you. You think you have the flu but you just don’t get better. I did a paper on it at university. Very nasty.’

Gwennie stared at Terri then Clare. She felt a tremor along the nerve endings under her skin and shivered. ‘What are the symptoms?’ she asked.

Clare rattled them off. ‘Fever, sore throat, weakness. It starts like the flu but quickly develops into full-blown psittacosis. I think more vets know
about it than doctors, which is a pity. It’s usually mistaken for pneumonia.’

Clare paused, noticing how pale Gwennie had become.

‘Pneumonia?’ echoed Gwennie.

Clare nodded.

Gwennie started to quietly sob.

Marla closed her eyes tightly against the shock. Her bottom lip quivered like a little girl. ‘He’s still up there … at Blackheath?’ she whispered. ‘He’s been there all this time?’

Her whole body shuddered. She opened the back door and ran down the steps. Clare listened to her retching in the garden. She waited a few minutes, poured a glass of water then followed. Marla was sitting on the bottom step, her shoulders slumped and her brow beaded with sweat.

‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘No idea. All this time …’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘And you saw him? Oh my God.’ She chewed her thumbnail as she looked off into the distance. ‘So how is he?’ Her eyes were full of hope and expectation as she looked up at Clare.

Clare hesitated. She was trying to explain gently but instead felt she might be making things worse.
‘Well … he’s different … he’s like a … I could take you up there to see him …’

Marla shook her head vigorously, cutting Clare off in mid-sentence. ‘Oh no. He must hate me. You don’t understand. I let him take the blame for something that I did. I ruined his life. He has had to spend his life in hiding because of what I did, because I was too gutless to admit what I had done.’

Clare sat down on the ground at Marla’s feet, placing herself directly in front of her. ‘No, Marla. Look at me. That’s not what happened. You mustn’t blame yourself any more. Now listen to me. You didn’t kill Charles Dayton.’

Clare spoke quietly but urgently, all the while staring hard at Marla.

‘You have lived with that idea for too long and it is wrong. You didn’t kill your father. Micky did.’

Clare repeated what Terri had told her. ‘It happened after you left the shed. They fought violently and Micky hit Dayton over the head. He didn’t mean to kill him but he did and then he set fire to the shed to cover up what he had done.’

Marla looked past Clare’s shoulder, her eyes unfocussed and her expression glazed.

‘Are you listening to me?’ shouted Clare. ‘You are not to blame. You did not kill your father.’

Marla’s eyes snapped back to her. ‘What are you saying? How would you know?’

‘Charles Dayton was alive when you left the shed and healthy enough for him to be able to beat the crap out of Micky. Micky’s injuries were extensive. Dayton beat him black and blue.’

Marla looked at Clare with a mixture of disbelief and recognition. She scanned her memory of the night. Was this possible?

Clare watched various expressions flit across her face. Her hands flew from her face to her lap to mid-air, where they gestured, as if she were conducting a conversation inside her head. Finally they came to rest. ‘Is that true?’ she murmured.

‘Yes. It’s true.’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ she mumbled. She repeated it to herself a few times, as if to try it out, test it for meaning. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said, this time with a hint of conviction.

Clare felt nauseous with excitement and anticipation. For the first time in a month she wished Marla was with her. Her sister – she still couldn’t think of her any other way – would know exactly what was appropriate for a first date. And no doubt she would have just the very thing – fabulous and elegant – hanging in her wardrobe for Clare to borrow.

Clare put her out of her mind. Marla was in Summer Hill in the inner west of Sydney. Clare was here in her new home, sharing this large apartment on the north shore. She had moved as far away as she could without making it impossible to get to classes at the university. There was little chance she would bump into either Marla or Peg. And that’s just how Clare wanted it. She wasn’t about to go home just for help with her wardrobe. She had no desire to see either of them. Not yet.

A few days after Marla’s revelations and the visit to Cherry Dell, Clare had moved out of Dadue Street. The two-storey house with the rickety wooden stairs was suddenly unbearable. No longer could she sit across the dinner table from those two women. To think of them as her mother and grandmother made her want to throw glasses or smash plates, so she avoided thinking about them at all. Whatever relation they were, it had no relevance to the person Clare Dalton was now, she tried to tell herself. At the moment Clare felt she had nothing to say to either woman, nor did she want to hear from them.

When she had walked out of the front door, handing Peg her set of house keys, she didn’t say where she was going or when she might be in touch.

Marla had seemed to understand and Clare had found that patronising and irritating, while the look of pain on Peg’s face gave her a moment of perverse pleasure. On a few occasions since, the memory of Peg’s distress had slipped unbidden into her mind but, before it could blossom into guilt, she put it aside, forcing herself to focus on something else. On Peg’s sixtieth birthday she had felt miserable all day, but didn’t ring. While she sorted through her feelings of anger and betrayal, she tried to cut them both out of her life.

Clare stared at the sight before her – the meagre contents of her own wardrobe. She wished she could ring Susan for advice, or just a chat to share her excitement, but she and Bill were holidaying in Thailand. Clare’s flatmate was out so that meant she
was all on her own to make this momentous decision. She rifled through the clothes on hangers. Nothing looked as good as the dress she had already tried on, then discarded. It lay on her bed in a puddle of red fabric.

The dress was vivid, dramatic, close-fitting and, as Peg would have said in a voice heavy with disapproval, the colour of a whore’s lipstick. Mr Sanjay would have loved it. He would have said it was red like a fresh, young rosebud, or a hollyhock or something else from nature. Certainly the dress was not for the faint-hearted. It reminded her of the one she had borrowed from Marla for Mr Sanjay’s funeral. The thought made her smile. Well then, perhaps it was appropriate. And what the hell? She wasn’t feeling faint-hearted. She was feeling cheeky and mischievous and lusty and, for all her nerves, probably the most confident she had ever felt in her life. She barely knew this man but she felt the strength of the frisson between them. Tonight was a beginning. And there was something almost intolerable and yet exciting about knowing that.

She checked her watch. Shit, shit, shit. He would be here in five minutes. She pulled the dress over her head, found her shoes and was just applying lipstick when the buzzer sounded. Right on time. The butterflies in her stomach did one final somersault. She opened the door. Naresh stood there, suave and handsome in a light-coloured suit.

Marla’s voice sounded so familiar it gave Clare a jolt to hear it over the telephone.

‘Thank you for calling, Clare. I wasn’t sure if you would.’ It was three months since they had spoken and Marla’s tone was almost excessively polite. She was using what Peg called her ‘phone voice’.

‘I wasn’t sure I would,’ said Clare. ‘But you told Susan it was urgent. Are you all right? Is Peg?’

‘Yes, yes, we’re both fine.’

‘So, what’s so urgent?’

Marla hesitated. ‘I want to see Micky and I was hoping you would drive me up there.’

Clare was silent as she considered the request.

‘Please, Clare,’ said Marla quietly, ‘I don’t think I could face it on my own.’

Marla’s timing was spot on. Clare’s anger wasn’t completely spent but she was beginning to miss Peg and Marla and the mad goings on of Dadue Street. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’d be happy to.’

They made plans for the following Saturday. Clare would pick her up from number 44 at 10 am. Clare told her sister to be waiting outside as she didn’t want to see Peg and she had no intention of going inside the house.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ promised Marla.

Initially the atmosphere had been strained. After they had been driving for a few minutes Clare asked about Peg in such a clipped tone that it seemed she didn’t really want to know.

‘She’s well. She has lots of work on at the moment. Plenty to keep her busy.’

‘Uh-uh,’ said Clare.

‘She misses you though.’

Clare said nothing.

‘Why don’t you come over for dinner one night? She’d love that. It would mean so much to her.’

‘Maybe,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll see.’ Her words were noncommittal but her demeanour softened. She changed the subject. ‘And what about you? What have you been up to?’

‘I’ve been sober. And, strange as it may sound, that takes up a lot of my time. I go to a meeting most evenings and sometimes during the day as well. There is always one on somewhere. I’m also at the frock shop three days a week. And … I’m taking a word processing course.’ Marla smiled self-consciously.

‘Word processing?’

‘Yes. And typing. I want to become qualified on a computer and then look for a job as a secretary or receptionist. Or personal assistant to someone very powerful and important.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a school teacher?’

‘A school teacher? Did I? I’m not sure I would be any good at that. I was never very good at school. No, I want to join the corporate world, I think. I’m not sure. But I think having some secretarial skills will make me employable in a couple of different ways. Hey, maybe you might like to hire me. I could be your receptionist and assistant and run your thriving vet practice, once you get one. It could be Dalton and Dalton.’ Marla gestured in the air as if drawing a billboard in the sky.

Clare rolled her eyes.

Marla sighed. ‘Okay, okay. Just Dalton then.’

In spite of herself Clare laughed. The mood between them relaxed and stayed that way for the rest of the drive up to the Blue Mountains.

Marla talked of Micky. ‘You are like him you know. You look like me but you have inherited his sense of righteousness. He was always railing against the world. Wanting to help the underdog. And he loved animals, just like you.’

It wasn’t much but Clare hung on every word. ‘Were you very much in love?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. I think the first time you fall in love is the most intense. It is such a discovery. About yourself and the world.’ Marla sounded nostalgic. ‘Listen to me. I sound like a schoolgirl. You must know what that is like. Have you fallen in love yet, little one? What about that boy Richard who used to ring you?’

‘Love? Ugh. No way. He was just a friend.’

‘And Jeremy? He was a boyfriend, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, for a little while. But no, I don’t see him any more.’ Clare gave a little smile.

It was quick and fleeting but Marla caught it. ‘Hello? What was that little smile for?’

Clare blushed. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it yet. Too early, too precious. She felt like she held a delicious secret, tucked inside her shirt.

Marla laughed. ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me.’

Suddenly Clare did want to share. She wanted to stop the car, stand on the bonnet and yell it out to the mountains. ‘I have met someone I like … very much.’

‘Go on,’ said Marla.

‘It’s Mr Sanjay’s son.’

Marla’s jaw dropped. ‘The Indian man next door?’

Clare nodded.

‘You’re seeing each other?’

‘We have been going out for a couple of months. And Marla … I really, really like him. He is the most amazing and beautiful man.’

Marla squealed with delight. The two women chatted and laughed and said silly, nonsensical things for the rest of the drive to Blackheath. It wasn’t until they turned off the highway that they became serious again.

‘You will find him very different now. You do understand that, don’t you?’ said Clare.

‘I know. He’s Jimmy now. And he most likely won’t remember anything about me. It’s okay, little one. I know what to expect. Really. I’m ready.’

Clare and Terri stood on the verandah watching Marla walk towards Micky. Dusk was still a few hours away but already the early evening chill was coming up from the valley, wrapping itself around the women’s bare legs.

‘Why don’t we go inside,’ said Terri. ‘Briony will have lit the fire in the sitting room.’

Clare appreciated the older woman’s sensitivity. It wasn’t the cold that Terri was offering them an escape from, but the feeling of intruding. She was as uncomfortable as Clare about watching the two
old lovers meet. Clare agonised for Marla as Terri led the way into the sitting room. It was cosy and welcoming, obviously the centre of family life. A roaring fire warmed the room. On the mantelpiece and spread over every available surface were dozens of different-sized photographs, each in a different frame. The effect was chaotic but friendly.

Clare walked slowly past them all, studying each picture in turn. Micky, or Jimmy, as he was to this family, was in many of them – posing with Terri’s two daughters, grinning at the camera, joining in silly antics. Always, he looked happy.

When they were sitting comfortably in the two armchairs on either side of the fire, Terri asked about Gwennie. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Clare.

‘How is she?’

‘Better. She talks about Pete now. Just a little bit every now and then. I think that’s healthy. She is back at work teaching and has sold the house.’

‘Is she going to go back to England?’

‘No, she decided to stay in Australia. She bought a large apartment by the water. No garden, no maintenance. And she decided she didn’t want to live alone so she has taken in a boarder.’

‘Who?’ asked Terri.

Clare smiled. ‘Me.’