Authors: Bunty Avieson
‘Don’t, Clare … please don’t. I will tell you but just not now. Please.’
The two women stayed seated on the floor.
‘Tell me a story,’ said Marla.
It was what Clare used to say to Marla as a child when a nightmare woke her and Marla would come in to comfort her. Clare thought for a moment. She chose her childhood favourite, the tale of the Dalton bears. Marla had made it up and, together with Clare, embellished and changed it on each retelling according to the particular circumstances or time of year.
‘Once upon a time there were three bears who all lived together in a rambling old mansion. They were the Dalton bears. Mama Bear was a world-renowned seamstress who used to make fine frocks for all the beautiful ladies of the kingdom. Big Sister Bear was tall and glamorous and could tie a scarf like no other woman in the land, and then there was Baby Bear, who was so smart, she could
build a fully working space station from Lego blocks, better than any builder in the world. But the best thing about the Dalton bears was their legs. They each had the most amazing pins – long and shapely and they were the reason the Dalton bears were such good dancers. Royal bears from neighbouring lands would travel for days just for the privilege of dancing with a Dalton bear.’
In the past that had been the cue for Clare to throw off her blankets and cycle in the air, showing off her shapely Dalton legs. It was the climax of the story and always sent Clare into fits of hysterical giggles. By the time she had stopped laughing the night terrors would have been forgotten and the world once again was a happy place.
Clare threw herself back on the carpet and cycled in the air, just like she had as a child.
It brought the faint hint of a smile to Marla’s face. ‘We’ll talk, just not now. I need to wash up,’ she said.
Clare nodded and left the room feeling sad and thoughtful. She wasn’t angry with Marla any more.
*
Gwennie picked her time, arriving at the offices of Darvill and Rossetti at 9.15 on Friday morning. It was the weekly meeting of the partners, the project managers and the draughtspersons, which should give her at least half an hour in Pete’s office, uninterrupted by his well-wishing colleagues. She felt she had endured enough polite condolences from people. She didn’t know what to say in response
and it always created an awkward silence that she felt responsible for. Also it should be a good time to catch Laurelle, away from the nosy secretaries.
Gwennie arrived unannounced and swept past the receptionist, pretending a cool confidence that she didn’t feel. She knew the way to Pete’s office, thank you. As Gwennie climbed the stairs, the receptionist picked up the telephone and dialled a number. ‘Guess who’s here,’ she whispered, then hung up.
Gwennie heard her and groaned inwardly. So much for sneaking in. She steeled herself as she made her way along the carpeted corridor to the far end.
The two-storey building had been refurbished and rearranged since she had worked there but she had been in on a few occasions and knew her way around.
Laurelle was sitting in Pete’s chair looking out the window. From the dazed expression on her face, it was obvious she was daydreaming. When Gwennie appeared in the doorway she jumped up and stepped away from the desk, looking instantly guilty. Whether it was because she was caught out not working or felt uncomfortable being found by Gwennie sitting in Pete’s chair, she couldn’t be sure. Nor did Gwennie give it a second thought. She had her own agenda.
‘I wanted to drop by to thank you for coming over last night and taking care of those things,’ she began.
Laurelle was surprised by the change in the
woman before her. Gwennie had washed and styled her hair and she looked more like her old self in expensive tailored suede pants and a cream cashmere twin set. Her face was pale but her eyes were alert. ‘You look a lot better,’ she remarked.
Gwennie knew that was true. She felt a lot better. Having a purpose had cheered her up considerably, propelling her out of bed and into the day. But now that she was here she felt awkward, wondering how to direct the conversation where she wanted it to go.
Laurelle had been devoted to Pete and he had relied on her. Gwennie had been cordial but remained distant. At the time it seemed appropriate. Now she wished she had been a little bit less aloof and they had become friends. It might have made this easier.
‘Do you want some time in here on your own?’ asked Laurelle.
‘No, no, please stay,’ replied Gwennie. ‘I really was hoping I could talk to you. I thought you may be able to help me with a few things.’
‘Of course,’ said Laurelle, taking a seat in one of the empty client chairs. Clearly she was leaving Pete’s chair vacant for Gwennie.
Gwennie took the other client chair. She didn’t feel at all relaxed. It was Pete’s space and yet it all seemed strange and impersonal and she found that vaguely depressing. He had spent most of his week in this room at this desk surrounded by these books and artworks, and yet it was all so unfamiliar to Gwennie. She felt her energy start to wane.
Taking a deep breath she said as casually as she could, ‘I was looking through some tax records and I think the accountant is going to need some clarification on a few things.’
Laurelle listened politely.
‘Did Pete have a client in the Blue Mountains, someone he visited?’
Gwennie watched Laurelle’s face very carefully. She thought, but couldn’t be sure, that there was the faintest flicker in her eyes at mention of the Blue Mountains.
Laurelle hesitated, then spoke slowly and deliberately, choosing her words with care. ‘As far as I know Pete had no work projects connected with Darvill and Rossetti in the Blue Mountains.’
It was an oddly specific response. It made Gwennie want to break down and question every part of the statement. So he did go to the Blue Mountains but not on a work project? Or did he have work projects not connected with Darvill and Rossetti? Or did he work at some other mountain range? Laurelle’s response was rather confusing. Gwennie stared at Laurelle, her eyes drilling into her.
Laurelle’s gaze flicked away and she started to straighten a pile of folders that as far as Gwennie could tell were already straight. Gwennie felt pinpricks of fear along her arms. For the second time that week she had a premonition that something wasn’t right. Clearly Laurelle was hiding something from Gwennie but she had no idea how to pursue it.
‘I see,’ said Gwennie. ‘One other thing. I was hoping you could help with an address. I received a condolence card from a friend of Pete’s but I threw out the envelope. Do you know how I could get in touch with a woman called Clare Dalton?’
Laurelle stopped shuffling papers and looked back at Gwennie. ‘I don’t think I ever heard him mention a Clare Dalton. Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’
She looked and sounded genuinely puzzled. Gwennie couldn’t think of anything else to add and was feeling nauseous from the effort of the morning. She didn’t think she imagined Laurelle’s relief when she said goodbye.
*
Clare lay in bed listening to the sound of the traffic on Parramatta Road, less than a kilometre away. It was one of the city’s main arteries and trucks rattled along at all hours of the day and night making a constant hum that provided the backdrop to the Daltons’ lives and that of their neighbours in Dadue Street.
Occasionally a horn would sound or the squeal of tyres could be heard but mostly it was one long, low rumble, with its own ebb and flow. Clare imagined the sound to be waves crashing on the beach outside her window. She pictured the exterior of her house but, instead of seeing the old freestanding terrace, sandwiched between Mr Sanjay’s Californian bungalow and the Greek family’s place on the other side, she placed it alone on a clifftop.
As far as she could see in either direction was tall, wild grass, swaying in the evening breeze. Clare added a full moon, its silver light reflected on the ocean, breaking up into a million twinkling fairy lights with each crashing wave.
The image soothed her. Marla and her problems receded. Her sadness over Mr Sanjay eased. She thought of nothing but the sound of the waves and the picture she was painting in her mind. She added to it here and there, touching it up, soaring above and seeing the scene as a bird would. She looked into her window and saw herself lying in her bed. Then she swooped away, up and over the ocean. It was a technique Mr Sanjay had taught her. He told her that her mind was a muscle and she should give it regular workouts to keep it supple.
‘What do you hear?’ he had asked her one day as they sat outside his shed sipping tea.
Clare had listened for a moment, allowing her senses to take in everything. She heard insects buzzing around them as the day started to wane and she strained to hear the sounds that were further away.
‘Birds, cicadas, traffic,’ she said.
Mr Sanjay nodded. Clare stared at him. She knew there was a point to the question but he gave no indication of what he thought of her answer, his head on one side as he listened to the evening sounds. His eyes were half closed and his mind seemed far away.
‘What do you hear?’ she asked.
‘Birds, cicadas, the ocean.’
The ocean was twelve kilometres away. Clare was bemused. ‘How can you hear the ocean?’
Mr Sanjay told her to imagine that the sound of the traffic was actually the ocean. ‘What you look at is what you see. What you listen to is what you hear,’ he said cryptically.
Clare didn’t understand and it showed on her face.
‘Pretend,’ he said with a wink.
And so she had. It was surprisingly easy. The traffic could sound like the ocean, if she put her mind to it. That night she went to sleep imagining huge waves rolling in and crashing on the shore. The following night, after she was comfortably tucked up in bed, Marla visited the bathroom next door to Clare’s room and left the tap dripping. Usually when she did that Clare would drag herself out of bed and turn it off, grumpy at Marla’s selfishness and insensitivity.
But this time she decided she wasn’t in bed in her room. She was in a sleeping bag on a lilo in a tent that was pitched by a beautiful river. The dripping water was a little stream running right beside her. Above the tent and as far as she could see was a dark blanket perforated with billions of overbright stars. After a few moments the dripping tap became part of the whole imagined scene and she drifted off to sleep, still adding touches as she became a bird and flew over the landscape – seeing her horse tied to a log beside the dying embers of a campfire …
Mr Sanjay spent all his time transforming his little suburban world into something more grand. It wasn’t because he was unhappy with his life. It was what he called his mental workout. His shed became his gazebo. His old car, his limousine. It was a game he and Clare often played, creating a parallel world from the one in which they actually lived. Sometimes it bore some relation to their environment and other times it was more far fetched.
Once when Mr Sanjay had been about to sit on his stool, ready for a bout of chess, Clare stopped him, making a big fuss of dusting his stool with her elbow, though clearly it was quite clean. He asked what she was doing.
‘I wouldn’t want your beautiful new trench coat to get dirty,’ she replied.
Mr Sanjay chortled with delight, flicking out the bottom of an imaginary coat before he sat down. He lifted the collar of his old cotton shirt, as if to hide the lower half of his face. ‘Well, please keep that cockatoo sitting on your shoulder away from me. I don’t want him dropping something unspeakable on my beautiful coat,’ he replied.
‘This cockatoo?’ Clare enquired, gesturing to her left shoulder and raising it slightly. ‘This sulphur-crested cockatoo?’
‘That’s him,’ said Mr Sanjay.
They had spent the rest of the afternoon speaking little as they played chess – Clare with her left shoulder raised as if indeed there was a bird perched there while every so often Mr Sanjay
would look askance then furtively peer around the garden as if he were worried he had been followed and someone might be creeping up on him.
*
Saturday morning dawned sunny and bright all across Sydney. In quiet, leafy Neutral Bay, people went about their weekend chores – washing cars, buying groceries, reading the morning newspapers in the warm spring sunshine and traipsing through homes for sale or auction and open for inspection.
It should have been the day Gwennie and Pete went to the nursery to buy the plants for their garden. Instead Gwennie sat in Pete’s swivel chair looking out at the half-finished yard. The first stage had been completed with a path leading down the side of the house and joining the paved patio. Garden beds were filled with mounds of fresh dirt, ready for planting. Gwennie couldn’t imagine ever finding the heart to finish it. What would be the point?
She watched a pair of rosellas splash about in the bird bath. They didn’t seem to mind the mess around them. They dipped their beaks into the water, then shook their heads vigorously, sending masses of droplets flying everywhere. Gwennie felt wistful for a moment. What must their world be like? If they had enough food and water all was well, she supposed. She wondered if they chose a mate for life. These two certainly seemed happy together, carefree and playful.
She looked back at the telephone directory on the desk in front of her and flicked it open to Dalton.
She had no idea where Clare Dalton might reside. Nor did she know if Ms Dalton had a silent number or even a phone registered in her name. There were three and a half columns and only eight of them were
C Dalton.
She started with those. It didn’t take long. If they weren’t home, there was usually an answering machine to tell her she had the wrong Dalton.
Carl, Charles, Christian,
Clarke,
two
Craigs, Crandell, Craven.
No Clare. As she made each phone call, the thoughts circled in her head. She was being silly. What did it matter who Clare Dalton was? Clare Dalton obviously knew Pete, she had been enough of a friend to pay her respects at his funeral, it was the right thing for Gwennie to make contact. Pete would want her to.