The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  ‘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.

  But who the hell was she? Why did Pete make secret visits to the Blue Mountains? And why did she have this feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach? Gwennie moved back to the start of Dal ton, A and picked up the receiver again to start methodically working her way down the list. She had all the time in the world.

  CHAPTER 6

  Clare studied Marla across the kitchen table. She was wearing makeup, a tight V-necked T-shirt Clare hadn’t seen before and her best Hermes scarf. But she hadn’t been able to completely conceal the dark circles under her eyes, and her knife and fork were shaking as she cut the lamb chop into bite-sized pieces.

  Marla became aware of Clare’s scrutiny. ‘You’re staring. Stop it. You’re making me self-conscious.’

  ‘I was just admiring your T-shirt. Is it from the shop?’

  Marla nodded. She treated the dress shop as an extension of her own wardrobe, often bringing home different pieces to try out. She would tuck the price tags out of sight and wear them for a few weeks, then either hand-wash them, being careful to keep the tags dry, or take them to the local drycleaners, instructing them how to do it. Only if she really liked the garments did she buy them.

  ‘It looks good,’ said Clare. ‘It suits you.’

  Marla looked pleased.

  ‘I’m going over to Susan’s. I can give you a lift on the way,’ offered Clare.

  ‘You want to make sure I’ll go, is that it?’ snapped Marla.

  Clare bit her lip and stayed silent.

  Marla’s face softened. ‘I’m going to go, little one, you don’t have to worry. I want to straighten myself out. I … I know I have a problem. I am an alcoholic. I hope Alcoholics Anonymous can help me … I …’

  The telephone rang and, as she always did when someone called during dinner, Peg declared that one day soon she would get rid of it.

  Marla rolled her eyes at Clare. ‘I’d like to see that,’ she whispered.

  Clare smiled. Marla seemed to be in a good mood. Clare wondered if she was nervous. Clare was nervous for her. What went on at those meetings, she wondered.

  ‘It’s for you, Clare,’ said Peg, returning to the table.

  Clare picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ said Clare. ‘Hello? Hello?’

  She looked across at her mother.

  ‘There’s no-one there.’

  ‘Well, there was. They asked for you. It was a woman.’

  ‘Hello. Hello,’ said Clare again. ‘Nope. No-one there.’

  ‘They must have got disconnected. I’m sure they’ll call back,’ said Peg.

  Clare strained to hear. The line sounded open and she had the odd feeling that there was someone at the other end, not speaking, just breathing and listening to her voice. It made her feel creepy. She hung up the receiver.

  *

  Gwennie replaced the handpiece in its cradle. She felt a flurry of emotions. Surprise, uncertainty and wicked, mischievous excitement.

  She swivelled about in Pete’s chair, the long lonely Saturday evening stretching before her. She listened for a moment to the sounds of the empty house then on impulse scribbled down the address, picked up her car keys and left.

  It didn’t take long to get to Summer Hill and find number 44 Dadue Street. She parked Pete’s black Saab under a tree opposite, giving her a clear view of the front door and the driveway. Number 44 was an unremarkable two-storey terrace that looked as if it leaned to one side. There was no garden to speak of – just a small patch of grass in need of mowing and a large lemon tree. It must have once been part of a row but now it stood alone, looking worn and slightly down on its luck.

  Now that she was here Gwennie wasn’t sure what she was going to do. But for the moment she was happy just to look. This wasn’t a part of town she had been to before. Instead of leafy streets of Federation and Edwardian homes, all painstakingly restored, extended and renovated, like where Gwennie lived in Neutral Bay, this area was a pastiche of styles. The house next door to number 44 boasted some grand Corinthian columns and cement paving with a white sculpted bird fountain in the centre. On the other side, behind an auction sign for a deceased estate, was a very tizzy formal English garden complete with two gnomes tucked in among masses of hollyhocks. The lawn edges were straight and trimmed and the driveway meticulously swept. Obviously much loved and tended, probably by an elderly English couple, thought Gwennie. Even her mother would have been impressed with that one. She looked back at number 44. You are a disgrace to your street, she thought unkindly. Parked in the driveway was a yellow car.

  Gwennie didn’t have to wait long. A woman emerged from number 44 and walked to the car. She was tall and slender, wearing tight faded jeans, a T-shirt and colourful scarf around her neck. Gwennie thought she would recognise that walk anywhere, that sassy strut that would have looked more at home on a catwalk than this suburban street. As Gwennie watched, another woman emerged. The physical likeness, from this distance, was uncanny. They both looked like the woman from Pete’s funeral.

  Gwennie’s memory was a little vague. She hadn’t been paying too much attention at the time. She carried in her head a snapshot of a woman in a bold tight red dress with a lot of dark auburn hair fluffed around her shoulders, lots of leg and a sexy walk. It was more of an impression and a feeling than a solid picture. Both these women had that same colour hair and manner of walking – slow and sensuous. Clare Dalton could be either one of them. The Honda reversed out of the driveway and drove past Gwennie. She waited a few seconds then followed.

  Traffic was light and Gwennie tried to keep
at least one car between herself and the two women without losing them at lights. It was a bit of a struggle and meant speeding up and slowing down, nipping behind a truck only to slam on the brakes then pull out and race an amber light. She hoped there were no police around to see her.

  Gwennie trailed the women down busy Parramatta Road with its lurid shopfronts and ethnic restaurants. The Honda turned left at Glebe Point Road, an eclectic mix of cafés, bookshops and new-age stores, and Gwennie followed.

  By the time the yellow car turned into the huge circular driveway of a mansion, Gwennie’s heart was racing and the adrenalin pumping. She parked some distance away and locked the door, trying to appear relaxed but feeling conspicuous. Her every movement seemed furtive. Just as she crossed the road the yellow car shot out of the driveway, back onto the street and took off towards the city. She got a glimpse of the woman driving but it was too brief to see her face in detail.

  ‘Damn,’ said Gwennie aloud. She doubted she would make it back to her own car in time to follow. She looked about her. It was a typical Saturday night on the busy inner-city street. Couples and groups of people walked along, stopping to read the menus and choose their restaurant for the evening. Everybody seemed to be in high spirits and had somewhere to go. Except Gwennie. No-one was expecting her anywhere for dinner. She decided she would just go with it, look like she knew what she doing, and see what happened. She could make up a story on the spot if need be, say she had the wrong address, didn’t speak English, or had escaped from the local loony bin. What the hell!

  Oceania House was a graceful old sandstone mansion. Vast flagged steps led to ornate double doors that stood open. Inside a directory showed a floorplan and named various rooms. The Australasian Room, the Tuvalu Suite, the Pacific Chamber. A table was covered in pamphlets and pinned above on a noticeboard were various newsletters and announcements. The beautiful old building appeared to be operating as a community hall.

  A young woman in a tracksuit with a sweat towel over her shoulder walked past Gwennie and up the grand staircase, taking them two at a time. A few seconds after she reached the top a door opened then closed and Gwennie was left alone, floodlit and lost beneath a huge glass chandelier.

  She rifled through the pamphlets. Yoga. Woodworking. Pilates. Do you want to lose kilos? We’ll show you how. Rainbow therapy, Wednesdays and Fridays. Have you lived in Egypt? Counsellor specialises in regression. Yesteryear prices. Ha ha.

  What on earth would Clare Dalton be doing here at 7 pm on a Saturday night? If indeed it was Clare.

  Gwennie walked down the carpeted hallway. She could hear murmuring behind a pair of floor-to-ceiling doors. She pressed her ear against them. It was impossible to make out what was going on inside. Gwennie heard a man’s voice coming towards her from down the hallway and ducked back to read the noticeboard. She pretended to be absorbed in a car-for-sale notice.

  ‘I finally talked to my wife, I mean really talked,’ the man told his female friend. ‘It was amazing. She was so supportive. I really thought she would leave me if she knew.’

  The man opened one of the double doors and the murmur rose. Gwennie strained her neck for a surreptitious glimpse. It looked like rows of chairs had been set out. People were milling around. She grabbed a couple of brochures and followed the couple in. Pretending a confidence she didn’t feel, she made her way straight to a seat at the back. No-one paid her any attention. The room had once been a grand reception hall. Now it was partitioned off to create smaller spaces. At one end was a table with an urn and mugs and plates of biscuits. The rest of the space was taken up with about forty chairs, placed in rows, all facing the front. There must have been twenty or so people in the room, some in pairs but most, like Gwennie, on their own. A quick scan didn’t locate anyone that resembled Clare Dalton. A nervous young woman in a lurid yellow T-shirt took a seat nearby and smiled uncertainly at her. Gwennie looked away. Bunch of fruitcakes, she thought. She looked at what was in her hand. Rainbow therapy. She pretended to read it.

  A booming American voice made her jump. ‘Hi. I’m Isaiah. You’re new, aren’t you?’

  Gwennie’s heart started racing. Here we go, she thought. Do I pretend not to understand English or do I start to twitch? She nodded, gave the barest hint of a smile, and returned to her pamphlet. Rainbow therapy is a new technique developed in California by …

  But Isaiah was not so easily dissuaded. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Gwennie.’

  ‘Welcome, Gwennie,’ he boomed. ‘It’s very nice to have you here. Would you like to speak tonight?’

  Speak? Would she like to speak? About what? Rain bow therapy? Weight loss? Her previous life as an Egyptian peasant? Gwennie looked horrified and shook her head.

  ‘That’s just fine. You just sit back here and relax and do as much as makes you feel comfortable. How about that?’

  Gwennie nodded, wishing he would go away and she could sneak out the door.

  This had been a mistake. She couldn’t see Clare Dalton in the crowd of people and didn’t know what she would say to her if she did. She wished she were home wearing Pete’s dressing gown, in front of The Bill with a cup of tea.

  Isaiah moved to the front of the room clapping his hands and saying in his hearty manner that it was time to get started. A pretty young woman wearing low-slung jeans and a cropped, waist-baring T-shirt rushed in and started unfurling a pile of posters.

  *

  Clare parked her car outside Susan’s apartment. She lived in a four-storey red-brick block in a suburb between the city and the university. She was in tears when Clare arrived.

  ‘I’ve just got off the phone from Mum. I can’t believe it. The terrible things she is saying about Dad … Oh it’s horrible.’

  Susan was tall, with short strawberry-blonde hair and masses of freckles. She was usually vivacious, speaking fast and loudly, the life and soul of every party. Nothing fazed Susan. But tonight she greeted Clare with her lip quivering and her hand clutching a large glass of red wine.

  Clare dropped her bag on the couch. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  Susan poured it all out. Her parents were splitting up. Her father had been having an affair for years. He didn’t love her mother and now that the children were adults, he wanted to make a new life, one that didn’t include her.

  Clare was shocked. Mr and Mrs Lee splitting up? Mr Lee having an affair? It was like being told Father Christmas hated children. Such things weren’t meant to happen. The Lee family were the picture postcard of families. They were straight off an American TV sitcom and exactly what Clare had yearned for all through her school years.

  There was Mum, Dad and their two perfect children, Susan and Billy. The Lee home was orderly and clean, not like the bedlam of the Dalton household with Peg’s dressmaking strewn all across the lounge room, her jigsaws taking up the dining table and Marla being either hysterically happy or completely morose. Dalton meals were eaten in the kitchen or, more often, in front of the television on the nest of tables. Peg had the biggest table, Marla the second biggest and Clare the small one.

  The Lee family lived around the corner but it could have been a hundred miles away, so different was their life. Or so it seemed to a teenage Clare. Mrs Lee was twenty years younger than Peg and so much more hip. She took the girls to see the latest movies and wore a bikini at the beach.

  Every year the Lee family spent all of January at Noosa, renting the same house near the beach. From the age of thirteen, Clare had been invited along. Billy always invited a playmate, usually his best friend Alan, and the four teenagers spent a carefree month splashing around the waves together while Mr and Mrs Lee baked themselves in the sun. For young Clare it was heaven. And if Mr Lee was occasionally a little sharp with them all, she thought that must be what dads did. She still thought Susan was terribly fortunate to have one.

  In the Lee home in suburban Summer Hill, everything was always neat and clean. Plastic covered the carpet, they ate at the dining table a
nd Mr Lee said grace before each meal. Manners were very important and Mr Lee would scold Susan if she made a noise scraping her knife and fork against the plate. Clare learned such things from Susan’s family and felt the better for it. They knew what was proper and conducted themselves accordingly. When she was out at dinner or feeling intimidated by her surroundings, she modelled her behaviour on what she thought the Lees would do.

  For that to fall apart was inconceivable. Clare was aghast. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I know. I’m still in shock.’

  ‘But your parents were always so happy.’

  ‘Apparently that was a huge charade for our benefit.’

  ‘Oh Susan, I’m so sorry. How’s your poor mother?’

  ‘Poor mother nothing. She is as happy as a lark. She says she’s hated Dad for years and can’t wait to see the back of him. She reckons it’s about time she started having some fun of her own.’

  ‘No.’ Clare shook her head. She didn’t know what to say. The idea of Betty Lee kicking up her heels in middle age was too hard to imagine. Poor Susan. Clare felt for her friend.

  Susan had been her best mate since year 5. They attended the same primary school, went on together to the local high school and now were at university, albeit in different faculties – Clare studying veterinary science while Susan was doing psychology. They were blood sisters, slashing their thumbs in primary school and letting the blood mingle.

  ‘Friends for life,’ they had vowed. And so they were.

  Susan shared Clare’s passion for knowledge. They were considered the least cool in the class and they didn’t care.

  ‘I always envied you your family,’ said Susan.

  Clare looked at her friend with disbelief. ‘You’re joking. Why?’