‘Oh, you don’t have to. You just kind of drop in. She’s always there and either Tashi, that’s her grandson, or her grand-daughter – I can’t remember her name – can translate. She doesn’t do it for a living or anything like that. You don’t have to pay her. She is just very kind and, as with village custom, wouldn’t turn you away. If a stranger turns up they offer you tea. It’s tradition. But maybe take a gift, an offering.’
‘Like what?’ asked Gwennie.
‘Oh something to have with the tea. Biscuits, I think.’
‘How do you know about this woman?’
‘My boyfriend studies with her grandson and Tashi invited us to meet her. She is truly quite extraordinary. She has a gentleness about her that is hard to describe. And a knowingness, a way of looking at you that makes you feel like she can see into your brain cells. People come from villages all over Bhutan to see her and I’m not surprised. She told me some amazing things.’
‘Like what?’ asked Gwennie.
‘Well, she told me to go and ring my mother. She said she needed me. I immediately did and found out she had just broken her leg. And she told me that Greg, that’s my boyfriend, was my soul mate. And he is. I know that.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Gwennie.
‘I can’t pronounce it. Let me write it down for you.’
CHAPTER 9
It was just after 7 am when Clare jogged into the local sports reserve, Marla limping along behind her.
‘Please, have mercy. I can’t keep up this pace,’ panted Marla.
Clare slowed to a brisk walk. ‘Why don’t we sit down and you can catch your breath,’ suggested Clare.
The sisters sat on a park bench looking out onto the track where a dozen runners of all ages did laps. Around the edges locals walked their dogs. An hour ago the reserve would have been deserted, the grass glistening with fresh dew. And in another hour most people there would have gone on to jobs in the city or nearby suburbs and the reserve would be empty again. But for now it was busy.
‘Are there always this many people up at this hour?’ asked Marla.
Clare laughed.
‘Yes.’
‘Gawd.’
They watched an elderly woman in a sporty blue tracksuit, with her grey hair beautifully coiffured, power walk past them on the track. Her movements were jerky and her face grimaced with pain. When she was out of earshot they laughed.
‘That’s you in a few years, Clare.’
‘Ha! Don’t be so rude. If I can still get around like that at that age then I’ll be happy.’
‘Well, just make sure you have your hair done first.’
A labrador puppy came up and sniffed around their seat, then bounded off to its owner.
‘Why are you angry with Mum?’ blurted Clare.
Marla wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘I’m not. She’s my mother.’
‘But you get so mad at her.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Why is it complicated?’
Marla looked agitated. She started to scratch her leg. It was an unconscious gesture that she did when she was under pressure. Often she scratched so hard she left a red rash on her thigh. She changed the subject. ‘What are we going to do about her birthday?’ she asked. ‘It’s her sixtieth so I think we should make it special.’
Clare sighed. Her sister was so evasive. ‘What do you care? You hate her.’
‘I don’t hate her. I could never hate her. She’s my mother. It doesn’t matter how much of a cow your mother is you can’t ever hate her. It’s not allowed,’ said Marla flippantly. ‘Why are you so grumpy, little one?’
Clare gave up. The morning was too beautiful to spoil by being negative. ‘I was thinking we could take her on a picnic. You know how she used to live opposite Centennial Park as a child?’
Marla nodded.
‘Well she told me the other day that she hadn’t been there for thirty or forty years. I think we should take her. Take enough bread to feed the ducks, just like she used to, and a picnic lunch, and lay it all out under one of those beautiful old trees.’
Marla squealed with excitement, like a little girl. ‘That’s a great idea. We could take a frisbee.’
Clare raised one eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right. I can see the three of us throwing a frisbee around Centennial Park. The Dalton bears on a jamboree.’
‘Oh, stop it. Why not?’ asked Marla.
‘I thought we could ask all Mum’s friends.’
‘Viv and Gerald and co? Oh no. So soon after Christmas?’
‘And Doris,’ added Clare.
‘You want to bring Mum’s mannequin on the picnic?’
Clare nodded and Marla burst out laughing.
‘Why not? This will be a jolly affair.’
They chatted about arrangements for their picnic. It was two-and-a-half weeks away so they had plenty of time to organise the surprise. Clare would make quiches and salads at Susan’s house and Marla would order the birthday cake and pick it up on the morning. They argued over who would telephone their mother’s friends.
‘The last one to the fence has to ring Gerald …’ yelled Marla over her shoulder as she suddenly raced off.
*
Gwennie had a leisurely breakfast at the Hydro Majestic Hotel, looking out at the view while she thought about her plans for the day. She could spend it wandering around, hoping to stumble across something that would explain why Pete came here, she could visit the Bhutanese shaman or she could go home. She decided to combine the first two. She didn’t want to admit the trip had been a waste of time, not yet.
The waitress, Jane, was nowhere to be seen, which relieved Gwennie. She wasn’t used to revealing so much about herself to someone she didn’t know and she felt both vulnerable and embarrassed. Drinking and being out without Pete had proved to be a fatal combination. She had opened up in a way she never usually did.
Much better to chat about the lovely autumn weather with the manager while she paid her bill. He was polite but detached. It was indeed a beautiful morning and Gwennie breathed it in as she walked to her car through the grounds of the majestic old hotel. Dark thoughts and black magic were unthinkable in this glorious environment.
In the car she checked her map. The waitress had said at the end of Sublime Point Road in Leura. But first she had to buy her ‘offering’. She stopped at a grocery store in the main street of Leura and bought the best tea she could find, Twinings Assam, and some Tim Tams. Everybody has to love those, she thought. And some flowers, the brightest gerberas in the display. Orange, red, yellow and hot pink, all tied together with a scarlet ribbon.
She felt a bit silly but also strangely excited. She had been to a medium once in her life. It was when she broke up with her first boyfriend, Tim, and her sister Beth had dragged her along. Gwennie was seventeen and had been moping around the house for weeks. She refused to go out in case she bumped into him, or one of his friends, or any of the countless reminders that lay in wait outside the front gate, ready to trap her and make her feel miserable again. Instead she had stayed indoors, wallowing in her misery, feeling safe and cocooned.
Beth had half-cajoled, half-bullied her until she agreed to go, more to get some peace than because she wanted to visit England’s supposedly famous clairvoyant from Clovelly. They had had to drive for hours to get to her home and it had cost forty quid. Everything the woman had said had been suitably vague and general. It could have been true for most girls Gwennie’s age. She told her she had had her heart broken, but she should not despair as there was a wonderful man waiting for her and she would meet him some time soon. He would be her soul mate. There was much travel over lots of water. And she would have two children, both boys. One of them was going to be musical and make her very proud.
When Tim dumped Gwennie she had become frozen, unable to move forward. To do so would have meant accepting that he didn’t love her and didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her and she wasn’t ready to do that. But listening to thi
s woman talk about her future somehow placed her in it. She remembered that she had felt lighter and happier on the drive home than she had in the previous weeks. Whether anything the clairvoyant said came true Gwennie didn’t care, feeling better had been enough of a miracle.
She wondered if this shaman would be able to produce the same effect. The adolescent pain she felt for Tim could not be compared to the all-pervading grief and anguish of losing Pete. She felt as if her heart had been ripped out and lived outside her body, raw and bleeding, the life seeping from her.
Gwennie unfolded the serviette that the waitress had given her the night before. Tsering Wangmo, Taba House, red windows, end of Sublime Point Road. It was easy to find. Just when Gwennie could drive no further there was a little stone house with an old woman standing in the garden looking intently at a garden bed, leaning forward every now and then to poke at something or pull out a weed.
Gwennie parked the car and watched her. She could have been any elderly woman fussing about her roses on a sunny Sunday morning. What set her apart was her dress and her hair. She looked like she was wearing some sort of bizarre fancy costume. It appeared to be lots of fabric, draped around her body in folds, and belted at her waist. It was woven in a vivid pattern of red, green and orange. Holding the fabric together at each shoulder was a large round gold brooch. Underneath was a silk blouse with long sleeves. Her hair was short, black, very shiny and shaped around her ears. It looked strangely modern against her face which was completely lined. She was an arresting sight.
As Gwennie approached the woman looked up and smiled. Her teeth were stained red with the juice of the betelnut she was chewing. Although Gwennie had travelled through Asia and seen betelnut before, seeing it now gave her a shock. It looked like blood dripping down the side of the old woman’s mouth.
Gwennie hesitated and the woman looked at her enquiringly. Gwennie forced herself forward. ‘Hello.’
The other woman didn’t move, staying where she was by the flowerbed. She didn’t look concerned, just mildly curious.
Gwennie put her hand on the gate. ‘May I come in?’
The woman continued to smile but said nothing.
Gwennie remembered she spoke no English. She wondered where the grandson and grand-daughter might be. ‘Tsering Wangmo?’ she asked. She pushed open the gate and proffered the flowers, tea and biscuits.
Tsering Wangmo accepted them with a slight incline of her head, which Gwennie took to be a nod. She looked at Gwennie in such a way that she felt pinned to the spot. Her eyes were black and feline. Her body may have been slightly stooped and her face lined but her eyes burned with a fierce intelligence.
Gwennie tried to hold the image of Pete in her mind. Pete as she had loved him. His face floated before her, smiling, happy, relaxed. Tsering Wangmo nodded and started towards the front door. Gwennie hoped that was an invitation and followed her.
The front room appeared to be a sitting room cum spare bedroom. A single bed, covered in two small rugs and with a pile of blankets on one end, was pushed against one wall. Two couches, also covered in small rugs, lined the other two walls. A TV sat in a corner, draped in colourful silk fabric. Every surface was covered in something. Tsering Wangmo gestured to Gwennie to sit on the couch then she disappeared, probably to get Tashi or the grand-daughter, thought Gwennie.
She looked about the room. Apart from the furniture and carpets there was a bedside table on which stood a silver goblet, a book, and, oddly, three handbags. Hanging on the wall was a photograph of the most handsome man Gwennie had ever seen. He looked like a young Elvis Presley with high chiselled cheekbones, a sensual mouth and black, feline eyes – similar to the ones that had appraised her outside. Gwennie was staring at the picture when Tsering Wangmo reappeared carrying a tray with two small espresso-sized porcelain cups.
‘King Jigme Singye Wangchuck,’ she said, offering the tray to Gwennie.
Her voice was deep and gravelly and she spoke rapidly, the words pouring out of her mouth in a stream. The only word Gwennie understood was king. Gwennie took a cup and Tsering Wangmo then sat down on the bed, cross-legged with her back against the wall and a blanket tucked around her knees. Gwennie tried to imagine her own grandmother sitting that way. Her beloved Nanna always sat in a chair, back stiffly straight, knees primly together.
The two women faced each other. Tsering Wangmo continued to chew and smile, wiping her mouth every now and then with a colourful scarf she kept tucked in the folds of her dress and sipping delicately from the cup. She appeared completely at ease and relaxed. She looked at Gwennie. Her gaze wasn’t threatening or even uncomfortable. She was like a giant mother cat, black and glossy, an old leopard at rest.
Gwennie took a sip of liquid. It was sweet, milky tea. She smiled and nodded, wondering what to do next. ‘Tashi?’
Tsering Wangmo inclined her head again in that way that Gwennie assumed was a nod.
Many minutes passed with the women quietly sipping their tea before Gwennie heard the front gate squeak open. A few seconds later a good-looking young man entered the room and Gwennie stood up.
He was surprised to see her. ‘Oh hi?’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said Gwennie.
He walked over to his grandmother and gave her a small paper bag. They exchanged words while Gwennie stood patiently. Tashi was a short, slim man with a large round smiling face. He looked to be in his early twenties. He was wearing jeans and a grey windcheater. ‘You have come to see me?’ asked Tashi.
‘Um, no, actually I’ve come to see your grandmother,’ explained Gwennie.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I – uh,’ Gwennie hesitated. She had thought they would know why she had come and felt embarrassed. ‘The waitress at the Hydro Majestic Hotel, I’m sorry I don’t remember her name, said your grandmother was clairvoyant and that she … you know … saw things …’ Gwennie trailed off. She was sure she was articulating this badly. Her words sounded inane to her own ears.
‘Uh huh,’ said Tashi. ‘I think I see what has happened.’
He spoke rapidly to his grandmother. She answered him, then they both turned back to look at Gwennie. ‘You’ve come to have a mo done, yes?’
Gwennie looked blank.
Tashi tried again. ‘You want to ask about the future, about whether or not to do something. Grandmother has the gift, it is true, but she isn’t here in Australia to do that. She does it at home in Bhutan but that’s different. People in Bhutan believe in such things. Here she is just my grandmother. She thought you had come to visit me.’
Gwennie raised an eyebrow.
Tashi laughed self-consciously. ‘She thought you were my girlfriend.’
‘Oh I’m sorry …’ Gwennie felt completely flustered. ‘I thought from what the waitress said …’
‘No, it’s okay. That’s Jane, Greg’s girlfriend. She’s great. I invited them both over for dinner because Grandmother wanted to meet some of my friends. She did a divination for them to see if they would prosper together. You would like her to do a divination for you? That is why you are here?’
Gwennie wondered what she was doing there, bursting in on these nice people. What must they think? How kind of them to take her in and make her tea when what they should have done was send her off in a straightjacket. This was so unlike her. Lately, she seemed to be spending a lot of time behaving out of character. She started to stand up, apologising for being there.
Tsering Wangmo said something to Tashi and he turned to Gwennie. ‘Grandmother says you have sad eyes. She asks how can she help?’
Tashi gestured for her to sit down again and he sat sideways on the floor close to his grandmother, but positioned so he could see them both.
Gwennie wavered. She wanted desperately to be back in her car and heading home but she wondered if it would be even ruder to leave now.
‘Please finish your tea,’ said Tashi. ‘Take your time.’
He handed his grandmother one of her handbags and she opened it, taking out
a small, ornate pillbox. It was shiny black, like onyx, with a golden dragon carved on the surface.
Gwennie sipped the tea and got her thoughts in order. She had thought the woman would look into a crystal ball and then just tell her anything she thought appropriate. That was what the woman in Clovelly had done. But they were waiting for her to ask something. ‘Why?’ seemed too big and ill-defined. ‘My husband recently died …’ she began.
Tashi translated this while Tsering Wangmo opened the pillbox. Inside was a single die. She took it out and held it in her hand, as if weighing it, then rolled it around all the time looking intently in the pillbox.
Gwennie watched in fascination. When Tashi stopped speaking she continued. ‘I don’t understand why he died. He shouldn’t have died …’ Gwennie stumbled over her words. She felt the lump rising in her throat and the tears that were never far away welled in her eyes. She took a tissue from her bag and wiped her nose.
Tsering Wangmo blew gently on the die in her hand and dropped it into the pillbox. She looked at it then started speaking to Tashi. She spoke rapidly, with much animation and hand gesturing, for a full minute. She pointed at Gwennie, threw her hands in the air, looked up, down and around, all the while speaking. It was like a torrent, pouring from her mouth. Even though she didn’t understand what was being said, Gwennie could feel Tsering Wangmo’s vehemence. Suddenly she shrugged and fell silent.
Tashi turned to Gwennie. ‘Grandmother says your husband loved you very much. He was a good man. He painted visions in the sky …’ He looked doubtful and said something to his grandmother. She replied. It appeared he was querying something and she was insisting. They discussed it for some minutes. ‘She says he made buildings with his mind. Does that make sense to you?’
Gwennie smiled. ‘He was an architect.’
‘Oh,’ said Tashi. ‘Of course.’ He shook his head as if annoyed with himself: ‘Grandmother’s gift comes to her as a vision. She “sees” things but not in the sense we “see” things. It’s not as clear as that. And sometimes it can be difficult to translate what comes to her into concepts that we can understand.’
The Wrong Door Page 12
