The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  Clare felt a prickling sensation along the back of her neck. These had to be significant. Marla wouldn’t keep them tucked away unless they meant something to her. Marla had received cards and love letters over the years and had always been happy to show them off to Clare. She read them out, had a bit of a laugh, then they would lie around in her bedroom, part of the general clutter, eventually being thrown out because she had spilled coffee on them or used them as scrap paper. They were never a big deal. So why were these treated so differently?

  Clare looked at the photos first. They were a series taken in succession: Marla, as a young woman, and a young man Clare didn’t recognise. They were sitting on a park bench in the country, clearly very much in love.

  Clare was shocked. Not just because it was Marla with a man but at how happy she looked. Her face was radiant. Clare realised she had never seen her sister look that happy. Her body, her face, her whole demeanour was relaxed and smiling. Clare stared and stared. How beautiful she was. And didn’t the young man beside her know it. He had his arm draped around her shoulders and was looking into her face so attentively. It was as if he hung on her every breath and couldn’t quite believe his luck that he was here with her.

  All the photos showed Marla and the same man in variations of that pose. Slowly Clare looked again through the series, taking in every detail. The man was handsome and stocky wearing jeans and a baggy chambray shirt. He looked to be a little older than Marla, perhaps early twenties. She looked to be about twenty herself. Seeing Marla as a young woman she realised again just how alike she and her sister were. It felt strange to be looking at a photo that could have been of her, except it wasn’t. Clare didn’t like to think she resembled Marla. But looking at these photos it was hard to deny. It could have been Clare sitting on that park bench with that handsome young man.

  Instinctively Clare felt she was getting close. The photos felt important though she wasn’t sure how. She turned the photo over. Written in handwriting that Clare recognised were the words ‘Me and Micky, 11/6/1979’. Marla would have been just fifteen. She looked older than that. Clare had been able to pass for eighteen when she was fourteen. Obviously her sister had too. Peg always said the Dalton women grew up fast. Here was proof.

  Clare felt herself growing excited. That was the last year Marla had a school report and it would have been the year they moved to the city, to this house in Summer Hill. Clare heard the telephone ringing. She wavered. She didn’t want to stop now, when it had just started to become so interesting. But it might be her mother or Marla and they knew she was at home.

  She carefully put the letters and photos on the floor and went into Peg’s bedroom. She picked up the bedside telephone.

  It was Marla. ‘What about a cookbook?’ she asked.

  Clare blushed at the sound of Marla’s voice, instantly feeling guilty. ‘That sounds good,’ she said, a little more enthusiastically than the situation warranted.

  ‘Or a subscription to a craft magazine? I found one that’s monthly and isn’t all doilies. I think she might like it.’

  ‘That sounds good too,’ said Clare, again a touch too enthusiastically. She winced to hear herself sounding so false.

  ‘Well, which one?’ Marla was impatient.

  ‘I think the craft magazine is a great idea. She’d love it. I wish I had thought of it.’

  Marla rang off and Clare checked her watch. 2.45 pm. Peg didn’t usually get home from Viv’s place till around 4 pm and Marla was still at least an hour away. She returned to her task.

  There were seven letters all addressed to Miss Marlene Dayton at Rosalind Cottage, Hat Hill Road, Blackheath, New South Wales. That seemed strange. Whoever wrote these got her name wrong. All the envelopes were addressed in the same way and none had a postmark. These letters had been hand-delivered.

  Clare felt a tingle up the back of her neck. This really was prying. Until now she hadn’t found anything really to pry into. There was no mistaking the intimate nature of these letters, or the way Marla had hidden them away. But she was too far into it now. Remember the money Marla had stolen, she told herself. Don’t forget that money. This is payback. Fair and square.

  She opened the first envelope and removed a single sheet of rough-edged paper. It looked as if it had been pulled from a school exercise book. Nothing fancy about this bloke, thought Clare.

  Dear lovely Marlene

  You are so beautiful I just want to hold you in my arms until we both die.

  Last night you made me the happiest man in the world.

  I cannot wait to see you again.

  I will wait for you tonight at our special place. If you do not come I will come to you. You give me no choice. I have to kiss your sweet lips or I will die.

  Your loving

  Micky

  It was written in blue pen and his handwriting was an almost indecipherable scrawl. It was the soppy letter of a love-sick adolescent. Why Marlene? Was it some cutesy pet name? Or could it have been for someone else? Surely not. The names were too close for it not to be Marla. And why Dayton? Perhaps it was all part of the fantasy.

  Clare smiled to imagine Marla receiving such a letter. How sweet. She wondered what Peg would have said, or if she had ever known. And she wondered why Marla had kept it for so long. It couldn’t mean that much to her now, surely? Perhaps she wasn’t deliberately keeping them but had forgotten they were here.

  Clare returned the sheet to the envelope, being careful to refold it according to the creases and place it the same way up. She opened the next one in the pile. It was another sheet torn from an exercise book.

  My lovely Marlene

  It is just an hour since we parted and I cannot sleep for thoughts of you. I miss you so much already. I am counting the hours till I can hold you in my arms again. My love, my dove.

  Your loving

  Micky

  My love, my dove? Was this bloke serious? Clare snorted aloud. This Micky thought he was Shakespeare. Clare wondered what Marla’s reaction had been. Did she turn up her nose at his clumsy poetry or did her own heart soar? It was a shame she couldn’t ask her.

  The next few letters were similar. He loved her, he would die if he couldn’t hold her in his arms some time within the next twenty-four hours and each was signed ‘Your loving Micky’.

  Clare carefully refolded each one and slipped them back into the envelopes exactly as she had found them. They really were sweet. If these letters were sent at the same time as the photos were taken then this must have been her first boyfriend. And yet Clare was sure she had never heard her mention him. Micky. She liked the name. It sounded cheeky, like he would have been a larrikin.

  Clare opened the last envelope. She was still smiling as she withdrew the sheet. It was the same paper, torn from an exercise book. But as she read the words the smile vanished from her face. She felt the room recede and her hand shook with revulsion.

  My lovely Marlene

  I will not let him get away with this. He cannot keep us apart. We are as one, united in our love. I would die for you. Fear not my dove. See you at our special place. If you are not there I will come for you. And he will not stop me.

  Micky

  Clare dropped the page as if it burned her. It was an instinctive action. Almost obliterating the writing was a human handprint. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it had been made with blood.

  CHAPTER 13

  Every night Gwennie dreamt of Pete. Her grief was so acute that during the day she couldn’t consciously think about him for too long. It was only in the safety of sleep that her subconscious could bring memories of him forward. In her dreams she relived the glorious, delicious days of their courtship.

  Pete had charmed her over a period of weeks and their attraction had been like a slow awakening. Gwennie realised she was interested in the handsome senior partner when she found herself smiling on the way to work and wondering what his morning joke might be. It felt good to be around him, she discovered. She liked his
cheeky smile and how it lit her up inside.

  Office gossip told her he wasn’t married so she started to pay a bit more attention to her appearance. She found she was thinking a lot about him when she wasn’t at work. At first she enjoyed the feeling he inspired, the gentle warmth. Then she started to worry that he didn’t notice her, not in the way she wanted him to. He was jovial and friendly with everyone. Gwennie wanted to see him outside work, away from the nosy secretaries and office pressures, but she wasn’t sure how to go about getting him to ask her out. She feared he didn’t find her attractive, that he thought she was too young, or that her Englishness put him off. He seemed so laid-back and relaxed, full of genial humour and gentle teasing, and she hoped he didn’t find her stiff. She made an effort to be always smiling – it was easy around him.

  Finally she started to grow desperate. She didn’t know how to move their friendship from the casual workplace acquaintance into a more personal relationship. She worried about it, analysed it and thought through all the possible scenarios while sitting at her desk at Darvill and Rossetti, pretending to type.

  Finally, one afternoon, she saw her opportunity. They both had been invited to a partner’s birthday dinner but around 5 pm on the day of the party the woman fell ill and dinner was cancelled. So, with her heart in her mouth, Gwennie strode into Pete’s office and announced: ‘I’m free for dinner and I know you are too, so why don’t we try out the new Italian place down the road?’

  Pete had looked slightly disconcerted, but agreed and that pretty much was that. What had been a gentle flirting in the office slipped into an easy intimacy in the restaurant and by the time Pete dropped Gwennie home that night they both knew it was just the beginning. They dated in secret for a few weeks, became lovers and never spent another night apart.

  Gwennie relived it all, thrashing about in her large empty bed. Pete’s presence was so vivid she could still feel his body spooning against hers when she woke. Then her mind changed gears as she remembered. Pete. He was gone. The warmth gave way to a hard coldness. She lay there feeling the ice spread through her body and her mind turned to Clare Dalton.

  Every waking moment was consumed with thoughts about Clare Dalton. It amazed Gwennie that she could function, go about her life, talking to people, buying groceries, paying the electricity bill, and all the while be thinking about Clare. Pete’s childhood sweetheart. Had they continued to see each other once a month, just for old times’ sake? Why? Why, why, why? How dare she come to the funeral to mock Gwennie. Had she not humiliated and hurt her enough?

  Gwennie fed on the energy of her anger. Each day it gave her the strength to get out of bed. She stopped seeing her grief counsellor. There just wasn’t any point. She was no help. Anger was good, she had said with that mealy-mouthed look and hushed tone that Gwennie had come to despise. But you must let it go so that the healing could begin. Oh sod off, thought Gwennie. I have every bloody right to be as angry as hell. Keep your oils and your candles and your smug sympathy. They are not going to bring back Pete, repair my marriage or change anything.

  Gwennie had a much better idea of how to deal with her all-consuming anger. She sat in the black Saab, parked in Dadue Street, muttering to herself. ‘Okay, Clare Dalton. Who the hell are you and what the hell went on with my husband?’

  *

  Clare studied her sister. Marla was reading a magazine and watching a quiz show on the TV, oblivious of Clare’s scrutiny. Her eyes flicked from the screen to the pages open on her lap and back again. She would read for a moment or two until something on the show caught her attention and then her eyes would snap back. How different she is from the carefree girl in the photos, thought Clare.

  It wasn’t just time that had caused the change. The fine lines around her mouth and the pallor of her skin could be attributed to age and possibly her drinking. But the change in her expression was harder to understand. In those photos she kept hidden in the biscuit tin in her wardrobe she was animated and seemed to sparkle, full of joy and mischief. Clare couldn’t remember her sister ever being like that. It was as if her level of happiness had lowered, bottomed out, and the woman sitting a few metres away was the result. She smiled and laughed but in repose her expression was bruised.

  Clare tried to imagine her as a girl of fifteen, receiving love letters from a boy named Micky, who signed them in blood. What had happened then? Who was he? What was that all about? And why was it such a secret?

  Clare felt sad for her sister. Marla had suffered, that much was clear. Clare watched her sister watch the TV, then with a sigh she stood and said she was going out. Marla didn’t look up from her magazine as she waved goodbye. She wasn’t unfriendly, just distracted.

  Clare walked to her car. She was going to be early to meet Shree Sanjay but she didn’t mind. She could kill time in the car if need be. It was better than being late. She was surprised to find she was nervous when she turned her car into a side street in Elizabeth Bay, a small harbourside enclave of apartments just east of the city. Her heart rate was up and her palms were sweaty. She wiped her hands on her trousers and checked her reflection in the rear-vision mirror. Lipstick was neat, teeth were clean, scarf looked good. She said a silent thank you to Marla for lending it to her. ‘Okay, here we go.’

  Shree’s home turned out to be in the main dress circle of Elizabeth Bay, about ten minutes drive from St Vincent’s Hospital.

  Clare had trouble finding a parking spot and ended up some distance away. As she walked to his home she thought of Mr Sanjay. She wanted to share something of her affection for him with his son and she went through the possibilities in her head.

  She tried not to think about the man she was about to meet. He had seemed so suave and dignified when she spoke to him briefly at the funeral whereas she felt she had been crass, stumbling late into the service and then not finding the right words of sympathy. She hoped to make a better impression this time. She didn’t know why it was important to her, just that it was. Something to do with her respect for his father, she supposed.

  A pair of wrought-iron gates barred her entry to the block. She pressed number 108.

  ‘Hello?’ said an accented male voice.

  ‘It’s Clare Dalton.’

  ‘Come on in. Walk down the driveway and please press the doorbell again at the front entrance.’

  Clare made her way past the parked BMWs and Mercedes. At the front door was another panel of buzzers. Again Clare pressed number 108.

  ‘Come in. I am on the tenth floor. Turn right when you come out of the lift.’

  It was an old building and the ride up was slow and noisy. As the lift climbed Clare consciously tried to relax. She inhaled, imagining the air going right down to her toes, then let her breath out as slowly as she could physically manage without gasping. The trip took three long, slow breaths. As the lift doors opened she felt better, calmer and more alert.

  Shree’s apartment was at the end of the building facing the harbour, and as she walked along an outdoor ambulatory Clare caught glimpses of the Harbour Bridge through the neighbouring buildings. Shree was waiting for her outside his front door. He was taller than she remembered but that may have been the effect of his clothes. He wore a long tunic-style top that came down past his knees with a short vest in the same cream-coloured fabric over matching baggy cotton pants. His hair was short, jet black and shiny.

  His skin looked so smooth she had to fight the urge to reach out her hand and stroke his cheek. The force of the attraction shocked her. Clare had never seen anyone so exotic looking.

  ‘That’s some security you have,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Yes, sorry about that. It is a bit overdone. But we are very close to Kings Cross you see and a few intrusions from drug addicts, looking for a spot with a view where they could shoot up, prompted more security gates and more buzzers. But it could have been worse. They could have installed security codes, which I constantly forget.’ He stood aside to let her enter. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said
somewhat formally.

  Clare had the fleeting thought that he was as nervous as she was. It was a heartening notion and helped her regain some confidence. She caught a whiff of aftershave as she stepped past him into a large living room. Two pairs of double glass doors led onto a large, wide balcony. They were open and a salty easterly breeze blew in. She could smell and taste it.

  As she moved further inside she could see the Opera House and the bridge to her left, across to Taronga Park Zoo in front and to her right out to the heads and the ocean beyond. It was early evening and lights were coming on across the city, reflecting in the water and windows of the skyscrapers. It looked magical, a carpet of twinkling diamonds laid out before her.

  ‘Oh,’ was all she could manage to say. She wandered out onto the balcony and breathed it all in, picking out landmarks she recognised. It was a far cry from Mr Sanjay’s little tin shed and humble English-style garden.

  ‘What refreshment would you like? Tea, beer or perhaps some wine?’

  Clare chose wine and Shree disappeared into the kitchen. Clare could see him moving about through the hutch. She was relieved to have a moment to catch her breath and orientate herself in these strange surroundings. She tried to remember what Mr Sanjay had told her of his son. He had spoken of him enough for Clare to have known he was a doctor, working as a specialist in a big Sydney hospital, and that he made his father very proud. Beyond that she had not been sufficiently interested to pay much attention. She was sorry now she hadn’t asked more.

  The apartment was luxurious and comfortable with a few obviously Indian touches. A couple of sumptuously large cushions in rich heavy burgundy brocade lay piled on the floor. More coordinating cushions in various shapes and sizes spilled across two cream leather sofas. An antique English roll-top desk sat against one wall. It seemed to Clare to be just like something Mr Sanjay would have. It was open and piled high with papers, medical books and a pair of reading glasses.