The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  The front door creaked slowly open and standing in front of her was a tall, solid woman in a pair of cream trousers stretched across wide hips. She wore a voluminous floral shirt and faded blue slippers. Her face was lined from years of worry and hard, concentrated work. But it was the expression in her eyes that made Gwennie feel instantly like a naughty schoolgirl. They were stern, not about to take any nonsense.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked. She was polite but also, it seemed, annoyed.

  ‘I’m looking for Pete,’ blurted Gwennie.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Yes, my husband, Pete Darvill.’

  The woman smiled and stood aside. ‘Please come in, Mrs Darvill.’

  Gwennie felt uneasy as she entered the house. The hallway was gloomy and unwelcoming. She was led into a sitting room filled with clutter. There were tall rolls of different coloured fabric almost everywhere, leaning against the walls, lying on the two sofas and spilling across the floor. A low coffee table was covered in paper sheets of various odd shapes.

  A sewing machine stood to one side on its own table and next to it, as if standing guard, was a topless mannequin wearing a white multi-layered petticoat. Gwennie realised it must have been the figure she had seen from the door. It was macabre with its painted face and plastic moulded breasts.

  The woman lifted a bundle of fabric covered in pins from an armchair and carefully draped it across the sofa. She indicated that Gwennie should take a seat. It was low and uncomfortable with broken springs that dug into her lower back. She shifted her buttocks to try to ease the pressure. The other woman pulled a hard-backed dining chair into the room and sat down facing her. She had the advantage of height and she looked at Gwennie expectantly.

  ‘Where is Pete?’ asked Gwennie.

  The older woman didn’t reply. She appraised Gwennie, taking in her clothes and dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Is he here?’ asked Gwennie. Her voice was becoming louder, more demanding. ‘I’m Gwennie, his wife.’

  Peg recognised the tinge of hysteria. ‘Why would he be here?’ she asked softly.

  Because … because … Gwennie had no answer. The question confused her. She tried to remember whether Pete had said anything to her but it seemed so long since they had spoken. Everything seemed so long ago. Her brain was foggy, each thought disconnected. She couldn’t hold onto them, grasp them and make sense of them. Had Pete told her to come here? She thought so but then she didn’t know where here was.

  The woman continued to stare at her. It was unnerving, like she was waiting for Gwennie to give her something but she had no idea what. Gwennie felt like Alice falling through the mirror. The world had become surreal and bewildering. Little made sense. All the information of what was happening around her seemed to come over her senses in huge uncontrollable waves, rolling in and then receding.

  ‘Who are you?’ Gwennie ventured.

  Peg’s eyes narrowed and she took a moment before replying. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  Gwennie floundered. ‘I don’t know.’

  Peg looked at her with surprise.

  ‘Are you a client of Pete’s?’ asked Gwennie.

  ‘A client?’ echoed Peg. She shook her head. ‘Why have you come here?’

  Gwennie started to cry.

  Peg always had a supply of tissues for the brides who needed them and she passed Gwennie the box. The gesture appeared kind but Peg’s expression remained hard and wary. She waited, saying nothing, just watching as Gwennie dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Did you have an accident in your car?’ she asked when it seemed Gwennie had composed herself.

  Gwennie looked agitated. ‘An accident … in the car? … I don’t … remember …’ She gave a small apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry …’ she said, shredding the tissue in agitation. ‘I … I, uh, don’t feel very well.’

  Peg smiled but the expression in her eyes didn’t change. ‘Why don’t you sit back comfortably and I’ll make you a cup of tea?’ She fussed about Gwennie, draping a rug over her knees.

  ‘You relax there. I’ll only be a minute.’

  Gwennie closed her eyes for a few seconds. It was such a relief. They felt full of grit. She sank deeper into the seat.

  On her way to the kitchen Peg bumped into Clare in the kitchen doorway. It was obvious she had been listening.

  ‘She needs to see a doctor,’ said Clare as Peg shut the door behind her.

  ‘Shhhh. Please just turn on the jug and let me handle this.’

  Clare didn’t move.

  Peg walked around her, plugged in the jug and started opening cupboards. She had a purposeful but distracted air about her.

  ‘Mum, she needs to see a doctor. She doesn’t remember the accident. She’s half delirious. She’s hit her head or something.’

  ‘Thank you for your medical opinion but, as I said, I will handle this.’

  Clare moved out of the way. There was something disturbing about her mother’s manner. Marla seemed not to notice. She had grown quiet, curled up on the kitchen chair with her feet tucked underneath her, making no sound or movement, almost as if she wasn’t really there.

  Peg moved efficiently about the room, placing two mugs on a tray, pouring milk into a little jug and water over the teabags. She opened her handbag and withdrew a small plastic container of white pills. She crushed two and stirred the powder into the milk. She behaved as if Clare didn’t exist.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Clare sharply.

  Peg, intent on what she was doing, didn’t reply.

  Clare grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Out of my way.’ Peg brushed past her with the tray and disappeared through the door.

  Clare could hear her setting down the tray in the next room. ‘Here’s your tea, Mrs Darvill …’

  Clare read the label on the container. It was a prescription bottle for Marla. Clare held the container out to Marla. ‘What are these?’ she asked.

  Marla ignored her.

  Clare thrust it under her nose. ‘What are these?’ she demanded.

  Marla looked up at Clare. Her face was bewildered. ‘My pills,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, but what are they for?’

  ‘They help me sleep.’

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ Clare felt rising panic. She turned towards the door, back to Marla, then to the phone, pivoting on the spot. ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ she kept repeating. She turned back to Marla.

  ‘How many do you take?’

  Marla shook her head. ‘Leave it to Peg. She will take care of it.’

  Clare thrust her face in front of Marla. ‘How many do you take?’ she hissed.

  Marla recoiled from her sister. She pursed her lips like a petulant child. Clare followed her mother out to the lounge room.

  Gwennie was leaning back in the armchair, one hand nursing the mug on her knee, the other rubbing her eyes. They were half-closed when Clare entered. Peg was making sympathetic clicking sounds with her tongue, tucking the rug around her. ‘Drink up, it will make you feel better.’

  She glared at Clare as she entered. Clare smiled and perched on the arm of a sofa.

  ‘This is my daughter Clare,’ said Peg reluctantly.

  Clare hesitated, not sure what to do. Gwennie looked like she had melted into the fabric of the armchair. Her mug was full and milky and she didn’t seem very interested in it. Clare noticed Peg’s tea was black. Peg followed Clare’s gaze then looked back to her daughter.

  ‘Our guest isn’t feeling well so it might be best if you just leave us, thanks, Clare.’ Her eyes were threatening.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I see you in the kitchen for a minute, please, Mum?’

  Clare and Peg stared defiantly at each other. Finally Peg gave in, standing up and following her daughter out of the room.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Clare as soon as the kitchen door closed behind them.

  Peg glared at Clare. ‘I’m doing what I have always done, I am looking
after my family. Stay out of it.’ Her tone was menacing and Clare struggled not to be intimidated.

  ‘But you can’t give that woman sleeping pills, not without her permission. It’s not right. And she has been in an accident. Look at her. She needs a doctor. Why won’t you listen to me?’

  ‘There are other things at stake here that you don’t understand. Now stay out of it.’ Peg’s eyes glittered dangerously. She stared Clare down then turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen.

  Clare had never seen her mother so determined and so scary. She felt an uncomfortable sensation on the back of her arms. It was cold as a gust of icy wind but sharp, like thousands of fingernails tracing lines along her bare skin. She sensed the hard steel at her mother’s core. Believing Marla to be under threat, Peg showed how ruthless and implacable she could be. She would do anything to protect her, thought Clare. She shivered as she wondered where that left her. What would Peg do if Clare got in the way? She took a deep breath and followed her mother into the lounge room.

  Gwennie was cradling the mug in both hands while Peg lingered nearby. Peg looked up at Clare, disbelief then anger clouding her eyes. Clare saw it and quickly looked away. She didn’t want to waver in her resolve. She strode past her mother, across the room and knocked the mug from Gwennie’s hand. It flew a few metres, splashing liquid onto Gwennie’s lap and over the full white skirt pinned to the mannequin, then landing on the wooden floorboards with a resounding crash.

  Gwennie squealed in fright.

  Clare was immediately beside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gushed, patting at Gwennie’s skirt then propelling her out of the chair and onto her feet. ‘Look what I’ve done. Oh, I’ve made such a mess of your pretty skirt.’ She ushered Gwennie towards the door, talking loudly and fussing over her, all the while not daring to look directly at her mother. ‘I think I’ll just give you a lift home. You don’t look like you should be driving.’

  Clare maintained a steady patter as she picked up Gwennie’s handbag, guided her out of the lounge room and through the front door, collecting her own bag along the way. ‘Are your keys in here? I’ll take those. We’ll just get you out to your car and get you home. What you need is a good night’s sleep and I’m sure everything will seem so much brighter tomorrow.’

  Gwennie allowed herself to be pushed along, too tired and indifferent to care. Clare could see from the corner of her eye her mother framed in the doorway, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together, but not making a move to stop them. Clare half-led, half-pushed Gwennie to the car, straining with every step to hear a sound that may indicate her mother was coming up behind them. Gwennie was almost a dead weight, her feet moving only when Clare had pushed her forward enough to start the momentum.

  Clare had a strong feeling of déjà vu. Then it came to her. She had been in a similar situation not so long ago when she collected Marla from the university party. Her sister, the alcoholic. She had learned a lot about her sister recently, shocking things that stirred up a kaleidoscope of feelings. She loved her, felt sorry for her and despised her, each in turn and sometimes all at once.

  Now she was learning about her mother. Clare was consumed with self-righteous anger and, in a way, she wanted her mother to try to stop her. Jealousy and her rage against the unfairness burned inside her. She was primed for a fight. But Peg stayed where she was, staring after them.

  Gwennie sat sideways in the passenger seat looking at the beautiful woman driving. There was something about her that made Gwennie anxious, if only she could remember what it was. Her head dropped forward. She was tired, so very tired.

  CHAPTER 18

  Clare awoke, curled up on a couch, with Gwennie sitting a few metres away in a swivel chair glowering at her. Gwennie was turning a pair of scissors over idly in her lap, passing them from one hand to the other. The hair on the back of Clare’s neck started to rise as she became aware of Gwennie’s presence. The blinds were open letting in the weak dawn light. The last vestiges of sleep dissolved as Clare struggled to sit up. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in an awkward angle without a pillow. She wondered how long Gwennie had been there, watching her.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Gwennie.

  It was not the reaction Clare was expecting and she searched her mind for something that might explain such hostility. She had brought this woman home, put her to bed then, rather than going home to face Peg and Marla, she had lain down on her couch.

  ‘I’m sorry, but after I brought you home it was too late to get a taxi so I just crashed here. I didn’t think you would mind.’ It sounded perfectly reasonable and Clare expected the woman to look embarrassed, apologise and offer her breakfast, or a lift home or something.

  Gwennie did no such thing. She glared at Clare, biting her lip and continuing to play with the scissors in her lap. Her eyes were two inscrutable, narrow slits. ‘I know about your affair with my husband.’ She spat out the words, her top lip curling with disgust.

  It took a moment for the meaning of the words to penetrate Clare’s brain. ‘Your husband? Peter Darvill? What on earth are you talking about? As far as I know I’ve never even met the man.’

  Gwennie’s eyes bored into her. ‘What an extraordinarily brazen woman you are. I am not a fool. I know all about it now, Clare Dalton. I know all about your little trips to the Blue Mountains every month …’ Her grip tightened on the scissors. ‘… All your little secret meetings. It’s been going on for a long time, hasn’t it? In fact it never stopped, did it?’

  Clare was bewildered. What had she blundered into? Who was this woman? Why was she talking about the Blue Mountains? It must have something to do with Marla, if only Clare understood what. Had Marla been having an affair with her husband? This woman was clearly on the edge and Clare was terrified that anything she said might push her over. She raged inwardly at Peg. Why the hell hadn’t she told her what was going on? To save Marla? Huh! Again that left Clare in the lurch.

  ‘I’ve never met your husband. I promise you,’ said Clare. She looked levelly at the other woman.

  ‘Oh, what rubbish,’ said Gwennie. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know him. You came to his funeral for God’s sake.’

  As Clare stared at Gwennie confusion gave way to understanding. The woman in the funeral car with the grief-stricken face. It was a frozen moment that Clare would never forget. The woman was Gwennie? Of course. That’s why she had looked vaguely familiar when she saw her on the road yesterday. And Pete Darvill was her late husband. Clare could recall little of what the minister had said about him. It had all been so polite and distant, like he hadn’t known the man he was talking about. Clare had been thinking the whole time of Mr Sanjay. She really hadn’t paid attention.

  ‘That was your husband’s funeral I went to?’

  ‘What do you mean? Why are you asking that?’ said Gwennie.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Clare shook her head. ‘I came to your husband’s funeral by mistake.’

  Gwennie frowned with disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘On the same morning as your husband’s service there was a service going on in the next chapel for my Indian neighbour, Mr Sanjay. I went to your husband’s service by mistake. When I realised my mistake, I left.’

  Gwennie considered Clare for a moment, looking her up and down as if she were some odious creature beneath contempt. ‘Oh yeah? And this?’ Gwennie picked up a photo from the desk and flung it at her.

  The move was unexpected and Clare didn’t react in time, missing it as it flew through the air. It landed on the rug at her feet. As soon as she saw it she recognised the image. It was from the same series Marla kept in her cupboard. Marla laughing into the handsome young man’s face. Carefree and beautiful. Love, passion and tenderness evident in both their faces.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, so you do recognise it?’

  ‘Yes. My sister has one jus
t like it. In fact a whole series. They were taken when she was about fifteen.’

  Gwennie frowned. ‘Marla?’

  Clare nodded. ‘It was taken in 1979. And the boy with her, that’s her boyfriend Micky. He used to send her love letters. They were just kids.’

  Gwennie studied the photo. ‘But that’s Pete, my Pete.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know your husband, Pete. Actually I don’t know Micky either but on the back of her photo Marla has written the name Micky. Was your husband’s middle name Michael?’

  ‘No,’ said Gwennie. ‘His middle name was Fraser. Peter Fraser Darvill. That’s what he signed on our marriage certificate. And on the deeds to this house. I’ve seen his birth certificate and his death certificate. They both say Peter Fraser Darvill.’

  ‘That is strange,’ said Clare. ‘Did he have any brothers?’

  ‘No, no family at all. His parents died long before I met him and he was an only child.’ The aggression faded from Gwennie’s face leaving just a bewildered sadness. She knew this young woman was telling the truth. She should have been happy and relieved. But she wasn’t. She felt hollow.

  Clare wished she had Marla’s photos – the whole set – to show her. She thought of the box in the top of her sister’s cupboard. Perhaps she could somehow get them to Gwennie. But what would that prove? ‘Why did you come to our home last night?’ asked Clare.

  Gwennie’s rage was spent. She knew she had tried to kill this young woman, this Clare Dalton, though she didn’t think Clare was aware of that. It was her hatred of Clare that had kept Gwennie going, fired her up and helped her avoid the truth of Pete’s death. But it had all been a waste of time – a silly, perverse game. Pete was dead and she was alone. She would never ever see him again. He would never hold her in his arms, ask about her day or play silly word games with her while they drove places.