The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

Now she remembered seeing Clare driving, her violent reaction, her own car going off the road and coming to rest at the foot of a road sign. It all came back to her in startling clarity. So she could kill someone. If she felt angry enough she was capable of it. It hadn’t just been an idle thought, she actually had tried to do it. The realisation didn’t upset her. If anything, she felt apathetic. Overriding every other emotion was heartstopping, overwhelming desolation.

  Pete was dead. Dead, dead, dead. And that’s the way it was. Everything else could just go to hell. Clare Dalton. Marla. The mystery of the Blue Mountains. She hoped the whole shebang would disappear down the plughole. She didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone. It had all been a mistake. She turned to Clare.

  ‘I don’t feel very well. Can you go?’ she said.

  Clare was disconcerted by the abrupt command. She still had so many questions. This woman, or at least her husband, was connected to Peg and Marla. But how? Nothing made any sense. She didn’t want to leave so instead stayed sitting on the couch. ‘Maybe you should see a doctor. You know you had a car accident and might have hurt yourself,’ she ventured.

  Gwennie shot a look at her. The car accident … did she know what Gwennie had tried to do? Clare’s face showed only concern. Gwennie was relieved. And determined to get rid of her. She was exhausted. ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll call as soon as you go.’

  Reluctantly, Clare followed her down the hallway. Gwennie didn’t offer to ring a taxi or drive her home. As Clare stepped onto the verandah Gwennie closed the door, leaving Clare to follow the sound of the traffic to a main road.

  Gwennie walked back down the hallway, her bare feet making no noise on the polished floorboards. They were cool and smooth underfoot. She entered the bedroom. All about her the house was quiet. She felt around in the wardrobe for Pete’s dressing gown and put it on. She could hear noises from outside – a dog barking, the occasional car – but they were too distant to engage her.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in Pete. She felt cocooned, wrapped in Pete’s smell, in their bedroom, in their house. Keeping her eyes closed she walked slowly out of the bedroom and down the length of the hallway, turning left into the kitchen, walking blindly past the bench, through the huge open-plan living area, avoiding furniture. With her feet carefully finding their way, she navigated the two steps down into the study. She paused for a moment, turned and moved back through the house ending up back at the front door. Then she started to repeat the circuit, eyes closed, arms by her side, shuffling soundlessly across the floors and around the furniture, circumnavigating the house.

  *

  The taxi pulled up at Dadue Street and Clare paid the driver. It was just 7 am and she wondered if Peg and Marla were up. If they weren’t, she would wake them, she decided. She would stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream until they came out of their rooms and answered every single question. It was with that thought and in that mood that she strode through the front door.

  She found Marla and Peg sitting at the kitchen table in their dressing gowns. It was obvious from the pregnant silence that greeted her that their conversation had stopped as soon as they heard her.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Peg.

  Clare put her bag on the kitchen bench and turned to face them.

  ‘I’ve been staying with Gwendoline Darvill. Pete’s wife. You know Pete, don’t you? Pete Darvill?’ She looked from one to the other.

  Marla was pale with large circles under eyes. She looked tired and sad but also alert. The cornered, mad look she had the previous night was gone and Clare was relieved.

  Peg also looked tired, but in control. She eyed her daughter. ‘No, as it happens I don’t know Pete Darvill.’

  ‘Oh puh-lease.’ Clare showed her disdain. ‘I’ve learned a hell of a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours, Mum. And not much of it good. So don’t toy with me. I’m not in the mood. I watched you try to poison a woman in our living room. That’s not kind, Mum. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Peg shook her head. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about. You have no idea …’

  Clare put her hand in the air and cut her off.

  ‘Enough!’ she shouted. ‘Enough. I know what I saw. I know you tried to poison that woman in our living room. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t want to hear any more lies and evasions and “it’s none of your business”.’

  There was silence in the kitchen. Clare glared at the two women. Peg glared back while Marla looked at the floor.

  ‘What is it with you two?’ Clare’s voice crackled with frustration and emotion.

  Peg was unrelenting. It was time to try her sister.

  ‘I know all about your boyfriend Micky Darvill and the fire that killed Charles Dayton. And I know that you changed your name from Marlene Dayton to Marla Dalton.’

  She spat it out with a sense of triumph. ‘I know all about it, so for God’s sake stop with the lies.’

  Marla flinched. She looked caught out. Peg stayed composed, her large frame draped in a navy cotton dressing gown that billowed around her. She was perfectly still in the centre of all that fabric, her back erect and her hands clasped together in her lap.

  Marla pushed aside her chair, moving herself deliberately away from her mother’s dominating presence. ‘You’re right, Clare. I have been thinking about this for a while now and I would rather it wasn’t like this but … One of the twelve steps of AA is to make retribution and apologise to anyone you might have wronged. I guess they don’t hold much store by guilt and carrying it around. I can’t think of a better place to start than with you.’

  Peg hissed at her. ‘Shut up, Marla.’

  ‘No, you shut up, Mum,’ snapped Clare.

  Marla moved still further away from her mother. ‘It’s all right, Clare. Don’t blame Mum. She’s just trying to protect us both. She doesn’t want you to be upset and she doesn’t want me to … well … It’s a very ugly story, Clare, but you seem to have worked out some of it.’

  ‘Tell me,’ pleaded Clare.

  ‘Yes, yes. I will. You need to know and God knows I need to tell you. But you have to sit down and you have to stay there and let me finish before you say a word.’

  Clare nodded. She felt a tingle of apprehension. It was what she so desperately wanted but now it appeared she was coming face to face with the truth, she was scared. She sat down at the end of the table, as far away from her mother as she could.

  Marla turned to Peg. ‘And you have to stay there and listen. If you disagree with anything I say you can tell me so at the end when I have finished. I know this is going to be hard for you but you need to stay for Clare, for her sake. She is going to find this very hard and she is going to need you to be here. I need you to be here. Okay?’

  Clare expected an argument, another Peg and Marla all-out skirmish, but Peg stayed strangely quiet. She and Marla exchanged a long meaningful look then Peg gave a profound sigh. It seemed to come from the depths of her soul and in its wake her whole posture slowly relaxed. As Peg gave in, Marla seemed to gather strength. The scared child of the previous night was nowhere to be seen. Instead Marla was in control.

  Clare was bewildered by the undercurrents and nervous about what was about to be revealed. She tried to prepare herself for a shock, expecting something unpleasant and searched her mind for any advice Mr Sanjay had given her that might help. Do not weep; do not wax indignant. Understand. It was a line from a book by a Dutch Jewish philosopher that Mr Sanjay loved to read. Baruch Spinoza. She had often recalled his lovely words when she dreaded another round of outrageous behaviour from her sister. Trying to keep that point of view, no matter what Marla said or did, was what Mr Sanjay had called a sporting challenge. Okay, thought Clare. Give it to me straight, Marla. I’m ready.

  *

  Moving around the house with her eyes closed required Gwennie to focus on her body and her surroundings and, as long as she was walking, she wasn’t thinking. Round and round
she shuffled. Slowly, deliberately, each step a victory over her crushing grief. She didn’t count the number of circuits she did but instead kept her mind blank, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other in the dark. Hallway, kitchen, past the benches, through the living area, avoid the coffee table, down the steps, turn around and back again.

  Finally, exhausted and numb, unable to go any further, she stopped at the bedroom door and leaned her head against the cool wall. Her back ached and she wanted to rest. She caught her breath then lay down on the bed.

  The first thought when it came was sharp and loud, stabbing her consciousness, causing her to cry out. The rest of her life without Pete. A desolate, bleak future.

  In the top drawer of her bedside cupboard were the refills to his razor. It was a new unopened packet of half a dozen, which she had put there when she cleaned out Pete’s things from the bathroom cabinet. Knowing they were there was a kind of insurance, a last resort if it all became too much. She had always liked to keep her options open.

  *

  Marla squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Her apricot satin robe seemed decadent, its hem skimmed the wooden floor and on the breast pocket was a stylised Μ in glass diamante beads. It was like something a 1930s starlet might wear, as she draped herself over a chaise longue in her boudoir. Marla looked – as she often did – slightly incongruous in the surroundings of the dilapidated suburban kitchen.

  Her voice, as she started to speak, was quiet and without the histrionics she was sometimes prone to. The emotion and pain were evident in every breath and gesture. She spoke quietly, whispering the words, her eyes wide and animated. From the moment she started Clare was transfixed.

  ‘When I was fifteen I fell in love. Micky was a bit older, eighteen, and working as an apprentice mechanic in Katoomba. It was wonderful. He used to pick me up from school in a different car every day. The boys at school thought that was pretty cool. And Micky was so handsome and charming that all the girls thought he was pretty cool too.

  ‘Mum, Dad and I lived in a huge old house on Hat Hill Road at Blackheath. A laneway ran beside my bedroom. The window had a security grille. I used to leave the window open to get fresh air and Micky would poke things through the grille on his way to work at about seven each morning. Sometimes it was a love letter, or flowers he had picked from our next-door neighbour’s garden, or chocolate bars. Once he put a feather in, another time he tied a balloon to the grille. He would leave something for me every day, just to let me know he was thinking of me.’

  Marla looked off into the distance somewhere above Clare’s right shoulder as she spoke, her eyes flicking occasionally to her mother. Peg stared resolutely at the table, her face expressionless.

  ‘We had so many plans for our future. He was going to buy a van and fit it out so that we could take it touring. As soon as I finished school we planned to drive all around the coast of Australia. We had both grown up in the country and desperately wanted to experience the beach. We were convinced we were really world champion surfers trapped against our will in the mountains. We planned to get a dog to take on the road with us and guard the van while we went surfing.

  ‘We had to keep our plans – and our relationship – a secret from Dad. I knew he wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘Why not? Didn’t he like Micky?’ asked Clare.

  Marla took a deep breath. ‘Mum and I don’t talk about Dad because … because … it is just easier if we don’t. It brings up too many bad memories. Mum and I would rather forget all about him. He was … a nasty man.’

  She looked again at Peg, who was sitting very still.

  ‘He used to drink and when he drank he was violent,’ continued Marla.

  Clare sensed a subtle change in her mother. Peg’s eyes dropped to her lap and while her body didn’t move, she seemed to shrink.

  ‘He used to beat up Mum. Once so badly I had to get the neighbours to come over and take her to hospital. I was about thirteen at the time. He cried the whole time she was gone … kept telling me how much he loved her, and me. How we meant everything to him and he was going to quit drinking. After Mum came home he was good for a while. But it didn’t last. He got back on the booze and … well … it didn’t take long before it was the same as before.

  ‘He never used to hit me. I was his princess, his precious little girl. He used to lock me in my room when he would go after Mum. He didn’t want me to see it. But I could hear the sounds. I used to bang on the door and scream out for him to stop but he just ignored me. I don’t think he ever even heard me. When he got like that it was like you couldn’t reach him.

  ‘Micky knew Dad was violent and that I had been scared of what he would do if he found out about us and it made him really angry that I should be scared. Micky had said he would protect me, put his life on the line to keep me safe and so on. But it wasn’t me who Dad went after, it was Mum. Micky didn’t seem to understand that. But he agreed to keep our relationship secret.

  ‘Somehow, in Dad’s head, anything I did that he didn’t like was Mum’s fault. She was to blame for everything and I could do no wrong.

  ‘That was right up until the day he found out about Micky. Someone mentioned to him that they had seen me in his car and Dad came home, took off his belt and …’

  Marla paused. ‘He called me a slut and a whore and a whole lot of other things. He lay into me with that belt buckle. I thought he was going to kill me. Then Mum came home and tried to stop him.’

  Marla walked over and stood behind her mother, putting her hand on her shoulder. ‘We both copped it. Charles Dayton was a big man. And strong. When he had finished with us he went to the pub. We didn’t have any broken bones, nothing that would require a doctor. But it was the final straw. We decided we would leave the next morning after he had gone to work. Mum was sure he would kill her for taking me with her so we knew we had to get it right. Mum looked up the number for a women’s shelter in Sydney. We thought we would go there for a day or two then catch the train to Perth and just disappear. He would never find us. We wouldn’t say goodbye to anyone or take anything more than a few clothes – just a suitcase each.

  ‘I telephoned Micky at work to say I couldn’t meet him that night as planned. I told him Dad had found out about us, he was very angry and Micky wasn’t to come near me or ring, in case Dad answered the phone. I said there had been an ugly scene and it was best if we stayed apart for a few days and I would ring him as soon as I could. I figured I would call once we were safely at the shelter.

  ‘Micky got really angry. He argued with me and said there was no way Dad would get away with hurting me. He threatened all sorts of things. I told him I wasn’t going to see him for a while and he just had to accept that. Then I hung up on him.

  ‘Micky knew better than to ring me back but he wasn’t going to let it just be. It wasn’t in his nature. Instead he dropped a letter through my window insisting he would be waiting at our usual spot as arranged. He signed his name with a handprint of blood.

  ‘I found it when I went to bed. I was terrified that if I wasn’t there he would come to the house so I sneaked out and went to our spot.

  ‘Micky and I used to meet at the end of the lane. There was a big old barn on the land behind our house. Dad used to rent it as a workshed. It was far enough away from our house that you couldn’t see it. Dad stored a whole lot of junk there, second-hand furniture that he used to restore in his spare time. He built me a doll’s house there thinking it would be a surprise but I knew all about it.

  ‘I waited until Dad was in bed before I snuck out but he must have been expecting that. He checked on me, saw my bed was empty and went back to find out from Mum where I was.

  ‘He beat her with his belt until she told him.’

  Peg slumped forward and put her head in her hands.

  Marla stroked her shoulders. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. You did everything you could to protect me and you have d
one everything possible since. Please Mum, don’t blame yourself.’

  Peg didn’t answer. Her face was hidden while her whole body heaved with silent despair. Clare’s eyes filled with tears. Usually Peg was in command of her environment, keeping her daughters and everything else under some kind of control. Clare had always thought her mother had ruled the world. It had both frustrated and amazed her. Now she realised what an illusion that had been. She was a scared and vulnerable woman, just trying to protect her little family any way she could.

  Marla continued stroking her mother’s shoulders as she returned to the story.

  ‘Dad listened outside to me and Micky arguing. I was telling him we were going to leave and he was begging me not to. He was telling me he loved me, that we were meant to be together, that Dad was a bastard and ought to be reported to the police. He vowed to get revenge on him for hurting me.

  ‘What happened next happened so quickly it is all a bit of a blur. Dad came through the door purple with rage. When he got angry the two veins on either side of his forehead used to stand out more prominently than usual. I used to see those veins and feel sick. I still can’t go near a man with protruding veins. I remember how his veins looked that night.’

  She shuddered. ‘He came in yelling that he would kill Micky. He flew at him and started to beat him in the head with his fists. Micky wasn’t a well-built man but he was strong and fit and a lot younger. Still he was no match for Dad. Charles Dayton was a big fat oaf.’

  Marla paused for breath. Peg stood up and put her arms about her daughter. The two held each other for a long moment. Clare looked away.

  ‘And Micky killed Charles and took off,’ finished Clare. She thought she could piece together the rest from the newspaper stories. Wanted by police for Dayton’s murder, he didn’t want to go to jail so went on the run, possibly making it out of the country and was never heard from again, even by his own family.

  Marla stepped back from Peg. ‘No, Clare. Micky didn’t kill Charles Dayton. I did.’