The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  ‘The Blue Mountains? They lived there together?’ asked Gwennie. She had the feeling of being given another piece of the puzzle. Her hostility towards Clare started to lessen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘In Blackheath. Micky worked as an apprentice mechanic. I don’t know what Pete did. I don’t know how long they lived there for but I do know they were living there together in 1979.

  ‘It was then that Marla’s father died in a fire and Micky was accused. The police wanted to question him but he took off and was never seen again.’

  Gwennie selected two photos and picked them up, peering at them closely. She held them side by side to compare. ‘This one is so like Pete,’ she said with a wistful smile. ‘But not this one. It’s the way the man is standing. He looks bigger, stockier, than Pete. But then the photo was taken a long time ago. Perhaps Pete was stockier then. I wouldn’t know. He never showed me photos of when he was younger. I guess that was strange now that I think about it. But it just didn’t seem to come up.’

  She returned the photos to the table. ‘So Pete had a brother,’ she said quietly, more to herself than Clare. She stood up and moved around the room. ‘I just don’t get it. If Pete had a brother, why keep him a secret? You say they were close. But he never even mentioned him. In fact he actively wiped all trace of him from his life.’ Gwennie paced the length of the room. ‘And why did he go to the Blue Mountains every month? And if you aren’t the CD he put in his logbook each month, who is?’

  ‘He wrote CD in his diary?’

  ‘Yes. The first Wednesday of every month he drove 220 kilometres. He recorded it in his logbook alongside the letters CD.’

  The two women stared at each other. There was a subtle change in the air between them.

  ‘Why did you come to our house last night?’ asked Clare.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Pete.’

  Clare thought about this for a minute. ‘Because I came to his funeral?’

  Gwennie nodded.

  ‘How did you find out who I was?’

  ‘You signed the condolence book.’

  Clare’s face lit up. She felt a tingle of excitement but tried to keep it in check. ‘Do you have that? Could I see it?’

  Gwennie looked bewildered but agreed.

  The condolence book was on the top of Pete’s desk in the study. She picked it up and took it back into the sitting room. Clare flicked through the pages reading the rows of names, neatly printed in blue ink, with the corresponding signatures beside them. She recognised her own, towards the end. She had been the third last person to sign.

  ‘Was there anyone in here you didn’t recognise?’ she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, if Micky and Peter were so close, maybe Micky came to the funeral.’

  ‘Oh, I would have recognised him. I’m sure I would have. They are obviously so alike. There is such a strong resemblance in your photos. I would imagine Micky now would look a lot like Pete now,’ Gwennie paused, ‘… how Pete did look.’

  ‘Maybe he changed his appearance,’ suggested Clare. ‘Dyed his hair, grew a beard. Surely if they had been that close once, he would have made every effort to go to his brother’s funeral. If he could, of course. Even if he hadn’t seen him for more than twenty years. Don’t you think? I know it was a large service, lots of people, but was there anyone there you didn’t know?’

  Gwennie looked down the list of names. ‘No, no, they are all workmates of Pete’s. Or his university mates. I knew all of them.’ She read through all the names. ‘No. I know all these people. No unaccounted for men who could have been Micky in disguise. The only names I didn’t recognise were yours and another woman’s.’ She looked disappointed and flicked the book closed.

  Clare stared at her. ‘What other woman?’

  ‘A woman who wrote to me. She was much older. In her sixties. I don’t remember her name but I remember her. She was very kind to me at the wake. Motherly, understanding. She had red hair and wore very red lipstick. I assume she was a client or something.’

  Clare opened the condolence book again. ‘What was her name?’

  Gwennie read through the list. ‘There. Terri Pryor.’ She pointed to the signature. It was a feminine, elegant script, suggesting an educated woman from another era. Other than that, it gave no clues.

  Gwennie returned to the study and brought back her folder of correspondence. She rifled through and withdrew a letter. ‘Lots of people wrote to me after he died. Here it is.’ Placing it on the coffee table, she sat down on the sofa beside Clare.

  They stared at the letter and then at each other. The notepaper was crisp and white with a delicate filigree of flowers etched around the border. On the top right-hand corner, in the same elegant script, were the words Cherry Dell and the date, 23 March 2002.

  ‘Cherry Dell,’ whispered Gwennie.

  ‘CD,’ agreed Clare.

  *

  They didn’t talk much in the car. Clare concentrated on driving while Gwennie gazed through the window, lost in private reverie. The only indication of her state of mind was the intense way she clutched the printout from the computer. The two women had searched the Web and found a directory to the Blue Mountains. They had searched all the links to real estate sites but found no matches for Cherry Dell. Then they tried the tourist sites. Again no luck. It had taken some time but eventually under the directory of local businesses they found a listing for Cherry Dell Nursery Supplies. There was a phone number but both women had baulked at using it. What would they say to Terri Pryor on the telephone? They agreed they should drive up and meet her face to face. For some reason neither of them could articulate, they wanted to surprise her.

  Clare reset the odometer. It was Gwennie’s idea. She wanted to know if Cherry Dell was 110 kilometres away, half the 220 kilometres that Peter had recorded in his car logbook.

  Both women had a lot to mull over as they retraced their journey through the suburbs, onto the freeway out of Sydney and along the Great Western Highway that wound its way up through the various towns of the Blue Mountains. They passed through Katoomba.

  ‘What’s the odometer reading?’ asked Gwennie.

  ‘Ninety-eight kilometres.’

  After the Hydro Majestic Hotel at Medlow Bath they slowed for the roadworks.

  ‘Here is the bend where we collided,’ said Clare.

  Gwennie looked at her lap. ‘Mmmm. Sorry about that.’

  Clare shrugged. ‘What happened? Didn’t you see the roadworks? Did you not realise how close we were when you tried to overtake?’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t really remember what happened before the accident. I must have hit my head.’

  Clare broke the awkward silence. ‘What were you doing up here?’

  Gwennie thought of the shaman. ‘Looking for Pete. And you?’

  Clare remembered how she felt when she had found the box of letters and photos in Marla’s wardrobe. Excited. Curious. Apprehensive. Like she had been given a key to the family’s secrets. Why had that inspired her to come up here? She couldn’t really say. Inexplicably she thought of Mr Sanjay.

  ‘I was looking for my father,’ she replied.

  The sign for Blackheath loomed and was gone. Clare noted an auto repair shop as they drove through the town. She wondered if that was where Micky had worked. Perhaps they could stop for petrol there on the way home. The thought surprised her. What difference would it make? What did it matter? She could find no answer.

  The shops and businesses of Blackheath gave way to homes on huge blocks, nestled back off the road behind towering pine trees and eucalypts. They looked dignified and solid, each one a private sanctuary. The landscape changed again as it wound its way through national park.

  ‘What’s the reading now?’

  ‘One hundred and four.’

  Gwennie stretched her arms back over her head to release some of the tension in her neck. Clare tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the steady purr of the engine.

/>   ‘Left at the next road,’ instructed Gwennie.

  Clare slowed and turned the car. After a few kilometres the road branched in two.

  ‘Left,’ said Gwennie.

  The road was uneven bitumen, full of potholes. They bounced along in the little Honda for another two kilometres.

  ‘We must be close,’ said Clare. ‘We’re on 109 kilometres.’

  ‘Then that must be Cherry Dell,’ said Gwennie.

  She pointed to a building only partly visible through the trees.

  Clare slowed to a crawl. The driveway to the property was so nondescript they nearly missed it – just a gap between two trees and a dirt track that twisted off through bushy undergrowth. There were no signposts or markings to let them know that this was Cherry Dell.

  ‘What do you think?’ Gwennie looked at the instructions on her printout, then back at the track. ‘It doesn’t look like much of a business does it? I guess I was expecting a big sign saying Cherry Dell, come on in. But this must be it. We’ve followed the directions and it is 110 kilometres from our place. Pete was pretty methodical.’

  ‘What have we got to lose?’ agreed Clare. She swung the car off the road.

  The sky above them shrank to a narrow strip of pale blue, almost obliterated by the huge old eucalypts and dense undergrowth of wild blackberries. The track was gloomy and Clare had trouble seeing the potholes before they were in them. She switched on the headlights.

  After about a kilometre the track opened out into a large clearing. There was a quaint weatherboard house and, in front of it, four enormous sheds. The double roller door of one shed was open and inside they could see rows and rows of sandstone bird baths, urns and planter boxes of various sizes. Nearby were parked a couple of four-wheel-drive vehicles and two trailbikes.

  They parked and got out of the car. On the side of one of the sheds, in faded red lettering, was Cherry Dell Nursery Supplies. Inside was deserted.

  ‘Where do you suppose everyone is?’ whispered Gwennie.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ asked Clare.

  Gwennie smiled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said loudly.

  The sound of banging in another shed made them both jump. Clare led the way, trying to appear more confident than she felt. A tractor occupied most of the shed and it took a moment for them to locate the source of the noise. A pair of denim-clad legs and workman’s boots protruded from underneath.

  Clare waited for a lull in the banging and yelled, ‘Hello?’

  The legs slid out followed by a torso and a head. The man got awkwardly to his feet.

  He was about forty, with a shaved head and a long scraggly beard. His singlet would once have been white but now was covered in grease and stretched so it fell loosely, emphasising his thin, wiry frame. Every visible inch of his body was covered in tattoos. He glanced quickly at Gwennie then moved to Clare. His eyes looked her over, making it plain he liked what he saw.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’ He spoke directly to Clare, his manner blatantly suggestive. Clare felt Gwennie bristle beside her.

  ‘We’re looking for Terri. Is she around?’ asked Clare. She sounded casual and confident, as if Terri was an old mate, and she wasn’t the least perturbed by his lewd evaluation of her, but she was aware of Gwennie’s obvious discomfort.

  ‘And whom may I say is calling?’ he replied with mock manners.

  ‘Oh, a couple of old friends,’ said Clare.

  ‘I think she’s in the potting shed,’ he said, wiping his hands on his singlet and taking a step forward.

  Clare tossed back her hair, intentionally seductive. ‘What about Micky. Is he around?’

  Gwennie gasped. They hadn’t discussed in the car what they would do when they got here. There was no plan. Clare had just naturally assumed the lead but Gwennie was shocked by her audacity. The change in the workman’s demeanour was pronounced. His smile disappeared in an instant. His flirtatious mood was gone and he became wary and hostile.

  When they heard a woman’s voice behind them Clare and Gwennie realised someone else had entered the shed. ‘Are you looking for me?’

  The mechanic picked up his spanner and returned to the engine. ‘Sorry, love,’ he called over his shoulder to Clare. ‘Don’t know anyone by that name.’ He nodded to the woman behind them and slid back under the tractor.

  Clare couldn’t tell if the abrupt change in attitude was a response to her question or the appearance of the woman. She and Gwennie turned towards the voice.

  Standing in the doorway was a trim, elegant woman with bright red hair, bold scarlet lipstick and an enigmatic smile. She was smartly dressed in a tartan skirt with green jumper, dark stockings and mid-heel court shoes. She would have looked more at home in the main street of Leura than in this workshed. She was in her sixties and wore an air of authority that made it clear she was the boss around here.

  ‘Are you Terri Pryor?’ asked Clare.

  The woman ignored her, addressing herself to Gwennie. ‘Hello. It’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘Hello,’ replied Gwennie.

  ‘Would you like to come in for tea?’ She didn’t wait for a response but turned and walked towards the farmhouse, obviously expecting they would follow. ‘You’ve found us in the middle of bushfire season and nearly everyone is off at a special training day so I’m afraid things are a bit quiet around here at the moment. They couldn’t have picked a worse day to be away. We have a big order to fill for a nursery just opening down at Springwood. But there you go. Learning to fight fires is a worthwhile distraction from day-to-day business.’

  She talked all the way to the house, glancing from time to time at Gwennie. She gave no indication that they were unexpected or in any way unwelcome. With Clare her manner was polite, yet distant, but with Gwennie she seemed motherly and concerned.

  The house was built in the style of a traditional Queenslander with an open verandah wrapping around the whole building. She took them down a dark hallway to the kitchen at the rear.

  It was cheery and modern with a long pine table that would comfortably seat twelve. Double doors opened onto the verandah and a view across treetops to the valley.

  A young woman of about twenty was at the sink peeling potatoes.

  ‘Could we have tea, please, Briony,’ Terri said.

  Briony looked with open curiosity at Gwennie and Clare. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Tea for three, out on the verandah,’ repeated Terri. ‘Now, please.’

  Briony wiped her hands on her apron and stared at the two women.

  ‘We don’t often have visitors,’ explained Terri.

  She continued to talk about the business while they waited for tea. Terri and her husband, Giles, had both been nurses. They had quit nursing and moved to Blackheath, making ends meet by propagating local wildflowers to sell at city markets. That was twenty-five years ago. Now their business turned over millions of dollars each year supplying hardware and merchandise to local nurseries.

  Unfortunately she had lost Giles along the way. He died of cancer four years ago, leaving Terri and their eldest daughter to run the family business. Gwennie and Clare nodded politely, feigning interest. When Briony brought out the tray Terri closed the double doors behind her, poured the tea and sat back. The heavily wooded valley was lost in a misty blue haze.

  ‘I’m pleased – and not really so surprised – to see you both,’ she said. ‘Though I must say I didn’t expect to see you together. I’m amazed you even know each other.’

  ‘You know who I am?’ asked Clare.

  Terri smiled gently. ‘I’d say you would be Marlene’s daughter. She was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. And so are you. You’re the spitting image of her.’

  It was sudden and disconcerting. What had been an abstract concept that Clare was still processing in her own mind became concrete with that one statement. Marlene’s daughter.

  Terri turned her attention to Gwennie, who was following the conversation, but with an air of confusion.
‘And how are you, my dear? You looked so sad at the service, so frail and alone. My heart cried for you. Grief is such an awful business. There really is no way around it. You just have to go through it and come out the other side. You do, you know. Come out the other side.’

  She placed a hand, covered in silver rings, on Gwennie’s arm.

  ‘He loved you very much,’ said Terri quietly. ‘You were his world.’ She pressed her lips together. It was a nervous gesture and spread the bold red lipstick still further around her mouth. The sun shone through the clear roof of the verandah, setting her titian hair aflame.

  The woman with red energy. She helped Pete and she will help you. If you let her.

  The shaman’s words echoed in Gwennie’s memory. The tears welled up, spilled over and ran down her face. It was as if she had unleashed a flood. Staring fixedly at the older woman, her eyes heavy with suffering, Gwennie seemed unaware she was weeping. She grabbed Terri’s hand and squeezed it hard, urgently. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you want to know.’

  Gwennie struggled to swallow. ‘Why did he come here?’ Her voice was low and faltering, almost inaudible.

  Terri looked at her with sudden understanding. She stared out towards the valley, seemingly lost in thought.

  ‘There,’ she said finally, pointing into the bush.

  Clare and Gwennie followed her gaze. Picking blackberries was a man in khaki overalls and a faded baseball cap. He was carrying a plastic bucket and as they watched he stopped and gently placed some fruit in the bottom. He studied each berry closely, bending down and peering at the fruit, before making his selection.

  ‘He is picking fruit for dessert tonight,’ said Terri. ‘Jimmy,’ she called.

  The man looked up at the sound of her voice, took off his cap and waved it vigorously. It was an exaggerated gesture that seemed odd. Clare and Gwennie watched as he made his way over to them. He had a pronounced limp in his left leg, which slowed him down and gave them plenty of time to study him. He was a tall, solid man around forty. What once might have been muscle had long since turned to flab and he was markedly overweight. As he walked closer to them his face became discernible under his cap.