The Wrong Door (17 page)

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

An alcove built into one wall held a small gold statue of a rotund man with an enormous belly and an elephant head. In front of him was a cone of incense, sending a wisp of smoke up the wall and filling the room with a pungent, musky aroma. An enormous wall unit ran the length of the room and contained a large TV, video and stereo player, rows and rows of books and a couple of photographs in silver frames.

Clare walked over to the pictures, hoping to find among them Mr Sanjay’s cheeky chuckling face. One was obviously of Shree’s graduation and showed him wearing a cloak and mortarboard, holding a scroll, beside Mr Sanjay. They both looked serious and proper standing in front of a vast four-storey building that Clare guessed was an Indian university. Other students and their families milled around in the background. Mr Sanjay looked proud and happy, his posture just a fraction more erect than usual. Clare smiled for him.

Beside it was a photo of Shree, an elegant young Indian woman, Mr Sanjay, Mrs Sanjay and an elderly Indian couple. The men wore neat grey suits with nehru collars while the women wore beautiful saris. The young woman beside Shree was elaborately dressed in a bright red sari with gold flecks. She wore enormous gold earrings that hung almost to her shoulders and at her neck and forehead were gold chains. Delicate filigree patterns covered the skin of her hands and feet. Clare leaned forward to inspect them more closely.

‘That’s at my wedding,’ said Shree, handing her a glass of wine.

Clare wondered where his wife was but didn’t like to ask. Mr Sanjay’s wife, it seemed, had managed to avoid Clare for nine years, staying indoors, so maybe Shree’s wife wouldn’t appear at all while Clare was there or maybe she would pop in later. Clare was ignorant of Indian customs. She wondered how she could have known Mr Sanjay for so long and yet have learned so little about his culture, or his family. But the apartment felt quiet and empty, as if she and Shree were alone.

‘My wife has returned to India,’ said Shree. ‘She didn’t like Sydney.’ He sounded so matter of fact that he could have been talking about the weather.

‘Oh?’ said Clare.

‘Swati had never been outside Bengal before. She came to Sydney and I’m afraid she hated it. I blame myself. I was working long hours at the hospital and she was left on her own a lot in this foreign country. After my parents died we took their ashes home, to sprinkle them on the holy Narmada River, as is our tradition. During our visit Swati visited her family. Once she saw them again she decided she didn’t want to return to Sydney, or to me.’ Shree shrugged. ‘When she left Bengal she was a very traditional Indian girl. Coming to Sydney made her more modern. It taught her she could leave her husband and his modern life to go back to her traditional life. It is what you would call an irony, no?’

Clare agreed. She tried to look solemn, aware
that somewhere inside she was grinning. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It was an arranged marriage. We only met a week before the wedding.’ Shree raised his palms to the sky in a gesture of resignation. ‘I’m sure it sounds very quaint to you that we have arranged marriages.’

Clare smiled. ‘We-ell … it does sound a little strange. I can’t imagine marrying someone my mother might choose. Actually, if I left it up to her I don’t think it would ever happen. She doesn’t think I should have anything to do with men.’