The Wrong Door (21 page)

Clare continued. ‘I took down the registration of the car and telephoned Susan’s boyfriend Bill who works at the RTA to get the name of the owner. And while it was a woman driving, the car is owned by a man named Darvill.’

The effect of the name was electric.

Marla gasped and dropped the fork she was holding onto her plate. It made a loud clanging sound as the metal skipped off the porcelain and dropped onto the slate floor. ‘Oh my God,’ she
whispered, her eyes wide and scared. ‘Oh my God.’ She wrapped her arms around her body and started rocking backwards and forwards.

Peg didn’t move a muscle, continuing to look straight at Clare. Her face betrayed nothing. She behaved as if Clare merely had commented on the food. ‘Darvill did you say?’ Her voice was determinedly casual.

‘Yes, Darvill,’ she repeated, loudly and clearly. She spelled it out. ‘D-A-R-V-I-L-L. Darvill.’

Marla started to moan.

‘Shh,’ hissed Peg.

Marla stopped immediately, as if she had been slapped, but continued to rock on her chair. The noise of the wood scraping on the slate floor was high pitched and grating.

Peg turned back to Clare. ‘The driver nearly ran you off the road?’

Clare nodded. There was silence around the table, broken only by the sound of Marla’s chair as she rocked herself, rhythmically, hypnotically. Peg rubbed her right index finger furiously, a sure sign she was agitated.

‘Well?’ said Clare. ‘Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?’

Sam stared at the sleeping figure curled up on the couch. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything broken,’ he whispered. ‘Though it’s a bit hard to tell when someone’s like this. How long has she been asleep?’

‘Since I rang you. I got off the phone and here she was.’

Sam nodded. He took her pulse, put his head close to her mouth and listened to her breathing. ‘All her vital signs seem okay.’ He had no medical experience and no idea what he should be looking for but Trudy always expected him to know what to do and he didn’t like to let her down.

‘Why didn’t you call an ambulance?’

‘She asked me not to.’

‘Do you know who she is?’

‘All I know is she stumbled in here looking like she’d had a skinful of piss and a blue with her old man.’

Sam nodded. ‘I guess that’s her car about a hundred metres back,’ he said. ‘It’s a pretty fancy foreign number. A Saab. She must have just got out and walked here. The door was open and the keys in the ignition when I came past. Her bag was still on the seat. I brought it with me.’

He pointed to it on the floor. It was black leather with a Prada logo. Trudy was impressed. She picked it up and held it at arm’s length, admiring it from all angles.

‘Should I look inside?’ she whispered.

Sam was amused. ‘I think you have to. It might help if we knew who she was.’

Trudy became businesslike. ‘Of course. It’s not like I’m prying.’ She poked around inside the bag and drew out two lipsticks. ‘She wears Yves St Laurent,’ she told Sam.

‘Mmmm?’ said Sam.

Then she found an orange book bearing a sticker pronouncing it was the property of Blackheath Public library. ‘Ah,’ said Trudy. ‘A local.’

Sam put out his hand for it. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘A very old local. This is a schoolbook and it was due back on 11 June 1979.’

Trudy wasn’t listening. She had found Gwennie’s purse and was staring inside.

‘A very rich old local.’ She stretched open the wallet for Sam to see inside. There was a stack of fifty-dollar bills and a row of gold credit cards.

Sam’s eyes widened in response. He gave a low whistle. ‘Does it have her driver’s licence?’

Trudy rifled through the wallet till she found it. ‘What a nice photo. I thought all licence photos had to be awful.’

‘They do,’ whispered back Sam. ‘It’s the law.’

‘Well, she looks lovely. Sort of Grace Kelly-ish, don’t you think?’

‘Who?’ asked Sam.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Trudy read aloud. ‘Gwendoline Darvill, 18 Pembroke Road, Neutral Bay.’

‘She’s rather a long way from home.’

Sam flicked open the telephone book. ‘Here it is. PS Darvill, Pembroke Road.’ He dialled the number and listened to Gwennie’s voice saying she and Pete were not home. Speaking calmly but with a serious tone, he left a message for Pete Darvill to call them. He didn’t mention an accident or anything that might panic him. Under the circumstances he thought it was the best thing.

Trudy carefully returned the contents to the bag and lay it beside the sleeping woman. They crept into the kitchen and Trudy got two cold beers out of the fridge. They took them onto the verandah, their favourite spot to wind up the day. They could talk properly here, looking out across their acre of scrub and dissecting the sudden unexpected drama without waking the baby or being heard by their sleeping guest.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you are right. She’s had a skinful and she probably just needs to sleep it off.’

Trudy chuckled. ‘Well, we’ve all had occasions like that haven’t we?’

They both stared out across the land, sipping their beers. Their thoughts turned back to their own concerns.

‘Mother of God it’s dry,’ commented Sam looking at the blackberries growing wild. They were a fire hazard and if he didn’t clear them this weekend he knew the local council would be onto him. He had hoped to spend Saturday afternoon in front of the TV watching the cricket but he knew better than to mention that to Trudy.

‘I pity the poor farmers,’ he said instead.

They finished their beers in companionable silence. Trudy felt Sam stiffen and followed his gaze. Walking towards their gate, head erect and bag over her shoulder, was their guest.

Sam called out. ‘Oi, Gwendoline.’

Trudy joined in. ‘Mrs Darvill.’

Gwennie didn’t turn. She just kept walking. Sam shrugged and took another sip of his beer.

Peg and Clare stared at each other across the kitchen. Marla had retreated inside herself at the mention of the name Darvill. She kept her arms wrapped around her body and stared fixedly at the table. Clare stayed resolute, ignoring her sister’s obvious distress, and held Peg’s gaze.

‘It seems the name Darvill rings a bell with Marla. Is that so, Marla? Do you know an attractive blonde woman, early thirties, who drives a black Saab?’

Marla was white-faced, clutching the edge of
the table for support, and staring imploringly at Peg. When she spoke it was with a little whiny voice. ‘It’s her, the woman from AA. The one that was asking questions. She’s coming after us.’

Peg’s rebuke was sharp. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘No, listen to me,’ continued Marla. ‘She’s a Darvill. Clare said so. She tracked me down at the AA meeting and now she has tried to run Clare off the road. It can’t be a coincidence.’

Peg shook her head. She wouldn’t accept that explanation. ‘There was no female Darvill, remember? There were just the boys. It is a coincidence. It must be,’ said Peg. ‘That’s all.’

Clare thought of the letters in the biscuit tin at the back of Marla’s wardrobe. Micky Darvill and the photocopies of the newspaper cuttings in her bag. The picture was beginning to come into focus but there were a few pieces still missing. She looked at her mother.

‘What woman? What boys? Who are the Darvills?’

Peg carefully placed the ladle on the bench as if it were very delicate and must be handled with great care.

‘It has nothing to do with you,’ she said quietly.

Clare felt the window snap shut. Again. Her frustration erupted and she leapt to her feet, knocking a chair to the ground. ‘Nothing to do with me? Are you mad?’ She spat out the words. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? This woman nearly ran me off the road. Does no-one in this house care about me at all?
Are you even listening to me?
’

Her mother remained maddeningly calm. ‘Sit down, Clare. Such theatrics won’t get you anywhere.’

Clare walked to the opposite side of the room and stared at her mother. She stood with her feet apart, the weight evenly balanced between them. Her eyes glittered and her chin jutted slightly forward. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I am not about to let some woman nearly kill me and get away with it. You may not care but I do. I want to know who she is and I want her to pay for the damage.’ Clare trembled with the force of her anger. ‘I know you know something about this and I have my own suspicions. Did this woman find out about Marlene Dayton, who used to live in the Blue Mountains … and her friend Micky Darvill? Is that it?’

The effect on Marla was painful to watch. She started to moan again, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

Clare ignored her. ‘If you won’t tell me then that’s just fine. I’m pretty used to that around here. But I have my own life to worry about and unless you can give me one good reason not to, I’m going to the police to report her.’

Marla started to whimper. ‘No, Mummy, no.’

Clare looked at her with surprise. She was like a frightened child, her eyes wide and scared, pleading with her mother. Clare felt she was watching her sister unravel. It was a harrowing sight and she turned away.

‘It’s okay,’ Peg said in a voice that would have soothed a baby. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen. Clare is just upset.’

‘No police, no police. Mummy, no.’ Marla’s voice trailed off to a whimper.

Clare stared at Peg, watching as she continued to rub her right index finger with her left thumb and forefinger.

Peg’s eyes were cold black nuggets as she turned back to Clare. ‘I’m sorry. I know this must sound strange to you. But you can’t call the police. I don’t know who this woman is. I promise you. I have to think. I don’t understand how this has happened. But you can’t call the police. Please try to understand. This involves more than you could possibly realise. Of course I am upset that somebody nearly ran you off the road. I just need time to make sense of it.’

Clare looked away from her mother with something akin to disgust. She felt let down and disregarded. She had expected Peg to share her outrage. Instead, it seemed, Marla and her problems were all that mattered. She looked through the window and absorbed the pain, swallowing it. She could hear Marla panting behind her and Peg’s slow heavy breaths. She knew these women so intimately that she could recognise each of them by the sound of their breathing. And yet, she felt an outsider.

‘Well you better think quickly, Mum,’ said Clare. ‘Because she is parked outside our house.’

Marla screamed. It was shrill and loud, reverberating around the pine walls of the tiny kitchen. Peg clamped her hand over her mouth and muffled the sound. Marla struggled and tore free of her mother.

‘I can’t breathe,’ she spluttered.

‘Sorry,’ whispered Peg, letting her hand drop. ‘I just didn’t want anyone outside to hear you.’

‘For God’s sake,’ snapped Clare. ‘What is the point of that? That’s my battered car in the driveway. I’d say she knows we are in here … But who the hell
is
she, this Mrs Darvill? And it better be good or I am calling the police. Right now.’ Clare reached for the telephone.

Marla’s eyes were wide and frightened, looking from her mother to her sister.

‘I honestly don’t know who she is …’ began Peg.

‘Not good enough …’

Clare picked up the receiver and started dialling.

‘You can’t,’ said Peg flatly.

‘Oh yeah?’ said Clare. ‘Why the hell not?’

Peg took a deep breath. ‘Because they will send your sister to jail.’

Clare’s hand froze. ‘Marla to jail? For what?’

At mention of her name, Marla started whimpering again. ‘No, no, no. Please, Clare, no.’

Peg shook her head. ‘It’s a long story and I promise I will tell you it all but if what you say about this woman nearly running you off the road is true, we don’t have time to go into it now. I think we had better deal with her.’

Clare turned back to the window. The car was conspicuous, sitting in a pool of light beneath a street lamp. The panels were covered in dirt and debris and the exhaust pipe was hanging so low it was touching the road. Clare could see the driver clearly. It was her – the blonde woman who had nearly run her off the road and her head was turned towards their house, presumably staring straight back at Clare.

‘Why has she come?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Peg. She opened the knife drawer and stared at the contents.

Clare was horrified. ‘What are you doing?’

Peg ignored her. ‘I want you both to stay here.’ It was vintage Peg, issuing orders and expecting them to be followed.

Clare felt a mixture of emotions. On the one hand it was what she wanted – Peg to take charge and make her feel safe again. But she was no longer a little girl believing that her mother was
an unstoppable, omnipotent force in the face of the world.

Peg pulled out a slim, sharp, boning knife and held it in her hand as if weighing it. She didn’t look powerful and menacing. She looked tired and old and faintly ridiculous. Clare felt a sudden rush of pity for her ageing mother. She put one arm around her shoulders and gently removed the knife. Her mother was too surprised to struggle and the knife slipped easily out of her grasp.

Marla recoiled from the sight of the knife and drew her feet up onto her chair.

The doorbell rang, loud and shrill, making them all jump. Clare looked outside to the car. It was still there, parked in the same spot, but the driver’s seat was empty.

‘It’s her,’ said Clare.

‘I’ll go,’ said Peg. ‘Clare stay here and look after your sister. It’s all right Marla. I’ll take care of this.’

Gwennie was confused, unsure where she was or why she had driven here. She was looking for Pete. It was the only thought in her head. She had to get to him and somehow that had brought her to this spot. The street wasn’t familiar, nor the area, but as soon as she parked the car and looked across at number 44 she knew she had been here before and very recently. The house was a freestanding terrace that had been allowed to decay. It looked rundown and unkempt and Gwennie wondered if Pete was re-designing it. She couldn’t recall him mentioning
it to her, but then a lot of things seemed hazy right now. Her memory didn’t seem to be working so well. Oh damn it, where was he?

She heard the doorbell echo inside and shivered as she waited on the doorstep. The night was starless and quiet. She could hear the distant hum of traffic but no noises from inside the house. Gwennie had the uncomfortable feeling she was being watched. She took a step back and looked in the front window. A figure stood absolutely still, framed by the window. It was a woman’s silhouette but she was backlit and Gwennie couldn’t make out her face.

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.’