The Wrong Door (4 page)

Gwennie looked at the name. Clare Dalton. So what? A pretty woman, a stranger, came to Pete’s funeral. Was she supposed to make something of it? The thoughts that had propelled her to this point suddenly seemed absurd. Ridiculous. What did it matter who the woman was? The woman in the red dress. It sounded like a movie. She had to pull herself together.

She had a pile of condolence letters that needed replies. There were all Pete’s things to sort through. What do you do with a man’s life? His clothes, his toothbrush, his year 10 maths book that for some reason he still had and was sitting at the bottom of his bookcase. Gwennie’s eyes ran along the spines of the books on the bottom shelf. What should she do with all of those glossy architectural magazines? What about his papers, his collection of European style manuals, his tax returns for the past six years,
for God’s sake? Was she supposed to keep those for some legal amount of time? What if they wanted to do an audit? Everything was too hard. The smallest decisions seemed impossibly difficult. Too much, too hard, too bleak.

The future stretched before her long and lonely. It seemed to Gwennie that when Pete died the sun went behind a cloud and it had stayed there ever since. Her life before Pete’s death looked abundant and vibrant. Now it had shrunk and faded to black and white. She sat in his high-backed swivel chair looking along the side of the house to the half-finished garden. They had been meaning to plant the garden this autumn. It was all so goddamned irrelevant. Everything and everybody seemed beside the point.

Gwennie realised with a start that she could smell Pete. Blended in with all the smells of the house was Pete. It was elusive, but unmistakable, surrounding her, enveloping her. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her mind strained to capture its essence and hold it, but she couldn’t. She wandered into the bedroom and opened the closet doors. His silk brocade dressing gown hung on the back of the door. It needed a wash. It always needed a wash. Pete liked it ‘comfortable’, he said, which to Gwennie had meant smelly. But Pete had won and there it had hung, every day of their life together. She buried her face into its folds. It was like burying her face in his chest after a day in the garden. His aftershave mingled with sweat, toothpaste, shaving cream, soap and his personal musky smell. Oh Pete.

She slipped the dressing gown on over her T-shirt and jeans. It felt good. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The dressing gown was a bit big but otherwise rather nice – richly coloured and opulent, like a gentleman’s smoking jacket. It really was comfortable, just as he had said. She walked slowly around the bedroom. It was as if Pete’s smell followed her, like she moved in a cloud of his aroma.

It cheered her up and gave her courage. Best to get on with it, she told herself. That’s what the grief counsellor had said. Get rid of all the painful reminders. Start with the most mundane things. The things that screamed
Pete
at her every time she saw them, twisting the knife in her heart when she stumbled across them and realised anew that he would never use them again.

Do it now while she could. The counsellor again. It would only get harder, she had said. Gwennie needed to introduce fresh air and energy into the house. Pete didn’t live in the physical things he left behind. He lived on in her memories. She mustn’t make the mistake of trying to freeze him and hold onto him. Grief and death were as dynamic as life and must be lived. They were a process and should be allowed to progress. The first step was to get rid of the obvious. Gwennie thought she understood. At the very least it gave her something to do, something to concentrate on. An activity for the day. And something that connected her to Pete.

The practical side of dealing with death seemed
to happen in tiers. She was down to notifying the bank manager and local newsagent now. Gwennie felt exhausted by the effort of explaining. Her husband had ‘passed on’, she said, hating the phrase but unable to bring herself to use the words
died
or
dead.
When she cancelled Pete’s standing order for newspapers and magazines the newsagent asked why, sounding almost indignant, and then had been so embarrassed by the explanation that Gwennie felt like she had committed some dreadful faux pas. It was much easier to stay at home with the doors locked and the telephone answering machine keeping away the well-meaning callers.

Gwennie opened the bathroom cabinet. A half-used tube of his favourite shaving cream. She could only get that particular brand at a chemist in Paddington. It smelled so familiar she felt herself begin to choke. She tossed the misshapen tube into the plastic bag in her hand. His toothbrush. Into the bag. Suppositories from when he had been ill with a stomach bug. Pills for hayfever. A couple of razor refills for a razor that had long gone. A shaving brush with natural bristles that he never used. She worked quickly, all the time holding her breath. She felt if she let it out she would lose her nerve, start to scream and never stop. Maybe she should ask somebody else to do this. It was too much to ask of herself. But who else could she trust to do it? These things were so personal, so intimate, she felt it was her responsibility as well as her privilege.

It didn’t take long and soon she was moving
back into the bedroom. She let her breath out slowly through pursed lips. Even as the air was released from her lungs the tension remained and her chest ached with the effort. She looked about the bedroom. What next? Just as she opened Pete’s sock drawer the doorbell rang.

It was a medical researcher from the Public Health Unit from Wentworth Area Health service, on the outskirts of Sydney. Gwennie stood at the front door looking blankly at the perky young woman in front of her.

‘I’m Cynthia Ainslie-Wallace … we spoke on the telephone …’

Ms Ainslie-Wallace wore a business suit, a short, dark, sculpted bob and a determinedly cheerful disposition.

‘But I was expecting you on Wednesday,’ said Gwennie.

The woman’s smile faltered. ‘Today is Wednesday, Mrs Darvill. I’m sorry. If you prefer I can come back another time.’

Gwennie wavered for a moment. She didn’t want anyone intruding on her right now, not when she was immersed in Pete, revelling in his smells and textures. But a lifetime of conditioning won out. No matter what, she would always be polite. She gestured for the woman to come inside.

Gwennie showed her into the lounge room while Ms Ainslie-Wallace explained her research. Gwennie remembered the letter now. The hospital was investigating the unusual circumstances surrounding the sudden spate of deaths from
pneumonia and would Mrs Darvill consent to a formal interview. If someone could explain to Gwennie why her perfectly fit, non-smoking husband who was just forty-three years of age had suddenly developed pneumonia and died, then yes, she certainly could be available for an interview.

A few minutes after the woman sat down Gwennie realised she had lost concentration. She knew it was something that kept happening since Pete died. She just couldn’t follow a thread of conversation. Her attention span was too short. She was looking at the woman, whose name she had forgotten already, and nodding but her mind was elsewhere, flitting about like a mosquito, leaping from thought to thought. Gwennie missed everything her interviewer said after they sat down.

‘I’m sorry …’ began Gwennie. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t really been following what you have been saying …’

Ms Ainslie-Wallace sat forward on the couch. ‘That’s okay, Mrs Darvill. I was just saying that it’s a mystery why all these people in the Blue Mountains caught this disease so suddenly. And what I wanted to know was if your husband visited the Blue Mountains in the weeks before he died.’

‘No,’ said Gwennie.

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Gwennie flatly. ‘I’m sure. We have stayed around the house on weekends. We were finishing off the garden. Pete and I haven’t been out of Sydney for months.’

Ms Ainslie-Wallace looked disappointed and that irritated Gwennie.

‘Can you tell me why my husband died?’ she asked bluntly.

Ms Ainslie-Wallace shook her head and looked grave.

‘I’m so sorry for intruding, Mrs Darvill. Thank you for your time.’

They walked in silence to the front door. After she pulled it closed Gwennie felt mind-numbingly, body-achingly tired. Exhaustion seemed to seep from the marrow of her bones, spreading through every nerve and muscle. She crawled onto the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Marla stood at the foot of the stairs and screamed, long and loud, her face puckering with the effort. The sound was violent, a cry of pure anger and frustration. Peg turned her back on her daughter and walked slowly and calmly up the stairs. Marla was enraged. She chased her mother, taking the steps two at a time.

Clare, cowering in the kitchen, could hear bare feet thumping on the wooden stairs. She followed their progress by the different squeaks on the floorboards.

‘No, no, no,’ she prayed silently. ‘Please, Marla, don’t. Please, please, please. God don’t let her do anything really bad.’ Clare didn’t want to hear what was happening, to bear witness to the ugliness that
was being played out above. Yet she listened intently, trying to catch every word.

Marla was out of control. ‘You manipulative bitch! You just can’t stay out of my life can you,’ she screamed.

Peg’s response was icy. Clare knew that tone well and it made her cringe. Her mother was angry but, as always, perfectly controlled. ‘Do you blame me for your life? When will you take responsibility for what you have done? You’re not a child any more, Marla.’ She spat out each word, her voice full of contempt.

Clare started to shake. Should she try to intervene, defuse the situation? Or should she stay out of it? Clare wished she could just walk away, go and sit with Mr Sanjay outside his shed. But he wasn’t there and she feared what would happen if she left the two women alone.

The pressure in the house had been building and Clare had expected something like this. She desperately wanted to know what was going on upstairs but believed she wouldn’t be welcome. There was one thing that Marla and Peg agreed on and it was that what went on between them had nothing to do with Clare. Clare was supposed to mind her own business, ignore the fact that domestic life could at any time suddenly erupt into a screaming match. The women would say ugly things to each other and then usually Marla would disappear for a few days and Peg would become even more stern and thin-lipped than usual.

Sometimes Clare would hear raised voices but
they would stop as soon as she walked into the room. Clare understood that Marla was fragile, physically and emotionally. She always had been. Her sister suffered from migraines, nasty violent ones that rendered her helpless. It was the reason Marla lost so many jobs. Sometimes they would come on so suddenly and unexpectedly that she would have to ring Peg to come and get her. Then she would lie in her room with the curtains drawn for days, not wanting to see anyone, just sleeping and groaning. Clare knew it was best to stay away from her then.

Clare tried to chart the onset of the migraines but with little success. Sometimes they were monthly, sometimes bi-monthly and at other times she would suffer a few a month. Often they were precipitated by a fight with Peg but not always. When she was in full flight Marla was like a hysterical fishwife, screaming abuse. Not much of what she screamed at her mother made sense to Clare. But Clare listened and stored it all away, snippets and fragments that she tried to piece together when she was alone.

The voices upstairs dropped and Clare had to strain to hear.

‘What kind of example do you think you set?’ said Peg.

‘Oh, and you can talk? You stitched-up, frigid old cow,’ replied Marla.

Peg would bear such accusations resolutely. The angrier Marla got, the calmer and more authoritative Peg became. Peg’s manner alone was enough
to intimidate Clare into submission. She didn’t dare argue with her mother. But often Peg’s cold authority just made Marla worse.

Clare was poised to react, every nerve alert. The ceiling to the right of her head creaked. Marla was outside Peg’s bedroom door. Clare braced herself for whatever might come next. The ticking of the clock in the hallway and the constant hum of traffic on the main road less than a kilometre away were the only sounds.

Clare didn’t dare move. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table, forcing her nails against the hard wood. The pain offered some small distraction. There was only silence above, then Clare heard a door slowly open. It could be Marla’s room or Peg’s. It was hard to tell. Everything creaked and groaned in this old terrace house.

The frustration of not knowing what was going on drove Clare out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She expected more yelling and door slamming but as she ascended she thought she could hear muffled sobs. Upstairs she found Marla slumped on the floor at the end of the hallway. Peg was beside her, an arm around her shoulders. Marla’s hands covered her face and the effort of crying made her body heave.

It was an unexpected sight, but what really shocked Clare was seeing Peg in tears. At fifty-nine, her mother was a vibrant and stoic woman, full of energy. She always knew what to do, or so it seemed to Clare. But as she rocked her elder daughter in her arms, she looked beaten.

Clare knelt beside the two huddled figures, tears pouring down her face. She couldn’t bear to see her sister and mother in so much pain and be unable to help. The three women sat like that for many minutes. When finally Marla stopped sobbing, instead taking deep shuddering breaths, Peg raised an eyebrow to Clare and tilted her head towards Marla’s bedroom. Clare understood and they helped Marla gently to her feet, half-carrying her to her room. They lay her down on the bed, pulling the doona over her. Peg sat beside her daughter stroking her hair. Marla stared up at her mother then away, her face expressionless.

‘Make tea, love,’ Peg said quietly to Clare.

Clare was relieved to have something to do. In the kitchen while she waited for the water to boil she looked across to the roof of Mr Sanjay’s garden shed. He had called it his gazebo, as if it belonged in some vast English estate. Clare couldn’t imagine anything less like a gazebo. It was a tin shed – a bit rusty in places – with a door that had warped in the weather and wouldn’t open fully so Mr Sanjay had to squeeze through it. But inside was his private chamber, fitted out like an English gentleman’s study. Books, papers, an old wooden filing cabinet and his desk.