The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  After she had cleaned up and Peg and Marla were sleeping it off, Clare would have a second Christmas dinner at Susan’s home where they celebrated with a much more subdued and orderly meal in the evening.

  Then on Boxing Day, when the good crockery and cutlery had been washed and packed safely back into the chiffonier, Peg would polish the long dining table and sit down to start the new jigsaw that she had inevitably received from Clare and Marla for Christmas.

  This 15,000-piece puzzle was her most ambitious yet. Clare had bought it over the internet from a company in England. Peg had been both delighted and intimidated by the enormous number of pieces. It had taken her right through January and halfway into February before she finished it and she had left it there for another week just to admire the final picture. Now she was doing it for the second time.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Marla said it went well.’

  ‘How long has she been an alcoholic?’

  Peg took her time before answering. When she did it was with obvious reluctance. ‘A while,’ she said finally.

  ‘Why does she drink?’

  ‘Because she’s unhappy. She doesn’t like who she is. Alcohol makes her feel better about herself.’

  ‘But why doesn’t she like herself? She’s beautiful, glamorous, funny.’

  Peg smiled. ‘Yes, she is all those things. She is also, in many ways, still a child and she isn’t good at coping when things don’t go right for her.’ Then she changed the subject. ‘How was your evening?’

  Clare allowed herself to be sidetracked. ‘Oh, kind of sad actually. Susan’s parents have split up. Apparently Mr Lee has been having an affair with some woman at work for years.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Peg. Her tone indicated it was no surprise to her.

  ‘But the really strange thing was Mrs Lee didn’t seem so upset. She told Susan she had lost interest in her husband ages ago. She said she was relieved to see him go. Can you believe that? Susan can’t. She thought her parents were perfectly happy. They always said they were and acted like it in front of her. She’s really devastated. They’re not but she is.’

  ‘Marriages often aren’t what they seem,’ commented Peg, in a mild, slightly distracted tone.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just an observation. Give Susan my love.’

  They sat in silence for a while, trying different pieces in different spots. Peg had a system that Clare knew well. She liked to sort out all the edges, piecing together the border first, then filling it in from the outside. Next she did the major areas of detail in the picture – the chalet, the horse, the bursts of flowers in the window boxes. Then she liked to do the less obvious detail such as the tree trunk and leaves, the wooden bridge and the lake. Last was the sky and the grass, which were the hardest because there was no detail and the pieces looked so similar. Clare found that part of the jigsaw boring. But she was pleased to settle in and help with the first part. She often sat up in the evenings helping her mother with a jigsaw. Peg was at her most relaxed and Clare felt she could ask her things.

  ‘What’s on your mind, love?’ asked Peg after a few minutes.

  ‘Marla.’

  Peg sighed.

  Clare heard it but proceeded anyway. She had been remembering all the mean things she had said about her sister to Mr Sanjay and she was ashamed that she had been so unforgiving. Everything about her sister and the way Peg dealt with her had to be re-examined in light of the revelation that she was an alcoholic. It changed everything and Clare was struggling to understand. Her only experience with alcoholics were the street people that slept on the bus stop near university and in Kings Cross. She had trouble reconciling that image with glamorous, well-groomed Marla.

  ‘Is that why she is so volatile one minute and placid the next and spends days in bed in her room?’

  Peg nodded.

  ‘Does she suffer from migraines?’

  ‘She suffers from hangovers.’

  Another thought occurred to Clare. ‘Is that what she did with my birthday money that she stole? She spent it on drink?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Clare digested this new material. Lots of the painful, confusing side of their life started to make sense. Memories came to the surface and Clare saw them with new clarity. ‘And the fight over the lemon essence? Was that part of it?’

  Peg nodded.

  ‘She went through a stage where she used to drink lemon essence. I found a carton of it had been billed to our grocery account. When I asked her she denied it. But old Mrs Gillies at the local grocery shop told me she had ordered it in. A whole carton. Mrs Gillies thought she must have been making lemon soufflés for the entire neighbourhood. But it was a cheap way to get drunk.’

  Clare shook her head in amazement. ‘I remember the fight over the lemon essence. I couldn’t work out why you were so mad at her for buying it. I thought you were angry that she had wasted the money and wanted her to use lemons in cooking instead. I’m sorry. I decided you were awfully cheap and mean, not to let her buy it when obviously she just wanted to cook lots of soufflés and things for us.’

  Peg shrugged. ‘I know. I remember.’

  Another memory surfaced. Clare’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And that fall you had, where you ended up getting stitches in your face. You didn’t fall did you? That was Marla.’

  Peg didn’t reply. They both stayed silent for a while. It was such an ugly picture. Clare had loved Marla and hated her. But really she had had no idea about her sister. She also marvelled at the hell Peg had been through. Some of the time Clare had blamed her mother for being unreasonable to poor Marla. Or, when Marla had let Clare down, like forgetting to pick her up from basketball practice, Clare blamed her mother for always taking her sister’s side. In truth Clare had known little of what was going on in her own home. She might have been living in a different household. For the first time she realised how much her mother had protected her. ‘But how could I not have known? I never smelled it. I don’t think I have ever seen her drunk.’

  ‘She went to a lot of effort to make sure you didn’t know. She is a binge drinker,’ explained Peg. ‘After the episode with the lemon essence, I made it a condition that if she continues to live in this house she is not to drink under this roof. I didn’t think it was fair to you. So when she goes on a binge, she does it elsewhere.’

  ‘Is that why she goes away for days at a time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought she must have been staying out with secret boyfriends,’ said Clare.

  Peg raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t condone how Marla lives her life and I do my best to encourage her to give up alcohol. I give her a home where she can live, as long as she is sober, but I concern myself only with what happens under this roof. She is old enough to conduct herself as she sees fit outside the home. I have my suspicions and obviously I would rather she stayed sober, but I can’t make her. She has to do that herself. And you can’t make her change either. So don’t make that mistake, it will only hurt you and won’t achieve anything. She is fine most of the time but then the cravings start and she heads off on a binge. Sometimes she satisfies that craving in one night and other times she will drink for a few days.’

  ‘Why do you put up with it?’

  Peg gave a tired smile. ‘She’s my daughter. I may not have been the best mother in the world but I would never see either of my children on the street.’

  It was an uncomfortable image but Clare remembered the scene at the university house. ‘Is it so bad that she could end up there?’ she asked quietly.

  Peg didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Clare. ‘Why does she drink? It’s like all this rage is there just bubbling away beneath the surface. Then it bursts out and she is off on a drinking binge.’

  Peg looked at Clare and her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t try to psychoanalyse your sister. She has problems that aren’t your concern. An
d you can’t solve them for her. None of it is that simple. But you must know that it has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ protested Clare. ‘I live in this house and it affects everything.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Peg.

  Clare battled her feelings of frustration. She was an outsider in her own home. Peg and Marla kept so much from her that she felt surrounded by secrets, things she wasn’t worthy enough to share. It was partly why she had grown up with a sense of shame that she didn’t understand. ‘I only want to help,’ she said.

  ‘I know you do. And you do help. Just by being who you are. I’m very proud of you, you know.’

  Clare was touched. She knew Peg was deliberately trying to sidetrack her but she revelled in the praise. Peg wasn’t often given to displays of emotion. Embarrassed, they both returned to the puzzle in front of them. After a few minutes Clare thought she would try again. ‘Did something bad happen to Marla and that’s why she drinks? I won’t tell Marla that I know. Please.’

  Peg froze, her gaze locked onto the jigsaw piece she held in her hand.

  This was as outspoken as Clare had ever dared to be. ‘I’m not deaf. I hear what you two say to each other. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Peg sucked in her breath and looked coldly at Clare. ‘As it happens, no, you are not. I have told you it is none of your business and you should leave it at that. Your sister has a right to her privacy.’ Slowly Peg set down the piece in her hand, got up from the table and walked up the stairs. There would be no more discussion.

  Clare’s relaxed mood dissipated. After a few minutes she followed her mother. She was sorry she had destroyed the moment. She could hear Peg moving about in her bedroom and wondered if she should go in. She could talk about plans for Peg’s upcoming birthday, something neutral that might re-create the intimacy they had been sharing before she ruined it. She heard the click of her mother’s bedside light and realised she had missed her opportunity.

  In her own room she took off her jacket and opened the wardrobe. Pasted to the mirror inside was a photo of a pair of leather shoes. It was positioned where she could see it every time she opened the door. It was supposed to remind her to smile. And it did.

  The photo had been a gift from Mr Sanjay for her eighteenth birthday. The shoes were his – well worn but beautifully polished and lovingly tended claret-coloured English brogues. There was no inscription, no note written on the back. There had been no need. The picture told the story. Mr Sanjay had arranged the shoes in his precious bed of hollyhocks with a few flowers poking jauntily through the eyelets. When Mr Sanjay had given Clare the picture she laughed and laughed. The shoes looked so comical.

  Leather shoes had become an ongoing joke between them. It started one day when she was about sixteen and had been complaining about something that happened at school.

  Mr Sanjay quoted the eighth-century Indian yogi Shantideva. ‘The earth was covered in thorns and his feet were tender. He thought he could cover the earth in leather or cover his feet in leather. What do you think he did?’

  ‘Invented shoes?’ suggested Clare. ‘And that is the story of how Indians came to be such great cobblers.’

  ‘Oh, now you are making fun of your old Indian friend,’ Mr Sanjay said chuckling.

  ‘No, I’m not, I wouldn’t,’ Clare said. ‘I think Shantideva was saying that if people are annoying you, you can go around trying to make them stop doing whatever it is they are doing that annoys you, or you can just stop being annoyed. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, you are. You have a good heart Clare and a fine mind. Make sure they work together.’

  From then on, whenever Clare was complaining about the way the world worked, Mr Sanjay would tease her and say, ‘Yes, you are right. Everyone should do it your way. No need for shoes. Call all the Indian cobblers. It’s a big job. We must immediately cover the earth in leather.’

  In the weeks leading up to her eighteenth birthday Clare had been in a state of anxiety. She had allowed Peg and Marla to convince her she should have a party at home. After spending years trying to pretend to the outside world that her family life resembled something like Susan’s, Clare wasn’t keen to invite everyone in for a peek. But she hadn’t known how to convey that to her mother and sister without offending them. So reluctantly she agreed. It was to be a party for fifty people in a marquee in their back garden.

  As the date drew closer, everything about the preparations spelled disaster. Peg wanted to make her a dress but Clare thought that it would look home-made and not classy enough in front of all her new university friends. Marla wanted to do all the cooking but Clare didn’t trust her to do it right. Susan had assumed she would invite the girls from their year at school and so had mentioned it to a few of them, but Clare hadn’t intended to because she couldn’t imagine them mixing with her new friends. And to top it all off Peg’s best friend Viv and her husband Gerald had telephoned asking when it was, clearly expecting that they would be invited. Clare couldn’t imagine them mixing with anyone.

  She thought it was all going to be terrible and her new university friends would realise the shameful truth about her – that she didn’t come from a nice suburban family with TV-show parents and she wasn’t at all cool. She had poured it all out to Mr Sanjay down by the shed, sitting outside on their two stools while he set up the chess board. She had ended her tirade with, ‘It’s my birthday. Don’t you think I should be able to do what I want to do and everybody else should just shut up and go along with it?’

  It was obvious to Clare he had to agree. She sat back and waited, almost with a feeling of triumph, at the picture she had painted. Remembering it now made her cringe. What a spoilt, self-centred brat she had been.

  Mr Sanjay said two words in reply. ‘Leather shoes.’

  She gaped at him. She wanted to protest, to make him realise the seriousness of the situation. How unfair the world was being to her on her birthday. Her birthday. But the words died on her lips.

  ‘You are white. It’s your move,’ he said.

  Later, after he let her win and was setting up the board for a second game, Mr Sanjay asked what she would have liked to do for her eighteenth birthday if it had been left entirely up to her.

  ‘I just wanted to go out and feed the poor,’ said Clare.

  ‘Ah ha. A noble ambition. Then it is indeed a tragedy,’ said Mr Sanjay, his mouth twitching.

  ‘That’s right. I am glad you finally understand,’ replied Clare.

  And then, instead of going back into the house to scream and cry and cancel her party, she stayed for another game with her Indian friend. A week later, the day after her birthday, while Clare was still revelling in the glow of throwing a fabulous party, she found pushed under the front door an envelope grandly addressed to Miss Clare Dalton of the Dalton Family. Inside was the photograph of Mr Sanjay’s shoes. She had pinned it inside her wardrobe so it would cheer her up whenever she opened the doors. Seeing it tonight made her feel more alone than ever.

  *

  Gwennie found the business card in the wastepaper basket in the bathroom. She was throwing out the toothpaste and saw it lying there, which reminded her she had been looking for it. She had no idea how it came to be there but lately she was finding lots of things in unusual places. She thought of it as part of her condition, grief. The process of grieving felt like an all-consuming sickness that robbed her of the ability to do the simplest things. Sometimes she found herself standing in a room with no memory of why she had gone in there. Other times she found it too hard just to run a bath.

  She re-read the card: Cynthia Ainslie-Wallace, medical researcher, Nepean Hospital.

  Finding it caused her to forget her original reason for going into the bathroom but that didn’t matter. Gwennie took the card into the study. She dialled the number.

  ‘Hello, Cynthia. It’s Gwennie Darvill speaking. You visited my home –’ she hesitated, trying to recall what day it had been, then gave up, ‘– the other day. I
am afraid I wasn’t much help. I wondered if you could see me again. I’ve been thinking about it and I would like to talk to you further.’

  Ms Ainslie-Wallace must have been surprised but she didn’t let it show. She agreed to drop by the next day. When she arrived Gwennie was shocked by how vague her recollection was of this woman. If it hadn’t been that she was expecting her, she would not have believed they had ever met.

  Cynthia got straight to the point. She sounded like the researcher she was, quoting facts and figures. Gwennie forced her mind to focus, listening for anything that might explain Pete. ‘We have noted an unusual increase in reported cases of pneumonia presenting at Blue Mountains Hospital in Katoomba over the March–April period. Normally we get a couple of cases each year and usually in the elderly. What has made this outbreak so abnormal is that it has occurred mainly in men aged between forty and fifty. They are generally non-smokers, and fit and active.’

  Gwennie nodded. ‘And this is just in the Blue Mountains area?’

  ‘Yes. From Wentworth to Blackheath.’

  Gwennie had not been to either of those places. She excused herself and returned with Pete’s road atlas. Cynthia pointed out the region.

  ‘Isn’t that odd, for so many fit men that age to get pneumonia in such a specific area?’ asked Gwennie.

  Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes, Mrs Darvill. It is very odd. That’s why we are investigating. I work for the Public Health Unit at Wentworth Area Health Service. The Blue Mountains falls under our jurisdiction. On a hunch I have been casting our net wider and because so many people from Sydney visit the Blue Mountains I am following up reported cases of pneumonia in people throughout the city who are not elderly or infirm. My unit is concerned mostly with preventative health care.’

  She started to talk about their funding and charter but Gwennie was gone. The voice became a distant hum in the background as Gwennie remembered Pete in hospital. It was a memory she hadn’t allowed to surface. She didn’t dare. It rose unwittingly and in an instant she was back there. The smell of antiseptic. Harsh overhead lights. White linoleum flecked with grey. And Pete in an oxygen mask, lying on a stretcher in the hallway.