Authors: Bunty Avieson
There was too much information in that photograph. Any doubts she had that there could be an innocent explanation, something that didn’t involve a romance between Pete and Clare Dalton, vanished in that instant. The look on Pete’s face told her everything. It was tender and full of wonder. He was half smiling and his eyelids were heavy. She knew that look and it pierced her heart to see it again.
And it had continued. He had betrayed Gwennie every month. It was as the shaman had said. He had never given up his past. Her husband had never been hers. Their life together had been an illusion. So now she knew. There was no way she could tell herself it wasn’t true.
How long did awareness take? How could it be measured in time? Gwennie watched as a rose petal left the heart of the flower landing gently on the table. It had taken less than a second. How long did it take to blink, to replicate a cancer cell, to break a heart? Now that she knew, without the benefit of any doubt, it seemed to Gwennie that she had
always known. The next thought was infused with the knowledge. And once she knew she couldn’t not know. It caused a crack, a schism in her mind.
She had often heard women say that, looking back, they realised they had always known about their husband’s infidelity. At some level they had been aware. It had puzzled her. If they had known and chosen not to act that was their choice but she believed she would behave differently. She wouldn’t bury something like that, look the other way. She would face it. Deal with the truth whatever it was. It was her character, she had arrogantly told herself. But then she had never imagined she would be in the situation. It was something that happened to other women.
So had she known, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, and chosen to ignore it? She let the thought settle. Had she? No, she was sure she hadn’t. But now she did and history had to be rewritten. Gwennie thought she knew what would happen. She would go over all those occasions when Pete had been late home from work or talking to someone she didn’t know on the telephone and she would look at them through the filter of this new information. Each discovery, each match would be like a knife, slicing through her. Even her grief had been tarnished. It was no longer a clean, noble pain that she could endure with dignity. It had been poisoned and twisted with suspicion, blame and anger. Every memory needed to be reconfigured, re-sorted. In the face of this enormity, Gwennie felt strangely calm.
Gwennie sat at the window of the café in Glebe Point Road feeling anxious. It was almost 7 pm and if she didn’t turn up soon Marla would be late for the start of the Saturday-night meeting. Gwennie had no way of knowing if she was coming but it felt the right place to be, so here she was, holding the same cup of tea she had ordered three-quarters of an hour ago. The tea was cold now, but if the owners of the café thought it strange that this young woman had spent so long nursing her cup while looking steadfastly out the window, they gave no indication. Anyway, Gwennie didn’t care.
She didn’t know what else to do. She had spent most of the afternoon watching the house at Dadue Street. An older woman had left at about 3.30 pm and returned an hour later with bags of groceries but there had been no sign of the two younger women. The little yellow Honda
was not in the driveway so perhaps they were out, she mused.
After a few hours, a couple of young Greek men had come out of number 46 and opened the bonnet of a car on the street. Gwennie started to feel conspicuous so she moved her watch to the café at Glebe Point Road, opposite the community hall. First she sat at an indoor table and then when a window table became available she moved there. It gave her a clear view of everything going on in the street.
If Marla didn’t come it would be like Gwennie had hit a dead end. What would she do next? Go back to 44 Dadue Street, knock on the door and ask for Clare Dalton? The thought had occurred to her during the afternoon as she sat in Pete’s Saab listening to the radio and sipping from a thermos of tea. She could walk up to that front door, knock and say she was collecting for the Red Cross, would Clare Dalton like to donate? Or, she was from the Census, how many Clare Daltons lived here? She came up with various other scenarios, none of them believable, but it helped to pass the time.
Fruitless and frustrating though it was sitting parked in a suburban street all afternoon on her own, Gwennie still considered it preferable to being at home. Her house disturbed her. What had been comforting about being surrounded by Pete’s things was now depressing. She wandered around aimlessly, going in and out of different rooms, reliving their life together, looking for the cracks. She
was constantly asking herself the question, had Pete been happy? And if not, why hadn’t she known?
Pursuing Clare Dalton, or – as she justified it to herself – finding out ‘the truth’, gave her a purpose and momentarily quietened those maddening questions.
Gwennie felt at a standstill. She couldn’t grieve. What would she be grieving for? A sham marriage? Life with a man she never really knew? The picture she had carried in her heart of their life together, had it been an illusion?
The hardest thing to accept was that Pete wasn’t there to give her an explanation. Sometimes she wanted answers so badly she would scream his name down the long empty corridor, her voice bouncing off the walls and the polished floorboards. It was almost inconceivable to her that he wouldn’t come out of their study wearing his cashmere cardigan, glasses on the end of his nose, and put an end to this agony.
The waitress brought the bill and placed it by Gwennie’s elbow. She was friendly enough but her message was clear. The dinner crowd was starting to arrive and Gwennie’s time at the table had just run out. Gwennie paid and went outside. It was a warm night and Glebe Point Road was starting to come alive. Her watch said it was right on 7 pm. She crossed the road and walked slowly up the driveway of the community house. She could just hang around the foyer for a few minutes, she thought. If Marla came she would go into the meeting. If not, she would pick up another brochure on rainbow
therapy, pretend it was exactly what she had been looking for, then leave.
Marla arrived just as Gwennie was giving up. She burst through the door, all long legs and hair flying, and slammed straight into Gwennie. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ spluttered Marla. She stood back to allow Gwennie to move past but Gwennie shook her head.
‘No, no, I was just coming in.’ Gwennie turned and strode purposefully to the room at the end of the hallway, as if that was where she had been going all along.
The meeting was about to start and everybody else was seated when the two women entered. Isaiah took his place at the front of the room. Marla followed Gwennie towards the back. As they took their seats together Gwennie smiled and Marla smiled right back. For the next hour and a half, as different people stood up and spoke, Gwennie sweated. She hardly heard a word that was said. Her attention was completely focussed on the woman beside her. Marla. Or was it Clare Dalton? If she wasn’t Clare using the name Marla for AA then she had to be her sister.
Gwennie was so conscious of her she couldn’t believe the woman wasn’t aware of her also. Do you recognise me? Have you seen me in photographs or at the funeral? Did Pete tell you about me … his trusting wife, the little woman at home?
Gwennie studied what she could see without turning her head. Marla was wearing faded jeans and her thigh was so close to Gwennie that they
were almost touching. Gwennie wanted to inch herself away but didn’t dare move. Marla’s perfume was cloying, making Gwennie feel stifled. She had long slim legs with slide-on pumps that had kitten heels. Her toe-nails were painted and on the inside of her left ankle was a small red butterfly tattoo.
Gwennie thought of what she herself was wearing. A pale pink twin set with black tailored trousers. They were as different as women could be. Was that why, Pete? Was it some male thing – the madonna and the whore? Was it sexual?
Gwennie had been happy with all of their life together. When first they became lovers they had been passionate at every opportunity. At work they had deliberately taken risks, telephoning each other to arrange a quick assignation in the boardroom or inside the back stairwell. They would go as far as they dared, then pull apart and slink back to their respective desks. Within a few minutes Pete would find some excuse to saunter past Gwennie and make some innocuous comment about the weather as loudly as he could while she buried her head in a drawer pretending to look for a paperclip but really just stifling her giggles. Or they would pass each other in a corridor and quickly grab for each other then part before anybody else appeared.
She knew what the other secretaries said about her and somehow it added to the game. The more of a snob they appeared to find her, the more wanton she would be with Pete, just centimetres from their desks.
Over time the recklessness was replaced with a
gentler, more mellow kind of intimacy and easiness together. Eventually they stopped tearing off their clothes to devour each other on the hallway rug, and their lovemaking had become more of a tender sharing. Gwennie had been happy and she assumed Pete had been too. She wondered why she had never asked him.
Without moving her head she looked from her own twin set and tailored pants to the slim jean-clad leg beside her and the little red butterfly, peeking so daintily from the cuff. Oh Pete, were you bored with me?
Gwennie clapped each member as they finished speaking. Charlotte who had been drinking since she was fifteen. Fred who lost his job and his wife. John who Gwennie thought looked a bit familiar. Wasn’t he her dentist? She tried to picture him with a mask covering his mouth. Then it was time for coffee. Marla and Gwennie walked over to the table together.
‘Now for the hard stuff,’ said Marla. ‘Nescafé. I’ll take mine strong and black.’
She smiled at Gwennie. ‘Hi, I’m Marla.’
‘I’m Gwennie.’ She waited for a reaction to her name. Was there a flicker of recognition? Did Marla know of her? I am Gwennie, Pete’s wife, his widow, the woman he promised to love, honour and never cheat on. It is I, Gwennie Darvill. Do you know my name?
Gwennie watched carefully but the other woman seemed perfectly relaxed and her manner was cordial, just as would be expected from a
stranger in such circumstances. They stood together in line for the urn.
‘I am amazed at how different everybody’s stories are,’ said Marla. ‘AA seems to bring together people with absolutely nothing else in common.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Gwennie. ‘And yet when you listen to them there is a common thread.’
‘Yes, that we all want to make a change.’
‘Perhaps the most difficult one of our lives,’ added Gwennie.
The two women started to chat over their polystyrene cups but it wasn’t long before a couple of the men joined them. They were friendly to Gwennie but still she felt it was obvious that Marla was the attraction.
‘I’m glad to see you back again,’ boomed a voice behind Gwennie. It was Isaiah. He gave his most welcoming smile. Everything about his heartiness and forced joviality irritated Gwennie. There was nothing she could do but smile back. He was determined to draw her into conversation. ‘How are you finding the meetings so far?’
‘Good,’ said Gwennie. ‘Very interesting … and helpful.’
‘Is this the only one you attend?’
‘What do you mean?’
Isaiah looked surprised. ‘Many of our members attend other meetings. If you feel in need of support there is usually a meeting going on somewhere in town any time of the day and usually more than once a day.’
‘Oh really?’ Gwennie sounded lame to her own ears. Should she have known that? She had little idea of how AA operated. Had everyone else attended an introductory course? She felt conspicuously ignorant. Her unease was mirrored by Marla. Two men were circling her and Gwennie could feel her recoiling.
Gwennie reached inside her handbag as if searching for something and in the process angled her body away from Isaiah. ‘Would you like to go to a café over the road? It has much better coffee,’ she whispered so that only Marla could hear.
Marla looked grateful and mouthed yes.
The two women excused themselves from the circle that was growing around them. As she walked across the road with Marla, Gwennie marvelled at how natural and easy it had been. They ordered coffee from the same waitress Gwennie had met earlier. She smiled in recognition, but didn’t comment as she took their order.
‘This is what is the hardest thing for me,’ said Marla. ‘Knowing I can never have a real drink, ever again in my life. Sometimes that seems an awfully bleak picture. I didn’t believe that I could ever have fun and be social without a drink in my hand. All the AA members whose stories I have heard say they enjoy their lives so much more without alcohol. But like me they hadn’t thought that would be possible. I still find it hard, the thought of going to a party and not drinking. So for now I am just taking that bit on faith. And avoiding parties.’
Gwennie nodded. She imagined that would be
a daunting thought. Her own relationship with alcohol was less troubled. She and Pete enjoyed a bottle of wine with dinner every now and then. But not every night. It didn’t bother Gwennie either way. She had no personal empathy for any of the stories she heard at the meetings and little understanding for what Marla was going through.
‘So what got you to AA?’ asked Marla.
Gwennie’s mind went blank. ‘Oh, a lot of things,’ she said vaguely. ‘I heard you speak last week and I thought a lot of what you said rang true for me too.’
Marla sipped her coffee. ‘I am surprised I did that. I hadn’t intended to speak, to “tell my story” as they say, but next thing I knew I was up there letting it all out.’
‘Were you sorry afterwards?’ asked Gwennie.
‘No, actually I felt good. It was like I had signed up for something. Talking about it made it concrete and I think that is the first step to making changes. For me anyway. I realise my life
is
unmanageable. I had thought I had nothing in common with these people but now I think I do belong here. And the funny thing is I found it easier to tell a bunch of strangers why I drink than my own sister.’
Gwennie felt a ripple of excitement. ‘Oh, you have a sister?’ she said.
‘What? Oh yeah. But you know, telling a whole bunch of strangers also makes it scary. Having stood there and declared my intention never to drink again … well, it raises the stakes. Now if I fail
it isn’t just me who knows it, everyone in that room would know what a loser I am.’
Gwennie tried to look sympathetic but her mind was elsewhere. What’s her name? Who cares about whether you fail? What’s your sister’s name?
Marla continued. After spending so long keeping her drinking a secret, it was a relief to talk about it. ‘Listening to the people in that room tonight I found myself thinking, yes but
why
do you drink? And even though that is what they were each trying to explain, I still wanted to ask each of them at the end, yes, that’s all very well, but why do you get drunk? I still don’t understand why they, or me, or anyone, likes to get drunk. I wish I knew why I liked it so much. What the flaw is in my character that desires that so passionately that I lose all sense of reason.’ She stopped and looked at Gwennie, waiting for an answer.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Gwennie, shaking her head. ‘I just don’t know the answer to that. But it’s interesting that you feel that way after listening to other people …’ She left her sentence open ended, hoping to encourage Marla to speak some more. She wished they were in a bar where she could buy her another drink to help get her talking. No good suggesting that, she supposed.
Marla continued. ‘What Charlotte said struck a chord. She said she drank to keep down the feelings and also to bring up the feelings. She couldn’t process emotion without a drink. I think I use alcohol in that way.’
Gwennie decided they had talked about all the
AA people long enough. She wanted to get Marla to talk about things that were more personal. ‘What about you, Marla? I know what you said last week about how you feel when you drink, which I thought was really interesting, but you didn’t say anything about when you started or why. What is your family background like?’
‘Did I have a happy childhood?’ Marla laughed. ‘Happy enough. My mother is a madly controlling, manipulative, interfering cow but, hey, no-one is perfect.’ She laughed again, a hollow unconvincing sound. ‘But if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here now. She ruined my life then saved it. Or is that saved it then ruined it? And there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not aware of that.’ Marla shrugged and became cheerful again. ‘But I can’t blame her for my problems. Isn’t that what AA tells you? I have to take responsibility for my actions. Hmmm. Well, I’m working on doing that.’