The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Ten





What’s it like to have a daughter who doesn’t know you exist? For Albert Mackay, it’s as though he’s only half alive. Because, if Alba can’t see him, can’t touch him, then how does he know he’s really here, a living, breathing man and not simply a fictional character?

When Elizabeth Ashby told him she couldn’t abandon her other children, that she had to try and make her marriage work, to bring Alba up as Charles’s daughter, she asked Albert to move away. She said it was too painful knowing he was nearby, close enough but impossible to touch. And so he did, for both their sakes. He knew that walking down the same streets they’d walked together, fearful of bumping into his lover and their giggling baby would be too painful to bear. Albert moved as far as he could while remaining in the same country, so he’d know he was breathing the same air and seeing the same sunset as the daughter who would never know him.

When he moved to Inverie, the most remote village in Scotland (at the time not connected to the mainland by road, with Glasgow a boat trip and five-hour train ride away), Albert thought he could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist, that there wasn’t another man out there raising his daughter and sharing a bed with the love of his life. Unfortunately, Albert soon found it wasn’t any easier to bear the pain of this from a distance of four hundred and ninety-one miles than it was from three.

Albert got a job in the local primary school, but being with the ten children all day, teaching them to spell and make sense of Shakespeare, pushed him over the edge. And, when he fell, it was into broken glass. Every night he finished a bottle of wine and five inches of brandy. At midnight, he smashed the empty bottles against the stone wall at the bottom of his garden so that over the years the soil was covered with layers and layers of multicolored glass. Every year on Alba’s birthday he drank a bottle of champagne and an unspecified amount of vodka until he passed out.

And then, on her seventh birthday, he stopped. He had a dream the night before, the most vivid experience of his life. In it his daughter was crying, begging him to come and save her from something. When he woke, her terror and need for him was just as visceral as it had been in the middle of the night. It felt like a prophecy. That day he stopped drinking. Just in case. Just in case his daughter ever needed him. As the weeks went by Albert imagined that somehow, over distance and logic, if Alba ever needed him he would know, he would feel her. And, if and when that miraculous day ever came, he wanted to be sober for it.

—

Greer can feel herself starting to fall. She’s forgetting about food, clothes and all the minor practicalities of life and instead thinks only of him. Blake has bitten her, entered her bloodstream and left her drugged. She walks around in a fog of desire, feeling him watching and waiting to pounce. It’s a troubling development, since she had planned on keeping things casual, on allowing it to go only so far—an experience in light entertainment, not a full-blown epic. This isn’t because she couldn’t fall in love with him but because she deeply suspects he couldn’t fall in love with her. Blake doesn’t strike her as the type to mess around in the muckiness of deep emotions.

Greer suspects it’s the sex that’s done it. Her mother always warns her that sex complicates things, that it’s harder to remain aloof, to hold on to your own heart, once you’ve been marked by a man. Women, Celia always says, no matter how savvy and self-possessed, are always affected by sex. Even casual sex, she insists, has a way of tightening the strings. Greer and Blake have had sex every night since the first night: in the wine cellar, the alleyway behind The Archer, on a table after closing time . . . And every time, it’s the very best sex of her life.

Of course Greer is no fool. She knows that most men are repelled by needy women. She can sense these men, can smell them at a hundred feet. And Blake is one such man. So Greer pretends. She pretends she doesn’t feel a thing, that she couldn’t care a jot. And fortunately Greer’s a good enough actress that she can pull off such a deception. She knows how to laugh, how to look, how to hold herself, as though he’s not affecting her at all. All those drama lessons are now paying for themselves. Greer may not yet have had the chance to play Lady Macbeth but she can play the role of nonchalant female to a T.

Now she stands at the bar polishing glasses by candlelight, humming to herself, feigning disinterest in Blake while he counts the takings. She chats to the other employees, about customers and tips and where they’re going on their summer holidays. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning before everyone else has gone home, before the place is deserted, empty and still.

“Right then, Red.” Blake steps behind the bar where Greer stands, and slips one hand up her back. A single shiver ripples down her spine. “Let’s go.”

—

For his part, Blake is rather surprised by how much he feels for Greer. Indeed he’s surprised he feels anything at all, since it’s not his habit to care for the women he sleeps with. But there is an ease about Greer, a carefree, footloose, happy-go-luckiness that feels freeing. It’s also entirely refreshing—not a quality he very often encounters in his bedfellows. She doesn’t seem to want to trap or contain him, she doesn’t ask more from him than he wants to give and so Blake finds he wants to give more. He finds himself buying little presents, seeing things he knows she’ll like and being moved to acquire them for her. He finds himself asking to see her every night. He catches himself thinking of her far too often. He notices himself absently gazing at her while she works. It is quite unlike him.

Blake wonders if he is maturing, following the rest of the human race toward monogamy and matrimony. Is his heart, for the first time, starting to win influence over his head? Might he be moved to break his vow never to let a woman weasel her way into his affections? But he can’t. He mustn’t allow it. The twenty-year-old crack in his heart has never really healed. Blake can declare that he doesn’t care that his mother left him, but he knows it’s a lie. He can tell himself he’s made of stone, that he’s superhuman, that nothing will ever hurt him, but he knows love could. And being left is something Blake refuses to endure again.

—

Carmen paces along the path outside the Clare College chapel. She glances up at the carved stone spires marking the four corners of the courtyard, reaching into the nearly dark sky. Three rows of windows, interrupted by staircases and the main entrance, run along each wall and vines of honeysuckle reach up from the flower beds to the roofs, framing everything. Lemony light from several windows shines out into the dusk, giant lanterns illuminate the courtyard. The door to the chapel is open and the soft notes of a piano spill out into the air . . . but Carmen’s still not ready to step inside.

She breathes deeply, trying to relax. Tonight she’s wearing the conservative clothes befitting a college choir: a black sweater with a high neck and a long blue skirt that reaches her ankles. Admittedly both are tight but, having compromised with length, she drew the line at baggy. At last, Carmen takes another deep breath and walks through the open door. Like all good Catholic girls she went to church every Sunday, sitting between her father, who slipped a hand onto her thigh at the start of every service, and her mother, who pretended not to notice. But there was no church this beautiful in Bragança.

Carmen walks carefully down the aisle, glancing up at the delicate patterns engraved in the arches. She’s never seen stained-glass windows so vast, so intricate, so colorful. Final glints of sunlight fall through them, illuminating the saints’ feet, shining slices of red, green and gold across the wooden pews.

As she nears the pulpit Carmen sees two women, both very short and very fat, standing side by side like two barrels of beer in the cellar of The Archer.

“I’m Nora.” The first one grins and reaches out her hand. “And this is Sue.”

“Or, rather, I’m Sue.” The other one steps forward and reaches out her hand. “And this is Nora. I think that’s the way it should be.” She looks at Carmen. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Nora folds her arms. “I introduced us perfectly well, without your embellishments.”

Carmen suppresses a smile. Now the two women don’t remind her of beer barrels but Tweedledum and Tweedledee. This relaxes her a little.

“Are you Meg’s friend?” Sue asks. “She called last week, to ask if you could join us. Of course we said we’d be delighted. Can’t have too many bats in the belfry I always say.”

“Yes,” Nora sighs, “and I do wish you wouldn’t.”

“Peg,” Carmen corrects Sue, “Peggy.” She might have known this was a set-up. But now she’s here, she can’t very well run away. And, if she did, she has the feeling that these two would chase her.

“Yes, Peg, exactly,” Sue says, “that’s what I said. Anyway, enough talking, it’s time to release the Kraken, it’s time to sing!”

“But,” Carmen stalls, “Peggy tell me this not serious choir, because I am not ready for—”

“Oh, don’t worry about little old us,” Nora giggles, “we’re very casual, from our knickers to our socks, you’ll fit right in. We only sing because we like to be loud.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sue huffs. “Right, enough chitter-chatter, let’s get on with it.”

She starts to hum. Nora joins in and soon the chapel is filled with song. The notes dance around Carmen, across the pews, soaring past the stained-glass windows, past the stone arches of the ceiling, before disappearing through the bricks and mortar and up into the sky. Carmen is enchanted, filled with a sense of serenity she’s never felt before. And then, without a single thought in her head, she begins to sing.

This time her voice isn’t soft and low but high, bright and strong. For a second it soars at perfect pitch above every other sound, then dips and sinks back to meet the other voices, twirling and twisting between them, collecting their scattered and solitary notes like a strong September wind that whips through a pile of autumn leaves and brings them, for one eternal moment, into a perfect and elegant dance. And then, all of a sudden Carmen realizes something is wrong: the other two women have fallen quiet, hers is the only voice in the air. She shuts her mouth to see Nora and Sue staring, their own mouths hanging open.

“What?” Carmen asks. “What is wrong?”

“Your voice,” Sue says, “I’ve never heard anything like it. You’re not a bat, you’re an angel.”

“Quite, quite,” Nora exclaims. “It’s exquisite, simply exquisite! Don’t you know it?”

Carmen bites her lip and thinks of Tiago. “I not really sing very often.”

“Why on God’s green earth do you not?” Nora cries. “Your voice is so full of spirit, it bursts my heart right open. Blooming heck, if I could sing like that I’d never talk again.”

Sue raises an eyebrow. “Hardly.”

“Oh, shush,” Nora says, “we’re in the presence of greatness.” She reaches out and clasps Carmen’s hands. “Your voice, my dear, is divine.”

Carmen frowns, a little startled at the enthusiasm of Nora’s embrace. “Really? You think so?”

When both women nod so vigorously it seems that their heads are on springs, for a moment Carmen forgets Tiago. She forgets about the midnight glory, about being found out and every other fear that haunts her. Then she smiles, gazing at her two friends, until she has tears in her eyes.

—

When Alba made the biggest discovery of her career, she couldn’t wait to tell her teacher. She ran all the way from the university library to King’s College. She slipped along the cobbled paving stones in the rain, falling once in Burrell’s Walk, but didn’t stop for a second. Dashing across the quad, darting over the grass, she arrived at Dr. Skinner’s rooms nearly fainting and ready to throw up. Taking a few seconds to catch her breath, she knocked—far more vigorously and insistently than she usually dared.

“Yes?” Her supervisor’s voice was impatient.

Alba poked her head around the door before stepping inside. Dr. Skinner sat behind an enormous wooden desk in the corner. A twitchy student sat on the sofa across the room.

“Sorry,” Alba said quickly, “sorry to interrupt, it’s just I’ve found something, something incredible, and it changes everything.”

“Is this about the paper?”

Alba nodded.

“All right then, bugger off, Henry,” Dr. Skinner snapped at the student. “Come back next week when you’ve got something decent to show me.”

As the student scampered out, Alba walked slowly across the room, eager to tell everything but wanting to prolong the glory a moment longer.

“So.” Dr. Skinner leaned across the desk, eyes shining. “What have you got?”

Alba looked into the deep brown eyes, pretending for a second they were shining with delight at seeing her. “Five hundred letters to the Daily Telegraph in 1888, from people all over Britain, in answer to a question posed by Mona Caird: ‘Is Marriage Dead?’”

“But—”

“No, no one’s written about them yet, I searched every database. Nothing. And it gets better.” Alba grinned. “Only five hundred letters were published, but twenty-seven thousand people wrote in. The population stood at twenty-eight point one million in 1891, so—”

“One percent of the whole population.”

“Almost exactly, yes.”

“Well, that’s bloody incredible. It’s the best source material for our paper so far.” Dr. Skinner gave her a rare and brilliant smile and, reaching across the desk, squeezed Alba’s hand. For a second of unrestrained joy, Alba thought she might be about to have her first kiss. But then the smile shifted. “How are we going to sift through all this in time? We need to submit at the end of next month to stand a chance of summer publication. I’ve got that Harvard conference to prepare for, you’ve got your MPhil research—”

“It’s okay, I can do it,” Alba said quickly. “My research can wait. We can’t risk anyone else getting this.”

“Wonderful.” Dr. Skinner smiled. “And when I’m done with all this, then I’ll help you with the write-up.”

Alba glanced down at their fingers entwined on the desk. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to. I’ll finish in time. You can look it over when you’re back and we can publish it together.”

“My dear,” Dr. Skinner said, kissing her hand, “you are amazing, in every way.”

And it took every ounce of willpower Alba had not to faint on the spot.

Shaking free of the memory, Alba brings herself back to the task in hand: finding her father. She is sitting on her bed writing a list:

Find out if he still lives on Inverie.

Go to Inverie.

His surname?

Call every family on the island, try to find him.

Ask Ed if he knows anything, i.e. where/who he is.

Check my birth certificate.

Hire a private detective?

If all else fails, go to Inverie.

Every now and then she stops, bites the tip of her pen and glances up at the bookshelves, at the infinite and ever-expanding rows of books. She wonders which ones her biological father has read. Does he like the same books as she does? What else might they have in common? Alba wants to fall asleep, so she can see her mother and quiz her about Albert. But she knows it’d be no good—she never remembers their conversations. Still, the comfort of holding Elizabeth’s hand, even in dreams, would be better than nothing.

In addition to writing the list, Alba’s been re-reading the same letter over and over again for the last three hours, tracing her finger along the curves of the inky letters. It was the last letter, dated nearly eleven years after the first. She folds it up again and speaks the sentences softly, by heart . . .

DOVE COTTAGE, INVERIE,

SUNDAY, 31ST OCTOBER, 1999

My dearest Liz,

I love you. There, I’ve said it again. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know I promised never to write. But I had a dream last night—I won’t explain, in case this letter is found, but you see the date, so you’ll guess—and I needed you to be able to contact me, just in case. I need you to know where I am. If you want to find me, I’m here. I’ll wait for you. I won’t leave. And don’t worry about me wasting my life waiting. I love you, there is nothing else for me to do.

I hope it all worked, I like to imagine you happy. And I’m happy here, whenever I think of you. I look up at the stars at night, when you might be doing the same, or the sunset—I remember how you always loved all those colors—and I imagine you next to me. I talk to you. We have wonderful conversations and hardly ever argue. On your birthday I read our favorite book aloud, from beginning to end. Perhaps you hear me. If not, I hope he reads to you, I remember how much you love to be read to.

I know you won’t write back to me. Don’t worry, I don’t expect it. But I do hope you’ll keep the letter, hide it somewhere safe for one day, a maybe day, a just-in-case day . . . And if that day comes, I will be here, waiting for you.

Forever, Albert

He must have known about her, Alba thinks. The date, her seventh birthday, is surely too much of a coincidence? But perhaps it was something else: their anniversary, the day they met, kissed, or made love for the first time. How can she know for certain, unless she goes to Scotland to find him? But what if he doesn’t want to see her? Could she stand the rejection? After the betrayal of the unmentionable one, would her heart finally snap in half and never beat properly again? It’s possible.

Alba’s thoughts are interrupted by a rapid staccato knocking on her bedroom door. She sits up. No one has knocked since she moved in, nearly six weeks ago. Then, with a sigh, she remembers. It’s tonight, the promised trip to The Archer. Now it’s too late to come up with excuses. Alba swears under her breath, jumps off the bed and dashes to the door, finding Carmen and Greer on the other side.

“Oh,” Alba says, her heart sinking even lower, “is this a group outing?”

“No.” Carmen smiles. “Greer’s just here to make you beautiful and dress you up.”

Alba grimaces at the thought of what this might entail. “Is this really necessary?”

“Don’t worry.” Greer takes her hand. “Wait until you see my wardrobe. By the time we’re done you’ll be a showstopper.”

Alba suppresses a tiny scream. She can’t imagine anything worse.

—

Two hours later Alba and Carmen are clattering across the cobblestones in their heels. “We will be late,” Carmen says. “We must go faster.”

“It’s okay, it’s only ten to eight.” Alba wobbles, feeling her left ankle nearly give way, wondering what the hell she’s doing. She’s never worn high heels before in her life and feels tall and exposed. For the first time, too, she’s wearing makeup: black mascara with heavily kohled eyes which, even Alba was surprised to see, give her a striking, sparkling blue stare. Her lips are highlighted in dark red, her skin powder-white with a little blush on her cheeks. A sapphire silk dress matches Alba’s eyes. Finished off with blue velvet shoes, the effect, much to Alba’s shock and embarrassment, is quite breathtaking.

“Here we are.” Carmen slides to a stop on the pavement. A few moments later, Alba, heart beating fast, arrives at her side. She glances at the door, painted the color of her lips, before Carmen pushes it open and steps into the darkness.

Alba is grateful for the candlelight. She can hardly see the faces of the people darting around her, flitting in and out of view like butterflies, and they can hardly see her. When they reach the bar Carmen turns to Alba. “What you want first? I will pay.”

“Just a glass of water, please.”

Carmen frowns.

Alba shrugs. “I’m hot.”

“What about wine?”

“I don’t drink,” Alba admits, feeling like a child. “I don’t really like the taste.”

“Okay.” Carmen turns to the tall barman with big green eyes. “Red wine, please, Blake, and one water for my beautiful friend.”

“My pleasure.” He flashes Alba a smile. “Anything else I can get you?”

Alba shakes her head, unable, for a moment, to form words.

“Well, I’m here all night, at your beck and call.” Blake puts down the drink, the glass slipping soundlessly across the marble countertop. Then, with a wink, he turns to serve another customer.

Carmen swallows a mouthful of wine and smiles. “That’s my boss. He’s very cute, right?” she whispers into Alba’s ear. Alba shivers slightly at the rush of Carmen’s warm, boozy breath on her skin. Suddenly the room feels like a sauna. Her palms are slippery with sweat and she feels beads of condensation on her upper lip.

“The singer must be out soon,” Carmen says, “she’s late but not long now.”

Alba follows Carmen’s gaze, preparing words to explain she’s not ready for adventures involving bars and men who look like film stars. She is unwilling and unprepared. It is then that she sees them, at a table near the far end of the stage, their faces barely visible in the flickering candlelight. Dr. Skinner and a beautiful young student lean together, deep in conversation. A punch of pain winds Alba, she clutches the edge of the marble counter to stop herself from falling off the stool.

Carmen follows Alba’s gaze. “Are you okay?”

Alba shakes her head. She opens her mouth but no words come out.

Carmen turns to her, now rather worried. “What’s wrong?”

Alba shakes her head again. When Carmen reaches out and rests her long, delicate fingers gently on her new friend’s arm, Alba starts as violently as if Carmen’s bright red nails had just electrocuted her.

“You are sick?” Carmen asks, quickly withdrawing the offending hand.

“I—” Alba finds her voice in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”

“But why? What’s happening, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“No, you must not . . .” But while the rest of the sentence is still in Carmen’s throat, Alba slips off her stool, throws one last withering glance in the direction of Dr. Skinner and the student and hurries, with as much dignity and finesse as she can muster, toward the exit.

Outside, Alba can’t catch her breath. At the end of the street she stops running and leans against a wall, gasping until she thinks she’ll faint. A few people stare as they walk past and one asks if she needs help. Her lungs on the edge of explosion and her heart beating sixty times a second, Alba shakes her head and stumbles away, utterly mortified. As she makes her way back to Hope Street, she curses the fact that she let Carmen drag her along to the bar. She was just starting to recover from the whole Dr. Skinner debacle, her memories were fading, the sharpness of her pain softening. And now she has to start forgetting all over again.

—

Now alone with her wine, Carmen glances around the bar, wondering why Alba ran away. Between sips, she sneaks glances at Blake. If she hadn’t entirely sworn off men she’d gratefully succumb to his advances. But she has to be strong, no matter how stunning and seductive he is. Swiveling around on her stool, she looks at the empty stage, biting her lip. Carmen takes another sip of wine. It mixes with the taste of blood in her mouth.