The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Eighteen





Greer lies naked across her bed, face up, spread out like a starfish, wondering what to wear. Usually this is the most delightful moment of her day, but today she’s just too tired to care. Acting onstage is one thing, it’s hard enough—but acting every day of your life is bloody exhausting. Greer spends so much time lying lately—to Blake, to herself, to her mother—that she’s losing track even more than usual of who she actually is and how she really feels.

With a sigh she gazes up at the ceiling to see a crystal chandelier she’s never noticed before. It’s large with heavy, glittering droplets of glass hanging in tiers around six lightbulbs. Sunlight bounces off the crystal, scattering rainbows across the room. Balanced between two lights is a piece of paper folded in half. Greer stands and reaches up for it, then flops back onto the bed again.

At first, turning the paper to examine the diagrams from different angles, she can’t make any sense of it. And then, suddenly, it’s clear. The page has been torn from a dress pattern, showing the cut of fabric, the lines to stitch and sew. She can’t tell what it would make, but the design is old-fashioned and the paper worn, as if ripped out of a 1950s copy of Good Housekeeping.

Greer glances at the wardrobe, the inkling of an idea simmering in the back of her mind, and feels suddenly hopeful.

—

For once Alba’s not in the mood to see Stella. She doesn’t even want to fall asleep and see her mother. Tonight she just wants a break from everything: her father, the love song, her family, the question of what she’s going to do with her life. Tonight she just wants to lose herself in a book and forget. Alba sits in the living room, propped up on sofa cushions reading On the Road. The photographs try to engage her in conversation, but she studiously ignores them. So Vivien Leigh and Vanessa Bell resort to holding an open conversation about her.

“She’ll never be a great writer,” Vivien declares, “or a great woman, if she keeps running from life like that. No guts, no glory.”

“Cliché,” Alba mutters to herself.

“And all the truer for it,” Vivien retorts. “Why did you run from him, what were you so scared of? I can’t quite understand it.”

“Well, what do you know?” Alba hides behind the book.

“Watch your mouth, missy,” Vanessa says. “We certainly know a lot more about the ins and outs of life than you do.”

“I remember being young and naïve,” Vivien says. “It had its perks, but there is nothing quite like experience, trust me. Of course, for that you have to throw yourself into the fray.”

“Indeed you must.” Vanessa nods. “You cannot find peace by avoiding life, only by diving in and finding you can swim. Peace comes from conquering your fears, not running from them.”

“Please,” Alba snaps, “just leave me alone, okay?” She returns to her book, trying to focus on the story, but no matter how hard she tries to block them out, Vanessa’s final words linger in front of her eyes, the floating letters a bright, shining green.

—

To avoid more preaching from the photographs, Alba escapes to spend the rest of the afternoon with her book on a park bench. She’s had enough of the house for now, or rather, all the know-it-alls who inhabit it. She appreciates getting advice when she actually asks for it. But when she’s purposely trying to avoid something, she wishes everyone would just leave her alone.

It’s a new phenomenon for Alba, having so many people who care enough to constantly offer their opinions about her life. Having grown up among entirely uninterested (or clinically depressed) family members, Alba can’t quite get used to it. Her own mother never gave advice, and now she has a hundred replacement mothers wanting to do nothing but dispense their own particular brand of wisdom. As the sun sets Alba thinks of Elizabeth, her rare moments of mania and joy and the long winters of darkness that blacked out everything else, even her youngest daughter.

Elizabeth’s fragile mental state passed the point of no return when she was arrested for the murder of her husband. The day the police came to take her mother away, Alba had answered the door. The two tall, dark figures in black uniforms stared down at her.

“Is your mother home?” the taller one asked, his voice so gentle it seemed to suggest that if she gave him the answer he wanted, he might give her a lollipop.

For a long moment Alba just looked up at him, thinking that his hat looked like a big beetle that might, any second, scuttle off his head. Her mother was upstairs, writing another letter, and Alba wasn’t sure she’d want to be disturbed. But the men weren’t going away; they wanted an answer, and she knew the answer they wanted.

For years afterward, Alba replayed the scene over and over in her head, this time with her saying no instead of yes. She blamed herself, believing that if she’d sent the policemen away that day her mother would never have been arrested. She believed Elizabeth’s breakdown was her fault. Because when Elizabeth Ashby finally came home from the police station, the cloud of darkness that before had come and gone never lifted again.

They kept her for forty-eight hours. When they dropped her back on the doorstep of Ashby Hall, Alba knew they’d taken her mother and left a zombie in her place. She’d once spied on Edward watching Invasion of the Body Snatchers and knew what was possible. And when she saw her mother—the hollowed-out cheeks and vacant eyes, the curve of her back and her shuffling steps, the dense clouds of dark blue in the air around her—the little girl understood that the mother she’d known had been snatched away.

It was a while before Alba learned that Elizabeth was suspected of her husband’s murder, when children started saying things at school. Her siblings had always refused to talk about it. Alba screamed at her classmates and cried in bed at night. She was certain her mother was innocent. But, after two terms of taunting, Alba began to wonder. As she stared up at the ceiling of her dorm room, trying to block out the whispers of the other girls, Alba knew she could never really know anything for certain.

—

Edward waits for Alba at the back of the coffee shop. She’s fifteen minutes late and he’s worried she isn’t coming at all. When, ten minutes later the door bangs open and Alba falls in, wearing a woolen coat even though it’s July, Edward’s face lights up with relief and delight. She walks over to his table.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Hello, Al.” Suddenly Edward wants to hug her, but he can’t. They’ve never shared that sort of affection before and he’s embarrassed to try now. “Do you want a drink—tea, coffee? Some sort of cakey thing? They seem to have everything one could possibly want here.”

“No thanks, maybe later.” Alba sits. “I thought you might bring Til.”

“I wanted to, but . . . I’ll bring her next time. That is, if . . .” His words are bright silver, so glowing with hope that it makes Alba’s heart ache a little. Edward leans forward. “Are you okay?”

She shrugs. “Fine, sane, sleeping through the night.” A moment of her mother’s last nocturnal visit floats up inside her and Alba offers a small smile. “Progress is being made.”

“That’s good.” Edward smiles in return. “I’m glad.”

They fall into silence. Customers pass by, inching around their table, ordering their afternoon hits of caffeine and sugar. Alba picks at the frayed edges of her sleeve.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she says.

Now Edward wants a cup of coffee. He isn’t ready for this. He doesn’t have the right answers, the sort that will keep Alba sitting in front of him, the sort that won’t reveal him to be a bit of a bastard. Of course he knew the question was coming, but he’d hoped for a little preparation time, half an hour of small talk to pave the way, to strengthen the bond between them and cushion the blow. But the question is in front of him now and he must answer it.

“Yes, we all did.”

“And did he . . . did”—Alba isn’t quite sure what to call Charles—“your father know too?”

“Yes, he knew.”

“When did he find out?”

“When you were eight.” Edward remembers the day he promised to hate Alba forever, as though it were only a moment ago. “He found her letters. But it wasn’t your fault he left. It would have happened eventually,” he says, without any idea of whether or not that is actually true. “They were never really happy together. They were a bit like Charles and Di. He was stepping out on her long before she stepped out on him.”

Alba nods, as if he’s not telling her anything she didn’t already know. She bites her lip, staring down at the table and plucking again at the edge of her sleeve.

“And he disappeared so he could punish her, didn’t he?” Alba asks.

This time Edward nods. “Yes,” he says, trying to look her in the eye; but she won’t look at him. “I know we should have told you everything,” he says softly. “I know it’s unforgiveable that we didn’t. But I’m hoping, I really hope that you might be able to, one day—”

“So he could frame her for murder and ruin her life, right?” Alba looks up.

“Yes,” Edward admits. Rationally he knows full forgiveness and immediate reconciliation were too much to hope for, but he still couldn’t help wishing for it. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Do you know where he is? Do you know where he went?”

This is the question Edward’s been waiting for. And he had promised himself he would tell Alba the truth when it came, but now he can’t. It will hurt her. It might make her run and he’ll do anything to prevent that, even betray her trust again.

“No, I don’t,” Edward says, hating himself for it. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

His words hang in the air: black, the color of dishonesty. Alba looks at her brother, frowning slightly, wondering what he’s keeping from her now. They fall into small talk, Alba, not being very good at confrontation in general, and not knowing how to confront Edward in a way that’d get him to tell the truth, and Edward, being only too happy to take refuge in safer subjects. After a while Alba stands, excusing herself with imaginary errands. Edward walks with her to the street and as they part, they almost hug. But Alba steps back at the last moment, and Edward catches himself just before he stumbles.

—

“We’ve made a decision,” Nora says.

“An executive decision,” Sue adds. “So it’s not up for discussion.”

“Exactly,” Nora says, “that’s what that means.”

“Oh, hush,” Sue says. “I was just being clear. Anyway, she’s foreign, so she might not know that.”

Carmen watches the two of them going back and forth. She was late for choir practice and found Tweedledum and Tweedledee bickering good-naturedly next to the altar. She waits for a pause in the action before speaking up.

“Okay, what is your decision?”

“You’re to go on alone,” Nora declares quickly, leaving Sue with her mouth open.

“Alone?” Carmen asks. “Where?”

“You might have put it a little more gently,” Sue says. “At the television audition, my dear. We’ve decided that we would only hold you back. You must have the stage all to yourself—”

“Unencumbered by two fat ladies,” Nora adds, “however magnificently well dressed we might be.”

“Let it go, Pavarotti,” Sue hisses. “We’ve already discussed this.”

“I’m not that large!” Nora retorts. “I lost three pounds last week, I—”

“You want me to do it all by myself?” Carmen asks, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “No, I can’t. This was all your idea in the beginning anyway. I would never do it without you.”

“But you must,” Sue says. “It’s the chance of a lifetime. You simply must.”

Nora walks to Carmen and takes her hand. “You have a gift, my dear, a gift from God.” She squeezes Carmen’s hand as tightly as she did the first time they met. “And when you sing that is your gift back to Him.”

“To us all,” Sue adds.

“Exactly,” Nora nods. “And it’s up to you to share it with as many people as you possibly can.”

“Which brings us back to the beginning,” Sue says.

“Yes.” Nora smiles. “And the fact that you must do this alone.”

—

Edward forces himself to walk all the way to the train station, though he’d much rather have caught a taxi. It’s a pathetic effort at self-punishment, he knows, but it will have to do for now. He thinks of his sister, how her distrust of him hung in the air, how she couldn’t look him in the eye, how she wouldn’t let him touch her—and how much he deserved it all. He’d helped to ruin her childhood. He’d been trying to make up for it with Tilly, to give her the best of everything; and then her mother died. Edward thinks of his own mother and how he might have saved her.

It was Charlotte who initiated it. Three days after their father left, she pulled her brothers into Elizabeth’s study, interrupting her first letter to Albert.

“Daddy told us what you did,” she’d hissed. “We’re going to make you and your daughter pay, we’re going to make you suffer for the rest of your lives.”

“We hate you,” Charles added, “and we want you to die.”

At first their mother had denied it all. But under intense interrogation she finally admitted everything. Charlotte and Charles continued to torture her while Edward, unable to bring himself to indulge in such cruelty, said nothing. Yet he didn’t defend her and he didn’t stop it. In fact, he barely spoke to his mother again. This he now regrets more than anything.

Edward remembers the first hospital they committed Elizabeth to: the tiny gray rooms, the virtually catatonic patients, the irritable nurses and inattentive doctors. Sometimes he forces himself to imagine what it must have been like for her to be left alone with nothing but her own broken heart for company. Edward crosses Trumpington Street, promising himself he’ll find the courage to tell Alba the truth, that he’ll do everything in his power to make it up to her.

—

The night they left Elizabeth, she’d stared out of the window, wondering what had happened to her garden. Her trees and flowers had disappeared. Behind her someone bustled into the room, muttering. Elizabeth didn’t look up.

“Time for your pills, dear.” A nurse thrust a plastic cup of water into her hand. “Get them while they’re nice and hot.” She laughed, her chins wobbling. She had said the very same thing that morning. Elizabeth looked up at her name tag—Gina—and took the three pills: two green, one white.

“Drink up, drink up.” Gina folded her arms over her enormous bosom. “They’ll make you nice and strong.”

Elizabeth swallowed a pill and stared up at her. “Are Alba and Ella coming today?”

“I don’t know, dear, but I’m sure your kids will come soon.”

“No.” Elizabeth frowned. “Ella’s not my daughter, she’s—”

“Take the next one, there’s a good girl. I can’t be waiting for you all day now, I’ve got plenty more visits to make before dinnertime.”

Elizabeth swallowed and gazed back at the window, the last pill in the palm of her hand. “Aren’t the colors beautiful? Alba loves the colors.”

The nurse glanced out at the bare fields blanketed in snow under a slate gray sky. “No, dear, there aren’t any colors now. It’s winter. You’ll have to wait for spring to see flowers.”

“There are thousands of colors,” Elizabeth said. “When birds fly the noise of their wings leaves trails of dark blue in the air. They sing in green, except when they’re complaining, and cows fart pink bubbles.” Elizabeth laughed.

“Very nice, dear. Now take that last pill for me, please.”

“And your words are dark brown, the color of boredom.”

The nurse let out a long sigh, her eyes on the pill. Before she could ask again, Elizabeth swallowed it. “There’s a good girl,” Gina said, thinking she wasn’t being paid enough to endure the craziness of these people. “Now give me the cup.”

“You think I killed him. Don’t you, Ella?”

“I’m not Ella, dear.” The nurse scrunched the cup in her hand and dropped it into the bin. “I’m Gina. Gee-na.”

“She’s calling to me.” Elizabeth murmured. “I can hear her singing. She wants me to come home.”

—

Alba hurries to the university library to return the novels she’s read and collect the others, also absent from her home library, Stella has insisted she read for inspirational purposes. List in hand, she crosses the four-hundred-year-old wooden boards of the Bridge of Sighs, worrying about Carmen’s love song and the fact that she hasn’t written anything wonderful yet. When Alba reaches the counter, Zoë’s face opens into a grin. “Hey.”

“I’ve brought these back.” Alba slides the books over to Zoë and hands her a list: The Golden Notebook, The Grass Is Singing and The Feminine Mystique.

Zoë says, “Yep, we’ve got these. Do you want to wait?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” Alba leans against the counter and watches Zoë scurry away. She reminds her of a pixie: perky and petite, short spiky hair dyed dark blue, eyes always heavily kohled. She thinks again how similar they might seem at first glance, except that Zoë’s appearance is clearly the product of careful thought, and to good effect, while Alba’s is accidental and to no effect at all.

Zoë returns a few minutes later. “I’m afraid we didn’t have The Golden Notebook. It’s hardly ever in. But I can reserve it for you.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Alba slips the books into her bag. “Well, I suppose I’ll—”

Zoë nods.

“’Bye then.”

“’Bye.”

Alba turns and walks toward the door.

“Wait.”

Alba turns back. Zoë’s brow is furrowed with anxiety, her eyes are wide, her aura edged in silver. Alba waits, wondering what she’s hoping for.

“Um, have you ever read this?” Zoë reaches under the counter and produces a tattered book. She hands it to Alba.

“Chocolates for Breakfast.” Alba takes it. “No, I don’t know it.”

“It was a bestseller in the late fifties, sort of trashy, but amazing. I read it when I was thirteen and, well, it opened my eyes to some things.” Zoë looks into Alba’s bright blue eyes and holds her gaze, not letting her look away. “That book means a lot to me. And . . . um, well, I’d like to know if you love it as much as I do.”

“Okay,” Alba says, a little shaken by this sudden intimacy. She hasn’t shared a look like this with anyone before, excepting Dr. Skinner, and those looks were invariably one-sided.

Zoë takes a deep breath. It’s now or never. She opens her mouth and runs to the edge of the cliff.

“Would you . . .” Zoë jumps. “Would you like to go for a coffee, a walk, or something?”

Alba swallows. She’s never had a real friend before. She thinks of Stella. Not a flesh-and-blood one, anyway, but much as she’d like one in theory, everything is moving a little fast. First her brother and now her librarian. “Thanks.” She scrambles for an excuse, an easy lie. “But I’ve got to go, my dad’s expecting me for dinner.”

“Okay.” Zoë shrugs, feigning an uncrushed heart. “Sure, fine, no problem.”

“But thanks anyway . . .” Alba moves toward the glass doors. “’Bye.”

“’Bye.” Zoë offers a small wave in return, but Alba has disappeared into the darkness before her hand is even in the air.