The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Twenty





Alba lies across her bed, playing with words and sentences, trying to finish Carmen’s song. It’s far from perfect, but the show is in less than two weeks, so she can’t mess around forever. She’d hoped working on it would help her forget about her father for a few hours, but it hasn’t. She thinks of his bright blue eyes, his tatty clothes, his sorrow, deep and dark, weighing down the air, seeping into her name when he said it, coloring the letters the darkest blue she’d ever seen. Is that what scared her so much?

Alba bites the end of his pen and glances up at the thousands of books lining the walls. And there it is: A Room with a View, the title bright in gold letters, sandwiched between Howards End and Maurice. On the shelf above sit the other books she’d borrowed.

Alba frowns. “So, you can provide anything, a grand piano, a thousand books, but not the ones I need until I’ve already read them. Why is that?”

The pipes in the room rattle, as if giggling. Alba’s frown deepens. What is the house playing at? She thinks of Dr. Skinner and the words that ignited her obsession, words that sweep into her head even now, mixing with and muddling her own. Alba had never heard anyone speak with such passion before. She remembers the very first lecture, on Gladstone and the Great Gordon Debacle, as she watched the words flow forth:

When Gladstone abandoned General Gordon at Khartoum, allowing him and his remaining troops to be massacred by the invading Mahdi army, the public, goaded by a saber-toothed press, turned against him. And the Grand Old Man became the murderer of Gordon. Because he couldn’t play the political game as well as Disraeli . . .

Dr. Skinner’s words had poured forth in dozens of different hues: puce for passion, violet for joy, bright green for truth, scarlet for dedication, deep purple for wisdom, orange for insight, bright yellow for inspiration. Alba had never before seen so many brilliant colors all at once. And by the time her teacher fell silent, she was in love.

At least, she’d thought so then. She understands now it was just infatuation, addiction, obsession. She was as obsessed with Dr. Skinner as Dr. Skinner was obsessed with becoming an acclaimed academic, even if it took cheating, lying and ruining other people’s careers to get there. But the pain of all that is dull and muted now, almost entirely eclipsed by thoughts of her father and by her preoccupation with Carmen’s song, the current version of which is definitely lacking something.

—

“Have you ever . . . ?”

“What?” Stella asks, though she knows what’s coming.

“Well . . . what I mean is,” Alba says, fumbling for the right words and not quite sure why the subject embarrasses her so much. “That is, I wonder what . . .”

“Yes?” Stella asks, knowing Alba needs to be able to say the words herself, to talk about it, if she ever stands a chance of actually experiencing it.

“Love,” Alba says. “Tell me about being in love.”

At last. Stella smiles. “Of all the musicians, Ellis was the one I loved the most. We read together. I’ve never done that with anyone, not before or since. I like to be alone for certain things . . .”

“Yes.” Alba nods, shocked at the thought of sharing something so intimate as reading. She isn’t sure what scares her more: the possibility of reading with someone else, or sex.

“Oh, but it was wonderful.” Stella laughs. “We’d lie on the sofa together, or in bed, and share a book. We would take it in turns to read aloud. Sometimes we’d both silently read at once. But I was always so much faster than him, and I’d get impatient to turn the page, so that was rare. Ellis had a beautiful voice . . . I could have shut my eyes and listened to him forever. I’m not sure which was better, soaking in his words or his sweat.” She giggles again, and it ripples along the kitchen walls as Dora, Vita and a few hundred other women echo her. Alba blushes.

“I can still hear his voice,” she says, smiling. “It rather makes me feel all—”

“What happened to him?” Alba interrupts to avoid hearing a potentially embarrassing revelation.

For the first time Stella’s eyes fog over and she puts her chin into her palms. “Pills.”

Alba doesn’t have the right words so she says nothing. They sit in silence.

“Do you want to know what love feels like?” Stella looks up, her eyes shining again, though whether with tears or excitement Alba can’t quite tell.

Slowly, Alba nods.

“Well,” Stella says, “if you’re sure you’re ready, then I can show you.”

“You can?”

Stella nods. “There are certain abilities the dead have. Give me your hand.”

Alba reaches out. Holding her own hand a few inches above Alba’s, Stella looks at her more deeply than she ever has before. Her gaze is two parts joy, one part hope, one part compassion, with a sprinkling of pure adoration. At first Alba feels nothing, then a sensation tingles her skin. A deep, sudden rush of warmth seeps into her, into every inch and every cell. It’s the softest, strongest, most wondrous thing she’s ever felt—as though every single cell in her body is bursting with light, being born again. And she feels her heart as intimately as if she were holding it in her hands.

—

There is one thing Zoë has done in her life of which she is truly ashamed. But she’s been excessively punished for it, and that’s served to ameliorate her guilt a little. Nearly three years ago she found a story of Alba’s slipped between the pages of a very tattered copy of Rebecca. For seven days Zoë kept it in her bag, telling herself she’d return it unread. But, as the days passed and Alba came and went, Zoë held on to it. Until she finally had to admit the truth, that she was going to read it and wouldn’t give it back.

In an attempt to soften this betrayal of Alba’s privacy, Zoë read the story (six pages, handwritten and obviously autobiographical) in the library, sitting behind the stacks after everyone else had gone home, pretending it was a book that Alba had published, that anyone might pick up and read. It was a difficult self-delusion to pull off, as Alba’s tiny scrawl was nearly impossible to read and clearly not intended to be seen by any eyes other than her own. Deciphering the story required immense concentration on Zoë’s part, along with a flashlight and a very powerful magnifying glass.

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when Zoë finally finished and, just as Alba had fallen for Dr. Skinner’s words, so Zoë fell for Alba’s. Reading that story tipped Zoë off the cliff of superficial attraction onto the rocks of complete adoration. In Alba’s scrawl she found a mind that mirrored her own, a soul that spoke the same words, a heart that kept the same beat. In Alba’s secret thoughts and feelings, Zoë found herself. Some of Alba’s sentences were so lyrical that Zoë spoke them aloud just to hear the words. She didn’t understand it all—the references to the colors of sounds and smells were particularly strange and intriguing—and Zoë wished she could ask Alba to explain, but of course she couldn’t. Not then, not now, not ever.

In the years of private longing that followed, Zoë has often wondered whether or not she’d have fallen for Alba without the story. She thinks probably not, that without it she would just have lusted, rather than loved. So she’s got her comeuppance for this moral lapse, suffering a prison sentence of unrequited love for three years, four months, two weeks, twelve days and counting . . .

—

Carmen sits at the piano, absently trailing her fingers up and down the keys. She’s supposed to be practicing the first verse of Alba’s song but she can barely keep her eyes open. Since opening the box, Carmen has been out every night trying to dispose of it. But when she buries the ring it pushes up through the dirt, when she hurls it into rivers it surfaces again, floating up as soon as Carmen turns her back. Only in the house or garden does the ring stay where it’s put, but even then Carmen can’t wash the drop of blood away, not if she scrubs until her nails bleed and her fingers are raw. She wishes it were possible to burn gold and knows that, even if she had the ring transformed into something else, its smell would never leave.

For a moment she forgets Tiago and thinks instead of Blake and what she’s going to do now that he’s starting to want what she doesn’t want to give. Memory-obliterating sex is all well and good but she won’t let it get in the way of her survival and her song. She needs to focus, completely and without distraction. She’ll tell him tonight.

In twenty-one days she has to leave Hope Street to find another home, one that won’t protect her or hide the evidence connecting her to Tiago’s murder. Fear pollutes her blood, infusing her bones—until she begins to play. A little Tchaikovsky, then Beethoven and Mozart. She plays with a gusto that overtakes her entirely, her fingers moving faster than she could ever speak or sing or run; sometimes soft, sometimes strong, filling the room with a heavy smoke that sinks into her lungs. Carmen swallows the music until the sound is all she can taste, hear and feel. It’s the best medicine she’s ever had, able to banish memories, sorrow, sleepless nights, and leave only the notes.

—

Having failed to force the door open, Peggy simply stares at it, trying to shame it into submission. She stands at the stove, peeling chocolate biscuits off a tray. The sweet scent of cooked sugar and melted chocolate rises into the air, briefly soothing her nerves. The first time she made these biscuits was in the downstairs kitchen, and she slowly consumed the entire batch while chatting with Mary Somerville and Caroline Herschel, who had just spotted each other from opposing walls.

“I was just extolling the virtues of love to this young lady,” Mary said, “though she’s not heeding a word I say.”

“If you’re appealing for support,” Caroline replied, “I can’t give it. I was never in love, and I never missed it. I always preferred mathematical equations to men.”

“How ridiculous.” Mary laughed. “There’s nothing like marriage and motherhood, it’s quite the best thing in the world.”

“Oh, well.” Caroline shrugged. “I suppose small things amuse small minds.”

“I have a magnificent mind,” Mary snapped, “and you know it.”

“Mary.” Caroline smiled. “You always were too easy to tease.”

“I’ve missed you, you old bat.” Mary said. “I can’t believe you never noticed me before, all those comets you spotted over the years. You’ve probably been too busy staring out of the window.”

“And you’ve been too preoccupied reminiscing about babies while doing complex algebra.”

While the two women bickered pleasantly, Peggy had eaten the entire batch of biscuits. Now she’s staring down at a full tray, remembering. It’s funny, she thinks, how she spent eighty-two years believing she was just like Caroline Herschel, not needing love in her life, except on Sunday afternoons. And now, in the light of death, she sees how wrong she was. She didn’t know herself at all. How could she have seen into the hearts of more than a thousand residents over sixty-one years and not seen her own? Which isn’t actually funny, Peggy thinks as she bites into a biscuit, but quite the opposite.

—

Greer stands in the shower, engaged in the time-consuming process of washing her long, tangled hair. Now that each evening brings her closer to the day she’ll have to leave the house, she can’t help thinking about the future. Her job at the bar is clearly a dead end, her acting career is at something of a standstill, Blake is growing ever more distant. Greer is seriously contemplating giving up men and acting altogether, finding a real job and a flat and trying to adopt a child.

She steps out of the shower. Perhaps she could train to be a teacher; the government is always desperate for them, hurling generous grants at anyone foolish enough to think long holidays and short hours mean an easy life. But although it isn’t something she’d love to do, if it means finally becoming a mother, Greer thinks she could handle it.

She wraps a towel into a bright blue beehive around her head and pads over to the bathroom mirror to examine her wrinkles. She still looks fine, though faint lines remain on her forehead, even when she isn’t frowning—as she is now. Greer thinks again about the potential job and the potential child. But she’s torn. Is it right to give up on one dream in order to fulfill another?

—

Alba dawdles along Trinity Street, on her way to the library. Since reading Chocolates for Breakfast, she’s been feeling rather embarrassed at the thought of seeing Zoë again. What if she starts discussing specific paragraphs? By the time Alba finally reaches the counter, she’s too nervous to say hello. And then the look on Zoë’s face stops her short.

“Hey.” Zoë nods in the direction of the doors. “That man’s been waiting for you three days in a row. He asked for your address.”

Alba turns to see her father sitting on the wooden bench under the notice board. Slowly he stands, then walks toward her one slow step at a time, as if she might at any moment turn and run. He stops a few feet from his daughter. “Were you ever going to come back? I didn’t, I’m sorry . . . I’m afraid I had to know.”

Yes, of course, Alba thinks, of course I was. I just needed time. But she can’t speak the words.

“Do you want to punish me?” he asks, in a tone that suggests it’s no more than he deserves. “I know how much you must hate me—”

“No, I don’t,” Alba manages to say. “I just, I couldn’t . . .”

Feeling dazed, she stumbles over to the bench where Albert was sitting. He follows and sits a few feet away from her, close enough to speak softly and still be heard. Zoë watches from behind her computer screen.

“Alba,” he whispers, “I loved your mother more than anything and . . . I’ve thought about you every day of your life. I didn’t—”

“Then why have you never even spoken to me”—tears fall into her lap—“when all this time you were living right next to me?”

“I wanted to, every single day, but I couldn’t, in case . . .” Albert says, wishing he could wipe away her tears and hold her. “It would have been selfish, it wouldn’t have been fair.”

“How did you know I was here?” Alba asks. He wanted her. He really did. She was loved.

“You were the youngest undergraduate at King’s College. You made the news.” Albert bows his head, momentarily exposing his bald spot. “I’m sorry, so sorry you had to go through all this. I wish it hadn’t happened, I’d give anything if it hadn’t.”

“She named me after you.” Alba stares at the stone floor. “Didn’t she?”

Albert nods. “Liz was always generous. I gave her nothing and she gave me you.”

“Well, not exactly—she made you go away.”

“She did what she thought best.” Albert longs to reach out to Alba, just a fingertip on the cuff of her shirt. “Even though it broke her heart, and mine.”

Alba sees his words in the air: royal blue edged with silver: sorrow and hope.

“Why didn’t you come back, after he left, why didn’t you come back?”

“I wrote to Liz, but she never replied. I thought she didn’t want me anymore, what could I do? I only discovered she died when you went missing.”

They sit in silence, as tears run down Alba’s cheeks. When her father can’t take it anymore, he slips his fingers tentatively over her hand. Tears fall down his own cheeks and, never taking his eyes off Alba, Albert pulls her into a hug, finally holding his daughter for the first time since she was a baby.