The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Twenty-one





Hi, Mum.”

“Hello, my darling.”

Alba takes her mother’s hand and they walk together across the rooftops of King’s College, clambering over chimneys and stepping over loose tiles. They talk as the sun, hot at first on their faces, sinks lower and illuminates the edges of the stone spires rising up all around them. Alba and Elizabeth sit overlooking the meadows at the students punting in the river, laughing bubbles of champagne as they bump into each other. Behind them the fields are lined with oaks and scattered with geese. Halos of soft light around the trees dim and eventually disappear, and then everything is dark.

Elizabeth slips her arm over her daughter’s shoulder. Alba smiles at the tingling on her skin and the warmth that slowly seeps into her body, hoping she’ll be able to feel the sensation when she wakes.

“Now, my dearest girl,” Elizabeth says, “I have something for you to tell your father.”

When Alba opens her eyes she remembers, for the first time, every word her mother said. An hour later, after trying in vain to forget again, she called Albert. Two hours after that she’s sitting with him in the back of a small café on King’s Parade, dreading the moment of spilling her mother’s secret, torn between hoping he believes her and hoping he doesn’t. It’s a choice between his being devastated or thinking her mad. Neither of which Alba wants. She fiddles with the cinnamon bun in front of her, picking out the raisins and scattering them around the plate. Albert watches, rather wishing that he, too, had a cinnamon bun to fiddle with and take the edge off his nerves.

“So, um,” he begins, not looking up from his teacup, “why did you leave King’s?”

When he sees the look on Alba’s face he instantly regrets the question. “But, anyway,” he quickly backtracks, “what are you doing at the moment?”

“I’m writing a song. But it isn’t quite finished, there’s something missing, I don’t know how . . .” She shrugs it off, not really wanting to explain. She trawls her mind for topics that might impress her father and make him proud, but comes up blank.

“Well, the most important thing is to have fun.” Albert takes a gulp of his tea. “In the end, it’s all that really matters.”

Alba is so surprised she laughs. A few moments later she can’t stop, and starts spluttering. She grips the edge of the table, trying to catch her breath.

“Are you all right? Shall I get a glass of water?”

“It’s okay,” she gasps between words, “I’m okay. It’s just so funny.” She giggles. “All my life, everything I’ve ever done, it’s always been so . . . sensible. The idea of doing something just for fun seemed ridiculous. And now my father is telling me that enjoying myself is all that really matters. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternative universe, and I’ve got no idea what to do next.”

“Oh.”

Alba shrugs. “It’s just a little hilarious, that’s all.”

“I wonder if you’ll find all of my fatherly advice hilarious,” he smiles. “I hope so.”

Alba catches her father’s eye and this time she doesn’t blink or glance away. They look at each other, two pairs of matching blue eyes, for a long time. And as they do, something deep inside Alba, some torn little piece of her, heals.

—

Carmen stumbles down the stairs, heading for the bathrooms and hoping she makes it in time. It’s been a really busy shift at the bar and she hasn’t had a chance until now. All night she’s been avoiding Blake, who’s been trying to catch her attention, and sneaking sips of vodka to give herself courage. When she reaches the last step she stops to steady herself against the wall. The door to the Men’s opens and Blake walks out. He sees her and grins. “Hey, sugar.”

“Ola.” Carmen swallows a sigh.

Blake moves toward her. “You look especially stunning tonight.”

“No.” Carmen steps back against the wall. But it’s too late; before she can say anything else he’s pressing up against her, his lips on her neck.

When Greer opens the door at the top of the stairs, she doesn’t immediately realize whom she’s looking at. She’d popped into the bar to surprise Blake, to take him out to dinner and sit him down for a proper talk about their future. And then, she sees Blake’s face buried in Carmen’s black hair. Greer screams.

For a moment Blake’s paralyzed, then he springs away from Carmen and starts to sprint up the stairs. Greer turns, pushing through the small crowd that has collected, and disappears. Carmen gazes after them before she suddenly understands what’s happening. Huge brown eyes wide with fury, she shouts after him. “Foda! Foda! Tu mais que foda estas a fazer? Tu e a Greer, e ele esta apaixonada por ti? Mais que foda que fizes-te?!”

Blake runs through the bar after Greer. He finds her slumped against the wall outside, staring at the pavement. Blake hurries to her.

“F*ck you.” Greer looks up. “And f*ck off.”

“She didn’t know,” Blake says. “So you shouldn’t hate her, only me.”

“Oh, I will,” Greer snaps, “don’t worry about that. Now f*ck off.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. And he’s shocked to discover he actually means it. Seeing her here like this, on a public pavement with her heart exposed again, makes Blake wish he were a different man, one capable of taking care of someone other than himself. But he isn’t. So the kindest thing he can do now, after all his cruelty, is remove himself from her sight and her life.

“I’m sorry.”

After he’s gone Greer sits for a long time. She rests her head on her knees and weeps— not because she loved Blake and not because she’s lost him. But because she didn’t take care of herself. She knew Blake’s nature the moment she met him, just as she knew the philandering fiancé. She knew them and she knew herself. Greer thinks of the story of the scorpion and the frog, and she knows that she cannot blame these men for her messy life; they only did what she always knew they would do. No, this is not about crushed hopes and broken dreams. This is about trusting her own heart. Hope doesn’t even enter into it.

—

Two days after their café meeting, Alba and Albert meet again at the Fitzwilliam Museum. For the last two nights Elizabeth hasn’t visited her daughter’s dreams, and Alba, feeling a little guilty that she hasn’t yet passed on her mother’s message, hasn’t slept much anyway. Now they’re at the Vermeer exhibition, squeezing between the crowds. Alba is babbling incoherently about Dutch painters and Albert is trying to make sense of what she’s saying while also wondering what’s wrong with her.

When they’re standing in front of Girl with a Pearl Earring, Alba, quoting passages from the book with the same title, starts fiddling with her frayed sleeves and chewing the ends of her fingernails. When he notices her missing her fingers and biting the air instead, he has to ask.

“Are you all right?”

She studies the painting. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Alba nods. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She wanders over to The Milkmaid and feigns absorption in it too. An hour later, in front of The Music Lesson, Alba turns to face her father.

“Okay. I have to tell you something.” Conscious of the crowds, she whispers. “It’s going to sound a little strange, you might not believe me, but—”

“If you tell me,” he says, “I’ll believe you.”

“I had a dream about my mother,” Alba says. “That’s to say, she visited me; well, anyway . . . She told me to tell you she replied to your last letter. She wrote to you every week for a year, asking you to come back. She thinks Charles had them destroyed, so they never reached you.”

Albert stares at Alba, unable to move or speak. He starts to shake.

“She never stopped loving you,” Alba says softly. “She loved you right up to the day she died, and even after that.”

Albert nods, tears falling down his face. Alba rests her hand on her father’s sleeve and gives him a small, hopeful smile. And, when she slips her hand into his, his heart swells until it fills his whole chest.

—

That night Albert sits on the sofa in his small, dingy flat, staring at the flickering television, but not really watching it. Next to him, on a scuffed cushion, is a TV dinner he’s barely touched. The overcooked carrots and slightly burned sliver of white chicken glisten with congealed gravy. He plucks at the cuffs of his cardigan, widening the holes in the wool. He misses Alba already. If he loved his daughter before, it’s nothing to how he feels now. The feeling is so deep, so infinite, so strong that it never fails to shock him. Albert thinks how lucky he is, that this love for his daughter fills the jagged hole inside him left by the loss of Liz.

He wonders, for the hundredth time that evening, if his daughter would consider moving in with him, if she might let him be a real father to her for a few years. It would be the greatest gift, so great, in fact, that he’s scared to ask for it. The idea entered his head when Alba told him she has to move out of Hope Street in a few weeks and has nowhere to go. But he doesn’t want to put her under any pressure. Perhaps, he thinks, gazing at the carrots, he should just stick with what he’s already got and be grateful. After all, it’s much more than he ever thought he’d have.

—

When Carmen stumbles into the kitchen in the early morning Peggy is at the table, sipping a cup of tea. She lifts a delicate hand. “Sit.”

“Okay.” Carmen nervously slides into the nearest chair.

“I’m afraid, my dear girl,” Peggy says, “the time has come for things to be faced.”

With a little sigh, Carmen closes her eyes and waits.

“I’m sorry, but you must leave,” Peggy says. “That ring holds your husband’s spirit and it clearly can’t be destroyed. You have to face what you’ve done. If you stay here and hide he’ll soon suck the life out of you.”

“But I can’t leave yet. I can’t, I don’t want—”

“I’m sorry, sweet girl, I really am.” Peggy takes Carmen’s hand, which is trembling and cold. “But his spirit is getting stronger. The house can’t contain it anymore. So you must. You must turn yourself in and face what you’ve done. You will get through it, I can promise you that. Have faith and you will be fine. And, when it’s all over, you’ll be much better than that. You’ll be free.”

“Faith?” Carmen whispers. “You can give me no more help than this?”

“You must trust me,” Peggy says. “It’s the only way to be rid of his spirit. As long as you run, he will chase you. He’ll feed on your fear and, eventually, it will kill you.”

Carmen closes her eyes. She can’t fight this. Staying at Hope Street has been a gift; the old woman could throw her out of the house right now if she wanted to. But the thought of faith, of putting her trust in the God she believes abandoned her is rather more than she’s ready and able to do.

“How much longer I can stay?”

“I think we can hold him off for another seven days,” Peggy says. “Until you’ve sung your song, my dear. And then you must go.”