The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Twenty-four





Tomorrow is her date with Zoë, but there is someone else Alba keeps thinking of. Since the day she threw her brother out of the house she’s been regretting her harshness to him. So yesterday she called Edward and invited him back to Hope Street. When he rings the bell she’s in the bathroom brushing her teeth and arguing with Sylvia Plath and doesn’t hear it.

Greer, having graduated from pajamas to jeans, has left her bedroom to roam the house and stretch her legs, after spending the day reading teaching prospectuses helpfully procured for her by Alba. Striding along the corridor, slowing to smile at Elizabeth Taylor, she hears the doorbell and stops, realizing she’s never heard it before.

“You should answer it,” Elizabeth says.

“No,” Greer says, rather reluctant to be seen by anyone. “It’s not for me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Elizabeth winks. “I have a feeling he might be.”

Greer frowns, wondering if she’s heard correctly, when the bell rings again.

“Oh, go on,” Elizabeth cajoles. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.”

Greer opens the door to a tall, dark-haired man with big brown eyes, holding the hand of a little green-eyed girl. Forgetting to say hello, Greer just looks from one to the other. Then she notices the man’s expression change from one of friendly curiosity to bemusement. She says, “Oh, I’m sorry. Hello.”

“Hello,” Edward and Tilly respond in unison.

“Hi.” Greer smiles at the little girl, who fixes her with a wide-eyed stare, then hides behind her daddy’s leg. “What pretty red shoes,” Greer addresses the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Tilly,” Tilly squeaks from behind her father’s legs. “Matilda Jane Ashby. Miss.”

“What a lovely name,” Greer says. She can feel the man looking at her. When she glances up he holds her gaze. She feels drawn to him in a way she’s never really felt before. It’s not lust, nor a desperate desire to be loved. Instead it’s a gentle lifting of her spirits, a soft stirring in her chest.

As Alba walks down the corridor toward them, she sees sparks of silver that fire up the air, and smiles. At the sight of her aunt, Tilly gives a little shriek of delight and runs into the house, crashing into Alba’s legs and clutching them tightly.

“My little monkey.” Alba picks up her niece and squeezes her tightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Miss you.” Tilly presses her face into Alba’s neck. “Miss you much.”

To her surprise, Alba feels a lump in her throat. “You’ve grown . . .” She swallows. “You’ve grown so big.”

Realizing he’s still staring at Greer, Edward turns to his sister. “She grows like a beanstalk,” he says. “She’s going to look just like her mother.”

“She’s beautiful.” Alba smiles. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Edward steps forward so he’s only a few feet from his sister and his daughter. The sight of them hugging makes him want to join in, to tuck them both against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“I know.” Alba, a little embarrassed that Greer is watching them, starts walking toward the kitchen, Tilly still in her arms. “I know, and you don’t have to be anymore, okay? Now, come and have a cup of tea and some more of those ginger biscuits you don’t like.”

Almost overcome with relief, Edward starts to follow his sister, then stops and turns back to Greer. He holds up his hand and gives a little wave. “’Bye.”

“’Bye.” Greer leans against the wall, watching Edward disappear down the corridor. The photographs remain perfectly still until he closes the kitchen door behind him.

“Well, well.” Florence Nightingale grins. “Now, what was that?”

“I’m not certain,” Emily Davies says, “but I do know it made me tingle all over.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Greer shakes her head, dislodging the fantasies that have collected there, ignoring the thump in her chest. “It was nothing.”

Edward sits at the kitchen table, still a little distracted. Tilly slides into his lap while Alba makes two cups of tea and, as his daughter amuses herself with the buttons on his shirt, Edward thinks of the woman in the corridor.

“That was Greer.” Alba hands him a cup and Tilly a ginger biscuit. “She’s single.”

“Sorry?” Edward frowns.

“Oh, don’t bother.” Alba laughs. “I’m not blind.” She won’t tell him about the colors, not yet. And perhaps he doesn’t realize it right now, but she knows that she just saw her brother falling in love.

Edward blushes. “So . . . how are you?”

“I’m okay. I’m better, much better.” Alba sits and Tilly, clutching her biscuit, switches allegiances and laps. “So, how’s the job? Designed any great monuments to capitalism lately?” She pushes the plate of biscuits toward him. “They’re a few days old but still delicious, I promise.”

Edward obligingly takes one. “Actually I’m doing some pro bono work at the moment, building a community theater in Camden.”

“So we’re both broke right now.” Alba tickles Tilly, who giggles. “How inspiring.”

Edward dunks his biscuit in his tea and chews. “And what are you up to?”

“I’m not sure.” Alba shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “I have to leave here in three weeks.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I should get a job. Goodness knows what I’m qualified for.” Alba smiles, pretending she’s not as worried as she is. The questions of where she will live, and what she will do with her life, have been taking up far too many of Alba’s thoughts.

“You can do anything you want to,” Edward says, “of that I’m quite certain.”

“I should probably just get a proper job, like the rest of you.”

“You should do what you like with your life,” Edward says. He glances at his daughter, who, oblivious to them both, is working her way methodically through the plate of biscuits in front of her. “You should do whatever you want.”

“That’s funny,” Alba says, “I always thought it didn’t matter what I wanted, all that mattered was that I lived up to the family name. Although, I suppose I’m not really an Ashby after all, am I? So perhaps I should just make up a pseudonym.”

“Woodenum.” Tilly giggles, spluttering a shower of crumbs onto her aunt’s lap.

“Why a pseudonym?” Edward asks.

“Well, I’ve started doing a bit of writing. I’m sure nothing will come of it, but . . .” Alba shrugs, too nervous to confess the full extent of her hopes.

“Oh, okay, well that sounds great.” And because Edward is too nervous to pry, they sit in silence for a while, sipping tea and chewing biscuits. Tilly licks her lips and kicks her feet under the table.

“We’re thinking of selling the house,” Edward says. “The upkeep is enormous, and now that mother’s gone, none of us really want . . . Anyway, it’d give us all a nice little nest egg. Then you could stave off the lackluster jobs for a while and just write, if you wanted to.” He shifts in his chair, trying to gauge his sister’s reaction.

Alba wonders exactly how to frame her response. She doesn’t want to offend her brother, she must temper her delight at the idea just a little. “Well, I . . .”

Misreading her hesitation, Edward rephrases. “It could be a fresh start,” he says. “A new beginning. What do you think?”

Alba offers him the single biscuit remaining on the plate, the sole survivor of Tilly’s culling. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Good.” Edward smiles and bites into it. “So would I.”

—

It’s three days since Alba’s seen Stella, and she’s getting worried. Last night, she fell asleep at the kitchen table, trying to rewrite Carmen’s song, waiting up for Stella, who never appeared. But she can’t worry now. She has to focus on wonderful, witty things to say. She’s never been on a date before and has no idea what to say or do. Perhaps they’ll just end up as friends. Though it isn’t a matter of “just,” really. Alba would love a real friend, someone who isn’t a character in a book or a ghost in a kitchen, someone who’s set firmly in the land of the living, with whom she can visit bookshops, libraries and the like. Alba’s experience with Edward has shown her that the house is careful not to be magical around strangers. Which is why, in a rash act of intimacy, she invited Zoë to visit. She’s now feeling a little nervous about it, but she wants to show Zoë something of herself—all her books and, most important of all, the place that has changed her life forever.

An hour later, when Alba opens the door, her heart lifts and she smiles. For a moment they stand awkwardly together, not sure what to do next. Alba resolves the question by stepping aside. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Zoë smiles as she steps over the threshold. “Gosh, this place is amazing.” She notices the pictures. “Who are all these women?”

“They’ve all stayed here, over the years,” Alba explains, just as Peggy had nearly three months ago. She points out Florence Nightingale, Joan Greenwood and Emily Davies as they walk toward the kitchen. At the sink, Stella smiles, knowing she isn’t needed anymore.

“The house is over two hundred years old.”

“Really? That’s amazing. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”

“Yes,” Alba says. “It’s a little secretive. Do you want anything, tea, coffee, biscuits?”

“I’m fine, actually, thanks.”

“Would you like a tour of the house?”

“Yes.” Zoë grins. “I’d love that.”

The tour, including a careful examination of most of the rooms and nearly all the photographs, concludes in Alba’s bedroom.

“Oh my goodness, this is incredible,” Zoë whispers, “absolutely incredible. All these books! Why did you ever need to come to the library?”

“You’d be surprised by what’s missing.” Alba smiles, thinking of Stella and the sneaky plan she finally realized the ghost had been plotting all along.

Zoë turns from examining a first edition of The Old Curiosity Shop and meets Alba’s gaze. Little flashes of silver spark around Zoë’s hair. It would be the easiest thing in the world to inch forward and kiss her now. And the hardest. Alba blinks and glances away.

“You have the best bedroom in the whole wide world,” Zoë says.

“Yes, I certainly do.”

And then, to their mutual amazement, some of the books float slowly down from the top shelves, brushing past their heads. The books on Alba’s bed begin to rustle their pages.

“I don’t believe it!” Zoë laughs. “I don’t believe it.”

Secretly thrilled that the house is showing off for her new friend, and even more delighted that Zoë is enjoying it so much, Alba reaches up for a book as it passes by.

“Persuasion,” she reads. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve never read any Austen.”

“Seriously?” Zoë stares at her as if this revelation is even more unbelievable than the flying books. “Never? So, it looks like we’re going to have to further your education.”

“Well, I’ll never say no to more reading,” Alba says. She follows as Zoë walks along the shelves, stopping to pick another book. “Pride and Prejudice.” She hands it to Alba. “And Sense and Sensibility, of course.”

“Of course.” Alba smiles. “But after this I’m going to take you through three years’ worth of history textbooks. Maybe four, if you’re very lucky.”

“I am,” Zoë says. She glances back at Alba as she walks on. “And I look forward to it.” Then Zoë comes to a sudden stop and Alba, caught unawares, bumps into her. They move closer together, until they are only an inch apart. As Zoë reaches for her hand, hundreds of sparks of sunlight explode in the air around them. “Oh,” Alba whispers, as she finally feels it.

Stella was right. Her heart has burst open, she’s been knocked for six, yet feels safe, loved and more alive than she’s ever felt before. And Alba knows that whatever this turns into now, whatever happens next, it has been the very best afternoon of her life.

—

That night, creeping down the corridor to the bathroom, Alba stops by Daphne to give her a gloriously detailed account of the day’s events. When Alba finishes, the author claps. “But you didn’t kiss?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, all in good time,” Daphne says, “It’s lovely anyway, to at last see you smile.”

“Yes,” Alba says, “it’s rather nice for me too. I’m thinking . . .”

“Yes?”

“The song, it’s not,” Alba says, “not . . .”

“Not what?”

“I don’t know.” Alba shrugs. “It’s not quite true.”

“Ah.” Daphne smiles. “Now you’re discovering the great secret of great writing: one line of true feeling is worth a thousand pages of clever thinking.”

“Yes.” Alba nods. “Exactly. I need to rewrite it, but I don’t have time.”

“Why don’t you give it a go?” Daphne suggests. “You might surprise yourself.”

That night and the next, Alba stays awake, channeling her feelings of first love into her rewrite of Carmen’s song. Finally, at four in the morning the day of the show, Alba thinks she might have it: something beautiful, real and true. She opens her bedroom door, listening for the muted music drifting out of the living room—she knows Carmen plays into the morning hours with the muffler pedal—and, seeing bright red notes floating down the dimly lit hall, dashes on tip-toes toward them.

“I’ve got it.” Alba flies into the room, holding an open notebook above her head, the pages flapping like wings. “I’ve got it!”

“O que e?” Carmen frowns. “You have one verse more?”

“No—a whole new song.”

“Really?” Carmen brightens. “Show me.”

Alba hands her the notebook, virtually hopping up and down with excitement. Carmen quickly scans the sentences, pausing now and then to translate a word, then begins to play. And when Carmen at last falls silent, Alba’s so thrilled she can’t help but clap. “Brilliant, that’s absolutely brilliant!”

“Sim,” Carmen nods, delighted. “This one is perfecto.”

—

“A little more to the left,” Peggy says, “yes, that’s right. Stay there.”

“Why are we doing this?” Alba asks, trying not to sound as embarrassed as she feels.

“I’d think that you, of all people, would understand the importance of documenting everyone who stays inside the house.” Peggy steps back a little further from the kitchen table. Alba sits at one end with Carmen on one side of her and Greer on the other. “You’re the one who spends so much time talking to all the women who’ve lived here.”

“Yes, but they’re important women, great writers and . . .” Alba sighs. She hates having her photo taken. “No one’s going to want to talk to us.” She glances at Carmen and Greer, who are studiously avoiding catching each other’s eye. “Well, I mean, me anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Peggy says. “I think the next generation will be wanting to talk to you. And I think you’ll have a lot to say to them.”

Alba scowls slightly, though secretly she’s flattered. The other two, so intent on avoiding each other, don’t hear anything their landlady is saying. Then, suddenly, Carmen turns to Greer.

“Okay, you must please forgive me,” she pleads. “You must understand I did not know anything, I did not plan anything. I did not want to hurt you. Please believe this.”

Greer doesn’t lift her eyes off the table. “I do,” she says softly. “I do.”

“So why you won’t speak to me?” Carmen asks. “Why you won’t look at me?”

“Because I can’t, not yet,” Greer says. “Because if I do I think of him. I think of you kissing him. And I’d rather not right now. But it’s not your fault, I know that. I just need a little time, okay?”

“Sim,” Carmen nods, knowing that time is the one thing she no longer has. “Okay.”

“All right then, enough chitter-chat,” Peggy pipes up. “Smile, everyone!” She clicks the camera shutter then looks up at the awkward little group sitting around her kitchen table.

“Oh, well.” She sighs. “I suppose that will have to do.”

—

That night Greer leans against the wardrobe with the enormous book of dress designs in her lap. She’s been studying them in the moments when she’s not thinking of Edward and his little girl. Having submitted all her teaching applications, she’s rewarding herself with a little frivolity. And so, while trying to ignore the sound of Carmen singing—and the images of Blake the music evokes—Greer examines each pattern until, all of a sudden, she’s seized with the desire to draw something of her own.

She glances up to see that a large notebook has materialized on her dressing table. Smiling, she hurries across the room. On top of the notebook is a tin of multicolored pencils. Greer picks them up, too, walks back to her spot on the floor and sits with the notebook in her lap.

Two hours later she’s surrounded by discarded drawings, hundreds of pages ripped out and thrown in every direction. As Greer sighs and puts her head back against the wardrobe, she catches sight of a new addition on her dressing table: an old-fashioned sewing machine, enameled in black and gilded with burnished gold.

—

Contestant 453 steps off the stage, still hurling swearwords at the judges, pushing past Carmen. “Good luck,” he snarls. “They’re bloody buggering idiots.” Carmen presses her hands together, palms sweating, trying to stop shaking, trying not to think of Tiago and only to remember the words of Alba’s song.

Carmen had requested a piano and the eager producers had provided her with a baby grand. It sits in the middle of the stage, a black island floating on a sea of gray linoleum. She walks toward it slowly, trying to calm the rush of blood through her veins and still the thudding of her heart. After what seems like an hour, she reaches the piano and sits down.

Three judges smile, the fourth just nods. “So, what will you sing?”

Carmen squints into the bright studio lights, wiping her sweaty hands on her lucky blue dress, searching the audience and seeing Alba waving from the center of the third row. For a split second Carmen forgets herself, delighted. From a caterpillar into a butterfly, she thinks, that is the power of music. To Alba’s left sits Peggy; to her right, Nora and Sue, wearing their opera gowns of taffeta and silk, waving gloved hands frantically above their heads and cheering with such enthusiasm it almost brings tears to Carmen’s eyes. Greer isn’t there, just as Carmen knew she wouldn’t be, but it still makes her a little sad. She would have liked her friend to hear her, she would have liked to say good-bye.

“Okay, today, please,” the judge sighs.

“Sim, sorry.” Carmen collects herself. And then, at the center of the storm within her, she remembers Peggy’s advice. Faith still feels like a stretch but Carmen reaches for it. She turns back to the piano and, for the first time since her husband died, she prays. She prays she has got the song memorized, prays she will be able to do it justice, prays she won’t mess up this incredible chance.

“My friend writes this special song. She tell me she write it for Zoë and the singing is to be dedicate to Stella,” Carmen says, her fingers over the keys, “and I will sing to also honor them, and all the women of Hope Street.”

In the darkness Alba smiles and hopes that somehow, Stella is watching. She already knows that Zoë and Albert are, since she asked them to. She only hopes that Zoë doesn’t hate the song or think that it’s too much too soon.

“Very well.” The judge is nonplussed. “Go ahead.”

Carmen nods, draws a deep breath, hits the first note and begins to sing.

I spoke without sound, before you came,

But you gave sound to my heart.

I lived without breath, before you came,

But you gave breath to my life.

I wrote without words, before you came

But you gave words to my song.

Now I will tell a tale of two together

One forgotten and one found,

Of hope that was lost forever . . .

The sullen judge raises his hand and Carmen stops. He didn’t give her a chance to finish. That can’t be a good sign. The silence in the studio is the loudest she’s ever heard. Even Nora and Sue are mute. The blood rushes through her head, tumbling through arteries and veins in rivers and rapids, drowning out everything else. Her heart hits her chest so hard it hurts. She feels tears welling up and prays to God not to let them fall. And then, all of a sudden the entire audience explodes into cheers and Alba and Peggy, Nora and Sue stand, clapping louder than every one else.

“Well, well.” The sullen judge smiles as the roar finally subsides. “I’d say that was far and away the best performance we’ve had today. Well done. You’re through to the next round.”

The crowd erupts again, another judge dabs at her eyes. Carmen grips the piano to stop herself falling off the stool. And, for that single glorious moment nothing else matters, not her past or her future, because the house has given her back what she lost: her voice, her music, herself. And Carmen knows that, no matter what happens next, she will never lose them again.