The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Twenty-six





It’s long past midnight when Alba unlocks the door. The house is so silent and still, that it’s almost as if it’s holding its breath. She takes off her coat and hangs it up, then slips off her shoes. The floor sinks softly under her feet, welcoming her home, the ceiling dips down and she glances up, blinking into the bright light of the chandelier that switched itself on as she walked up the garden path. On her way to the kitchen Alba is stopped by Joan Greenwood.

“We’re all very proud of your progress,” she says, her husky voice sending a little shiver of delight through Alba. “I know you’ve only written a lovely little song, so far. But we all have a feeling that you’ll make quite a mark in literary history one day.”

“You do?” Alba asks. “Well . . . thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Joan smiles. “It’s been a pleasure watching you.”

Alba walks into the kitchen, glancing around for her aunt Stella. Her aunt. She has so many questions, so much she wants to know. Of course Stella is still nowhere to be seen, but this time Alba has decided she’s going to wait at the table and not move a muscle until Stella materializes. No matter how long it takes.

Ten hours later, when Peggy shuffles into the kitchen the next morning, Alba is sitting in the same chair, gently snoring. Peggy coughs until Alba stirs. “Oh, sorry, I was just—”

“Yes, pet,” Peggy says, “I know who you’re waiting for. But I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“No.” Alba tries to contain a rush of panic. “She can’t, not now, I haven’t . . .”

“I know, dear, but she has. I’m certain. I can feel it.”

“But, no, she can’t . . . I thought she couldn’t leave, I thought she had to stay forever.”

“She only had to stay until she was done.” Peggy flicks the kettle on.

“Done with what?”

“With you.”

“But how could she leave, just like that?” Alba protests. “She didn’t say good-bye.”

“I don’t think she knew,” Peggy says, taking a teacup from the cupboard above her head. “I don’t think she had any warning.”

“But she . . . she was my aunt,” she says, the word still feeling strange on her tongue.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Peggy says softly, wishing she at least had a better explanation. She pours water into her cup then carries it to the table and sits.

“She was waiting for me,” Alba says. “Did you know that?”

Peggy nods as she sips her tea. Alba watches as the steam curls into the air in pale blue spirals, perhaps unsurprisingly, quite a different color from everyone else’s.

“I still don’t understand, though,” Alba says. “How did she know I was coming? How did she know to wait for me?”

“The dead understand all sorts of things we couldn’t possibly hope to,” Peggy explains. “They know everything that’s happened and most of what’s going to happen; time is rather different for them than it is for us.” With a twinge she remembers that this will be true for her soon, and she’s sorry for it. She’s not scared anymore, but she would have liked longer, she would have liked to say a proper good-bye to Harry. Seeing the look of longing on Alba’s face, Peggy suddenly knows that a letter isn’t enough. She has to go to him. She has to be with him for as long as she has left. Greer was right. To hell with the house. She’s given it sixty-one years of her life, nearly as many years as Queen Victoria gave to the British Empire. Surely that’s enough?

“It’s more than enough!” Peggy exclaims suddenly.

“Sorry?” Alba frowns. “What’s more than enough?”

Peggy looks at Alba across the table, coming to her senses. “Oops, my apologies, that wasn’t, I was having another . . . What was I saying?”

Alba frowns, a little concerned. There is a look of fierce determination in Peggy’s eyes that she’s never seen before, and it’s a little unnerving. “About the dead understanding,” Alba says. “But I don’t understand how I knew to come here.”

“Oh, my dear, but didn’t you realize?” Peggy says. “It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t simply find yourself on the doorstep, you weren’t beckoned by the house, like everyone else. You came because Stella called you.”

Alba is silent, because what can she say? She is loved. Really and truly loved.

—

Peggy is standing in front of her wardrobe, hurling clothes in the direction of a suitcase that lies open on her bed. Mog sits next to the suitcase, eyeing his mistress reproachfully.

“There’s no use looking at me like that, kitty, I’m not changing my mind,” Peggy says, without turning around. “You can come with me, if you like, but I’m not staying. I don’t know how many days I have left, but I’m going to spend every single one of them with Harry.”

Mog emits a little sneeze of disgust.

“I’m not listening.” Peggy discards three skirts she hasn’t worn in twenty years, dropping them on top of the pile at her feet. She thinks of Alba and Stella. She’s already torn up her letter to Harry. Before rushing up to the tower, Peggy had told Alba one more thing, the last piece of family history Stella hadn’t had a chance to tell her niece. Just over forty years ago Elizabeth had come to Hope Street, the only woman to arrive on the doorstep who didn’t stay. Peggy had opened the door before Elizabeth had a chance to knock, startling her so that she stepped back, nearly falling into the flowers.

“Nice to meet you, Beth.” Peggy had smiled, rather enjoying the woman’s shock. “She’s been waiting for you. It’s the door at the end of the corridor.” And with that, she disappeared up the stairs.

Elizabeth stumbled along the corridor, staring at the photographs, just as her daughter would do forty years later. The ceiling came down to have a look at her, the chandelier flickered above her head. The floor softened under her feet and the pipes gently rattled in greeting. That morning Elizabeth had been shopping at the farmers’ market in Covent Garden, tasting chocolate brownies with spiced cherries, elderflower truffles and ginger biscuits. Just as she bit into a biscuit, Elizabeth had heard a song in the air, the words floating past her, the letters sparkling silver and gold—the lullaby her sister had sometimes sung to help her sleep. She had followed it. She found a train to Cambridge, walked through the city and arrived on the doorstep of the house at the end of Hope Street, without knowing what she was doing or why.

When she reached the kitchen door, Elizabeth slowly opened it and peeked inside. There, sitting in the sink, was her sister. It was several moments before Elizabeth could speak. It wasn’t the shock of seeing a ghost that silenced her, since she had grown up seeing things that most people couldn’t. Her sister’s ghost was a different matter altogether. Elizabeth had always held out hope that one day she might meet Stella again. And here she was. Elizabeth walked slowly to the sink, wondering if perhaps her sister was a figment of her imagination, a desire so desperate it’d tricked her unpredictable mind. But when her sister smiled, she knew.

“Oh, Ella,” she sighed, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know, sis, I’ve missed you too.”

“I never stopped looking for you, around every corner, in every room . . .”

“I know, my love. I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay. I wanted to be with you but I couldn’t risk it,” Stella said. “Somehow I thought that seeing ghosts wouldn’t have made you feel much saner.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth smiled. “I know. But I’m on medication now. It’s not perfect but it’s better, I’m better, as long as I take it.” The last ten years seemed to disappear then, and she felt as though they’d never been apart. “I can’t believe you really are here, that I’m not imagining things.”

Stella floated down from the sink to the table and sat cross-legged next to her sister. “I’m sorry, Beth, I’m so sorry I left you while I ran off round the country with—”

“It’s okay, I survived.” Elizabeth smiled, though they both knew it had only been barely. “Are you okay—like this, I mean?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Stella said. “Apart from anything else, death does give you a rather beautiful perspective on life. So, tell me how on earth you ended up being engaged to that idiotic, self-centered philandering playboy known as cousin Charlie?”

“Don’t say that,” Elizabeth protested. “He’s fine and I love him, at least I think—anyway, he wants to marry me, Ella, and we’ve . . . I wanted to wait, but Charlie said we should give it a go, so . . .”

“Oh, that’s nothing, it doesn’t matter.” Stella laughed. “It doesn’t mean you have to get married.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Elizabeth said. “I want to. Anyway, how did you know? He only asked me this morning. We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“I’ve never left you, Beth, I’ve always been watching, just in case you needed me.”

“Oh? And why do I need you now?” Elizabeth frowned. “I needed you when you died, when I was a kid, all alone in that house. Now I’m actually happy. Why have you waited until I’m happy?”

“I couldn’t go to you,” Stella explained. “I had to call you to me. I couldn’t do that when you were a little girl. Goodness knows I wanted to.”

“Well, I don’t need you now,” Elizabeth said. “I’m fine.”

“Please, Beth, I know you think you love him, but you don’t, not really, he isn’t the love of your life—”

“Stop it, Ella,” Elizabeth snapped. “Look, I’m really happy to see you again. But please don’t tell me I don’t know my own mind. I’ve had people doing that all my life. I thought at least you would respect me enough not to.”

“Oh, Beth, I do. I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, I know more than you do about—”

“You know what I want?”

“No, that’s not . . .” But it was no good. Stella knew it. She’d called her sister here to stop her marrying Charlie, to save her years of heartbreak, but it was too late. The grand dames upstairs had attempted to explain what could be influenced and what couldn’t, and why. But she hadn’t understood it then and she didn’t understand it now. She wanted to save her sister.

“You really love him?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “I do. I’m happy. For the first time in my life, I’m really happy. So don’t worry, it’ll all be okay.”

“I hope so, Beth, I really do.” Stella looked at her sister’s innocent smile and only wished she could hug her, one more time. “But just in case, I’ll always be here. Until the day you die. Okay? You can talk to me, wherever you are, and I’ll hear you. Don’t forget, all right? Promise me that.”

“Don’t be silly; don’t talk about such morbid things. You should be happy for me.”

Stella nodded. “Just promise me, please.”

“Okay, I promise,” Elizabeth said. But she knew she didn’t have to worry, that nothing bad was going to happen. She would have a husband, she would have babies. Everything was going to be wonderful.

—

“I’m leaving.” Peggy stands in front of the door to the forbidden room. Mog is at his mistress’s side, twitching his tail in a rare moment of support and solidarity. She won him over with thirty minutes of tummy tickling. Peggy knocks on the door again. “I know you can hear me. I’m going to spend my last days with Harry. I gave up my life, everything I might have wanted . . . And now that I’m going to die, I’m going to do something for myself for once. So, if you want another martyr to run Hope Street, then you can find her on your own.”

She turns back to the kitchen table and sits down to her waiting cup of tea, the last she’ll enjoy in her kitchen. Mog jumps up on her lap, pushing his face against her cheek—and the door finally swings open. Peggy is surprised, but her resolve is strong. The inhabitants of the forbidden room won’t sway her now.

“That won’t work.” Peggy sips her tea. “It’s too late, I won’t change my mind. Frankly, I don’t know why you’d bother, I’m not much use to you for much longer—”

“Stop sulking, you silly woman,” Virginia Woolf’s voice snaps through the air. “Before you flounce off in a huff, we’ve got something to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it.” Peggy scratches Mog’s ears. “All these years I’ve been trying so hard to help the house. Then you tell me I’m dying and you leave me entirely alone to manage it—”

“We can explain that,” George Eliot calls out.

“Well, I don’t care if you can,” Peggy says. “I’m not interested anymore.”

“Please, Peg.” Beatrix Potter’s gentle voice drifts into the air. “It’s important.”

But Peggy just shakes her head, sips her tea and lets Mog drool into her lap.

“Peggy Abbot, you need to listen to me.” Grace Abbot, the founder of Hope Street, finally floats out of the forbidden room and settles on a kitchen chair, transparent arms folded, powdered wig quivering slightly atop her head. “You are not going to die.”

—

Alba feels like a walk. She can’t be bothered to go upstairs and get dressed. When she reaches the front door she slips on a jacket over her pajamas and a pair of shoes, glancing at the photographs around the door. Then she stops and stares, squinting to be sure she is really seeing what she thinks she’s seeing.

Standing there, in a picture Alba has seen a hundred times before, is Stella. It’s a group photograph of ten women standing on the lawn in front of the house. The wind has blown autumn leaves from the trees, swirling them around the women as if they are inside a leafy snow globe. Now, at the edge of the group is an eleventh woman: Stella, wearing a dress splashed with red poppies that falls to her feet, bare on the grass. Alba smiles.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” Stella says. “And here I’ll always be.”

Alba puts her hand to the picture, her finger touching her aunt’s face. “Thank you. I . . .” She wants to say more, wants to tell Stella everything she feels, everything she hopes, everything . . .

“It’s okay,” Stella says, and blows her niece a kiss. “I know.”

“Of course you do.” Alba laughs. “Well then, I’ll see you later.” With a grin and a wave, she turns the doorknob and steps out into the garden. When Alba reaches the gate she doesn’t know where to go, so she just walks down the street, following the direction her feet take. Twenty minutes later, like some sort of pajama-clad homing pigeon, Alba finds herself at the avenue of trees leading to the library. She finds a bench and sits, ignoring people’s perplexed glances in her direction as they pass her on their way to work. She retreats into her own world, thinking of her aunt. Then Zoë is standing in front of her.

Alba glances up and smiles.

Zoë hesitates, pulling her fingers through her spiky blue hair. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well . . . You’re sitting on a bench at nine in the morning,” Zoë says, “in your pajamas.”

“Good point.” Alba nods. “But I’m okay. I’m better than okay.”

Zoë smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“Have you tried Austen yet?” Zoë sits on the bench.

“I have. And I loved them. Especially Pride and Prejudice.”

“You’ve read all of them?” Zoë asks.

“I’m a fast reader.”

“I’ll say.” Zoë puts her hand on Alba’s knee. “You’re amazing.”

Every other thought in Alba’s mind evaporates then and all she can think of is Zoë’s hand on her knee and how it’s making her whole body tingle. She wonders if people are watching them, if they know what’s going on.

“Should I not?” Zoë asks quietly.

But Alba can’t answer. The warmth of Zoë’s touch soaks through the thin cotton of her pajamas, seeping into her skin, and the very last thing she wants now is for Zoë to take it away. Slowly, Alba shakes her head. She looks up at Zoë, who smiles, waiting. Little sparks of sunlight burst between them again and, not taking her eyes off Zoë’s lips, Alba leans forward for her first kiss.

—

The four ghosts sit around a small wooden table, their bridge game momentarily on hold. The room is a parlor from the early nineteenth century, dating from the time the house was built and decorated with silk cream wallpaper stenciled with rows and rows of fleur-de-lis. Heavy deep purple velvet curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor, drawn back from long windows. The dark blue carpet is soft under Peggy’s feet. She stands in the doorway, glaring at the four ghosts.

“Of course you will die eventually,” Grace admits, patting her wig into place and tickling Mog under his chin. “But not until you’re a hundred and five.”

“Why are you saying this? Why are you lying?” But, as Peggy scowls at Grace, she can see that she’s not lying, not now. “What the hell is going on? So why did you tell me I was going to die? Why did you torture me with that, what was the point?”

“We wanted to give you a gift,” George says, “for all your years of service.”

“A gift?” Peggy cries, “I can hardly see—”

“Yes, exactly,” Virginia explains. “You needed to see yourself, to know yourself. We told you that so you could realize how you truly felt and what you truly wanted. Impending death always has a way of clearing the fog.”

“What?” Peggy needs to sit down. “I don’t understand.”

“Exactly,” Beatrix whispers. “You understand everyone else so well, but you’ve spent years lying to yourself.”

“You love Harry,” George says, “and you want to be with him, but you didn’t fully realize it until you thought you were going to die.”

“What? I . . .” Peggy’s head is heavy with confusion and shock.

“You may be magical,” Virginia says, “but you’re still human. And, like most people, you’re too scared, stubborn or stupid to give yourself what you need until you’re shaken awake by something.”

“Such as a near-death experience,” George says.

“So we gave you one,” Beatrix smiles.

For a full five minutes Peggy stares at the four women, replaying their words. Slowly her anger subsides and she only feels sad. “I always thought that I didn’t . . .” she whispers, half to herself, “how could I not know, how could I not know my own heart? . . .”

“Did you think that the house would give so many women what they needed,” Beatrix asks, “without doing the same for you?”

“But what’s the point? Why did you help me to see myself now?” Peggy protests. “If I still have to stay for another . . . however many years, and I still can’t have H—”

“Oh no,” Grace interrupts. “We’re releasing you. We think you’ve paid your dues. You’re free to be with Harry now.”

“Really?”

The four women nod.

Peggy shakes her head, not quite believing it. “Why did you leave me a note and lock me out of the room? Why couldn’t you tell me to my face?”

Beatrix smiles. “That was my fault, I’m afraid.”

“Bea can’t lie,” Virginia says with a sigh. “She’s useless at it.”

“That’s true,” Beatrix admits. “You would have guessed in a second that it was a trick.”

“But if I am leaving,” Peggy says, still not entirely able to believe it, “then, who will . . . ?”

“Well, that’s simple,” Virginia says. “The mother, of course.”

—

Greer stands in the bathroom, squinting into the mirror. Her new uniform is pretty revolting and clashes horribly with her hair, but there’s nothing much she can do about it. She adjusts the bright orange cap, tilting it at a jaunty angle in a vain attempt to try.

“That is, without a doubt, the most disgusting outfit I’ve ever seen.” Peggy stands in the doorway. “And I see you didn’t listen to a word I said.”

Greer pushes the orange cap firmly onto her head. “If love means wearing this hideous uniform, then it’ll be more than worth it.”

“You’ll regret—”

“Pot. Kettle.” Greer glares at Peggy. “And what else exactly do you expect me to do?”

This is the opening Peggy has been waiting for. “Live here.”

Greer gasps. “Really, can I? Well, thank you. That’d be amazing, it’ll certainly save me money on rent—”

“Well, not quite,” Peggy says, a little taken aback. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“No?” Greer’s smile drops.

“I meant that you would inherit the house. You would take over from me. Stay forever.”

“Forever?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m offering. Would you like that?”

“I don’t understand,” Greer says. “What about you?”

“I’m retiring.” Peggy grins.

“But, but . . . But I can’t run this house. I can’t replace you,” Greer says. “I can’t do all the things you do. The notes, the advice . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Peggy waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t write the notes, the house does. And I usually hear the advice before I say it. Anyway, with that little insight you pulled on me the other night, I rather think you’re a lot sharper than you give yourself credit for.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you’ll see and learn more, the longer you stay here.”

“Okay. But what about the rules, then? About having no husband, no family.”

“Times are changing. I’ve just been having a word with the women upstairs. We’re evolving, modernizing like the royals. So you won’t have to live here like a nun. Not that I ever exactly did that.” Peggy isn’t bitter about the change of protocol. She may have lost twenty years with Harry, but she gained them all back and they’re still ahead of her.

“The royals?” Greer asks. “What women upstairs?”

“I’ll introduce you to them tonight, if you like,” Peggy says. “So Edward can stay, he can even live here if you like.”

“Edward?”

“Oh, please.” Peggy shuffles over to the bathtub and perches on its edge. “I felt the sparks between you two all the way up in the tower.” Peggy pats the edge of the bathtub. Greer sits down and takes off her cap.

“But, still,” she says, “you can’t just give me this house. It’s too much. It’s—”

“Oh, don’t worry, it has a price,” Peggy says.

Greer might have known there had to be a catch. This was simply too good to be true. “Well then, unless it’s twenty quid, I’m afraid I can’t really afford it.”

“Oh, it’s not money.” Peggy laughs. “The price is that you must always do what you love. You must cultivate your own heart while caring for your surrogate children.”

Greer laughs, too, as the glorious absurdity of this price sinks in. “Oh, is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. But it’s not always easy, you know, so you must promise.”

“I promise.”

Peggy smiles. “Good. Now, tell me, just how long are you going to wait until you call Edward?”

—

Alba stands on the doorstep, clutching a small bag. “Okay, well . . .” she bites her lip and suddenly pulls Peggy into a hug, squeezing the old woman so tightly she coughs. “Oh, gosh.” Alba lets go. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not really used to . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, no.” Peggy catches her breath. “Don’t be silly, it’s quite the best hug I’ve ever had. But you don’t have to go yet, you know. You can stay a little longer, your ninety-nine nights aren’t up for another two weeks.”

“I know,” Alba says. “But I’m ready.”

“Yes.” Peggy smiles. “Yes you are.”

Feeling the familiar brush of fur along her ankles, the old lady glances down at her feet in surprise.

Alba sees a big fat orange cat winding in slow, lazy figure eights around Peggy’s legs. She kneels to stroke him, and he purrs.

“Well, well. Mog’s come to say good-bye. You should be honored, he’s never bothered to before,” Peggy says, a little shocked. Though she should hardly be surprised that, of all the residents she’s ever had, Alba is the one who can see him. “He likes you.”

“He’s beautiful,” Alba says, and Mog starts to drool.

“I rather think he wants to go with you,” Peggy says, the admission a little tinged with regret. But since she’s moving out herself she can’t be possessive over Mog anymore. “Would you like to take him with you?”

“Really?” Alba’s eyes light up. “Can I?”

Peggy nods.

With a grin, Alba kisses the old woman on her papery cheek. “Thank you for everything, for all of it. You, Stella, the house, you saved my life.”

She turns then and hurries down the garden path, tears rolling down her face. The walls of the house shudder slightly, a mournful breath blows through the pipes, the electricity momentarily short-circuits, as it watches her go. Mog pads along beside Alba, his tail high in the air. When she reaches the gate Alba wipes her eyes. A moment later she is walking along the pavement. Each step is a good-bye.

Then she stops and turns around to wave.

But Peggy has gone.

The house has disappeared. And all she can see now are trees.