The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Nine





Alba sits on her bedroom floor with the shoebox in her lap. She’s read every letter, every poem, is familiar with every endearment, turn of phrase, every sentence steeped in love and longing. Reading them took a while; the words were blurred by Alba’s tears. But it all makes sense now. This is why her father left, why her siblings hated her. She’d always thought she was just the new baby who stole their thunder. But she was so much worse. She was their half sister, the constant reminder of her mother’s betrayal. When did they find out? she wonders. How long have they known?

Alba leans against her bookshelves and shuts her eyes. A soft wind whistles through the pipes in the wall, a low, sorrowful tone matching her mood exactly. She thinks of her father. Or rather, the man she believed to be her father. When did he discover that she wasn’t really his daughter? And does this mean he’s still alive? Memories of Lord Ashby are scarce but Alba dredges the depths of her blank, black mind for something.

The first picture she sees is the piano in the playroom at Ashby Hall. Her mother bought it, a miniature version of the Steinway grand that furnished the foyer, for Alba’s seventh birthday. A tutor came every Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock, until it became clear that musicality was not one of Alba’s talents, and the piano was left to look pretty and collect dust.

Then one night, Alba couldn’t sleep, so she crept downstairs to her playroom to find a favorite doll she’d forgotten was there. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling in silver stripes across the piano’s shiny black surface, and suddenly it seemed magical, as spooky as a coffin, as enticing as a forbidden room.

Alba crept over to the piano and slid onto the stool. She pushed at a soft pedal with her bare foot and slowly pressed the keys. Muffled notes slipped into the air and Alba listened. What had sounded dull and simple during the day, at night became exciting and eerie. Intrigued, Alba explored every ivory key. The notes were still a jumbled racket, but in the darkness she started to hear words floating into her head. They looped around, linking together, sliding and colliding in rhythms and rhymes. Alba jumped off the stool, ran across the room, found a notebook and a crayon and started scribbling her words on the page so she wouldn’t forget the little songs. After that Alba crept downstairs every night to hit random notes and write down the words that came with them. Then, one evening, her father walked past the playroom. He stopped and frowned. “Alba.”

“Hello, Papa.” Alba quickly sat on her hands and chewed at her lip.

“It would be a shame,” he said at last, “to waste your time believing you have talent for something when you have none. Don’t you agree?”

Alba nodded slowly, her wet eyes glued to his face.

“The world is filled with fools. You wouldn’t want to be another one, would you?”

Alba shook her head.

“Good.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

Alba sits very still as the smoky remnants of her memory evaporate. Then, with a little sigh, she stands, shuffles across the room, opens the door and peeks into the corridor. Just before reaching the bathroom Alba stops at a photograph of a young woman with big eyes and a sleek bob, wearing strings of pearls and a collar of silk. Alba knows she’s seen her before, but can’t for the moment place her. And then she realizes she’s staring at the author of one of her very favorite novels.

“Rebecca,” Alba whispers. “I mean, Miss du Maurier, sorry. Oh my goodness. I didn’t see you before, I . . .”

“Well, well.” Daphne smiles. “At last she speaks.”

Alba flushes, suddenly self-conscious. “I adore your books,” she says softly. “Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I . . .”

“No, no.” Daphne holds up a delicate hand. “Please don’t.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Alba says again, “you must get that all the time.”

“Less and less as the years pass,” Daphne admits, “but, flattering though it is, I’d still rather have a real conversation with you.”

“Yes, of course.” But Alba has no words worthy of this grand dame of English literature, so she simply stands in silence and smiles, utterly starstruck.

“Well, all right then, if you’ve nothing to say to me, then I’ve got something to say to you. So listen up,” Daphne declares with a flourish. “There is no going back in life. No return. No second chance. When you waste your days, they are wasted forever. So be honest about the things you really want, and do them, no matter how fearful you might be.”

Alba frowns, a little taken aback. “Gosh, well, I . . . The thing is, I’m not really sure what I want anymore. I thought I wanted something, but now I’m not—”

Daphne looks up, her gaze so sharp it unnerves Alba. “Stop lying to yourself,” she says. “You know exactly what you want, you’re just too scared to admit it.”

—

Peggy sits in her kitchen with Mog on her lap. She understands now, after so many thwarted attempts, that there is clearly no point asking the damn door to open anymore. In sixty-one years she’s never had a problem getting into the room; whenever she needed help or advice, she always got it. But she’s now being denied entry and, though Peggy can’t understand why, she thinks there must be some strange sense to it. Indeed, she’s starting to wonder whether or not the house actually wants her to find a successor. Perhaps it’s had enough; like her, it’s too old and exhausted to want anything else but peace and quiet. Perhaps it simply wants to retire. In which case, it might very well get its way. So perhaps she should simply abandon the house to its fate and live out the remainder of her life with Harry, a prospect that is becoming more and more tempting as the days go by and death starts tapping on her shoulder.

Peggy tickles Mog behind his ears. He gives her a quick pitiful look before jumping off her lap and padding across the room with his tail in the air. She sips her tea, tasting sweeter memories of the days when the Abbot family was fertile and full of candidates wanting to inherit the house. When Peggy was a little girl, and her great-aunt Esme inhabited the tower, all her sisters, cousins and distant relatives aspired to the position. Though none more than Peggy.

She wasn’t born with the gift; at least her mother didn’t think so. She was the last of seven sisters, unexpected though not unwanted. And by the time she arrived, everyone already thought her oldest sister, Julia, would inherit the house. But Peggy was determined and, like a marathon runner in training for the Olympics, she prepared. While her sisters chased boys and stole their mother’s makeup, Peggy meditated on her goals and practiced her gifts, until the tiny sparks finally caught fire and burned within her so strongly that no one could overlook her anymore.

Peggy remembers the day she was chosen more clearly than any other day of her life. It was her thirteenth birthday. Esme invited her to tea, fed her slices of the three-tiered chocolate cake, explained all the rules, introduced her to Mog (then called Ginger) and took her into the forbidden room. This was the most anticipated moment, for every Abbot girl had grown up with the legend, spending innumerable hours in speculation, desperate to discover the truth.

The room’s contents certainly surpassed all of Peggy’s expectations and she longed to tell her jealous sisters, each of whom was born on the first of May, all about it. But it was a secret she’d have to keep forever, along with everything else she learned that day.

From her kitchen window Peggy watches the sun setting behind her willow trees, feeling as though the same energy is draining from her, too, as if her light is gently going out. As the sky darkens Peggy notices the violet glow from the midnight glory has crept around to the back garden. It won’t be long now before it exposes everything and the house will be visible to everyone. Peggy surveys the garden. She knows that, even if she might want to desert her post for a little late-in-life hedonism, she’ll never do it. However much she might love Harry, she owes the house more.

—

Greer has stepped onto a film set, and everything is illuminated and in Technicolor. She sees him every day, and nearly every night. Now she knows how Katharine Hepburn felt, sharing all those films with Spencer Tracy. In the few days since their first date, their first kiss, since the greatest sex of her life, she hasn’t even bothered looking for acting jobs. She’s stopped worrying, she’s stopped feeling like a failure.

Greer knew she shouldn’t sleep with Blake on their first date, but when he invited her back to his flat, she simply hadn’t been able to say no. It was past midnight and they’d both crept upstairs like thieves. When the bedroom door closed they fell against each other frantically, kissing and grasping, pulling and tugging at clothes. Crashing onto the bed, Greer pulled away for a moment. “Oh my God,” she gasped, “this is crazy.”

Blake said nothing, just slid his hand up her leg, green silk sliding over his fingers. The moon escaped the clouds and cast a pale light across the bed, illuminating them both as he smiled and began, ever so softly, to kiss her skin.

“Oh, damn it,” Greer sighed, her breath catching in her throat as his fingers reached the tops of her thighs. He kissed her belly, reached for her breasts and lingered there before moving on to her neck, her ears, her hair . . . When Blake at last returned to her thighs, Greer’s breath quickened until she couldn’t hear anything except the rush of blood in her ears. “Yes, don’t stop,” she begged, “please . . . Yes, that’s it, yes, yes . . .”

It’s midnight now, on a Monday night, and Greer hurries along the street toward The Archer. Blake invited her to meet him at the end of his shift and she’s late. At the door she stops to catch her breath and fluff her hair. Inside, someone is playing the piano. The music is soft and gentle. The notes drift out to Greer, who swallows them like raindrops. Then, while she surrenders to the sounds (just as she surrendered to Blake), the music shifts, suddenly high-pitched and sharp. Before Greer can close her mouth she’s swallowed something else, bitter and sharp, and she wonders if it might be a warning of what’s to come.

—

Alba sits at the kitchen table, staring into a cup of cold, black coffee, half-listening to the photographs chattering away to each other. Since speaking to Daphne du Maurier, Alba now hears the photographs all the time, winking and whispering as she walks past. Last night they woke her with some sort of strange chorus, the colors filling her room like fireworks. For a moment she was scared, but then her fear evaporated. For something has taken hold of Alba now, a fire of her own, and suddenly she’s no longer the scared little girl she once was. She had spent her whole life trying to get the love and approval of everyone else, only to find out most people are liars and frauds. She’s not going to do that anymore. The deception of Dr. Skinner no longer stings so sharply, is now tainted not with sadness and longing but with hatred and anger. Though that betrayal seems almost nothing compared with the one orchestrated by her own family.

She stares into the cauldron of coffee, thinking of the three witches in Macbeth and how her life seems to be spiraling out of control as quickly as his did. The last few days have torn Alba’s history apart, splintering her memories, fracturing her sense of self. Half her genes were provided by a man named Albert. She is a cuckoo, a cliché, the product of illicit love and lies, of her mother’s affair with some penniless poet, kindled over their shared love of A Room with a View.

At least now she understands why she loves books so much, why she’s always dreamed of being a writer. But how could she not have known? How could she not have sensed it? How could she see sounds and smells, ghosts and auras, and not see herself? And how did anything else matter when she couldn’t see where she came from, when she couldn’t see the truth of who she really was?

When Stella appears in the sink Alba looks up from her coffee and tells the ghost the details of every letter, every poem, every moment and line of her mother’s love affair. Stella sits silently and listens to it all. She feels the fury in Alba’s heart as though it’s in her own chest, but it doesn’t worry her. Not being blessed with breath or life, the ghost is also relieved of some of its more irksome qualities: fear, guilt, loneliness, the need to stop those you love from feeling any pain. She knows that Alba needs to feel it before she can move on.

The only thing that balances Alba’s shock and sadness at the discovery of her paternity is her happiness at the rediscovery of her mother. Since Alba fled Ashby Hall, Elizabeth has visited her daughter every evening in her dreams. They talk and hold hands and walk across the world, sometimes spending the night at the Sydney Opera House or outside the Shaolin Temple or at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But most of the time they sit on the roof of the King’s College chapel, watching Cambridge while it sleeps. Alba had feared that leaving Ashby Hall would mean leaving Elizabeth behind, so the first night she appeared, Alba was so surprised and delighted to see her mother that she woke herself up. But she is so used to the nocturnal visits now that she closes her eyes expecting them. In the morning Alba can never remember what they talked about, but she always wakes feeling lighter and brighter than when she went to bed. That feeling lasts until she opens her eyes and stretches and remembers the fact of her absent father again.

All of a sudden, a warning whistles through the pipes and the kitchen door bumps open. Stella disappears and Alba looks up to see Carmen walk in. She doesn’t sashay this time, and her clothes are tight but not bright, her hair is pulled back into a bun, every curl contained. She stands behind a chair, her hands resting on the curve of the wood. “It’s okay if I sit?”

No, Alba wants to say, I’d rather you leave me and Stella alone. But the ingrained politeness of a private education overrides her impulses, and she slips into good manners and nods.

“I am very sorry for your mother,” Carmen says softly. “I think not to bother you, I know you like to be alone, but . . .”

Alba looks up, surprised.

“But I hope still maybe we can be friends.”

Alba looks more closely at Carmen. Purple bruises still linger under her dress, seeping into the air and staining her aura. Alba has no idea what’s happened to her housemate but the dark shadows hovering over her heart are unnerving. Uneasy under the intense stare, Carmen breaks the silence.

“I hope you will come to my bar,” she says. “I know you do not love the music, but I just want you to see . . .”

Alba feels a twinge of guilt, remembering her lie. Carmen’s eyes are so vulnerable that, for a moment, Alba wants to help her. She nods.

“Really?” Carmen asks, delighted that she can finally put her plan to release the passions buried deep within Alba into action. “When will you come? Tonight, tomorrow?”

“Okay,” Alba says, knowing she’ll regret it. “Tomorrow.”

“Brilliante. Come to my room before evening, Greer will help you”—she makes a sweep of Alba’s person—“with all this. You will look beautiful. You will have wonderful time. Maybe . . .” Carmen winks. “Maybe we even find a boy for you.”

After Carmen leaves, Alba waits for Stella to reappear. She thinks of the letters, of the clues. She thinks of her mother, who scatters little secrets about Albert in her daughter’s dreams, urging her to look for him and to contact Edward, who has secrets of his own to share and who, having been lost in widowerhood for too long, now wants to connect with his sister. Alba sighs.

“Okay, enough sighing.” Stella materializes in the sink. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Enough thinking. You think too much,” Stella says. “It’s time to take action. “

“I’m not ready.”

“If you wait until you’re ready, you’ll be dead,” Stella says. “And, as a life strategy, I don’t really recommend it.”

Despite herself Alba smiles.

“What do you want to do?” Stella asks. “That’s the only question that really matters.”

The ghost looks at Alba then with such a pure and truthful gaze, unencumbered by exception or judgment, that Alba feels suddenly free. Her fear evaporates, leaving only her desire.

“I want to find my father.”

Stella smiles.