The House at the End of Hope Street Page 24

  “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 wit
h 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.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A toast!” Peggy lifts her glass and waits for Alba, sipping lemonade, and Carmen, Nora and Sue, all drinking champagne, to join her. “To a beautiful song and a beautiful singer.”

  “The best we’ve ever heard,” Sue cheers.

  “Hear! Hear! my dear.” Nora gulps down her drink, then offers her empty glass to Peggy, who tops it up again with a smile.

  The two ladies stand side by side, beaming delightedly at Carmen.

  “The best night of my life,” Sue says. “Even including my wedding night.”

  “Which one?” Nora nudges her. “Second or third?”

  “Oh, hush,” Sue giggles, “you know very well Bernard had performance anxiety, but he well made up for it in other areas.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Nora says, “such gentle hands—”

  “No.” Sue looks horrified. “You promised me you didn’t…”

  “And I didn’t,” Nora smiles, “at least not in real life. But one can’t control the imagination.” She lets out a satisfied sigh while Alba frowns, looking a little shocked.

  Carmen watches the two women with an ache in her chest. She can’t tell them she’s leaving. She can’t explain why or say good-bye.

  “It really was beautiful,” Alba turns to Carmen. “I, I… Thank you.” And even though she can’t find any other words than these, Carmen smiles and nods to show she understands.

  An hour later they are standing on the pavement, all rather tipsy except for Alba, ready to part. Carmen can’t look directly at anyone or she knows she’ll start to cry. She hugs Alba extra tight when they part and kisses Peggy, who whispers in Carmen’s ear, reminding her to have faith and to simply keep walking until she finds her way.

  —

  Alba is giddy with joy. Hearing her song being sung to the nation by the most beautiful singer she’s ever heard will forever be on her very short list of phenomenal experiences, second only to her first date with Zoë. She wishes her father could have witnessed it live. Albert has invited her over for a late supper after the event. They sit together on his sofa eating fish and chips out of newspapers on their laps. Alba tells Albert everything and he listens intently with absolute delight and enormous amounts of pride.

  “The song was beautiful,” Albert says, for the hundredth time, “so very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Alba says softly.

  They sit in silence while the flickering television plays repeats of Carmen’s song.

  “Do you like my flat?” Albert ventures, discarding a half-eaten chip.

  “Sure,” Alba says, “it’s nice.”

  “Not too small?”

  Alba eats another chip, rather thrilled at the decadence of a TV dinner. After a childhood of suppressive suppers around a sixteenth-century oak table, sitting on the sofa eating fish and chips gives her a sense of illicit delight. “Nope,” she says, “seems fine to me.”

  “We could sit in the kitchen.” Albert offers, embarrassed at not being able to offer his daughter the comforts he knows she grew up with.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says. “I like it.”

  “So.” Albert peels a strip of batter off his cod. “So, I was thinking…”

  “Yes?” Alba looks up.

  About to ask, at the last moment Albert folds. “Well, um… tell me more about this girl you want me to meet. Stella, yes? You had an aunt called Stella, you know. Your mother’s sister—”

  “I did?” Alba asks, confused. But both her parents were only children. She’d grown up without aunts, uncles or cousins. At least, that’s what s
he’d always been told. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Albert says. “Her name was Stella. She was older. She died when Liz was a little girl. I remember her telling me…”

  And then all the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fall into place.

  Her mother: Elizabeth. Liz. Beth. Stella’s sister, Beth.

  Of course Ella was Stella, as a child might say the name when she is learning to talk, a nickname that stuck. How did Alba miss a clue like that? Poirot would be most disappointed.

  “I can’t believe it.” Alba laughs. “I can’t. She’s my aunt! My aunt. Of course. I can’t believe I didn’t… They even look alike. And the things they said… Oh, my goodness. I can’t… it’s incredible, so incredible.”

  “Wait.” Albert frowns, now slightly confused. “If you didn’t know about Stella, how do you know what she looks like? I don’t understand.”

  Alba shakes her head, unable to explain yet. So that was Stella’s secret. She can’t quite believe it, can’t believe she didn’t guess. She starts to laugh.

  Still puzzled, Albert opens his mouth to ask why Alba’s laughing but, to his shock and slight dismay, the question he’s been rehearsing for the last few weeks blurts out instead.

  “Alba, would you like… would you like to live with me?”

  Alba stops laughing and smiles. “Yes.” She says it so fast it rather takes her by surprise. “I’d absolutely love to.”

  “Really?” Albert says. “You would?”

  Alba nods, quite unable to believe her luck. Right now she can’t imagine anything she’d love more. And, now that the problem of her impending homelessness has been taken care of, Alba can’t wait to get back to Hope Street and interrogate Stella.

  —

  Greer is lying on her bed, unable to sleep. She’s still trying to ignore the sewing machine, but it won’t let her. It sits on the dressing table, gold letters glinting in the moonlight, even after she’s closed the curtains and switched off the light. She’s found a temporary job as a waitress along with a dingy room to live in, a roof over her head while she waits to start the teaching course and prepares applications to adoption agencies. She doesn’t know how long it will take, or what she’ll have to do to be successful but, as she stares at the ceiling now, Greer knows she’ll do whatever it takes.