The House at the End of Hope Street Page 26

“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—”
<
br />   “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.

  Epilogue

  Two Years Later

  Greer sits in the garden with Tilly in her lap, brushing her long black hair, winding the curls gently around her fingers. “You’re so beautiful,” she says. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” Tilly nods and Greer laughs. “Excellent, healthy self-esteem, that’s what I like to see.”

  “A toast.” Edward lifts his glass. He waits as Greer and Harry pick up theirs. Peggy, who hasn’t put her glass down all afternoon, already has it in the air.

  “To the house.”

  “The house,” they chorus.

  “The horse!” Tilly shouts, then giggles.

  Every year they have a picnic party to celebrate the anniversary of Greer moving into the tower. Greer supplies the crockery, Edward mixes the drinks, Harry provides the food, Peggy brings a three-tiered chocolate cake, which she’s made herself, and an enormous bowl of cream.

  “Perhaps we ought to get new cups and plates.” Edward lifts one to reveal the White Queen taking Rumpelstiltskin’s clothes off. “Yesterday she was with Lancelot. We don’t want Til unduly influenced by these kinky characters, they aren’t exactly promoting family values.”

  Harry raises his eyebrows at Peggy, who snorts with gentle derision.

  “Oh, love.” Greer smiles. “She’s not even five. I think we’ve got a little while yet until she starts asking questions about—”

  “Sex!” Tilly shouts, then giggles again.

  They all look at her, astonished. Then Peggy starts shaking with laughter, spilling her cocktail. “She’s got the gift, that one, must be her godmother’s influence.” From where she sits Peggy takes a little bow and raises her glass again.

  “Oh dear,” Edward sighs. “Oh dear.”

  “Speaking of influence.” Harry quickly changes the subject. “How are this year’s residents coming along?”

  “Oh, they’re fine,” Greer says, “but all so young, my goodness. They try to steal my clothes, they hound me to make outfits for them. It’s maddening.”

  “Maddening, but flattering,” Edward says. “They all came to Alba’s play last month. When they found out Greer had done the costumes, they wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “We saw it.” Peggy reaches for another slice of cake. “It was bloody brilliant.”

  Edward quickly puts his hands over his daughter’s ears.

  “Buddy bwilliant!” Tilly exclaims, then giggles again.

  —

  The club is dusty and dark. Carmen waits in the wings, pacing. Narciso, the scruffy manager of the dingy bar, pokes his head around the door.

  �
��Okay, it’s time,” he yells. “Vamos!”

  Carmen feels all the blood leave her body and her knees buckle under her.

  “Are you having a seizure?” Narciso snaps, “’cause we ain’t insured for that.”

  “No, no.” Carmen shakes her head, getting a grip on her nerves. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Narciso says. “Now, get out there and get on with it!” With that, he gives her a friendly shove and Carmen falls through the flimsy blue curtain and onto the stage. She stumbles toward the microphone, grabs it and clings on for dear life, as if she is drowning in the ocean and it is an obliging dolphin.

  Relaxa, Carmen chants to herself, relaxa, relaxa, relaxa…

  She blinks into the single bright light, desperately wanting to close her eyes, but forcing herself to squint into the crowd. If I could cope with a courtroom, she thinks, then I can cope with this. For a moment Carmen looks back at the last two years: the judge, the jury, the cell and Tiago’s ghost, who sat with her every night so that she barely slept. But Peggy was right. The judge and jury were sympathetic. Tiago’s violent nature was well-known and, when Carmen finally took the stand and told them Tiago would have killed her if she hadn’t stopped him, they believed her. And when she walked out of court she never saw or dreamed about her husband again. She was, at last, finally and forever free.

  Carmen gazes out onto the audience and her breath stops in her throat. There is something worse than thirty people staring back at her, something much, much worse: absolutely nobody at all. Carmen looks over the rows and rows of empty chairs. Now she really is floating in an ocean, a sea of endless emptiness, completely and utterly alone.

  With the exception of one single soul.

  A woman sits on the very edge of the back row, rapidly typing on her phone. Carmen stands absolutely still, contemplating how likely it is that, if she runs offstage right now, the woman will never realize she’s been there at all. She glances back at the curtain, where Narciso is gesticulating wildly, urging her to get the hell on with it and sing something, anything. Reluctantly, Carmen turns back to the chairs, looks out at her inattentive audience of one, and takes a deep breath.

  The first note rises up and Carmen begins to sing her newest song: one of hope, forgiveness, gratitude for everything expected and unexpected, wanted and unwanted, chosen and bestowed. She lets the song fill her and gives herself completely to the music, holding nothing back, feeling her spirit soar up, through the ceiling of the dingy nightclub and out into the night air.