The Room Beyond (10 page)

His white teeth glistened in the sunshine. ‘And I’ll be there to
catch you my princess. I’ll meet you for oysters, later.’

The emptiness returned as soon as she lost sight of him, as if her
soul had clambered out of her on that balcony and scurried across the railings
too.

Downstairs Sarah was busy polishing the banisters. The servant girl
didn’t look up or move out of the way for her when she passed by.

‘I’m afraid that the room at the top is rather a mess. Some wine got
spilt... across the wall. Could you change the bedclothes as well? As soon as
possible.’

The girl gave her a cold little sideways glance. ‘Yes ma’am I’ll get
onto it.’

‘Is Mrs Landricam in the kitchen? I rather fancy oysters tonight.’

‘Mrs Landricam has left your employment ma’am.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘She didn’t feel quite right working here anymore. She always got on
with Mr Eden so...’

‘How utterly ridiculous. Wretch of a woman! Well get someone else in.
We... I must eat oysters tonight, lots of them.’

‘Shall I arrange that before or after I clean the room upstairs?

‘I couldn’t care less.’

A number of letters were waiting for her on her desk. They were
mainly bills, some for hats and dresses she’d never even worn. The last was a
letter from Alfonso.

Darling Lucinda,

After our last meeting I thought it best to write rather than visit.
We didn’t part on the best of terms did we my sweet cherub? I hope you are well
and getting some of this fine air; I often look out for you in the park.

Undoubtedly you will be pleased to
learn that I have parted with young Betsey. Although I am well aware of your
menacing thoughts about the child, she was really a rather sweet girl who had
little use of an old man like me.

You are probably going to think that
this is a begging letter; one that implores your forgiveness and the hope of
reconciliation. And it is exactly that, in part. I do miss you my wife, and if
for now I can live with even the faintest hope of coming back to you, then that
is good enough for me.

But this letter has another purpose,
the nature of which, however hard I try, I find impossible to phrase in a
pretty way. When we last met you talked of an affair with the man from next
door, this Tristan Whitestone. Lucinda, you know that although I have behaved
brutally towards you of late, and am an ass for doing so, I still have your
best interests at heart in my funny crooked way.

Since hearing that man’s name from
your lips I have made a few enquiries my dear. It seems he has some untoward
habits; he is rather well known in one or two establishments in Soho. This in
itself doesn’t trouble me, it is a world we know rather too well ourselves
after all.

One story has however ‘awakened my
senses,’ shall we say. I can’t really make head nor tail of it; it exists in a
sort of rumour which circulates about the man. It first came to me by way of a
girl at the theatre, Adelaide. Her sister worked out in India as a governess. It
seems that there was some controversy out there to do with Mr Whitestone;
something involving a woman, but not quite your run-of-the-mill affair. The
woman got ill, I’m not sure how or in what way, but it prompted the involvement
of the police and Mr Whitestone had to make a hasty departure.

I would have ignored the story if it
hadn’t been repeated by some military men I came across two nights ago. They
were rather
better for drink, home after a long
spell in India. I threw Whitestone’s name into the conversation and to my
surprise it seemed to have a rather sobering influence on the gentlemen. They
were loath to speak at first but after some encouragement soon blackened the
man’s name in language which made even me, old Alfonso, turn pink with
embarrassment. The police were mentioned again but this time a love child also
entered the story. I couldn’t get much more out of them, but it was enough to
send me home to my lonely quarters for the rest of the night, my mind reeling
with worry for my dear Lucinda.

I have no doubt that your anger at my
audacity regarding this matter will be immense. I envisage you now tearing this
letter to pieces and flinging it into the fire – yes, I know you so well! And
why on earth should you trust my word over his after all that I’ve done? Of
course, I am well aware of that too. But I couldn’t let this lie. I know how
damaged you are and now I wish only for your happiness.

Your husband

Alfonso

The letter floated
down to the floor.

What a clever man Alfonso was: to attempt to shatter her world with
a piece of paper and then rob her of the pleasure of ripping it up afterwards.

She regarded herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. ‘Now,
you’re going to have a lovely long bath and then a nice walk in the sunshine,’
she told her reflection. ‘Sarah! Run me a bath!’

But when it came to lowering her body into the steaming tub, the
sensation made the bile lurch up inside her. And when she lay back the water
seemed to press down on her with its hot weight, her lungs struggling for space
to move. She raised her arms and watched a network of rivulets trickle down her
skin. It was sweat, not water. She could even brush it off with the side of her
hand.

Her heart was beating far too fast. She began to sweat even more and
then it felt as if all that wine she’d put inside herself over the past week
was now seeping out of her skin: a film of crimson over her entire body,
dispersing in the bath water and turning it pink.

She could see the newspaper headline already: ‘Whitestone strikes
again!’

‘Look it’s just wine,’ she mouthed. ‘I’ve been drunk for a week you
see, it’s JUST wine!’

She pounced out of the water. Who in their right mind sat in a
sweltering pool of their own dirt on a day like this anyway?

The light blue dress felt just right. It had a yellow band around
the waist which drew her in and made her feel slim and elegant and she had a
straw hat which went rather well with it.

Out on the street she admired the image of herself as it shimmered
across the windows of the houses. A young man walked by and tipped his hat at
her. She beamed at him and he beamed back with surprised eyes.

She weaved in and out of the streets without a thought for where she
was going, the sunlight filtering down through the holes in her straw hat.

Suddenly she was back at Druid Manor again, holding her father’s
hand and wading waist-high through a cornfield; minute mice flying from the
terror of their tread. And then she was running across the pristine lawn
towards her mother and brother, gripping onto the hat that she’d stolen from
the trunk in the attic.

‘What have you got on your head?’

Her mother’s voice. She peeped up at the dappled rays poking through
the brim and felt her fists dig into the alcoves above her hips.

‘It was in the attic. Daddy says I look marvellous in it!’

The memory fell away and she came to a halt at the edge of a
bustling road. Sweat was trickling down her spine but she couldn’t strain her
neck far enough to see if it had made a mark on her lovely dress.

Her head felt strange, like an empty bobbing cloud and when she
faced forwards again the street seemed to undulate before her. There was a lamp-post
nearby. She fell over her feet to get to it and gripped on as the pavement
quivered beneath her.

Her insides turned to acid and she tried to swallow the bile back
down. No... no, she couldn’t ask Tristan about India. Definitely not.

‘Can I help you?’

It was a man’s voice. A carriage had stopped near her and from its
door she glimpsed thin fingers on an outstretched hand. She fell towards it and
it caught her, strong like wire.

When she woke up she could see a door with 36 on it through a
carriage window and then Sarah was helping her inside. Her feet felt muffled,
as if the nerves had been extracted from them with silver tweezers. She could
taste chalk in her mouth. The front door was closing behind her but she turned
to catch a glimpse of the edge of a purple cloak whisking itself into the
carriage.

‘Oh God it’s you!’ she screamed. Her voice felt hollow, it scratched
against her throat and hot tears stung her eyes. She ran up and up through the
house but behind her she could feel her father’s presence, sad and groaning.

‘Lead a pure life Lucinda. I’ve never touched a drink and neither
will you. You’re my little lass, aren’t you?’

The door slammed his voice away. Face down on the bed she breathed
in the beautiful silence.

The minutes and hours glided past with the changing hue of the sky. Her
stomach grumbled hungrily. Perhaps she’d ask Tristan a question or two later,
about India.

She blinked and in an instant the light seemed to have changed. There
were a few clouds now outside, frilled about the edges with pale pink.

But hadn’t they promised not to ask each other questions about their
past? Although a promise meant nothing really. He would forgive her. She’d ask
him as soon as he came in and then they’d make love and drink wine and eat
oysters all night.

It was almost dark when she heard the click of his door. A moment
later he was in her room, a silhouette against the starless sky. She couldn’t
see his face.

He crept closer, a brooding shadow and she could feel every part of
herself open up, reach out and drink him in.

‘Come to bed,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t ever leave me again.’

‘I’ve brought you something, taste it.’

There was a clink of glass and then a single droplet of something
sharp but warm landed on her tongue. It made her mouth feel all hollow and as
soft as feathers. And then she felt her eyes closing, as if she were being
beckoned into a beautiful dream. A hand reached down to her through rainbow
colours, and she took it.

Serena’s Story

For the next few days I saw little of anyone in the house apart from
Beth and Gladys. Beth and I made the most of the warm weather by spending much
of our time in the park. Our base was Beth’s favourite spot under the large
shady tree we’d found on our first day together and we came bearing blankets,
books and fat sandwiches prepared by Gladys.

Beth loved to lounge: stretching her small body out like a cat on
the warm blanket. She listened intently to the stories I read her, watched me
draw and played simple card games with me like pairs and snap. It was only when
I tried to coax her to the playground that she began to frown; curling her
small nose up into a tight button mushroom.

‘It’s too noisy over there.’

‘But you can meet other children in the playground. Don’t you want
to play?’

‘Not really. They don’t like the same things as me.’

On the route between the park and Marguerite Avenue there was a
nursery that sold bedding plants and water fountains and trees pruned into
lollipops. I took Beth there to look for some small plants for my balcony. She
skipped about over hoses and puddles whilst I made my choices: two dwarf rose
trees and a lavender plant. And I bought a small bag of soil and three glazed
pots to plant them in as well.

We heaved it all home and up to my room, squinting in the gloom
after the brightness of outdoors. The house was quiet: the doors all closed and
the atmosphere as still as a locked church. However, as we clambered noisily
upstairs I got the unnerving sensation in my bones that we had a distinct audience;
that they were all there, listening softly.

Arabella was definitely in. I could smell patchouli lingering in the
air outside her office. Perhaps if we’d passed by a few seconds earlier we
would have caught a glimpse of the edge of a scarf or her ash blonde hair
disappearing around the door. And although the air felt so still, I began to
hear the creak of a violin somewhere in a distant room.

I could almost feel their heat in the walls. And perhaps Seb was
somewhere in there too. My fingers itched to test the door handles. I hadn’t
seen him since my first night, a whole three and a half days ago. I tried to
squeeze the thought of him away and yet at the same time I looked out for him
in every corridor and at each new turning in the stairs.

Up on my balcony Beth and I removed the plants from their old
plastic pots.

‘You’ll do lots of nice things like this when you start school in
September,’ I told her.

‘I don’t think I’m going to go to school.’

She was inspecting some grains of black soil that had got between
her fingers. It had smeared across her cheeks as well, transforming her into a
wiry little chimney sweep.

‘What do you mean you’re not going to go to school?’

‘They don’t think it’s right for me.’

I lowered one of the lavender plants into its new pot and snapped
off a stem.

‘Here, smell this lavender.’

‘Yuk, I don’t like it!’ She pushed my hand away. ‘Smells like old
people.’

‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s rude.’

But she only looked confused.

‘Hhm, this is why I think you probably should go to school. Sometimes
you just can’t say whatever comes into your head; it might upset people. School
teaches you things like that; how to mix with the world around you, as well as
reading and writing and history...’

‘But you can teach me all those things can’t you?’ she interrupted
with imploring eyes. ‘Grandma said you were clever and she got you here to
teach me things like that so that I didn’t have to go to school.’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes, of course.’

She smiled up at me but it was some moments before I could even try
to force a smile back.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked. She was watching me intently now, the
skin between her eyes all wrinkled up. I tried to shake off her words and stuck
my tongue out at her as an answer, sending her into fits of giggles. It was
nice to hear her laugh, she didn’t do it very much but when she did it was
infectious.

We pushed the finished pots up against the railings. They made the
balcony look rustic and homely.

‘Pretty as a picture, eh?’ I said, patting her on the head. ‘I know
what, why don’t we take a trip to Kew Gardens? They’ve got all sorts of
wonderful plants there and great big glasshouses and lots of shady trees to sit
under.’

A beam of light crossed the girl’s face, instantly followed by a
shadow.

‘I’d like to but is it far away?’

‘Um, not that far. We’d have to sit on a train for a bit to get
there.’

‘I better not then.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d probably get one of my headaches.’

By the time I managed to get all the soil off her, Beth’s dinner was
already waiting on the kitchen table: eggs benedict with hollandaise sauce in a
china jug at the side.

‘Tea?’ asked Gladys.

‘Yes please.’

I’d given up trying to make it myself.

‘Do you know where that old fortress is?’ Beth asked between
mouthfuls.

Gladys cocked her head to one side, the teapot in mid-air. ‘In the
chest in the drawing room I think.’

‘Great! Let’s build it!’

‘After you’ve finished,’ I said.

She gobbled her meal up so fast that it gave her hiccups. ‘...
you’ll love it...
hup
... it’s got gates...
hup
... and two armies
and canons...
hup
.’

The drawing room was full of evening light when we came in search of
the fortress.

‘It was Seb’s you know. He played with it when he was a little boy
and they were going to throw it away but he gave it to me instead.’

I tried to cast a subtle eye across the sofas, empty this time.

‘Here it is!’ she squealed. ‘Be careful though, it’s heavy.’

It was. I heaved the old toy castle across the floor, my hair
hanging hotly over my face until I came to a sudden bump against something
behind me.

‘Hello, how are you?’

I spun round to find Seb standing there looking highly amused. His
shirt was crumpled, his skin blonde in the warm light.

‘Have you settled in alright?’

‘Yes, thank you. We’ve been going to the park a lot. I haven’t...
seen you...’

‘And now we’re going to play with the fortress!’ interjected Beth,
glowering up at us with her hands on her hips.

Seb’s mouth twitched and suddenly he was on the floor beside her,
limbs everywhere, clutching a fistful of soldiers. I drank in his long lithe
body, his mop of dishevelled hair that my fingers ached to touch.

‘You are still coming tomorrow, to Raphael’s party, aren’t you?’ he
asked with a sideways flicker of his eyes.

‘Yes, of course. What time?’

‘I don’t know, eightish? Now men! Tear down those battlements!’

He launched his figurines at the fort, Beth fighting back by hitting
each one over the head with a canon. One of his soldiers came hurtling towards
me and I retaliated by neatly dropping the castle drawbridge on his hand.

‘Ahh! Girls don’t play fair!’

Seb rolled over on his back in defeat and Beth jumped on top of him
in a frenzy of giggles. As I laughed at the two of them my eyes landed on a
figure watching us from the doorway. It was Arabella. She was holding a glass
of wine and looked as if she’d paused there on her way to somewhere else. I
tried to pretend I hadn’t seen her, but I could feel her gaze like prickles and
I watched her leave from the corner of my eye, stiff and straight-backed.

‘Come on, let’s clear up,’ I muttered. ‘Five minutes till bedtime
Beth.’

Are you sending me away?

The words crossed through me like a shadow, although no one had
spoken them out loud. Beth was gathering bits of the fortress up into her skirt
and Seb was trying to mend a wounded soldier. I felt beads of sweat on my
forehead; it was too hot in the room, the light had become as dense as amber.

Seb tossed the fixed soldier back into the fortress. ‘I’ll leave you
to it then ladies, before I get even more battered. Oh... and I’ll come and
knock for you tomorrow night when the party kicks off if you like,’ he added.

‘Thank you.’

A little hand tugged at my sleeve and Beth’s face smiled up at me,
as pointed as an imp’s.

‘We won the battle!’ she cooed.

‘We’ve got some nice leftover beef tonight. I cooked it ’specially
for Raphael.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know he’d already arrived.’

Gladys hurriedly laid out the plates. ‘He got in a couple of hours
ago.’

I felt my stomach gurgle. The air had finally cooled down enough for
me to want to eat again.

‘What is it that Raphael does exactly? Beth said he was an artist...’

Gladys screwed her nose up.

‘That boy turned down a place at Cambridge to paint those horrible
dark pictures.’

‘What pictures?’

‘Haven’t you noticed them around the house? You’ll find them soon
enough.’

‘Really?’

Gladys’s disapproval was so intriguing that I was tempted to jump up
and search for Raphael’s paintings then and there. But my gurgling stomach had
to come first, particularly when Gladys’s sumptuous food was involved.

We chewed contentedly, the kitchen so quiet that it was impossible
to guess who else was in the house. Its big old table and flagstone floor were
beginning to hold a familiar comfort for me and after nearly a week I felt as
if I was falling into step with Gladys’s quiet company. But there was one
tricky issue that I really did need to raise.

‘Um, do you know how I could get a little time to chat to Arabella,
on her own?’

Gladys’s eyes briefly crossed my face but her expression gave
nothing away.

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No, not at all. I just wanted to speak to her a bit about Beth and
her headaches. And school...’

Gladys stuck a large forkful of food in her mouth and chewed it
rather vehemently.

‘I’ll find out when it’s convenient for Mrs Hartreve to see you,’
she said finally, putting her knife and fork precisely together as if to mark
not only the end of our meal but also the end of the subject.

‘Thank you... Can I help with the washing up?’

After being shooed out of the kitchen I made my way as quietly as I
could towards the front of the house. A mirror caught my reflection as I moved
by, as sudden and fleeting as a passing ghost. The door to the drawing room was
firmly closed now and I heard muffled voices behind it.

The library door across the hallway was wide open and I felt myself
lured towards the soft glow of the room. Inside it was just light enough to get
a reasonable impression of what hung on its walls, but almost every inch of
space was crammed with paintings, photographs, framed certificates and all
manner of artefacts. I picked a random spot and began to move round.

‘Dark pictures... horrible dark pictures,’ I murmured under my
breath.

There was a sharp knock on the front door and I found myself
freezing, as if scared of being caught in the act of doing something wrong. The
drawing room door swept open and the tap of smooth leather soles moved across
the hallway tiles to the front of the house.

‘Evening,’ came a voice from the street. ‘Now I’ve got lovely
dusters here, shoe polish, rubber gloves...’

‘No thank you. Move on please.’

Edward’s voice.

‘I’m just trying to set myself up sir. If you look at these cloths.’

‘I asked you to move on young man. Didn’t you understand me?’

‘I’m only doing my job!’

‘Well perhaps you should go and find yourself a proper job.’

A second of incredulous silence.

‘Fuck off you posh git.’

The door closed and the leather soles started to tap back again. But
as I let out a long breath they paused, almost as if Edward had heard me. I
felt butterflies; surely it was alright to be in there? Wasn’t it? The shoes
seemed to scuff indecisively for a moment or two and then, quite suddenly,
turned their pace directly towards the library. I stepped forward in readiness
but before I even had the chance to say something a long arm plunged into the
room, grasped the doorknob and slammed the door shut leaving me inside.

As the shoes moved away again I cupped my hands over my mouth and
laughed into them, although my heart was still beating fast. And then something
that I hadn’t seen before caught my eye: an imposing gilt framed painting of
something very dark, so close to the door frame that the door must have masked
it entirely when it had been open. I drew closer to it, waiting for the image
on the canvas to emerge, but no, even up close the painting seemed to be
entirely black. In the bottom right-hand corner two letters entwined themselves
together in pale grey paint: RH. So this was one of Raphael’s creations.