The Room Beyond (13 page)

Was this really the same lithe energetic man she’d married? The man
who’d once, only once, held her close to him. On that glorious day she’d pressed
her ear against his heart, listened to all that young blood surging through
him, full of promise and her absolute belief.

‘We’re getting married. Tristan’s proposed!’ she’d proclaimed in
their tatty old parlour and her father’s chest had puffed up with pride. For
the first time in her memory he had tears of happiness, for her, in his eyes.

‘He’s a fine man, your Tristan Whitestone,’ he’d said. ‘A man of
business, a man of the future! You’ve done well.’

‘Am I forgiven then Daddy?’

And he’d smiled warmly and moved his head in a way that was neither
a nod nor a shake but felt comforting nonetheless.

The blood stains went up and up through the house. Gradually they
got fainter until they were barely apparent at all, but she could still spot
them; even the merest fleck glared out at her like a beacon. And then when
they’d disappeared altogether she kept on going, up to the little servant’s
door at the top.

The unlocked door swung open to an empty room. It was a bleak and
chilly cell of a place with bare walls and no furniture at all apart from
Tristan’s desk. A jacket of his had been tossed over the back of the chair. She
buried her face in it, breathing in the scent of his cigars. A neat pile of
papers sat on the otherwise empty desk. The one on the top was untouched,
entirely blank. She turned it over and then the next and the next, but they
were all also quite bare.

Her mouth went dry. She hugged her arms around herself and then her
fingers edged back to the papers. Over and over, one empty page after another. No
work, nothing to show for all that time he spent up here, until the final page
shone up at her. And in the centre of that page a single sentence floated in
the desert of white.

I have warned you before. Keep your snout out of my affairs. TW.

Her body swayed from side to side like a pendulum. She lurched away
from the desk, her shoulder slamming against the balcony door. It didn’t jam
like it used to and she flew out against the railings, gulping like a stranded
fish at the cold air.

It was starting to rain and yet she couldn’t bear to go back in. It
was only when the drops grew heavier, drenching her clothes and her hair, that
she finally turned. But something, a glimmer of white languishing in a puddle
on Mrs Eden’s adjoining balcony, suddenly made her stop. She crouched down and
eased her hand through the iron railings to pick it up: the remains of one of
Tristan’s cigarettes.

The crumpled cigarette floated in a puddle in her palm. It was a
brand she would have recognized anywhere, Tristan’s favourite, with a brown
scalloped pattern across the edge that even the grimy puddle had failed to
eradicate. She crushed the soaking remains of the tobacco between her fingers
and let it drizzle back down to the ground.

Her skirts were so sodden with water that she had to heave them up
to her hips to climb over. The railings felt slimy and she didn’t dare look
down but she was over in seconds, a trespasser suddenly, hovering at the edge
of Mrs Eden’s balcony. Just a mere soggy step more and she’d be able to look in
through the window.

‘Wake up. Lucinda, wake up! Look, look at my head! Have you got
anything for it? You must have something in this filthy fleapit.’

She twisted her neck slowly and tried to focus on the jumble of blue
and red at the side of Tristan’s face.

‘What happened?’

Her tongue felt like a large piece of raw meat in her mouth, not
part of her at all.

‘I’m not sure.’

Outside the sky was grey and billowing. It was raining heavily.

‘I’ve just had the strangest dream,’ she said. ‘A woman was standing
on our balcony looking at us. I think she rose up out of a lake, dripping wet. I
know her face, but I can’t remember, she looked in pain...’

‘Shut up! Do you really think I want to hear this? I’m the one in
pain... go... do something.’

‘Alright, alright. Stop shouting at me you blasted man. Look, I can
barely walk.’

Her legs felt like soft butter when she raised herself. Something
dark and slithery shot out from under the bed and into a heap of dirty linen in
the corner of the room.

‘You know, I think that could quite possibly have been a rat. Where’s
our cat gone?’

‘I got rid of the thing, it was useless. Didn’t catch a single
mouse.’

‘No, probably because the rats got there first. We have to do
something, hire a new maid to sort all this mess out.’

‘Interfering busybodies. Get on with it Lucy, you’re leaving me to
die!’

Her leg brushed against something cold and wet: an overflowing
chamber pot lapping at her shin. There was a bottle of gin on the dresser with
just a little left swilling about at the bottom. She filled her mouth and
pushed the bottle into Tristan’s hand.

‘Here, have the rest of this. Something to start with.’

Beyond the room the house was so murky she could hardly see and she
nearly went flying where the carpet had come loose. More scampering: little
claws everywhere, scratching against wood. She felt like a small girl again,
creeping through her parents’ house in her nightdress.
Mummy I can’t sleep. Can
I sleep with you?
Down, down, so many stairs she no longer knew where she
was. But then there were cold tiles beneath her feet and, yes, her own front
door.

The image of the lady on the balcony came back again. How agonized
she’d looked, and with a face so wet you couldn’t tell if it was water or tears.
She must have fallen in the lake, the one at home, just like when she was a
little girl and her father had plunged his arm in and dragged her out.

Lucinda dragged her eyelids apart. She was now lying on the hallway
floor. The cold tiles stung her through her nightdress and she heaved forward,
the gin from earlier reappearing across the floor in a honeycomb pattern of
bubbles.

She staggered up, tried to open the front door, but it was locked. And
the door frame appeared to be gleaming in some way. Gradually the gleaming
dispersed into a series of gold smears all around the door and then the smears
began to take shape, transforming into... what was it? Padlocks. Thirty, forty
of them maybe, although it made her eyes buzz to count.

Quite the most curious thing she’d ever seen. She heard a faint
giggle, her own, and then the joy drained out of her in an instant. It was
Walter Balanchine, up to no good most probably; hatching some outlandish plan
with her father. Or perhaps Alfonso seeking revenge for not taking him back. Tristan
would be outraged.

She limped into the drawing room, as dark as midnight with the
curtains tightly closed. Behind the heavy fabric were yet more padlocks, and
this time even thick nails in the frames to make sure the windows wouldn’t move
an inch. Tristan must learn about this, immediately.

Back on the stairs her knees groaned as she tried to lift her heavy
feet. And then the memory of Tristan’s poor old head suddenly came back to her.
She knocked her forehead with the palm of her hand. Too much gin. Too much gin
and wine and that other thing that Tristan kept giving her that made her feel
so lovely and sleepy.

She scrambled towards the door with the stained glass panel. No
gleaming Bacchanalian faces now, no light from within to soak through the
coloured glass. This room was the blackest by far. There was frenzied rustling
inside; something brushing against her nightdress.

The shutters swung open easily enough but behind them were yet more
padlocks and nails. The sudden glare of light made her blink. Dust motes hung
uncertainly in the air and the room looked as tired as Alfonso’s face when
she’d last seen him. She steadied herself against the back of a chair and
peered around until her eyes landed on his old bureau. The small box was still
inside it, under a pile of dog-eared newspapers. It was an old tea chest
really, with rather pretty zigzag marquetry.

The next flight of stairs felt as steep and perilous as the face of
a mountain. Soon she was on her hands and knees, struggling to move an inch and
a moment later Tristan was carrying her up into their room.

‘You’ve been gone for hours.’

‘Have I?’

‘What’s in the box?’

‘Oh, something you’ll like. It was Alfonso’s.’

His face seemed pleased by its contents. He removed the bamboo pipe
between two fingers, skillfully lighting and moulding the opium before lying
back to smoke.

‘You’ve done this before.’

His laugh made the joy rush into her again. But something urgent was
tugging at her. ‘Ah! I’ve just remembered what I wanted to tell you. A terrible
thing has happened downstairs my love.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘We’ve been made prisoners. There are padlocks and nails in all the
doors and windows. Who could have done such a thing?’

He inhaled deeply. There were hollow caves in his cheeks and his
eyes were glazed and milky.

‘I did.’

‘You did what?’

‘I locked us in.’

Her mouth opened but no words came out. She felt pain and saw that
there was blood underneath her fingernails. Her palm was bleeding.

‘Why?’ she whispered.

‘It’s for your own good. Look what happened last time when you
ventured out on your own. That servant of your father’s might have kidnapped
you.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘I can’t have you wandering about by yourself. You’re in my
protection now.’

‘I... I haven’t left the house for days.’

‘Months actually.’

‘Oh my God.’

The room began to move around her in soft circles, like a carousel
warming up. She gripped her stomach, it felt swollen. The room got faster and
faster. Padlocks. Nails. And then the ceiling came crashing down towards her. She
gripped the bedclothes, forcing her body down down into the mattress until she
thought she might come out through the other side.

‘No! Help me! Help me please God!’

The ceiling kept falling, fast then slow then fast again but never
quite reaching her.

‘Help me please, please. Alfonso, why did you leave me?’

Tristan’s face was leaning over her, a laughing blur. She lunged out
at it, her knuckles ripping into flesh.

A man’s sobs. Tristan was curled up in a tight little ball on the
bed next to her. He was naked; his skin almost transparent where it stretched
across his ribs.

‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because you hit me.’

His sobbing was like a bubbling stream, as weak as a little boy.

‘Where? Where did I hit you?’

But his face was locked in his arms. He flinched at her touch.

‘You needn’t worry. I won’t hit you again.’

He peeked out at her, a child behind a parent’s legs.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I am your prisoner after all, aren’t I?’

And finally he unravelled his body, easing her softly into his arms,
tucking her head into his neck.

‘Darling Lucy, you are not my prisoner. You are a beloved jewel in a
vile stinking world. My darling, my beautiful Clementine. Let me keep you to
myself.’

‘Who is Clementine? Why did you call me that?’

‘I didn’t my love. You’re hearing things; you must be tired after
all your adventures.’

‘I am tired, but I doubt whether I’ll ever sleep again.’

‘Would you like some of your medicine?’

‘Yes... I think I would.’

She parted her lips and two small droplets slithered down her throat
like smooth pearls, magically cooing with the promise of dreamless sleep.

The next time she woke it was night. Tristan was beside her, sitting
bolt upright in the bed, the moonlight catching at the knotted rope of his
spine. He seemed so vulnerable, like a hunted fox.

‘What troubles you?’ she whispered.

‘Dark thoughts.’

She moulded her body around him. It heaved beneath her, dreadful and
lonely.

‘My poor man, you’ve been hurt.’

He clutched at her wrist and the thrill of his touch sent a shock of
light through her. She gripped her thighs tightly about him, smothered his
shoulders with her hair and her kisses.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he groaned.

‘No. I’ll never leave you.’

‘Thank you. Thank you Clementine.’

Serena’s Story

‘We prefer to keep Beth at home. She has the protection of her
family here.’

‘But it’s only school. Surely that’s a safe enough environment.’

Arabella smiled at me in the way that nurses smile at mental health
patients.

‘Beth is an unusual little girl. Very sensitive and special as I’m
sure you’ve gathered. She finds it hard to make friends with other children and
they don’t particularly warm to her.’

Beyond her shoulder the Bacchanalian revellers were bright with
evening sunshine, the colours almost garish. And from through the open windows
the scent of the climbing rose washed dreamily across my face.

‘I do understand but perhaps we should at least try.’

Arabella threaded a bangle between her fingers, her eyes fixed on
the floor as if in deep consideration.

‘Beth gets headaches,’ she murmured softly.

‘Yes I know.’

‘We find that they can be prevented if we keep her close and
familiar.’

‘I see. Have you taken her to a doctor?’

‘I’ve... spoken to various experts.’

Experts. The word came through shining teeth; the ‘p’ in the middle
not quite spat but as precise as a rattlesnake’s tail. I shrugged lamely, ‘If
there’s anything I can do to help.’

She dissolved into big smiles.

‘How lovely of you to offer. We will be getting all the various
school materials in due course. Simple reading books, and so on. Perhaps if you
could assist her with these?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And I’m so glad that Gladys set up this meeting because I wanted to
ask a favour. What are your plans for Christmas?’

‘Um, I don’t have any right now. I usually spend it with my aunt but
I think she’s quite keen to go away this year.’

‘Fabulous! We always spend Christmas at Druid Manor, the Hartreve
family seat in Wiltshire. You’ve probably heard of it. Edward’s brother, the
current Lord Hartreve, lives there with his family. The place is a mess as they
have no idea how to look after it but it’s a lovely house and I wondered
whether you’d like to join us. Beth is the only child and sometimes gets a
little bored, I’m sure she’d love your company. And it’s also a charming place
to spend Christmas.’

My mouth burned with the one question I wasn’t able to ask: would
Seb be coming too? Christmas in a big old country house with Seb would be just
perfect and if anyone could sneak an invite then he could.

I stole a glance at the photograph of Raphael on the wall. He looked
back at me with bemused interest, like the hero of a silent film.

‘I’d love to come. Thank you for asking me.’

‘Excellent!’

Down through Arabella’s window the climbing rose had totally
consumed the wall at the end of Marguerite Avenue; a cascade of blushing pink
blooms.

‘I think you have the best view from this room, of the rose.’

‘Yes, glorious isn’t it. I see how much you admire all the beautiful
things we have here.’

My neck burned beetroot.

‘Oh I didn’t mean to embarrass you my dear! On the contrary, I’ve
been quite taken by the way you’ve adjusted to us... We wouldn’t want to lose
you.’

‘I’ve no intention of going.’

There was a sudden knock and Robert twisted his head around the door.

‘We have to go. I’m on in two hours and have to get warmed up.’

Arabella shot out of her chair, tossing a pashmina around her
shoulders. ‘Must scoot!’ she cried back at me as they raced downstairs together.

I hovered on the landing, waiting for the sound of their footsteps
to disappear, and then backed away, up to my room. Beth’s bedroom was empty;
she was still out with Raphael. I dashed past it, up the last staircase to the
top, stroking my hair back as I reached the final step.

‘You’re three minutes late.’

Seb was already lounging on my bed, his shirt half unbuttoned.

‘Well I couldn’t exactly excuse myself because I had someone waiting
for me in bed upstairs. She’s my boss; some of us have to work for a living.’

‘How do you know I don’t work for a living?’

‘Do you?’

‘Can’t say I’m afraid. If I told you I’d have to kill you. Is Beth
back?’

I peeled my clothes off.

‘No. Anyway she’s Raphael’s until tomorrow morning.’

‘I love your afternoons off.’

‘So do I. Hey I was thinking, why don’t we try to go away together
somewhere for a couple of days?’

‘What’s wrong with here?’

‘Nothing really, just all the sneaking around I suppose. We could do
what we liked if we went away. What do you think?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh and you know what, Arabella’s asked me to join them at Druid
Manor for Christmas. Do you know it there?’

He didn’t reply and his face went all straight and serious, as if
the usual jokey humour had all at once been sucked right out of it.

‘What’s wrong? Isn’t it nice there?’

‘Oh it’s a lovely old place. Full of happy memories.’

‘Then why don’t you come too! We could sneak along creaky corridors
to each other’s rooms in the night.’

‘I can’t. I... have to spend Christmas with my father.’

‘OK, I’ll tell Arabella I can’t go either and I’ll join you.’

‘No. It’s miserable with him and besides, if you’ve already said yes
to Arabella then you shouldn’t back out. Beth will love having you there.’

I felt myself sink down into the bed like a deflated cushion. Images
I hadn’t even been aware of yet came crashing down around me: the perfect
country Christmas, snowball fights with Seb on the lawn, curling up next to him
by a log fire.

He stuck his lower lip out at my glum face like a toddler and I
couldn’t help but grin back at him.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Why the hell are we talking about Christmas? It’s
summer! I’m in your bedroom, the sun is shining, the air smells of jasmine...’

‘Ahhh, so it is jasmine! I was wondering about that. Smells
wonderful.’

‘I’ll bring you some of the flowers.’

His eyes were astonishing. So blue it felt as if I were being
carried away by their gentle current.

‘I love your eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like yours before. Have I
told you that yet?’

He drew me towards him, tantalisingly close.

‘Many many times. But do you know what I love about you the most?’

‘Oh don’t tell me.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ll get all self-conscious about it.’

‘Well I’m going to tell you anyway.’

‘OK.’

He drew a line with his finger from the curve of my right hip up to
the bottom of my ribcage.

‘It’s this bit of skin here. So smooth and impossibly warm.’

I cringed away. ‘No Seb, you’re joking right?’

‘Why?’

I swallowed. ‘Because that’s where my scar is, silly. I hate the
bloody thing.’

He bent closer and examined the long silky line that cut down
through the right side of my torso.

‘I genuinely hadn’t noticed it until now,’ he murmured.

‘You’re a very good actor.’

I tucked the bed sheet around myself. The scar still made me wince,
even after all these years. I closed my eyes and carefully squeezed the thought
of it away again, compressing it right down to the smallest speck. It was a
process I’d got good at over time; so good I’d nearly forgotten about the
scar’s existence altogether. Nearly. But before I knew it Seb had pulled off
the sheet again and was kissing the old wound with a softness that was almost
painful.

‘Can I tell you something?’ he said. ‘It’s taken me such a long time
to learn this, such a long time, but it’s absolutely true. Sometimes people
just don’t notice things. Their lives don’t stretch out enough to allow
everything in I suppose, particularly the stuff that might upset them. We all
do it; it’s a natural instinct to cringe away from pain or suffering. And
sometimes people begin not to see such things at all. They can stare them in
the face and gaze right through them. It softens life you see. No scars, no
pain. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s alright, better to see me for the nice things. I prefer it
that way.’

‘I love you,’ he said, kissing me warmly on the cheek and then
tilting his head up at me.

‘I love you too. Hey, wait there. Don’t move.’

‘Why?’

‘I have to draw you, just like that.’

‘What? Again?’

In the morning Seb had gone. I had a blurry memory of him leaving
some time during the night, kissing me on the shoulder before disappearing. The
morning sunshine shot spears of light across my ceiling and a feeling of
warmth, like rich golden honey, rose up through my limbs.

I threw on a light summer dress and padded downstairs barefoot, the
soles of my feet relishing the cool wooden floors and bristly carpets along the
way. Robert was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a piece of
toast in his hand. I hadn’t seen much of him since the party but whenever I did
his strange words that night came back to me like a niggling little tick.

He was talking to a man at the kitchen table. I recognized him from
the day of my interview in Arabella’s office. Sasha.

‘Good morning,’ said the man with a bird-like nod of the head. His
Russian accent was deep and round and his body was similarly spherical. In fact
he was so round that I think he could only have rolled himself into the patched
tweed suit that stretched about him. I thought back to the way Eva and Raphael
had spoken about him at the party.

‘Hello,’ I shook his hand. ‘We met briefly once. I’m Beth’s nanny,
Serena.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said, turning straight back to Robert. ‘So when do
you leave?’

‘On the fourth,’ Robert replied. ‘We’ll be performing at two
concerts in Vienna before moving onto Salzburg.’

I sat down quietly at the table, trying not to intrude anymore and
Robert seemed to throw me an apologetic glance.

‘Ah, Vienna! One of my favourite European cities. I lived there once
you know, for two years when I was completing my studies.’ Sasha twitched his
head about and waved his little arms enthusiastically as he spoke.

‘We’re not going anywhere if percussion doesn’t get it right.’

‘Surely they’re not all that bad.’

‘They have no concept of the piece. And just when I think we’ve
turned a corner they play like baboons!’

It was hard not to giggle at an angry Robert, particularly when the
subject of his rage was drum and cymbal players. I grabbed a piece of toast
from the toastrack on the rather mucky looking table and plunged a knife into
some melting butter. Of course, it was Gladys’s day off. That explained why
they were down here, making a mess of her usually spotless kitchen.

Sasha clasped his little hands about his protruding stomach. ‘Well
you must upbraid them then for their failings, over and over again if you have
to.’

‘I do! God, I even trashed their instruments once.’

I spluttered laughter into my toast, fighting back the crumbs as
they battled hard to surge down my windpipe. But Sasha shook his head sombrely,
‘No dear Robert, no. This is not the way to approach the situation. I have seen
this time and time again at the Moscow Conservatory: musicians getting, how
shall I say it, hot under the collar during times of artistic crisis. I have
been brought in on many occasions to deal with such issues, yes silly old Sasha
here...’

‘Pasha!’ came Beth’s voice suddenly, breaking him off mid-speech.

She flew through the doorway and, quite ignoring the rest of us,
climbed straight up into Sasha’s arms. He balanced her on the small space on
his lap that his stomach allowed for his knees and patted her hair contentedly.

‘Ah my little Bee. Look, I have a small present for you in this
little box in my jacket here.’

‘Amethyst crystals; my favourite!’ she squealed. ‘I’ll just put them
in my room. Thank you! Hi Serena.’

Beth squeezed back out of the room past Raphael who was leaning
languidly against the inside of the doorway. He was wearing his customary
black: a T-shirt with faded jeans and there were deep shadows under his eyes.

‘Coffee?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Oh it’s Raphael. What a treat for us all to have you here,’
interjected Sasha with a smile that almost purred. ‘We should all have coffee
together then. In the drawing room.’

The mugs rattled threateningly against the tray as I teetered across
the drawing room floor. Robert and Raphael were standing by the mantelpiece
whilst Sasha appeared to be holding court before them, gesticulating wildly
with his arms as he spoke. Raphael seemed distracted, moody even, staring down
at the carpet and saying nothing.