The Room Beyond (2 page)

‘But what if you were blind?’

There was no tinkling laughter now, and those luscious lips of hers
had become rather thin and drawn. The heat of the day suddenly flooded back
over me and a trickle of sweat slithered down between my shoulder blades.

‘Then I’d probably be too angry with God to believe in him anyway.’

She smiled. ‘Are you always so straightforward Serena?’

There was a sharp tap on the door.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute!’ she called out. ‘You’ll find coffee
in the drawing room!’

The sound of footsteps retreated down the corridor. I’d never even
heard their approach.

‘One of my academics,’ she beamed. ‘Now, these nanny agencies with
all their forms and questions and whatnot. As I said I really don’t have time
for such trivia. We come from an old family and we have our own ways as I’m
sure you understand.’

I nodded, slowly.

‘Beth is a special little girl and as a family we won’t be dictated
to. All we’re looking for is an agreeable companion for her with a wise and
sensible head on their shoulders.’

‘OK.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh, I am in rather a hurry now. Such a
busy, hectic life I lead! So, when would you like to start?’

My jaw must have fallen open and then the words just seemed to trip
out on their own. ‘As soon as you like.’

‘Shall we say Monday week?’

‘Yes, that’s perfect.’

‘I think I’ll let some of that splendid sunlight into the room now,’
she cried, throwing open one of the shutters.

I could see now that the room looked down over the wall at the end
of the road, just where I’d been standing and sweating anxiously only a short
time ago. From this angle you could see deep into the climbing rose. It was
covered in swarms of pink buds; perfumed presents waiting to explode.

‘I hope you’ll be happy living with us.’

‘I’m sure I will, you have such a wonderful home. I was so disappointed
when I thought I’d got the wrong road.’

‘The wrong road?’

‘Yes, when I saw that number 32 was the second from last house on
the road. I just assumed for a moment that 36 didn’t exist...’

‘Oh that. It’s a long story, silly really. There was a mix up when
the houses were first built. Now, did you have a coat or something?’

She was striding over to the door.

‘No, nothing. Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you. Your husband asked me
to let you know that the Portuguese Ambassador is coming for drinks tonight.’

Arabella came to a sudden halt and whipped her face towards me.

‘Tonight? That’s absolutely out of the question! Edward knows that I
always have a migraine on Thursday evenings.’

‘But, it’s Wednesday.’

‘Really? Oh yes, of course. I shall look forward to seeing him again
then.’

Back outside I peeled off my jacket and let my body slowly deflate. I
felt myself smiling; it was like that feeling of euphoria at the end of a
successful first date. I began to hobble away on my blisters, but after leaving
36 behind me I couldn’t help but pause outside number 32 next door. Why had
Edward and Arabella Hartreve both fed me different stories about the missing
number? And neither of them had really seemed to want to talk about it either.

I peered over to the other side of the road, but there was no
similar discrepancy in the numbering: 33 and 35 were very much there, although
the style of the houses on that side was slightly different, upsetting the
symmetry of the road. No, for some reason number 34 had definitely been left
out.

I limped along a little further down the road and dug out my phone.

‘Serena?’ came Jessica’s familiar low voice at the end of the line.

‘Yes it’s me. And I got the job.’

‘Congratulations! Are you going to take it? I know you didn’t really
see yourself as a nanny.’

The topiary hedges and chandeliered ceilings glided past me along
the road.

‘Yes, but I think it’ll do. Might be slumming it a bit though...’

‘Oh really? In Kensington? Now that does surprise me.’

‘No, I’m only joking. It almost feels like a filmset here; loads of
stuff to get my creative juices flowing.’

And it was true. I could actually feel my fingers twitching for the
touch of a pencil, my heart beating with the urgency to get it all down on
paper whilst the image was still fresh: the doorway with its stucco details,
Arabella Hartreve’s faultless skin, the snake-like curve of the banister.

‘You know what, I think I might do a bit of sketching in the park
before I get the train back. You haven’t planned anything have you?’

She chuckled softly down the phone. ‘No no darling, you take your
time. I haven’t heard you sound so jolly in ages. I’m glad you’ve found some
new inspiration.’

Back at the beginning of the road again I turned for a final look at
the place that was going to be my new home. The rose covered wall at the end
had shrunk to the size of a postcard and the houses that framed it seemed to
heave with history and grandeur. I could barely blink.

A montage of all the crummy bedsits and flat-shares I’d lived in
over the years flashed through my mind; one place so small that it had been
easy enough to make a reasonable meal from the comfort of my own bed.

‘Convenient though,’ Jessica had said on her visit and we’d both
hugged our sides with laughter.

A black car with darkened windows edged round me and purred down the
road. Could that be the Portuguese Ambassador arriving early? I would draw him
thin and sleek with a little black moustache, perhaps kissing Arabella’s long
fingers whilst she twisted a scarf about with her other hand.

‘Come up to my room and tell me about your childhood,’ she’d whisper
through confiding lips.

Just the idea of it sent little cooling thrills up my spine.

Marguerite Avenue. That’s what it was called. I paused at the
signpost and tried to stop myself from touching it. Even the name felt like
poetry. Closing my eyes I drew in a deep breath of freshly cut grass and
honeysuckle. Yes, Marguerite Avenue was already in my bones.

1892

Miranda skirted around the corner and walked the length of the road
with brisk strides. The new rose was settling in nicely, already spurting out
fresh green shoots across that eyesore of a wall at the end. She let her front
door float past her for a closer inspection. Yes, masses of new tendrils
gripping at those dusty bricks and some tiny pink buds.

Her eyes swept across number 36, the last house in the road, and in
an upstairs window the silhouette of a woman flinched away. It was enough to
take the warmth out of the air for a moment. She hurried back past her
neighbour’s door, snatching a glance at its chipped yellow paint. Jane would be
getting fractious.

‘Hello there. I think I just caught Mrs Eden staring at me through
an upstairs window.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. Is everything alright dear?’

Tristan seemed to be hovering half in, half out of the library and
he had something of the startled rabbit expression about him. Her eyes slipped
down his arm and found a large glass of brandy cupped in his hand.

‘Of course it is. It was just rather hot in the office, that’s all. Thought
I’d make an early afternoon of it.’

A ray of sunlight caught at his blue eyes, made him seem years
younger than he was for a moment, like a handsome cheeky boy.

‘That sounds like a good idea. Perhaps we could do something. I’ve
just been to the park and it’s...’

‘I have to go out again soon, something at the club,’ and his lips
tugged themselves up at the corners into an uncomfortable smile, filling his
cheekbones with shadows. ‘I won’t be back for dinner. Another time, maybe. Sorry.’

Jane was sitting in her usual place in the drawing room with a cup
of tea perched in her hand.

‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, I met the Jamesons in the park; I’ve invited them to dinner
tomorrow night along with Reverend Farthing.’

‘How dull.’

Miranda tried to smile patiently at her sister. The sunshine was
still running through her veins.

‘You know I think I just spotted our neighbour Mrs Eden staring at
me through her window.’

Jane sipped her tea and nibbled at a crumbly biscuit which began to
disintegrate in her lap.

‘Why not invite her around as well?’ she said with a sudden playful
smirk.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, she’s far too scandalous for our lot!’

‘I think it sounds like fun; might stir things up a bit. This Eden
woman intrigues me. It’s astonishing that in the three weeks since I’ve been
here she hasn’t called or passed me by in the road once.’

‘Well that’s not surprising, Marguerite Avenue is a dead end after
all. And anyway, I don’t think she really leaves the house after... after what
happened.’

The muscles in Miranda’s neck were starting to grind together again,
all that freshness suddenly draining away. And when her neck hurt it always
made her want to hunch up, which gave Jane yet another thing to complain about.

‘Sit up!’ she always barked. ‘You look as if you’re hugging
something secretive to yourself.’

She tried to force her chest up and out but the sensation of her
spine crushing in on itself actually made her wince. Outside on the hot road a
small gust of wind played games with the dust. Silly mistake to have invited
the Jamesons. Jane found them dull and goodness knows what Tristan would have
to say about it. It must have been the sunshine that had made her so flippant. She
could already picture Tristan, pulling faces across the dining table at her and
Jane being deliberately caustic.

She felt her shoulders collapse into a hunch.

‘Sit up! You look ..’

‘Yes, I know I know! Very well then, I’ll ask Mrs Eden to come too. As
you said, she might stir things up...’

‘Oh good. I’ve heard so much about the woman it would be a shame not
to be able to return home without a story or two to tell about her.’

‘How could you even think about gossiping about our neighbour like
that? The poor woman’s been jilted by her husband.’

‘Poor woman? They’re theatre people, you loathe her!’ Jane cried.

‘Music hall people to be precise and anyway that’s too strong. I
have never
loathed
anyone in my life.’ And yet she could still feel a
deep flush of red guilt rising up her neck. ‘I’ve been wrong to avoid her, I
know that. It’s just that something keeps stopping me; perhaps it’s all the
rubbish in the gossip columns.’

Jane eyed her up and down, her shrivelled lips defiant. ‘I doubt
whether it’s that,’ she murmured. ‘She’s hit a raw nerve with you, somewhere
along the way. Now, I must get on. Can’t sit around drinking tea all day. I’m
dining out tonight so don’t concern yourself about feeding me.’

When her sister had gone Miranda drew her knees up tightly against
her chest. Outside thunder clouds had moved in, tinged blue and black like
bruises punched into the sky. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as a
long shadow fell across the room. Soon it would probably rain.

As everyone was out she spent the afternoon writing letters, which
included an invitation to Mrs Eden, and making several aborted attempts to
grapple with the garden between hot, sticky showers. The jasmine she’d planted
by the dining room window was beginning to bloom; she loved its sweet scent,
even if Tristan found it too sickly. And the rain brought the perfume out even
more. She rubbed some of the flowers against the dip at the base of her neck.

She sat alone at the dining table for supper, but although the chops
smelt delicious enough when Mrs Hubbard brought them through, the thought of
actually eating them made her throat want to cave in. She hacked the meat off
the bones and ferreted it away in her napkin to avoid comments.

At about midnight a slamming door shocked her out of sleep. Footsteps
clattered across the hallway downstairs. Tristan, home at last, probably
heading to the dining room for a smoke before bed. She threw a shawl around her
shoulders.

The dimmed lights in the hallway filled the air with an amber glow. She’d
learned how to move almost noiselessly through the house now, with only her
shadow anticipating her approach. Downstairs something small and white was
lying on the floor near the front door: a crumpled piece of paper. Tristan must
have unknowingly stepped on it on his way in. It seemed to be a note, written
in a scrawled, impatient hand on what looked like a page torn out from a
magazine.

To dear Mrs Whitestone at number 34. I think I’ll probably come
tomorrow although I desperately need some sleep before I see anyone. Lucinda
Eden.

On the other side of the piece of paper was the remains of what must
have been a table of contents:
p.24 French wig making for the stage
, it
read.

The dining room was empty; the chairs uniformly pushed in beneath
the swirling sheen of the long mahogany table. This room had been such a source
of pride to her in the early days, so spacious and tranquil. What marvellous dinner
parties she’d planned for then, with friends and family, little feet running
about perhaps.

From above the mantelpiece the portrait of herself and Tristan
glowered down at her. The painter had captured Tristan’s likeness so well. In
just a matter of minutes he’d teased the oils into such an uncanny replica of
his features. His expression was demure, princely even, his eyes so commanding.

And yet the construction of Miranda’s likeness had consumed
countless hours of humiliation. The painter had attempted to flatter her: to
add a little chin where it failed to exist, to widen the eyes, add plumpness to
the lips. The resulting image was of a woman of some beauty, but with features
that had little relation to her own. She could barely bring herself to look at
it.

Back in the hallway the scent of cigar smoke met her nostrils and
she noticed that one of the drawing room doors was ajar. She stood perfectly
still. The rest of the house was so silent that she could just hear him: his
lips sucking at the sides of the cigar, his mouth drawing in the smoke. His
hair would be tousled now, his eyelids getting a little lazy. She took a step
towards the room, raising her hand softly against the door. Her breathing had
suddenly quickened into short, sharp little gasps. And then her hand fell away,
collapsing limply against her side.

‘No,’ she murmured under her breath and, just as deftly as before,
retreated back upstairs to her bedroom, pulling the blankets tightly up beneath
her chin.

The following day was warm again and quite humid by the evening. Mrs
Hubbard’s joint of beef for the dinner party had filled the house with an oily
aroma that sent Miranda racing about the house opening windows.

The dining table had been set beautifully with the new linen table
cloth she’d bought and their wedding cutlery. She pushed the window open as
wide as it would go and let out a gasp. The jasmine was radiant. Just in the
last few hours it had exploded with even more blooms. She closed her eyes and
hugged her arms around her body, breathing in great lungfuls of its scent.

‘Are you alright? Shall I close the window? Those flowers...’

‘Oh,’ she felt herself start at Tristan’s voice. ‘No, please don’t. It’s
actually rather hot in here, don’t you think?’

He was wearing a new suit that particularly flattered his tall slim
build and his wide shoulders. His eyes were startling in the evening light; so
intensely blue, the exact shade of the Italian sea where they’d spent their
honeymoon. Perhaps she should tell him that, surprise him a little. He couldn’t
have forgotten how in love she’d been with the view from their hotel window.

‘The Jamesons are here, as well as that odious preacher.’

‘Gracious, when did they arrive?’

‘About ten minutes ago I think.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you find me sooner?’ she patted at her hair
with nervous fingers, rushing at top speed towards the door.

‘I thought you would have heard them. I went to take cover in the
kitchen.’

‘Oh you mustn’t be like that. These are our guests after all!’

‘Your guests, Miranda, your guests.’

‘Please do at least try dear.’

He looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘And we do have another guest coming tonight: Mrs Eden from next
door.’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Perhaps she’ll brighten things up
for you a little.’

The three of them were sitting in a neat row on one of the drawing
room sofas.

‘Reverend Farthing, Mr and Mrs Jameson, how lovely to have you here!
Please do excuse my delay; I was needed in the kitchen for some moments. Is
Jane not here yet? She’s been busy packing but I know she’s dying to see you
all.’

Mrs Jameson flashed a demure smile at her. ‘We were just commenting
on how awfully close it is tonight. The air. So close! Weren’t we Reverend?’

‘Close?’ The ancient man blinked slowly like a toad emerging from a
puddle. ‘Yes the air. Storm’s brewing.’

‘Oh dear, shall I open the window a little more then? Ah Jane, there
you are. Have you been busy packing?’

Her sister collapsed rather heavily into a chair. ‘No, I was just
finishing an excellent novel.’

‘How interesting, was it a romance?’ Mrs Jameson asked.

‘No, a murder mystery actually. Quite riveting.’

Mr Jameson made a small grunt. A bead of sweat rolled down the side
of his neck, blotting itself on his shirt collar. ‘Then you have a far stronger
stomach than we do my dear,’ he murmured.

‘There’s no denying its strength,’ said Tristan, ambling into the
room. ‘But will it be able to withstand Mrs Hubbard’s roast beef tonight?’

Jane gulped back a laugh. Why were the two of them always so cruel
about Mrs Hubbard’s cooking? Of all the things in the world which they could
have agreed on, why should this be the only one?

‘Tristan does make fun of our poor wonderful Mrs Hubbard. We’re so
lucky to have her though.’

‘But she has been with you rather a long time,’ said Jane.

‘Two years. She joined us shortly after we moved in. I’m awfully
fond of her.’

‘And yet I’ve warned you about this time and time again, haven’t I?’
There was a sudden spark of fire in Jane’s eye. ‘You will insist on getting
close to staff. She’s done it from childhood; remember how ridiculously
attached you became to the gardener and his wife?’

‘Mr and Mrs Yates? They were very kind actually.’

And they really had been, smiling and trying to include her when no
one else would. He’d grown prize onions as big as her head and Mrs Yates, well
she couldn’t quite recall her face but she’d had the most marvellous arms, like
succulent sausages.

‘And where are they now? Where are they?’ Jane was frowning at her
in a way that brought her eyes startlingly close together. There was so much
rage behind that expression. It made her feel as if she were shrinking in its
shadow, just like something she’d once read in a book about a person shutting
up like a telescope.