The Room Beyond (28 page)

Miranda waded slowly towards her through the grass. Her sister
appeared to be looking in her direction but showed no hint of recognition. Closer
and closer, just yards away now, and still she didn’t even blink or move a
muscle in that resolute face. Walter Balanchine’s words came flooding back to
her:

I see the pain inside you! You try to make it invisible, make
yourself invisible, but I see it there, smouldering away.

‘Hello.’

‘Oh it’s you,’ said Jane, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘I didn’t see
you coming.’

‘Yes I know. Thank you for meeting me here.’

‘Rather more appropriate to have met at the house I think.’

‘Actually no. The house is not the best of places to be in at the
moment. I am trying to sell it. It was disappointing that you were unable to
come to Tristan’s funeral.’

That did it. She had Jane’s full attention now: eyes round, lips
trembling.

‘Did you really expect me to attend the funeral of a lunatic
suicide?’ she spat.

‘He was my husband.’

‘A vile individual.’

‘Yes. But my husband, your sister’s husband, nevertheless. And now
I’ve been left in an awful predicament. I have no money and the house won’t
sell.’

‘What do you mean it
won’t
sell?’

‘It revolts people, turns them away. I really can’t explain it. But
I have a child now to care for as well.’

‘A child! I had no idea.’

‘He’s not mine. Tristan had an affair with our neighbour Mrs Eden. She
bore him a son and when they both died she left him to me. I am responsible for
him now.’

It was almost possible to feel sorry for Jane at that moment. Her
astonishment was such that she actually spluttered and all the taught muscles
in her face suddenly slumped down.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ she gasped.

‘No. Mrs Eden was very badly abused by Tristan. I think you might be
aware of his history in that respect. I helped her escape from him and now that
she’s gone the child needs a mother.’

‘There are other family members.’

‘But he has been left to me!’

Jane’s mouth hung open. She raised her hands as if she were about to
grab her by the shoulders and Miranda felt herself slink back an inch.

‘Please, lower your hands. Please. My sole intention today was to
meet you in an open and honest way. Because we have never really been honest
with each other, have we? I have been punished all my life for a wrong I never
meant to commit. I now find myself with no money, a home that has become
wretched and a child to care for. You are my only relative and although we have
never been friends I am asking you outright whether you have any space in your
heart to help me.’

Jane’s eyes glistened. Could there be tears there or was it just a
ray of sun glinting back at her? Beyond her sister’s shoulder Mrs Hubbard was
approaching, the wheels of the perambulator sluggish in the grass. He was
probably sleeping now, his downy head resting peacefully against his pillow. Happy
sleep. Not like at home.

‘Look. They’re coming now, just behind you, my cook Mrs Hubbard and
the baby. You can hold him if you like. He only seems to cry at home, as if it
hurts him to be there. I think his father...’

‘Be quiet!’ The tears had gone, or perhaps they’d been nothing more
than a passing sunray after all. ‘Of all the things you’ve done over the years!
All the ridiculous behaviour.’

Mrs Hubbard was almost with them now. She was red in the face,
puffed out with all that pushing.

‘Are you telling me that you won’t help?’

‘I... I cannot.’

She bowed her head, eyes cast firmly down.

‘How very sad. And after all these years you still struggle to look
me in the eye.’

‘That’s simply not true!’

‘Yes it is. Goodbye sister; from now on you won’t even need to
ignore me ever again, because I’ll be gone. But I have one thing left to say to
you. Just one last thing. If our roles had been reversed in this life I would
never, NEVER, have treated you in such a heartless despicable way.’

‘But Miranda...’

‘Goodbye.’

Her feet felt surprisingly light as she walked away. Answers, even
the most unwanted ones, were still better than lingering questions. In the
corner of her eye she could see the bent shame in Jane’s curved back.

‘How was your walk?’ she asked, beaming at Mrs Hubbard. ‘Ah, there’s
my boy! Lost in happy sleep. Let me kiss him gently.’

The sound ribboned in and out of her sleep. Her body felt like
rocks; so tired that she doubted whether she’d be able to run from a blazing
fire if she had to. And there he was once more, gliding through her dreams. Walter
Balanchine...

‘Do you feel in any sort of danger?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Promise that you’ll come to me, when the time is right?’

‘But why would I...?’

‘Promise.’

‘I promise.’

The sound came to her again, lulling her out of the tunnel, wishing
her awake... but Walter pulled her back towards him, with those eyes that could
read into her soul. He’d taken the old nightmare away, replaced it with himself.
All was jewel coloured in her sleep now: bright emerald green and amethyst, and
the tinkling of trinkets hanging from a chain.

‘Promise that you’ll come to me, when the time is right?

‘I promise.’

And then that sound yet again; that familiar, painful wail. She drew
her limbs back through the tunnel, heaved the great boulders off her eyelids.

The baby was punching at the air when she got to him: fists red and
hot, his small head streaked with sweat.

‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m sorry my darling. How long have you been crying? I’m
just so tired, you cry so much here...’

In her arms the wail simmered down to a pathetic whimper. He stared
up at her pleadingly, as if he were desperately trying to tell her something
with those watery blue eyes of his.

‘What is it little man? If only, if only you could just tell me!’

Her arms felt bruised with carrying him; her shoulders pounded with
knots and strains. How many hours had it taken to get him off to sleep? Four? Five?
And now awake again, with rings under his eyes and hers.

‘You sleep everywhere except here. You laugh and smile everywhere
except here.’

The first light of day trickled in from between the curtains,
casting spike headed shadows across the floor.

‘I’ll get you some milk now,’ she murmured to him. ‘And perhaps some
water to clean that sweaty head of yours. Just wait for me here, you won’t even
notice that I’ve gone.’

But as soon as his body touched the mattress of the cot again, his
fists curled, his little back arched up and his lungs let loose a cry of double
the previous force.

‘Two minutes,’ she stammered, dashing out of the room and flying
downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Two minutes!’

She raced across the hallway, almost tripping over herself as
something seemed to brush against her. Just a gust of cold air but it made her
shiver. It was so gloomy down here, like wading through a grey cloud. She could
hardly see a thing.

The crying was a distant noise now, even fainter when she got to the
kitchen. The floor was icy against her bare feet and she moved hastily,
preparing his milk and putting it on a tray along with a glass bowl of water to
mop his sweaty head. But then, quite suddenly, the crying stopped. She closed
her eyes and took a deep breath as relief sank in.

The warm water slopped about in the bowl on the way up and as she
walked along the corridor to his room. Hadn’t she left his door wide open? It
was almost closed now, tricky to pull back with the tray in her hands. And he
wasn’t asleep. She could now hear him murmuring in short sharp tremors:

‘Ah... ah... ah.’

She had to balance the tray carefully and then wedge her foot in the
door to open it again. The bowl of water slopped about even more. ‘Ah... ah...
ah.’ The door swung open.

Do you feel in any sort of danger?

Walter’s voice came roaring back through her head again almost
before she saw it, standing there.

‘Ah... ah... ah.’

Motherless. Motherless
.

The shadow hung over his cot, its spine like a long knotted rope. And
on the mattress beneath it a small fist punched at the air.

An explosion roared beneath her. The shadow began to turn, its
spine-rope bending with the grace of a cat. Her eyes fell down to the
splintered tray on the floor, to the bowl of water now smashed into a thousand
shards of broken glass, the bottle of milk rolling to a standstill in a ridge
between the floorboards.

‘Aaaaaaw!’

His mew was like a tortured animal.

‘When will you stop?’ she cried. ‘They’re always quite defenceless,
aren’t they? Your victims.’

The broken glass was barely visible on the floor, as deadly as black
ice.

‘I thought I loved you so very much, once...’

She took one cautious step with her naked foot. A tearing sensation
slithered along the bottom of her heel. She lifted it and something wet dripped
down between her toes. She took another step closer.

‘Aaaaaw!’ came a small strangled wail.

The knotted rope bent double, its head swooping down into the cot.

‘Get out!’ she screamed and the glass crunched beneath her naked
feet as she threw herself forwards. ‘Leave us alone Tristan! Leave us in
peace!’

The spine wavered, his great mouth gaped back at her as she plunged
through the darkness, cold claws scrabbling against her skin. She tasted blood,
her own, and threw her fists back at him.

Promise that you’ll come to me...

All she could hear was Walter’s voice ringing in her ears. She
grasped the child up into her arms, wailing in frenzy against her neck, and at
once the darkness seemed to shrink away: smaller and smaller into nothing but
the brush of scurrying footsteps retreating across the floor. Gone.

She threw a few things into the same bag that she’d taken to Dover.

‘Right. Try not to look at this little man,’ she said.

But the baby watched intently from his position on her bed as she
drew the shards of glass from her feet with tweezers and bound the wounds with
torn strips from an old petticoat. There were deep scratches on her cheeks and
neck as well, she could feel them with her fingertips. But she didn’t dare look
at herself in a mirror, not yet.

‘We’re going now. This blanket should be warm enough for you.’ And
she scooped him up, grasping the bag with her other hand. ‘We’re leaving this
godforsaken place forever.’

The grey gloomy cloud of the downstairs hallway seemed to be
spreading up the stairs. She plunged down through it, the precious bundle
tightly in her grasp. Something soft like fingers strummed across her shoulder
blades.

‘Don’t touch me! I’m not afraid of you Tristan. Do you understand?’
she screamed into the air, hugging the child even closer. A petulant whine rose
up and then fell away behind her.

Her feet were throbbing now. She flung the door open and fell out
into the street, the cold air stinging her face. As Marguerite Avenue flowed
into the distance, each step felt as sharp as knives. The bandages on her feet
began to squelch with blood and yet she found herself smiling all the same and
then actually laughing out loud.

‘I’m free! Look at us little man, we’re free!’ she cried out.

A woman in black was approaching, a basket on her arm and the
outline of a neat bonnet against the white morning sky. Gradually her face came
into focus, peering back at her in criss-crosses of disbelief.

‘Mrs... White... are you quite alright? Why look at your face! What’s
happened to you? And you can barely walk!’

Mrs Hubbard dropped her basket and dashed towards her.

‘It’s alright. I’m so glad you here, I didn’t think I’d see you
again.’

‘I came early to help. Thought you’d have a bad night of it.’

‘And that I did! But it’s over now. We’ve left and we’re never going
back again.’

A soft purring body suddenly pushed itself up against her leg. ‘And
it looks like Minerva’s joining us!’

Mrs Hubbard’s jaw twitched. Her eyes wandered down the road towards
the house and then back to her again.

‘So you’ve finally left,’ she murmured. ‘That place is a scourge of
a house if you ask me...’

‘Not healthy for a young baby.’

‘Not healthy for anyone. Well,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Then I’m
coming with you.’

‘Oh surely not! You have your sons.’

‘They don’t need me. Big grown men. You’re my family now. You and
the young gentleman here. Come on, lean on my arm, that’s it. Slowly slowly.’