The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,14

Dorothy Parker in a bathroom, their photographs sitting above the loo. Alba guesses the poet came to the house in 1955 while studying at Newnham College, just before she met and married Ted Hughes. Given that hers was an unhappy ending, Plath must have been one of the tragic residents Peggy mentioned. Alba hasn’t managed to find the courage yet to strike up a conversation with any of them, though she’s working on it.

Now, munching toast, Alba glances at the book, turns the page and slips inside the cocoon of words. She could quite happily spend the remaining eighty-three days at Hope Street without engaging in real life at all, hiding the shards of her shattered heart. She isn’t yet worried about what she’s going to do after she has to leave—August feels so far away—but knows she should start thinking about it soon.

Before she’s finished reading the page Alba sees the rich scent of roasting coffee circling around her. She glances at the stove, upon which sits a pot of coffee and, on the counter next to it, Stella: the reason Alba’s favorite reading place is now the kitchen.

“I thought you might be in the mood for a little caffeine,” Stella says.

“Thank you, I am.” Alba stands, walks to the stove and lifts the whistling coffee pot off the gas. “Do you want one?”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.” Alba smiles and spoons a considerable amount of sugar into her cup. She feels the pinch in her cheeks, an unfamiliar sensation, and realizes it’s the closest she’s come to laughing in quite some time.

“Now you’re just tormenting me,” Stella says, gazing at the sugar.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot about your sweet tooth,” Alba says. “So, how about ginger biscuits? Any of those floating around?”

“Oh, ha, ha.” Stella raises her eyebrows. “You are so cruel, and so unfunny.” In truth, she doesn’t mind not eating at all, hasn’t cared a fig for food since she died. But Stella loves to see Alba smile.

Alba turns back to the table to see—a plate of ginger biscuits. She picks one off the plate, dunks it in her coffee and bites off the soggy half. Since she first tried the biscuits three days ago, they went straight to the top of the very short list of foods she actually likes to eat.

“Best biscuits I’ve ever had.” Alba takes another bite. “Promise me, if you ever decide to disappear, you’ll leave me the recipe. Not that I’ll ever make them, of course.”

“There’s as much chance of me leaving this kitchen,” Stella says, “as you putting down a book.”

Alba picks up another biscuit. She’s not sure whether it’s the caffeine, the sugar or Stella, but in the last few minutes her spirits have lifted considerably. “I don’t understand why you can’t leave.”

“You and me both,” Stella says, “though it doesn’t matter now I have you to keep me company, to come and bother me for biscuits. I’m a ghost, I’ve got nothing better to do. But do you really want to spend your life like this, as if you’re locked in a library?”

“Of course.” Alba grins. “I can’t think of anything better.”

“Then you have a more limited imagination than I thought.” Stella smiles.

Stuck for a retort, Alba returns to her book. She wants to know everything about Stella. How she lived, how she died, if she sleeps or dreams, how she can walk through things yet sit on them as well. Scientifically speaking, it doesn’t make much sense. But then there’s nothing very scientific about spirits.

“What’s that you’re reading now?”

Alba shrugs, embarrassed. She shouldn’t still be reading Dr. Skinner’s book. She should burn the book, scatter the ashes under the midnight glory and let the soil erase her memories. Perhaps that’s how the residents at Hope Street deal with their secrets.

“Tell me what happened.” Stella hops off the counter. Her dress puffs out above her feet but they don’t make a sound as she lands on the floor.

Alba looks at Stella and, for a moment, considers telling her everything. Then the kitchen door swings open and Carmen strides in, wearing a short red skirt and a blue T-shirt that clings to her breasts. Stella evaporates and Alba frowns at Carmen, annoyed.

Oblivious, Carmen smiles at her. “Good morning,” she trills, reaching into the fridge, removing a half-eaten chocolate bar off the top shelf and snapping off a chunk. “I wish I do not love sweets so much, but I can’t help it. When I not have a man to kiss I must