The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,3
full of fury, her heart so steeped in sadness, that she can hardly make sense of anything anymore. All Alba knows is that she wants to undo time, run backward through the last seven months, unravel everything and begin again: finish her MPhil, write a groundbreaking thesis, publish papers, until she’s at the forefront of the next generation of great historical minds. And if she can’t achieve that, something truly brilliant, then what’s the point in living at all? Because in her family, being mediocre, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, simply isn’t allowed.
As though Alba had just spoken her thoughts aloud, Peggy smiles sympathetically. “You know, in my long and extensive experience, what we want isn’t always what will make us happiest,” she says. “But we’ll come back to that. First, tell me what brought you to my doorstep. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.” Peggy sits back in her chair, smoothing her patchwork dressing gown across her lap, hugging her mug of hot chocolate to her chest. This is her favorite part. After more than a thousand stories in sixty-one years, she never fails to get excited at the prospect of a new one.
“Well . . .” Alba stalls. “I don’t . . . I mean, I was just walking around town, not going anywhere, and then . . . and then I just found myself here.” Nervous, she scratches the back of her neck, tugging at short spikes of black hair, hoping she doesn’t look as messy as usual, then realizing she probably looks even worse. “I didn’t mean to knock on your door, it just sort of . . . happened.”
“Take a sip of chocolate,” Peggy suggests. “It’ll help to clear your head.”
As the thick liquid slips down her throat and into her belly, Alba starts to feel warm and soft, as if the kitchen has just hugged her. And, after a few minutes she isn’t scared to tell the truth anymore. At least a little bit of the truth. So, where should she begin? History. Love. Trust. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Alba shifts the words around in her head, wondering what to hide and what to reveal.
By the time the last of the hot chocolate has gone, Alba has told Peggy about failing her MPhil and ending her career. She has carefully, deliberately omitted the single most important piece of information, the thing that slots it all together.
“So I can’t stay in college any longer, and I can’t go home,” Alba says, though she stops short of explaining why. “So I was wandering the streets in the middle of the night.”
In the ensuing silence, the spices circle the kitchen, even stronger than before, and although Alba can’t see the smells, she can hear the hum of her mother’s song again in the back of her head. It rocks her like a lullaby.
“You can stay here,” Peggy says, “for ninety-nine nights, until the seventh of August, just before midnight. And then you must go.”
“Sorry?” Alba wonders if the hot chocolate was spiked with rum because she’s suddenly light-headed. “But I couldn’t possibly . . .”
“No rent, no bills. Your room will be your own, to do with as you like.” She smiles, and Alba can almost hear the old woman’s papery skin crinkle. “But take care of the house, and it’ll take care of you.”
“Well, I . . .” A thousand questions crowd Alba’s mind, so she asks the first one that comes to her lips. “But why ninety-nine nights?”
“Ah, yes,” Peggy says. “Well, I think because it’s long enough to help you turn your life around and short enough so you can’t put it off forever.”
“Oh, okay,” Alba says, thinking it’ll be impossible to pick up the pieces of her shattered life in such a tiny amount of time, let alone get it all back on track.
“Oh, it is possible,” Peggy says. “I can promise you that. And you won’t have to do it alone. That’s the whole point of being here. The house will help you. It’s all yours, except for the tower, which is only mine. And you can never go there. That’s my one rule. Do you understand?”
When Alba nods, it’s clear to them both that she’s staying, even though she hasn’t yet said yes. But how can she say no? A secret tower. How deliciously intriguing. It reminds her of another fairy tale. When Alba first saw the house she thought of Rapunzel, then Sleeping Beauty and now Bluebeard. Alba smiles. She loves fairy