The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,35
He stopped and frowned. “Alba.”
“Hello, Papa.” Alba quickly sat on her hands and chewed at her lip.
“It would be a shame,” he said at last, “to waste your time believing you have talent for something when you have none. Don’t you agree?”
Alba nodded slowly, her wet eyes glued to his face.
“The world is filled with fools. You wouldn’t want to be another one, would you?”
Alba shook her head.
“Good.” And with that, he turned and walked away.
Alba sits very still as the smoky remnants of her memory evaporate. Then, with a little sigh, she stands, shuffles across the room, opens the door and peeks into the corridor. Just before reaching the bathroom Alba stops at a photograph of a young woman with big eyes and a sleek bob, wearing strings of pearls and a collar of silk. Alba knows she’s seen her before, but can’t for the moment place her. And then she realizes she’s staring at the author of one of her very favorite novels.
“Rebecca,” Alba whispers. “I mean, Miss du Maurier, sorry. Oh my goodness. I didn’t see you before, I . . .”
“Well, well.” Daphne smiles. “At last she speaks.”
Alba flushes, suddenly self-conscious. “I adore your books,” she says softly. “Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I . . .”
“No, no.” Daphne holds up a delicate hand. “Please don’t.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Alba says again, “you must get that all the time.”
“Less and less as the years pass,” Daphne admits, “but, flattering though it is, I’d still rather have a real conversation with you.”
“Yes, of course.” But Alba has no words worthy of this grand dame of English literature, so she simply stands in silence and smiles, utterly starstruck.
“Well, all right then, if you’ve nothing to say to me, then I’ve got something to say to you. So listen up,” Daphne declares with a flourish. “There is no going back in life. No return. No second chance. When you waste your days, they are wasted forever. So be honest about the things you really want, and do them, no matter how fearful you might be.”
Alba frowns, a little taken aback. “Gosh, well, I . . . The thing is, I’m not really sure what I want anymore. I thought I wanted something, but now I’m not—”
Daphne looks up, her gaze so sharp it unnerves Alba. “Stop lying to yourself,” she says. “You know exactly what you want, you’re just too scared to admit it.”
—
Peggy sits in her kitchen with Mog on her lap. She understands now, after so many thwarted attempts, that there is clearly no point asking the damn door to open anymore. In sixty-one years she’s never had a problem getting into the room; whenever she needed help or advice, she always got it. But she’s now being denied entry and, though Peggy can’t understand why, she thinks there must be some strange sense to it. Indeed, she’s starting to wonder whether or not the house actually wants her to find a successor. Perhaps it’s had enough; like her, it’s too old and exhausted to want anything else but peace and quiet. Perhaps it simply wants to retire. In which case, it might very well get its way. So perhaps she should simply abandon the house to its fate and live out the remainder of her life with Harry, a prospect that is becoming more and more tempting as the days go by and death starts tapping on her shoulder.
Peggy tickles Mog behind his ears. He gives her a quick pitiful look before jumping off her lap and padding across the room with his tail in the air. She sips her tea, tasting sweeter memories of the days when the Abbot family was fertile and full of candidates wanting to inherit the house. When Peggy was a little girl, and her great-aunt Esme inhabited the tower, all her sisters, cousins and distant relatives aspired to the position. Though none more than Peggy.
She wasn’t born with the gift; at least her mother didn’t think so. She was the last of seven sisters, unexpected though not unwanted. And by the time she arrived, everyone already thought her oldest sister, Julia, would inherit the house. But Peggy was determined and, like a marathon runner in training for the Olympics, she prepared. While her sisters chased boys and stole their mother’s makeup, Peggy meditated on her goals and practiced her gifts, until the tiny sparks finally caught fire and burned within her so strongly