The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,78
us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking onto a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”
Albert glanced at Elizabeth to see her mouthing the lines. He knew she wouldn’t leave her husband while her children were young; they’d lose all their privileges, relocate to a council estate and probably hate her forever. Albert, having grown up on a council estate, can’t see what a disaster that would be, but he understands about the children and is quite prepared to wait until they have left home, or whenever she’s ready, as long as it takes.
With Elizabeth’s eyes still fixed on the screen, Albert kissed her.
Without turning to him she whispered: “I’ll love you, Al, for the rest of my life.”
Snapping out of the memory, Albert sees that his glass is empty. He heaves himself off the sofa and shuffles back to the sink. As the half-empty bottle comes into view, he stops. What the hell is he doing? Is he really going to give up on Alba as he did on Elizabeth? Will he let her run away, or will he find and fight for her? Will he drink himself into a coma, or search and not stop until he’s looking at his daughter again?
Albert picks up the bottle and watches his hand—seemingly of its own accord—skim over the glass and tip the rest of the vodka down the sink. As Albert watches the last few ounces slip down the drain, he’s suddenly hit with an idea so simple he can’t believe it hasn’t struck him before. He doesn’t have to go from place to place, seeking out Alba in her regular haunts, hoping one day he’ll see her. He can go to one place and wait until she comes. And if Alba is still in Cambridge, then there is one place she’s sure to visit eventually, even if he has to wait a very long time.
—
Having left Harry upstairs waiting for her, Peggy knocks on Greer’s bedroom door. She holds a new note in her hand, one she found on her pillow this morning. She knows it was meant for someone else, which means it’s clearly time to stop stepping back and start interfering again. When no one answers she pushes the door open and crosses the room to the wardrobe. She finds Greer buried in the back. Peggy stands outside and softly calls her name until Greer pokes her head through the curtain of couture.
“Oh, hello, Peg,” Greer says, a little flustered. She’s holding a silk tea gown as shiny and pink as the inside of a shell.
“Sorry to burst in like this.” Peggy runs her fingers through the beaded tassels of a black sequined flapper dress. “I have something for you.” She offers the note.
Greer unfolds it and reads,
As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live.—Goethe.
“It came to me. For the second time this month,” Peggy says. “And I believe that, this time at least, it was meant for you.” Peggy notices the sea of shoes on the floor. “Goodness, how lucky you are, I do so love shoes.”
Greer picks up a pair of velvet heels the color of Peggy’s earrings. “Try these on.”
“Oh, no.” Peggy laughs, slipping them on. “I gave up heels years ago.” She thinks of how much Harry would enjoy them.
Greer glances at the note again. “So, what do I need to trust?”
“Your instincts,” Peggy suggests. “The truth about the things in your life.”
“Is that what you do?”
Peggy frowns. “Yes.” Though she’s not nearly as certain about that nowadays as she used to be.
“But,” Greer says, “I don’t think I know what my instincts about things are.”
“Oh yes, you do.” Peggy looks at her. “You know exactly, you just don’t want to believe it.”
—
“Won’t you move in with me, Peg?” Harry asks. “You don’t have to marry me, just live with me. Haven’t I paid my dues? Haven’t you paid yours?”
Peggy bites her tongue. The temptation to say yes is so strong in her now that she can hardly hold it back. “You know the answer to that,” Peggy says softly, “it’s the same one I’ve been giving for the last twenty years.”
“Yes,” Harry agrees. “But I’m not sure if I believe you anymore.”
There is no point in marrying me, Peggy wants to tell him. You’d be a widower before we were even on our honeymoon.
They’re sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a slice of postcoital chocolate cake with cream.