The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,99
you altogether, what will you be left with then? A mother who’s given up on herself is the worst sort of role model—”
“Really?” Greer says again. She looks into Peggy’s eyes and, as her landlady glances away, Greer is greeted all of a sudden with a flash of insight. During all her days of recent self-reflection a sense of intuition has been growing more strongly inside her and now she sees something she can’t back up with evidence or reason but something she knows, quite clearly, is true. “So you, the landlady of this marvelous house, the role model to all the women who live here, the mother-figure, essentially—”
“Now, wait here,” Peggy protests, “this is not—”
“Oh no, I rather think this is about you,” Greer interrupts. “You, as my . . . my surrogate mother are telling me not to give up on my life because that would be setting a bad example to my child. But then isn’t that exactly what you’ve done?”
A flicker of sorrow passes over Peggy’s face. It’s gone in a second but Greer sees it and now she’s absolutely certain she’s right. She has no idea where this sudden ability to see into people’s souls has come from but she knows, unequivocally, that she can trust it.
“You’re being a little hypocritical, then,” Greer says softly. “Don’t you think?”
—
A little drunk on celebration cocktails and euphoria, Carmen wanders through the streets of Cambridge. It’s a perfect night, cloudless and full of stars. The moon is full and the air is warm; it brushes Carmen’s face as though stroking her cheek. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do now and the terror of being adrift and alone, not allowed to return to Hope Street, is only slightly tempered by the lingering thrill of the show and the song.
She stops for a moment to gaze up at the silhouette of King’s College, its turrets and towers lit by the moon, marble against the dark purple sky. How can the world be so beautiful, she wonders, but so painful, all at once? For another hour, with the ring still hot in her pocket, Carmen meanders along streets and through parks, just as she did before she found Hope Street, stopping sometimes to look at things she loves: the Bridge of Sighs, punts tied up along the river waiting for tomorrow’s tourists, the golden grasshopper clock, the chapel in Clare College . . . She memorizes each one, imprinting them in her mind like photographs so that she’ll never forget. And just after midnight, though Carmen never knew where it was, she finds herself crossing the park in front of the police station. She stands on the pavement, looking up once more at the moon. Her cheeks are wet. Not with tears of sadness, but relief. Carmen takes a deep breath.
She releases one last, long note of song into the air, and then walks inside.
Chapter Twenty-six
It’s long past midnight when Alba unlocks the door. The house is so silent and still, that it’s almost as if it’s holding its breath. She takes off her coat and hangs it up, then slips off her shoes. The floor sinks softly under her feet, welcoming her home, the ceiling dips down and she glances up, blinking into the bright light of the chandelier that switched itself on as she walked up the garden path. On her way to the kitchen Alba is stopped by Joan Greenwood.
“We’re all very proud of your progress,” she says, her husky voice sending a little shiver of delight through Alba. “I know you’ve only written a lovely little song, so far. But we all have a feeling that you’ll make quite a mark in literary history one day.”
“You do?” Alba asks. “Well . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Joan smiles. “It’s been a pleasure watching you.”
Alba walks into the kitchen, glancing around for her aunt Stella. Her aunt. She has so many questions, so much she wants to know. Of course Stella is still nowhere to be seen, but this time Alba has decided she’s going to wait at the table and not move a muscle until Stella materializes. No matter how long it takes.
Ten hours later, when Peggy shuffles into the kitchen the next morning, Alba is sitting in the same chair, gently snoring. Peggy coughs until Alba stirs. “Oh, sorry, I was just—”
“Yes, pet,” Peggy says, “I know who you’re waiting for. But I’m afraid she’s gone.”