The Room Beyond Read online

  Lucinda smiled. ‘Since the buildings were first constructed. My father gave me my house as a wedding present.’

  ‘What a kind thing to do!’

  She raised an eyebrow in response.

  ‘It seems that our guest would disagree with you there,’ said Tristan. He hardly blinked as he looked at her and Lucinda met him straight on, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Yes, he’s right,’ she nodded. ‘You see my father only bought the house to get rid of me, and my vulgar gypsy husband.’

  Silence.

  ‘Shall we go through to dinner?’ said Jane.

  In spite of all the open windows, the dining room was so hot that Miranda’s thighs glued themselves together and her body began to slide inside her clothing. The roast beef stared up at her from her plate like a ghoulish mouth. The smell of jasmine now only curdled in the heat of the room, turning everything sickly. Tristan had been right after all, she really shouldn’t have planted the thing by the window.

  Lucinda yawned through the small talk and toyed idly with the stem of her wineglass. Miranda watched Tristan’s eyes simmer across the woman in the candlelight. He began with her fingers that were stroking and fawning at the glass, and then he moved on up the pale flesh of her arm and across her shoulder, which was glistening slightly in the heat.

  ‘I see you’ve had your portrait done,’ said Lucinda suddenly, interrupting whatever it was that Reverend Farthing had been talking about. He brought his conversation to a close by coughing into his napkin.

  ‘Yes, a wedding present from Miranda’s father. An Italian did it for us I think, what was his name?’

  Miranda felt her face flush as the entire room turned to stare at the ghastly portrait of the two of them.

  ‘Berlotti maybe,’ she stammered. ‘Something like that.’

  Lucinda cocked her head at it. ‘That’s an excellent likeness of you Mr Whitestone.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  But she then cast a quizzical eye across Miranda before staring back at the painting again. ‘The mind of an artist can work in such extraordinary ways; don’t you think Mrs Whitestone?’

  Tristan flashed a sardonic smile at them all. ‘Surely you must find yourself at less of a disadvantage now,’ he said to Lucinda. ‘You after all received a house as your wedding gift; we on the other hand have had to make do with that picture.’

  Lucinda threw her head back in laughter, her breasts rising up in her tight bodice. ‘But you don’t know my father; you can have him if you like!’ she cried, raising her glass at the same time. ‘There, it’s settled. I happily bequeath you my father!’

  ‘You do not have a good relationship with your family?’ asked Jane.

  ‘They are idiotic, unimaginative people, don’t you think?’ Lucinda replied.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know them,’ answered Mrs Jameson.

  ‘Oh, I thought everyone did.’

  ‘I think I know,’ said Jane. ‘Are they not the Hartreves? They have an estate in Wiltshire.’

  ‘Spot on! Let us toast those fine, horse loving people!’

  And Lucinda slammed her glass vigorously against Reverend Farthing’s.

  Miranda rose to her feet. ‘Anyone for water?’ She could feel her neck coming out in blotches, like hot welts on her skin. ‘It’s getting awfully hot in here, the beginning of a fine summer I imagine.’

  Out in the hallway the air was cooler and blissfully quiet. She was actually panting, as if she’d just run a great distance.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  It was Mrs Hubbard.

  ‘Yes, fine thank you. Just in search of some water for the guests.’

  The cook knitted her brow a little, the corners of her mouth turned down in a sad crescent moon. Miranda knew that look quite well. It was protective, motherly, enough to unleash the torrent of tears she was trying to restrain.

  ‘The food was marvellous, thank you so much. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get home to your family soon.’

  Mrs Hubbard brushed her apron smooth and shook her head. Her hair was almost completely grey and tied back in a no-nonsense sort of way from her high forehead.

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about them; it’s not the same once you’re widowed and my boys are all old enough to look after themselves. I’ll get the girl to bring your water.’

  Miranda nodded silently and let her eyes rest on the apron knot in the centre of Mrs Hubbard’s back as she hurried away.

  Back inside the dining room Mrs Eden now appeared to be humming to the tune of a popular music hall song as Reverend Farthing talked with the Jamesons. Jane threw her a glance, her jaw clenched as tight as a ship’s bolt. ‘Sort this out Miranda,’ her expression seemed to say. Tristan’s eyes were radiant and his shoulders shook with amusement.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Reverend, that this city is falling into degeneracy?’ asked Mrs Jameson suddenly across the noise. ‘That the politicians who govern us, the people of commerce, the artists, the musicians, all of them, are turning their backs too readily on God? I know of no other place so destitute.’

  The humming stopped.

  ‘It is one of the many dilemmas of our modern decadent society, Mrs Jameson, and is at the forefront of so many of my sermons...’

  ‘May I interrupt?’ asked Lucinda. She reached over to an arrangement of fruit on the dresser behind her and plucked a grape, raising the green orb up to the candlelight. Miranda held her breath.

  ‘Why of course my dear,’ said the Reverend. ‘Is there a point you wish to add?’

  ‘Yes, you see I’m a little muddled. Surely society as a whole is turning away from religion because people are finally beginning to accept the fact that there is no God. We are almost at the dawn of the twentieth century! Surely we’ve now reached a point where as human beings we can not only recognize but embrace our jungle heritage.’

  She placed the grape in her mouth and crushed it, loudly, between her teeth.

  Miranda gripped the edge of the table, her heart pounding in her ears. But then a sudden unexpected clamour of what sounded like applause and laughter broke through: Tristan, clapping and bellowing loudly.

  ‘Bravo!’ he cried repeatedly. ‘Bravo!’

  Slowly the room’s tense shoulders softened around her.

  ‘Have you ever acted before?’ he asked her. ‘You’d make a first-class actress.’

  ‘A little, but that was my husband Alfonso’s territory. I haven’t so much as stepped inside a theatre in months.’

  ‘Then you must come with us, next week. What is it we’re going to see dear?’

  ‘Hamlet.’

  ‘Ah yes, Hamlet. Go on, say you’ll join us.’

  Lucinda brushed her fingers across her forehead. ‘Perhaps, but unfortunately I have to leave you now; I’m afraid I’ve developed one of my headaches. They plague me nowadays. I hope you won’t think me rude. What a divine evening!’

  Miranda forced herself up. ‘It’s been a pleasure, I’m so sorry about you poor health. Perhaps a good physician...’ But Lucinda was already half way out of the room. ‘Let me show you to the door!’

  ‘Not at all, I can manage quite well. Good night,’ she cried without a backwards glance.

  And then she was gone. All that glimmering blueness just suddenly vanished. Miranda collapsed back into her chair again; her joints stiff and tired. It had been even worse than she’d imagined and yet her sudden absence now felt surprisingly menacing. The table had turned into an arid plain. Tristan already looked glum again. He filled his wine to the top of the glass and embraced it towards himself. The rest of the party politely peered at their plates and toyed with their napkins.

  ‘Reverend, do please tell us what we have to look forward to from your next sermon,’ she said quietly.

  The Reverend looked pleased. He opened his mouth and began to speak but the sound of his voice barely touched her. She smiled and nodded from afar as if she were drifting gently away. And then the image of those glistening peacock feath
ers came back to her, entwined in all that hair.

  What colour was Mrs Eden’s hair exactly? Chestnut? It was hard to tell. Yes, chestnut, with sparks of red running through it. And all that flesh on display, ripe and fruity, good enough to sink your teeth into. No. It was quite simply out of the question. She’d have to cancel Hamlet. They’d move house if necessary. On absolutely no account would she ever let Tristan into the company of that woman again.

  SERENA’S STORY

  ‘It’ll rain,’ said Jessica. She was twisting her head back owl-like whilst gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the back of my headrest with the other.

  ‘You’ll never get in. There’s a much larger space over there,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but that’s on the wrong side of the road. You should take an umbrella; I’ve got one in the boot.’

  The sky was yellowish and soupy but I could just about spot some blue patches in the distance.

  ‘I don’t need it, it won’t rain, and I’ve got enough stuff to get onto the train as it is.’

  She snapped off the engine with a triumphant flourish. ‘Did it! Now I’ve got something for you, a sort of good luck in your new job present.’ She grabbed her handbag from the back and rummaged about in it. ‘I thought of you as soon as I saw it in the shop. There you go.’

  She handed me a red velvet jewellery box and inside there was a small brooch, watery pink and gold in colour and finely crafted to replicate the feathery petals of a peony. Tears instantly sparked up in the corners of my eyes.

  ‘It’s beautiful Jess. It makes me think of her.’

  ‘Yes I know, she did love them.’

  The image of Mum kneeling in the garden instantly came back to me. I could still just about recall the sickled curve of her back under her old T-shirt as she patted down fresh soil, petals brushing against her face. I fixed the brooch to my top and kissed Jessica on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good luck darling, not that you need it.’

  My pile of bags billowed up out of the back seat, pressing themselves tightly against the window. They looked a lot heavier now than when they’d sat in the corridor at home. I dragged them out hotly.

  ‘Are you really going to be alright?’ Jessica craned her neck from her place behind the wheel.

  ‘Of course. What could go wrong looking after a four year old? Bye, and thanks for the brooch.’

  ‘Serena, the umbrella!’

  The train was stuffy; it smelt of synthetic fast food and coffee breath. It was only a short half hour journey into Paddington but I felt as if I were plunging headlong into a different world and ribbons of expectation tangled themselves up into a tight knot at the pit of my stomach.

  I prayed that Beth would like me. I’d read enough books about parenting and caring for children in the last few days to try and blag my way through bedtime routines, descriptive praise and learning through play. Hopefully it would be enough.

  When I dropped my heavy bags down on the Hartreves’ doorstep the sky was still heavy and foreboding, but it hadn’t rained and I glared at Jessica’s huge umbrella neatly folded up on the top of the pile.

  This time a small, neat-looking woman opened the door with a little girl right beside her. Beth. She eyed me curiously from the threshold, delicate arms hanging against her cotton dress and fine blonde hair tied up to one side. She had an intelligent, impish face and intense blue eyes with which she regarded me with deep seriousness.

  In spite of her littleness she was really quite intimidating. The few children I’d come across in my limited experience had been the sort of individuals who liked running around in muddy gardens, playing rough and tumble and pulling funny faces. Beth didn’t look like that sort of child at all.

  ‘Hello. I’m your new nanny.’

  ‘I like your brooch, what sort of flower is that?’

  ‘It’s a peony.’ I bent down so that she could have a better look. She touched it tentatively with her fingertips as if the petals were real.

  ‘Do you like shells?’ she asked solemnly.

  ‘Um... well, yes!’

  ‘I’ll show you my shell collection then.’

  She took me by the hand, tugging me inside, and I followed her up several flights of stairs to a cool cream corridor.

  ‘This is my room, yours is up there.’

  I followed the direction of her nod and to my surprise discovered another much narrower flight of stairs directly opposite her door.

  Beth’s room was spacious and sunny, with two bay windows overlooking the street, but the walls and floor were more cluttered than an old forgotten junk shop. Shelves overflowed and mounds of nick-nacks, old toys, books and boxes of strange and unexplained objects covered almost every inch of carpet.

  ‘Here you will find my collections,’ she said with an encompassing wave of an arm. ‘One day I would like to work in the Victoria and Albert Museum. I’ve been there forty-seven times. Now let me find those shells.’

  We climbed over to a precarious looking tower of boxes in the corner. The top one was an open biscuit tin containing an assortment of rusty springs.

  ‘They’re just under here!’ she said, heaving it away with surprising strength. Underneath, in yet another box, the shells glinted up at us like of row of pink coiled snakes. ‘They’re from Morocco, very rare indeed.’

  Beth had that concentrated look on her face of an expert basking in the knowledge of her profession. And suddenly I could picture her on The Antiques Roadshow, offering her informed opinion about people’s ancient wardrobes and bits of jewellery. She cradled a particularly beautiful pink specimen in her hands.

  ‘This is my favourite shell, it’s the same colour as that peony,’ and again she looked admiringly at my brooch.

  ‘Is pink your favourite colour? It was mine when I was a little girl; I used to have a pink bedroom.’

  ‘It was for a while, but now I prefer turquoise and anything sparkly.’

  She picked up two more shells, more serious than ever. ‘These shells look like they should come from fairyland.’

  ‘Have you been to fairyland?’

  ‘Of course not, it doesn’t really exist.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Eva.’

  ‘And who’s Eva when she’s at home?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ and the little girl blinked at me. ‘Eva’s my Mummy.’

  ‘So you’re already showing off your kingdom to her then,’ said a voice.

  The woman from downstairs was now standing in the doorway.

  ‘Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t introduce myself properly to you,’ I stumbled across the cluttered floor towards her with my hand stretched out. ‘I’m Serena, Beth just whisked me away I’m afraid.’

  The woman peered at me with startled eyes. She looked me up and down and then exchanged a questioning sort of look with Beth.

  ‘I’m Gladys, the housekeeper,’ she said, her voice quivering slightly as if she was shy. She cleared her throat. ‘And before you ask I do try and clean this room but little lady guards it like you wouldn’t believe.’ She coughed again and glanced about her a little awkwardly. ‘Now, would you like to come and see your room?’

  The three of us puffed our way up the narrow flight of stairs together.

  ‘It’s a bit of a hike, but very private,’ said Gladys, pushing open the single door that occupied the small landing at the summit. Bright daylight instantly beamed across our faces.

  The room was dominated by two glass panelled doors leading onto a balcony and the view through them made me gasp with pleasure: fresh green leaves on gnarled branches and glimpses of tiled roofs and chimney pots beyond. My room was like a nest perched amidst London’s rooftops. It felt like being at the top of a tower, or in a turret.

  ‘This is the first thing I’ll draw here,’ I exclaimed. ‘The chimney pots poking up through the leaves.’

  ‘Are you an artist?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Yes. When I’m not being your
nanny!’

  The room itself was fairly small, with pale blue walls and not much furniture, but I was far more interested in the view and the balcony which, on further inspection, looked just large enough for a chair and perhaps a couple of plants. It was home already.

  ‘You open the doors like this,’ said Gladys. She undid a small catch and they opened effortlessly. ‘Nice view. In the winter you can see Holland Park through the bare branches.’

  I grasped the balcony railings and inhaled. The air smelt cooler, cleaner from up here.

  ‘If you grew your hair longer you’d be like Rapunzel,’ came Beth’s voice from somewhere behind me. She was curled up quite contentedly on my bed. It was good to see that she already felt so comfortable in my company.

  I gazed across the higgledy landscape of roofs and foliage and a warm smile filled my face. The distance buzz of the city beyond rang gently in my ears. To my right I could see the blunt corner of where the house finished; the final frontier of Marguerite Avenue. To my left I could see two or three similar balconies to my own on other houses belonging to the terrace, but the majority had clearly been removed to make way for decades of alterations and modernizations to the grand homes.

  There was no balcony on the back of the house next door. I could still see the mark on the wall where it had once been right next to mine, but it must have been taken away to make way for a flat roofed extension that jutted out just below. I turned away but then something instinctively made me look back again. It was a feeling more than anything, a strange sort of hollowness that made me peer through the still empty air. I grasped the railing and swallowed. Funny, but I’d never suffered from heights before and this certainly wasn’t the place to start.

  Back in the room Gladys had gone and my bags had miraculously arrived.

  ‘Would you like to meet Eva, she’s downstairs in the drawing room,’ said Beth, tilting her small face up at me from the bed. ‘With Seb,’ she murmured, as if it was a sort of afterthought.

  We floated down through the house; past a thousand paintings, photographs, rustic looking jars of flowers on antique kidney-shaped tables. In the hallway at the bottom the door to the room with the piano in it was half open again. I craned my neck to see inside but no one was there this time.