The Room Beyond Read online

  Tristan glared at the red splattered sheets. ‘Is any of that your blood?’

  ‘No, just wine.’

  ‘Damn it darling. You’ve broken our only glass.’

  ‘I’ll get another... Why don’t we go to Italy together?’

  He didn’t reply.

  Her lungs felt dry and gritty.

  ‘I have to go outside,’ she murmured.

  Out on the balcony the morning breeze brushed her hair away from her face. In the distance London would slowly be waking up. All that chaos: armies of men weaving their way to work, the shouts of market traders and the clatter of hooves filling the air. Somewhere in the midst of it was Alfonso, still fast asleep like a big baby no doubt.

  Had it only been a week since the first time Tristan had climbed over these railings? The door on his side squeaking so loudly, making them both cringe in the darkness and then into bed within a minute, drowning out each other’s laughter with their kisses.

  His hand fell softly on her shoulder and drew her back into the room.

  ‘You’ve fixed the door, it didn’t make a sound last night... I was serious you know.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About going to Italy.’

  His face was empty.

  ‘Don’t you want to go away with me darling?’

  ‘I’m happy here.’

  ‘Well so am I, but we can’t remain in this room forever. Do you realize that we’ve been almost constantly drunk in here for an entire week?’

  ‘And you wish to throw this paradise away?’

  ‘Of course not. I just thought that it might be quite nice to be drunk together somewhere else. People will start to suspect if we stay here. Your wife will start to suspect, if she hasn’t already. Wouldn’t you just love to run away from it all?’

  ‘We’d be outcasts.’

  ‘Well that’s nothing new to either of us.’

  ‘And we’d have no money.’

  ‘I have a little and I could sell the house. It would last us for a while.’

  He turned away. ‘I have to show my face at work.’

  ‘Tristan, please. Just think about it. Imagine us in a beautiful exotic place.’

  ‘Full of exotic admirers to take you away from me.’

  She poured herself against his back and he pulled her arms around him. Rays of sunshine had started to flood into the room and beyond them the mist was rising.

  ‘We really could be anywhere up here in the trees, couldn’t we?’ he said.

  ‘How long will you be at work?’

  Her heart was pounding like an angry jealous child.

  ‘Not long I hope. I’ll show my face, make a few noises. I don’t do much in that place as it is; it bores the hell out of me.’

  ‘Come back soon then. I’ll get us a nice meal: oysters and quails eggs and masses of chocolate. Oh and lots more wine of course.’

  ‘Stop talking or I won’t be able to leave!’

  His eyes flashed. And then they were kissing each other again: eyes, cheeks, arms, falling out together in a scrambled mess onto the balcony.

  ‘Watch this!’ he cried, suddenly grasping the railings with one hand and jumping over sideways.

  ‘Be careful, you might fall!’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘Fine. If you do that again, then I’ll follow you, in a dress.’

  His white teeth glistened in the sunshine. ‘And I’ll be there to catch you my princess. I’ll meet you for oysters, later.’

  The emptiness returned as soon as she lost sight of him, as if her soul had clambered out of her on that balcony and scurried across the railings too.

  Downstairs Sarah was busy polishing the banisters. The servant girl didn’t look up or move out of the way for her when she passed by.

  ‘I’m afraid that the room at the top is rather a mess. Some wine got spilt... across the wall. Could you change the bedclothes as well? As soon as possible.’

  The girl gave her a cold little sideways glance. ‘Yes ma’am I’ll get onto it.’

  ‘Is Mrs Landricam in the kitchen? I rather fancy oysters tonight.’

  ‘Mrs Landricam has left your employment ma’am.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘She didn’t feel quite right working here anymore. She always got on with Mr Eden so...’

  ‘How utterly ridiculous. Wretch of a woman! Well get someone else in. We... I must eat oysters tonight, lots of them.’

  ‘Shall I arrange that before or after I clean the room upstairs?

  ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  A number of letters were waiting for her on her desk. They were mainly bills, some for hats and dresses she’d never even worn. The last was a letter from Alfonso.

  Darling Lucinda,

  After our last meeting I thought it best to write rather than visit. We didn’t part on the best of terms did we my sweet cherub? I hope you are well and getting some of this fine air; I often look out for you in the park.

  Undoubtedly you will be pleased to learn that I have parted with young Betsey. Although I am well aware of your menacing thoughts about the child, she was really a rather sweet girl who had little use of an old man like me.

  You are probably going to think that this is a begging letter; one that implores your forgiveness and the hope of reconciliation. And it is exactly that, in part. I do miss you my wife, and if for now I can live with even the faintest hope of coming back to you, then that is good enough for me.

  But this letter has another purpose, the nature of which, however hard I try, I find impossible to phrase in a pretty way. When we last met you talked of an affair with the man from next door, this Tristan Whitestone. Lucinda, you know that although I have behaved brutally towards you of late, and am an ass for doing so, I still have your best interests at heart in my funny crooked way.

  Since hearing that man’s name from your lips I have made a few enquiries my dear. It seems he has some untoward habits; he is rather well known in one or two establishments in Soho. This in itself doesn’t trouble me, it is a world we know rather too well ourselves after all.

  One story has however ‘awakened my senses,’ shall we say. I can’t really make head nor tail of it; it exists in a sort of rumour which circulates about the man. It first came to me by way of a girl at the theatre, Adelaide. Her sister worked out in India as a governess. It seems that there was some controversy out there to do with Mr Whitestone; something involving a woman, but not quite your run-of-the-mill affair. The woman got ill, I’m not sure how or in what way, but it prompted the involvement of the police and Mr Whitestone had to make a hasty departure.

  I would have ignored the story if it hadn’t been repeated by some military men I came across two nights ago. They were rather better for drink, home after a long spell in India. I threw Whitestone’s name into the conversation and to my surprise it seemed to have a rather sobering influence on the gentlemen. They were loath to speak at first but after some encouragement soon blackened the man’s name in language which made even me, old Alfonso, turn pink with embarrassment. The police were mentioned again but this time a love child also entered the story. I couldn’t get much more out of them, but it was enough to send me home to my lonely quarters for the rest of the night, my mind reeling with worry for my dear Lucinda.

  I have no doubt that your anger at my audacity regarding this matter will be immense. I envisage you now tearing this letter to pieces and flinging it into the fire – yes, I know you so well! And why on earth should you trust my word over his after all that I’ve done? Of course, I am well aware of that too. But I couldn’t let this lie. I know how damaged you are and now I wish only for your happiness.

  Your husband

  Alfonso

  The letter floated down to the floor.

  What a clever man Alfonso was: to attempt to shatter her world with a piece of paper and then rob her of the pleasure of ripping it up afterwards.

  She regarded herself in the mirro
r above the mantelpiece. ‘Now, you’re going to have a lovely long bath and then a nice walk in the sunshine,’ she told her reflection. ‘Sarah! Run me a bath!’

  But when it came to lowering her body into the steaming tub, the sensation made the bile lurch up inside her. And when she lay back the water seemed to press down on her with its hot weight, her lungs struggling for space to move. She raised her arms and watched a network of rivulets trickle down her skin. It was sweat, not water. She could even brush it off with the side of her hand.

  Her heart was beating far too fast. She began to sweat even more and then it felt as if all that wine she’d put inside herself over the past week was now seeping out of her skin: a film of crimson over her entire body, dispersing in the bath water and turning it pink.

  She could see the newspaper headline already: ‘Whitestone strikes again!’

  ‘Look it’s just wine,’ she mouthed. ‘I’ve been drunk for a week you see, it’s JUST wine!’

  She pounced out of the water. Who in their right mind sat in a sweltering pool of their own dirt on a day like this anyway?

  The light blue dress felt just right. It had a yellow band around the waist which drew her in and made her feel slim and elegant and she had a straw hat which went rather well with it.

  Out on the street she admired the image of herself as it shimmered across the windows of the houses. A young man walked by and tipped his hat at her. She beamed at him and he beamed back with surprised eyes.

  She weaved in and out of the streets without a thought for where she was going, the sunlight filtering down through the holes in her straw hat.

  Suddenly she was back at Druid Manor again, holding her father’s hand and wading waist-high through a cornfield; minute mice flying from the terror of their tread. And then she was running across the pristine lawn towards her mother and brother, gripping onto the hat that she’d stolen from the trunk in the attic.

  ‘What have you got on your head?’

  Her mother’s voice. She peeped up at the dappled rays poking through the brim and felt her fists dig into the alcoves above her hips.

  ‘It was in the attic. Daddy says I look marvellous in it!’

  The memory fell away and she came to a halt at the edge of a bustling road. Sweat was trickling down her spine but she couldn’t strain her neck far enough to see if it had made a mark on her lovely dress.

  Her head felt strange, like an empty bobbing cloud and when she faced forwards again the street seemed to undulate before her. There was a lamp-post nearby. She fell over her feet to get to it and gripped on as the pavement quivered beneath her.

  Her insides turned to acid and she tried to swallow the bile back down. No... no, she couldn’t ask Tristan about India. Definitely not.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  It was a man’s voice. A carriage had stopped near her and from its door she glimpsed thin fingers on an outstretched hand. She fell towards it and it caught her, strong like wire.

  When she woke up she could see a door with 36 on it through a carriage window and then Sarah was helping her inside. Her feet felt muffled, as if the nerves had been extracted from them with silver tweezers. She could taste chalk in her mouth. The front door was closing behind her but she turned to catch a glimpse of the edge of a purple cloak whisking itself into the carriage.

  ‘Oh God it’s you!’ she screamed. Her voice felt hollow, it scratched against her throat and hot tears stung her eyes. She ran up and up through the house but behind her she could feel her father’s presence, sad and groaning.

  ‘Lead a pure life Lucinda. I’ve never touched a drink and neither will you. You’re my little lass, aren’t you?’

  The door slammed his voice away. Face down on the bed she breathed in the beautiful silence.

  The minutes and hours glided past with the changing hue of the sky. Her stomach grumbled hungrily. Perhaps she’d ask Tristan a question or two later, about India.

  She blinked and in an instant the light seemed to have changed. There were a few clouds now outside, frilled about the edges with pale pink.

  But hadn’t they promised not to ask each other questions about their past? Although a promise meant nothing really. He would forgive her. She’d ask him as soon as he came in and then they’d make love and drink wine and eat oysters all night.

  It was almost dark when she heard the click of his door. A moment later he was in her room, a silhouette against the starless sky. She couldn’t see his face.

  He crept closer, a brooding shadow and she could feel every part of herself open up, reach out and drink him in.

  ‘Come to bed,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t ever leave me again.’

  ‘I’ve brought you something, taste it.’

  There was a clink of glass and then a single droplet of something sharp but warm landed on her tongue. It made her mouth feel all hollow and as soft as feathers. And then she felt her eyes closing, as if she were being beckoned into a beautiful dream. A hand reached down to her through rainbow colours, and she took it.

  SERENA’S STORY

  For the next few days I saw little of anyone in the house apart from Beth and Gladys. Beth and I made the most of the warm weather by spending much of our time in the park. Our base was Beth’s favourite spot under the large shady tree we’d found on our first day together and we came bearing blankets, books and fat sandwiches prepared by Gladys.

  Beth loved to lounge: stretching her small body out like a cat on the warm blanket. She listened intently to the stories I read her, watched me draw and played simple card games with me like pairs and snap. It was only when I tried to coax her to the playground that she began to frown; curling her small nose up into a tight button mushroom.

  ‘It’s too noisy over there.’

  ‘But you can meet other children in the playground. Don’t you want to play?’

  ‘Not really. They don’t like the same things as me.’

  On the route between the park and Marguerite Avenue there was a nursery that sold bedding plants and water fountains and trees pruned into lollipops. I took Beth there to look for some small plants for my balcony. She skipped about over hoses and puddles whilst I made my choices: two dwarf rose trees and a lavender plant. And I bought a small bag of soil and three glazed pots to plant them in as well.

  We heaved it all home and up to my room, squinting in the gloom after the brightness of outdoors. The house was quiet: the doors all closed and the atmosphere as still as a locked church. However, as we clambered noisily upstairs I got the unnerving sensation in my bones that we had a distinct audience; that they were all there, listening softly.

  Arabella was definitely in. I could smell patchouli lingering in the air outside her office. Perhaps if we’d passed by a few seconds earlier we would have caught a glimpse of the edge of a scarf or her ash blonde hair disappearing around the door. And although the air felt so still, I began to hear the creak of a violin somewhere in a distant room.

  I could almost feel their heat in the walls. And perhaps Seb was somewhere in there too. My fingers itched to test the door handles. I hadn’t seen him since my first night, a whole three and a half days ago. I tried to squeeze the thought of him away and yet at the same time I looked out for him in every corridor and at each new turning in the stairs.

  Up on my balcony Beth and I removed the plants from their old plastic pots.

  ‘You’ll do lots of nice things like this when you start school in September,’ I told her.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to go to school.’

  She was inspecting some grains of black soil that had got between her fingers. It had smeared across her cheeks as well, transforming her into a wiry little chimney sweep.

  ‘What do you mean you’re not going to go to school?’

  ‘They don’t think it’s right for me.’

  I lowered one of the lavender plants into its new pot and snapped off a stem.

  ‘Here, smell this lavender.’

  ‘Yuk, I do
n’t like it!’ She pushed my hand away. ‘Smells like old people.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s rude.’

  But she only looked confused.

  ‘Hhm, this is why I think you probably should go to school. Sometimes you just can’t say whatever comes into your head; it might upset people. School teaches you things like that; how to mix with the world around you, as well as reading and writing and history...’

  ‘But you can teach me all those things can’t you?’ she interrupted with imploring eyes. ‘Grandma said you were clever and she got you here to teach me things like that so that I didn’t have to go to school.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She smiled up at me but it was some moments before I could even try to force a smile back.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked. She was watching me intently now, the skin between her eyes all wrinkled up. I tried to shake off her words and stuck my tongue out at her as an answer, sending her into fits of giggles. It was nice to hear her laugh, she didn’t do it very much but when she did it was infectious.

  We pushed the finished pots up against the railings. They made the balcony look rustic and homely.

  ‘Pretty as a picture, eh?’ I said, patting her on the head. ‘I know what, why don’t we take a trip to Kew Gardens? They’ve got all sorts of wonderful plants there and great big glasshouses and lots of shady trees to sit under.’

  A beam of light crossed the girl’s face, instantly followed by a shadow.

  ‘I’d like to but is it far away?’

  ‘Um, not that far. We’d have to sit on a train for a bit to get there.’

  ‘I better not then.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d probably get one of my headaches.’

  By the time I managed to get all the soil off her, Beth’s dinner was already waiting on the kitchen table: eggs benedict with hollandaise sauce in a china jug at the side.