The Room Beyond

by Stephanie Elmas

  ‘You know what, I think I might do a bit of sketching in the park before I get the train back. You haven’t planned anything have you?’

  She chuckled softly down the phone. ‘No no darling, you take your time. I haven’t heard you sound so jolly in ages. I’m glad you’ve found some new inspiration.’

  Back at the beginning of the road again I turned for a final look at the place that was going to be my new home. The rose covered wall at the end had shrunk to the size of a postcard and the houses that framed it seemed to heave with history and grandeur. I could barely blink.

  A montage of all the crummy bedsits and flat-shares I’d lived in over the years flashed through my mind; one place so small that it had been easy enough to make a reasonable meal from the comfort of my own bed.

  ‘Convenient though,’ Jessica had said on her visit and we’d both hugged our sides with laughter.

  A black car with darkened windows edged round me and purred down the road. Could that be the Portuguese Ambassador arriving early? I would draw him thin and sleek with a little black moustache, perhaps kissing Arabella’s long fingers whilst she twisted a scarf about with her other hand.

  ‘Come up to my room and tell me about your childhood,’ she’d whisper through confiding lips.

  Just the idea of it sent little cooling thrills up my spine.

  Marguerite Avenue. That’s what it was called. I paused at the signpost and tried to stop myself from touching it. Even the name felt like poetry. Closing my eyes I drew in a deep breath of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle. Yes, Marguerite Avenue was already in my bones.

  1892

  Miranda skirted around the corner and walked the length of the road with brisk strides. The new rose was settling in nicely, already spurting out fresh green shoots across that eyesore of a wall at the end. She let her front door float past her for a closer inspection. Yes, masses of new tendrils gripping at those dusty bricks and some tiny pink buds.

  Her eyes swept across number 36, the last house in the road, and in an upstairs window the silhouette of a woman flinched away. It was enough to take the warmth out of the air for a moment. She hurried back past her neighbour’s door, snatching a glance at its chipped yellow paint. Jane would be getting fractious.

  ‘Hello there. I think I just caught Mrs Eden staring at me through an upstairs window.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. Is everything alright dear?’

  Tristan seemed to be hovering half in, half out of the library and he had something of the startled rabbit expression about him. Her eyes slipped down his arm and found a large glass of brandy cupped in his hand.

  ‘Of course it is. It was just rather hot in the office, that’s all. Thought I’d make an early afternoon of it.’

  A ray of sunlight caught at his blue eyes, made him seem years younger than he was for a moment, like a handsome cheeky boy.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. Perhaps we could do something. I’ve just been to the park and it’s...’

  ‘I have to go out again soon, something at the club,’ and his lips tugged themselves up at the corners into an uncomfortable smile, filling his cheekbones with shadows. ‘I won’t be back for dinner. Another time, maybe. Sorry.’

  Jane was sitting in her usual place in the drawing room with a cup of tea perched in her hand.

  ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, I met the Jamesons in the park; I’ve invited them to dinner tomorrow night along with Reverend Farthing.’

  ‘How dull.’

  Miranda tried to smile patiently at her sister. The sunshine was still running through her veins.

  ‘You know I think I just spotted our neighbour Mrs Eden staring at me through her window.’

  Jane sipped her tea and nibbled at a crumbly biscuit which began to disintegrate in her lap.

  ‘Why not invite her around as well?’ she said with a sudden playful smirk.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, she’s far too scandalous for our lot!’

  ‘I think it sounds like fun; might stir things up a bit. This Eden woman intrigues me. It’s astonishing that in the three weeks since I’ve been here she hasn’t called or passed me by in the road once.’

  ‘Well that’s not surprising, Marguerite Avenue is a dead end after all. And anyway, I don’t think she really leaves the house after... after what happened.’

  The muscles in Miranda’s neck were starting to grind together again, all that freshness suddenly draining away. And when her neck hurt it always made her want to hunch up, which gave Jane yet another thing to complain about.

  ‘Sit up!’ she always barked. ‘You look as if you’re hugging something secretive to yourself.’

  She tried to force her chest up and out but the sensation of her spine crushing in on itself actually made her wince. Outside on the hot road a small gust of wind played games with the dust. Silly mistake to have invited the Jamesons. Jane found them dull and goodness knows what Tristan would have to say about it. It must have been the sunshine that had made her so flippant. She could already picture Tristan, pulling faces across the dining table at her and Jane being deliberately caustic.

  She felt her shoulders collapse into a hunch.

  ‘Sit up! You look ..’

  ‘Yes, I know I know! Very well then, I’ll ask Mrs Eden to come too. As you said, she might stir things up...’

  ‘Oh good. I’ve heard so much about the woman it would be a shame not to be able to return home without a story or two to tell about her.’

  ‘How could you even think about gossiping about our neighbour like that? The poor woman’s been jilted by her husband.’

  ‘Poor woman? They’re theatre people, you loathe her!’ Jane cried.

  ‘Music hall people to be precise and anyway that’s too strong. I have never loathed anyone in my life.’ And yet she could still feel a deep flush of red guilt rising up her neck. ‘I’ve been wrong to avoid her, I know that. It’s just that something keeps stopping me; perhaps it’s all the rubbish in the gossip columns.’

  Jane eyed her up and down, her shrivelled lips defiant. ‘I doubt whether it’s that,’ she murmured. ‘She’s hit a raw nerve with you, somewhere along the way. Now, I must get on. Can’t sit around drinking tea all day. I’m dining out tonight so don’t concern yourself about feeding me.’

  When her sister had gone Miranda drew her knees up tightly against her chest. Outside thunder clouds had moved in, tinged blue and black like bruises punched into the sky. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders as a long shadow fell across the room. Soon it would probably rain.

  As everyone was out she spent the afternoon writing letters, which included an invitation to Mrs Eden, and making several aborted attempts to grapple with the garden between hot, sticky showers. The jasmine she’d planted by the dining room window was beginning to bloom; she loved its sweet scent, even if Tristan found it too sickly. And the rain brought the perfume out even more. She rubbed some of the flowers against the dip at the base of her neck.

  She sat alone at the dining table for supper, but although the chops smelt delicious enough when Mrs Hubbard brought them through, the thought of actually eating them made her throat want to cave in. She hacked the meat off the bones and ferreted it away in her napkin to avoid comments.

  At about midnight a slamming door shocked her out of sleep. Footsteps clattered across the hallway downstairs. Tristan, home at last, probably heading to the dining room for a smoke before bed. She threw a shawl around her shoulders.

  The dimmed lights in the hallway filled the air with an amber glow. She’d learned how to move almost noiselessly through the house now, with only her shadow anticipating her approach. Downstairs something small and white was lying on the floor near the front door: a crumpled piece of paper. Tristan must have unknowingly stepped on it on his way in. It seemed to be a note, written in a scrawled, impatient hand on what looked like a page torn out from a magazine.

  To dear Mrs
Whitestone at number 34. I think I’ll probably come tomorrow although I desperately need some sleep before I see anyone. Lucinda Eden.

  On the other side of the piece of paper was the remains of what must have been a table of contents: p.24 French wig making for the stage, it read.

  The dining room was empty; the chairs uniformly pushed in beneath the swirling sheen of the long mahogany table. This room had been such a source of pride to her in the early days, so spacious and tranquil. What marvellous dinner parties she’d planned for then, with friends and family, little feet running about perhaps.

  From above the mantelpiece the portrait of herself and Tristan glowered down at her. The painter had captured Tristan’s likeness so well. In just a matter of minutes he’d teased the oils into such an uncanny replica of his features. His expression was demure, princely even, his eyes so commanding.

  And yet the construction of Miranda’s likeness had consumed countless hours of humiliation. The painter had attempted to flatter her: to add a little chin where it failed to exist, to widen the eyes, add plumpness to the lips. The resulting image was of a woman of some beauty, but with features that had little relation to her own. She could barely bring herself to look at it.

  Back in the hallway the scent of cigar smoke met her nostrils and she noticed that one of the drawing room doors was ajar. She stood perfectly still. The rest of the house was so silent that she could just hear him: his lips sucking at the sides of the cigar, his mouth drawing in the smoke. His hair would be tousled now, his eyelids getting a little lazy. She took a step towards the room, raising her hand softly against the door. Her breathing had suddenly quickened into short, sharp little gasps. And then her hand fell away, collapsing limply against her side.

  ‘No,’ she murmured under her breath and, just as deftly as before, retreated back upstairs to her bedroom, pulling the blankets tightly up beneath her chin.

  The following day was warm again and quite humid by the evening. Mrs Hubbard’s joint of beef for the dinner party had filled the house with an oily aroma that sent Miranda racing about the house opening windows.

  The dining table had been set beautifully with the new linen table cloth she’d bought and their wedding cutlery. She pushed the window open as wide as it would go and let out a gasp. The jasmine was radiant. Just in the last few hours it had exploded with even more blooms. She closed her eyes and hugged her arms around her body, breathing in great lungfuls of its scent.

  ‘Are you alright? Shall I close the window? Those flowers...’

  ‘Oh,’ she felt herself start at Tristan’s voice. ‘No, please don’t. It’s actually rather hot in here, don’t you think?’

  He was wearing a new suit that particularly flattered his tall slim build and his wide shoulders. His eyes were startling in the evening light; so intensely blue, the exact shade of the Italian sea where they’d spent their honeymoon. Perhaps she should tell him that, surprise him a little. He couldn’t have forgotten how in love she’d been with the view from their hotel window.

  ‘The Jamesons are here, as well as that odious preacher.’

  ‘Gracious, when did they arrive?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago I think.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you find me sooner?’ she patted at her hair with nervous fingers, rushing at top speed towards the door.

  ‘I thought you would have heard them. I went to take cover in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh you mustn’t be like that. These are our guests after all!’

  ‘Your guests, Miranda, your guests.’

  ‘Please do at least try dear.’

  He looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And we do have another guest coming tonight: Mrs Eden from next door.’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Perhaps she’ll brighten things up for you a little.’

  The three of them were sitting in a neat row on one of the drawing room sofas.

  ‘Reverend Farthing, Mr and Mrs Jameson, how lovely to have you here! Please do excuse my delay; I was needed in the kitchen for some moments. Is Jane not here yet? She’s been busy packing but I know she’s dying to see you all.’

  Mrs Jameson flashed a demure smile at her. ‘We were just commenting on how awfully close it is tonight. The air. So close! Weren’t we Reverend?’

  ‘Close?’ The ancient man blinked slowly like a toad emerging from a puddle. ‘Yes the air. Storm’s brewing.’

  ‘Oh dear, shall I open the window a little more then? Ah Jane, there you are. Have you been busy packing?’

  Her sister collapsed rather heavily into a chair. ‘No, I was just finishing an excellent novel.’

  ‘How interesting, was it a romance?’ Mrs Jameson asked.

  ‘No, a murder mystery actually. Quite riveting.’

  Mr Jameson made a small grunt. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his neck, blotting itself on his shirt collar. ‘Then you have a far stronger stomach than we do my dear,’ he murmured.

  ‘There’s no denying its strength,’ said Tristan, ambling into the room. ‘But will it be able to withstand Mrs Hubbard’s roast beef tonight?’

  Jane gulped back a laugh. Why were the two of them always so cruel about Mrs Hubbard’s cooking? Of all the things in the world which they could have agreed on, why should this be the only one?

  ‘Tristan does make fun of our poor wonderful Mrs Hubbard. We’re so lucky to have her though.’

  ‘But she has been with you rather a long time,’ said Jane.

  ‘Two years. She joined us shortly after we moved in. I’m awfully fond of her.’

  ‘And yet I’ve warned you about this time and time again, haven’t I?’ There was a sudden spark of fire in Jane’s eye. ‘You will insist on getting close to staff. She’s done it from childhood; remember how ridiculously attached you became to the gardener and his wife?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Yates? They were very kind actually.’

  And they really had been, smiling and trying to include her when no one else would. He’d grown prize onions as big as her head and Mrs Yates, well she couldn’t quite recall her face but she’d had the most marvellous arms, like succulent sausages.

  ‘And where are they now? Where are they?’ Jane was frowning at her in a way that brought her eyes startlingly close together. There was so much rage behind that expression. It made her feel as if she were shrinking in its shadow, just like something she’d once read in a book about a person shutting up like a telescope.

  ‘A THOUSAND apologies for my lateness! Am I late?’

  The new voice seemed to hurl itself across the room at them. It came from a figure standing in the doorway. A woman. She was wearing a sapphire blue dress and her hair had been adorned with peacock feathers.

  ‘And which of you is my hostess?’

  The woman’s voice had such a deep velvety resonance that Miranda’s answer seemed to dry up in her own throat. And when she did speak her voice shook appallingly.

  ‘Hello Mrs Eden,’ she rattled. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come. Please, sit down.’

  ‘Lucinda! Call me Lucinda! Do you have any champagne? I’m incredibly thirsty.’

  ‘Um...’ She scanned the room for help. Jane and Mrs Jameson were gaping open mouthed at the woman. Reverend Farthing fiddled with his wig.

  ‘Of course we have champagne.’ Tristan stepped forward. ‘If you will allow me a moment, I’ll take care of it myself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, fixing her almond eyes on him. ‘You are Tristan Whitestone?’

  ‘Yes, although we have met briefly before.’

  ‘Before? I remember very little from before I’m afraid. I have been reincarnated you see, burnt on my husband’s funeral pyre and resurrected, a shadow of my former self.’

  ‘You husband has passed away my dear?’ asked Mrs Jameson.

  Lucinda’s lips parted in a grin which revealed a flash of her white teeth. ‘No, madam, but I wish he would.’

  Alice in Wonderland.

  Yes
, it had been Alice, the little girl in the story, who’d found herself shutting up like a telescope.

  Tristan disappeared from the room and the cold shiver of having been left stranded in a dark lonely place ran up Miranda’s spine.

  ‘We were commenting just now on how close the air is tonight,’ she faltered. ‘Reverend Farthing thinks that there’s going to be a storm.’

  But Lucinda only widened her great eyes in astonishment, as if she’d just been spoken to in an exotic language.

  ‘Really?’ she replied. ‘I rarely notice the weather.’

  How was it possible that someone swathed in such gaudy apparel could still appear so frustratingly beautiful? Miranda could barely take her eyes off her. Her neighbour’s face had suffered a little in the last year, that was quite evident. Her cheeks had grown lean and there were small lines forming at the corners of her eyes, but it was still the sort of face that could command an entire room to look at it and enough to make Miranda feel smaller and paler than ever.

  ‘I hope you are managing quite well on your own now,’ said Jane. ‘It was only the other day that I raised some concern at not having seen you since arriving at my sister’s house.’

  ‘I rarely leave my home,’ replied Lucinda. ‘It’s been quite miserable; there are so many wagging tongues out there you see. People with nothing better to do. No, I prefer to stay in my house for now, where I feel safe.’

  She drew her fingers through some loose locks of hair which had fallen over her shoulder between the feathers and Miranda’s hand darted instinctively to her own nest of hair, all wispy mousiness; quite impossible to coax into anything more than the drabbest of styles.

  Tristan swept back into the room, the butler following with champagne.

  ‘How long have you lived in Marguerite Avenue dear?’ asked Mrs Jameson.