‘Aaaaaw!’ came a small strangled wail.
The knotted rope bent double, its head swooping down into the cot.
‘Get out!’ she screamed and the glass crunched beneath her naked feet as she threw herself forwards. ‘Leave us alone Tristan! Leave us in peace!’
The spine wavered, his great mouth gaped back at her as she plunged through the darkness, cold claws scrabbling against her skin. She tasted blood, her own, and threw her fists back at him.
Promise that you’ll come to me...
All she could hear was Walter’s voice ringing in her ears. She grasped the child up into her arms, wailing in frenzy against her neck, and at once the darkness seemed to shrink away: smaller and smaller into nothing but the brush of scurrying footsteps retreating across the floor. Gone.
She threw a few things into the same bag that she’d taken to Dover.
‘Right. Try not to look at this little man,’ she said.
But the baby watched intently from his position on her bed as she drew the shards of glass from her feet with tweezers and bound the wounds with torn strips from an old petticoat. There were deep scratches on her cheeks and neck as well, she could feel them with her fingertips. But she didn’t dare look at herself in a mirror, not yet.
‘We’re going now. This blanket should be warm enough for you.’ And she scooped him up, grasping the bag with her other hand. ‘We’re leaving this godforsaken place forever.’
The grey gloomy cloud of the downstairs hallway seemed to be spreading up the stairs. She plunged down through it, the precious bundle tightly in her grasp. Something soft like fingers strummed across her shoulder blades.
‘Don’t touch me! I’m not afraid of you Tristan. Do you understand?’ she screamed into the air, hugging the child even closer. A petulant whine rose up and then fell away behind her.
Her feet were throbbing now. She flung the door open and fell out into the street, the cold air stinging her face. As Marguerite Avenue flowed into the distance, each step felt as sharp as knives. The bandages on her feet began to squelch with blood and yet she found herself smiling all the same and then actually laughing out loud.
‘I’m free! Look at us little man, we’re free!’ she cried out.
A woman in black was approaching, a basket on her arm and the outline of a neat bonnet against the white morning sky. Gradually her face came into focus, peering back at her in criss-crosses of disbelief.
‘Mrs... White... are you quite alright? Why look at your face! What’s happened to you? And you can barely walk!’
Mrs Hubbard dropped her basket and dashed towards her.
‘It’s alright. I’m so glad you here, I didn’t think I’d see you again.’
‘I came early to help. Thought you’d have a bad night of it.’
‘And that I did! But it’s over now. We’ve left and we’re never going back again.’
A soft purring body suddenly pushed itself up against her leg. ‘And it looks like Minerva’s joining us!’
Mrs Hubbard’s jaw twitched. Her eyes wandered down the road towards the house and then back to her again.
‘So you’ve finally left,’ she murmured. ‘That place is a scourge of a house if you ask me...’
‘Not healthy for a young baby.’
‘Not healthy for anyone. Well,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Then I’m coming with you.’
‘Oh surely not! You have your sons.’
‘They don’t need me. Big grown men. You’re my family now. You and the young gentleman here. Come on, lean on my arm, that’s it. Slowly slowly.’
‘I am so fortunate to have met you. How can I ever thank you?’
‘You could start by telling me where we’re going.’
‘Oh, of course. We’re going to a place called Limehouse, to find Walter Balanchine.’
SERENA’S STORY
I heaved my suitcase up the last few steps and rammed the door open with my shoulder.
‘Welcome back.’
Seb was sitting on the edge my bed, pale faced and scruffy.
‘How was your Christmas?’ I asked.
‘Lonely. How was Druid Manor?’
‘Lonelier.’
He fidgeted with his hands. There were dark circles under his eyes. Neither of us seemed to be able to say anything. I began to unpack, my art things first, pulling open the drawer where I kept my hundreds of sketches.
‘Oh my God!’ I cried.
‘What?’
‘My drawings, they’ve all gone.’
I brushed my hand against the bare wood at the bottom of the drawer and then began pulling all the other drawers open as well, rummaging under bits of clothing and anything else inside. ‘No they’ve gone. Gone. Who could have taken them? Do you know?’
Seb had stood up, his shoulders seemed thin and hunched. He shrugged them.
‘I have no idea.’
The fire rose up inside me. ‘Even if you did, you wouldn’t tell me would you?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve changed. I knew you would.’
‘No I haven’t, I’m just... tired. Sorry.’
And I really was. In a moment my anger fell away again and left me with exhausting hollowness. I wanted so much to tell him about it all, before he had another chance to speak, but the words just jammed in my mouth. Instead I took him in my arms, gripping on as tightly as I could. He smelled of home and love and of being loved, his cheek nestled on the top of my head.
His hands moved down to my waist, pulling my top up and over my head, running his fingers down the sides of my ribs. And then, kneeling down, he found the scar on my side with his lips. I shivered at their touch, knotting my fingers in his hair and drawing him closer and closer still.
There was a letter waiting for me in the kitchen when I went down later.
‘How was your Christmas?’ I asked Gladys as I ran my finger under the seal.
‘Passable!’ she replied. She was feverishly whipping life into some egg whites at the kitchen table.
The letter was from Jessica.
Dearest Serena
I hope this gets to you before Christmas. I’ve been rather rushed getting ready for my cruise. If not then I hope they treated you well at Druid Manor. Is this our first Christmas apart?
I’m writing because I’ve uncovered a few interesting things about that street you’re living on. You asked me when I came to look into the cause of the missing house next door. I had a rummage through the archives (you can see that I’ve included some photocopies of various census records in this letter) and this is what has emerged:
It appears that in 1891, number 34 Marguerite Avenue was very much in existence. It was occupied by a seemingly childless couple called Tristan and Miranda Whitestone. Number 32 was owned by a family named Smithson and 36 by a couple called Alfonso and Lucinda Eden.
Now, the strange thing is that when you get to the census of 1901, there’s no record of 34 or the Whitestone couple whatsoever. A family by the name of Bone is now living at 32 and your house, number 36, is by then inhabited by Hartreves: Charles and Virginia Hartreve and their three children.
I’ve been through every manuscript and rotting piece of documentation I can find, but there is NO evidence of 34’s existence after that time. There are various records relating to the Whitestones from before then: their marriage certificate for example and documents appertaining to Tristan Whitestone’s profession. He was in India for a while but then returned, under a dark cloud it seems, to run his father’s business in London, which went into liquidation just a few years later. All records relating to his later movements and eventual death seem to have miraculously disappeared. His wife is nowhere to be found either.
All a bit of a mystery isn’t it? I’ve mulled it over again and again and although this sounds rather dramatic, I can’t help but think that someone has actively tried to make it all disappear. I’ve looked everywhere I can think of, but this particular little slice of Kensington history just seems to have been
lost forever. So there you go. Perhaps it would interest your hosts to pass on this information, or then again, it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie. I’ll leave that one to your discretion.
Much love,
Jessica
I picked up a pencil and began to dawdle on the back of the torn envelope.
‘Gladys?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been working here a long time, haven’t you?’
‘More years than I can count.’
‘What do you know of the house next door?’
She brushed the egg white off the spoon with her forefinger.
‘You mean number 32?’
‘Yes of course... there is no other house, surely?’
She raised her eyebrows and began to remove her apron.
‘It’s owned by the Herberts, or something like that. They’re never around. She’s French and they spend most of their time over there. Before them there was old Mr Bone.’
‘Bone?’
‘Yes. He inherited it from his parents, the youngest child and only son of an endless stream of children. I don’t know how his mother did it, silly little blonde thing!’
‘You speak as if you knew her.’
She patted her hair, hurrying to the door. ‘He lived well into his nineties, old Mr Bone, and then the house got sold out of the family. Is that the time? I’ve got all the unpacking to do and the washing. You don’t know how long it takes to get that damp Druid Manor smell out of those clothes...’
As soon as she was gone I dropped the pencil and picked up the census copies that Jess had included with the letter. The 1891 record sat on top and I scanned the list of names until my eyes landed on hers, Miranda Whitestone, in thick black handwriting. Surely this was the same Miranda White? She’d been married to a man called Tristan, and Lucinda, the rebellious young woman I’d seen in the painting, had been her neighbour. But the second record, ten years on, bore no number 34 on it at all.
The door swung open and Sasha walked in.
‘Good afternoon. I trust you had a good Christmas with the family,’ he said, pursing his lips into a tight little smile. ‘I’ve been looking for young Beth, do you know where she is? Upstairs in her room perhaps?’
The hairs on my arms stood up. ‘Yes she is but she’s rather tired and we have unpacking to do. Sorry.’
I snatched up my things and dashed out, passing Edward on my way up the stairs. His face looked sullen and hard, like a prison wall. He nodded at me but said nothing. Somewhere in the house there was a large thud.
Upstairs Beth was lying on her bed with three pillows over her head.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Eva keeps arguing and slamming doors. It’s driving me mad!’
Just on cue a mighty slam from below shook the walls of Beth’s room and up drifted the muffled sound of voices barking at each other in high-pitched tones.
‘Do you know what’s going on?’ I asked her.
‘Oh there’s a big article in one of the newspapers about Eva’s ex-boyfriend today. There’s stuff about her in it too and she hates it when it’s brought up.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I listened to her on the phone with Raphael.’
‘Beth!’
‘Don’t be angry! I do it all the time.’
‘And that’s supposed to make things better?... Look, I tell you what, let’s go to the park. We’ll kick some leaves about and get some fresh air and hopefully by the time we come back it’ll all be over.’
‘Alright then. But I want to bring my new scooter.’
‘Good idea.’
We meandered through the grey streets together, Beth scooting on ahead and the winter sky so low that it threatened to devour us. I had hoped it would feel better to be back in London, but the city was dead, its usual busy crowds still locked away consuming the dregs of Christmas leftovers.
We passed a small newsagent with an open sign in its door. A pile of newspapers was stacked up in the window.
‘Beth!’ I called. ‘Come back and I’ll buy you some sweets.’
‘Oooohh, yummy!’
I found the article whilst she was deliberating over the pick ‘n’ mix. It was on the second page of one of the tabloids:
Oligarch Flees Home After Police Enquiries
It was Eva’s ex alright, not that I’d ever met him, but there was a picture of her standing right next to him bang in the middle of the article. He was rather handsome: blonde and tall and she was sipping a glass of champagne under a big floppy hat. There were several lines about Eva:
... pictured here with his on-off partner Eva Hartreve who has a rather shady history of her own. Born into good English aristocratic stock she set tongues wagging a few years back with a teenage pregnancy: a result of dallying a little two merrily with one of her father’s friends, Lord Burnside. Is it ‘Ten Lords A-Leaping’ in the Christmas ditty? Well this Lord leapt all the way to South America, leaving his wife a miserable recluse in her Richmond shack. Society darling Eva Hartreve sure knows how to pick them. A close source has also indicated that there might be something even more to this cosy Burnside Hartreve relationship. Is such a thing possible? And could it carry the stench of dirty money along with it? Stay with us as the story unfolds.
A close source. Oh God, Sasha really was honing in on them now.
‘You found it then?’
I started and felt my face turn a guilty red as two blue eyes gazed up at me.
‘Found what?’
‘The article. The one that goes on about that silly Lord. They’ve got it all wrong you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not my daddy.’
I scrunched the paper closed. ‘Then who is? Do you know?’ I asked her in a voice that barely sounded like my own and instantly made me feel sick at myself.
The blue eyes blinked back at me. ‘Sorry, I can’t tell you. I’ve always promised not to tell anyone. But I thought you’d guessed? Maybe it’s true...’
‘What’s true?’
‘That sometimes people can’t see what’s right under their noses.’
I put my hands on her shoulders and squeezed them softly.
‘I’m sorry I asked you.’
‘It’s alright. Can we buy the sweeties now?’ she shrugged me off. ‘Look, I’ve chosen all my favourites and some of yours too.’
When we returned to the house Sasha was loitering in the hallway.
‘Hello!’ cried Beth.
‘Yes yes, hello there,’ he answered through gritted smiling teeth. ‘Now run along to the kitchen. Run along.’
I followed after Beth as she trotted away but his arm snatched out at me, grabbing my elbow towards him so hard that I winced. He drew his face close to mine; I could see the moisture on his teeth.
‘I have your picture,’ he whispered through them.
‘Oh! So you took my drawings. How dare you! I want them back.’
He drew his eyebrows together and fished something out of his pocket.
‘I don’t know what you mean about drawings but this is what I have,’ he muttered.
In his hand I saw the torn envelope that Jessica’s letter had come in. I’d dawdled a picture of Seb on it; his mouth and his eyes so sad.
‘You left it, in the kitchen. I want... I need to speak to you about this,’ he said, his eyes flashing.
I backed away from him across the hallway. ‘Not now.’
‘Then when?’ he snarled, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice.
‘Not now. I don’t know when.’
A flock of seagulls skirted up into the white sky and then fell back down again, eyes bent on a catch. I couldn’t see the river behind the houses but I could smell its closeness in the air: damp and onerous.
She wasn’t in. I knocked on the door once more - nothing. The seagulls soared up again, screaming into the sky. Then something moved behind the smoked pane of glass at the top of the door; the fuzzy
silhouette of someone’s head.
‘Hello. Is that Lady Burnside?’
‘Who are you? Why are you disturbing me?’ came a clipped, queenly voice from the other side.
‘My name is Serena; I’ve come here to speak to you about the Hartreve family.’
‘Didn’t I tell you people to go away?’
‘No, please hear me out. I’m not a journalist...’
‘I don’t care who you are, goodbye.’
‘Please, I’m only asking for a few minutes of your time. I work for the Hartreves; I’m actually employed as their nanny. Here, this is my contract of employment with them.’
I prodded the piece of paper through the letterbox with my finger.
There was a moment of silence, then the rustling sound of my contract being snatched up.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve... I’ve come to tell you something. And also to find out anything you might know about the family. I know you were once good friends. I’ve become involved with one of them you see... and there’s something I need to tell you. But you have nothing to worry about, really. I have no more interest in speaking to the press than you do.’
The door creaked open and a lined, once handsome face, looked me up and down.
‘Come on in then if you must. But only for a minute or two.’
Lady Burnside’s conservatory looked out onto the river. It was furnished with large wicker chairs, their cushions faded by too much sun. She sat opposite me, bolt upright, with her fingers firmly interlocked in her lap.
‘So which of the family members are you sleeping with then, not Edward surely?’
‘No.’ I wanted to shrink back into the cushions. ‘It’s Sebastian, Sebastian White.’
The Room Beyond Page 26
