The Room Beyond

Copyright © 2013 Stephanie Elmas

www.stephanieelmas.com

Published by Banstead House 2013

Cover design by Jennie Rawlings/ serifim.com

Front cover image supplied by Photodisc/Getty Images

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance
to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9927015-1-2

Serena’s Story

I gazed at the door. It seemed impolite to invade the slumbering air
by knocking, so instead I watched my reflection in its glossy black paint: a
medley of curves, as if a stone had unsettled the waters of a well. And then I
checked the two brass numbers at the top again: 36.

The heat had made a mess of me. My new linen suit clung to my hips
and ribs as if it had shrunk a size and the lining glued itself against my
white shirt underneath. To make matters worse the buds of blisters were now
rising up beneath the soles of my feet and at the sides of my toes.

Inching back I peered up at the façade of the building, the last in
a long grand terrace of almost identical houses. I had to crane my neck just to
take in the full complement of storeys that seemed to sprout up and out of each
other like the layers of a wedding cake.

In the corner of my left eye the terrace stretched out into the
distance; a fortress of sparkling whiteness. It brought back a distant memory
of standing, dwarfed by the wall of a moored luxury cruise ship. And yet to my
right, only a few steps away, the road was entirely cut off by an old wall, held
together mostly by wild plants and a prodigious climbing rose. That’s what made
it so quiet here, this unexpected slice of nature forcing the road into a dead end.
Almost as if it was trying to fool me into thinking that I wasn’t actually in
London at all.

The front door seemed to be growing in size, as impenetrable as a
castle gate. I forced a few lungfuls of air in, tried to blow some of it up
onto my baking cheeks, and then I caught sight of a stucco moulding just above
the door. It was a little blurred, distorted by more than a century of polluted
air and numerous coats of paint no doubt, but it was still possible to see the
outline of a garden in it, with a blossoming tree at the centre. There were two
figures in the scene as well, Adam and Eve perhaps, entwined lovingly and yet
half hidden by the tree.

‘Can I help you at all?’

I jumped at the sight of a man standing before me; the door suddenly
and miraculously open. He was in his late fifties perhaps: tall and lean-faced,
his limbs protruding from starched tennis whites.

‘I’m here for the interview?’

His brow wrinkled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about an
interview, are you sure you’ve got the correct address?’

‘Yes I have, but it’s funny you should say that because just now I
got slightly confused by the numbering on your street. The houses, they jumped
from 32 to 36...’ His wide eyes looked patient if not a little perplexed. ‘I
was expecting this one to be 34 you see, although I’m sure everyone says the
same thing... Do they?’

‘Some do.’ He heaved a sports bag across his shoulder and then
looked back at me. ‘Just a bit of war damage. May I ask, for what position are
you expecting to be interviewed?’

‘Oh, yes of course. The nanny position.’

His eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled up even more. ‘Are you quite
sure?’

‘Yes. I have an appointment with Arabella Hartreve.’

‘Well that’s my wife. I suppose you’d better come in. She’s
somewhere in the house, just have a rummage around.’

He squeezed his long limbs past me and strode out into the street.

‘Oh, and if you find her could you let her know that the Portuguese
Ambassador is coming for drinks tonight? Nice to meet you.’

The first thing I heard inside the house was music, the soft tones
of a piano drifting across the hallway. And the air smelt delicious: baking and
wood polish mixed up together. Exactly how a home should smell.

The music seemed to be coming from a room to the right, just before
the bottom step of a great curving staircase. A teenage boy was sitting in
there, at a grand piano. He seemed to have come to the end of his piece but was
now striking three or four notes repeatedly, his eyes half closed in the
deepest concentration. His long slim build was similar to that of the man I’d
just met at the front door, but his skin was peppered with spots and he had
that awkward teenage appearance of a face that hadn’t quite filled in yet.

Suddenly he looked up at me.

‘Hello. I’m looking for Arabella Hartreve. Do you know where she
is?’

‘Upstairs. Second door on your left.’

‘Thank you.’

He stretched his fingers across the keys again and launched into a
fresh piece of music.

Climbing up the grand staircase of the house felt a little like
entering a museum. The air was cool but weighed down by the presence of so much
polished wood; definitely not the sort of place where you could shout, or perch
on a step to chat on the phone, or walk about in a dressing gown. And yet in
spite of its grandeur, there was also something rather faded and weary about
the place. The walls were positively crammed with photos, prints and paintings
and the carpet on the stairs was tatty at the edges, crushed thin in places.

You see I am a home. A real home,
it
seemed to say.

I breathed in the atmosphere with the same enthusiasm as city dwellers
do the country air. And I ran my fingers up the winding wooden banister, swept
to a shine by a century of hands.

Upstairs the patchwork of prints and paintings continued. The second
door on the left had a stained glass panel in the upper half depicting a scene
of Grecian revellers drinking wine and feeding grapes to one another. All
seemed quiet inside, but as soon as I knocked a silhouette moved towards me
through the glass. The door swung open and a man looked up at me. He was small
and round with twitchy, bird-like features.

‘Hello. I’m here for the interview...’

He crossed his arms impatiently and frowned.

‘... I’m here to see Arabella Hartreve?’

‘Serena, is that you?’ exclaimed a female voice from inside the room.
‘You’ve caught me unawares! I’m awfully behind with things today.’

‘I’m so sorry Mrs Hartreve,’ I called back over the man’s shoulder. ‘You
don’t have to see me now. I can wait downstairs if you prefer.’

‘No, that’s fine. Sasha was just leaving, weren’t you?’

He made a reluctant bow and then brushed past me, his face crunched
up like a fist.

‘Now do come in.’ And the woman herself suddenly materialized before
me with a sort of conjurer’s flourish.

I swallowed hard at the sight of her. She was beautiful, just like
someone with a name like Arabella Hartreve should be. But it was the sort of
beauty that instinctively made me want to take a step back.

It was her skin that caught my attention first; almost too perfectly
smooth to be real. How old was she? Thirties... forties... fifties? And
although her face was quite angular, it was dominated by large eyes and rather
thick, sensual lips. Like the sort of mannequin you see behind an expensive
shop window.

‘Come on in. You look awfully hot, is it steaming out there?’

‘Yes it is. Lovely and cool in here though.’

The room was a spacious, shady office with shutters at the windows
keeping the blazing sun at bay. And she too was coolness personified. The soft
scent of patchouli wafted around her as she moved and she was wearing a
floor-length chiffon dress that would have fitted in rather well with the
Bacchanalian scene in the room’s door.

‘Would you like a drink? I do recommend water, with a hint of lime.’

She waved a hand towards a decanter on a nearby dresser. Above it
hung a framed black and white photograph of a young dark-haired man with his
face turned back towards the camera as if he’d suddenly been caught out. He had
long, thoughtful features, the centre of his eyebrows raised in a questioning
arc; very handsome in an old-fashioned film star sort of way, or maybe that was
just because the photo was in black and white.

‘Ah now that’s my son Raphael,’ said Arabella.

‘It’s a good picture.’

‘Yes I can see you like it... did you want a drink?’

‘Oh, yes please,’ I scooped up a glass. The decanter was deliciously
cool, covered in tiny spheres of condensation. ‘Um... as my aunt explained to
your friend, I don’t really have much experience of looking after children. I
hope she made that clear to you.’

‘Now how did I get your details again, please remind me. I’ve had
several agencies on my back and they’re all so ridiculously pushy: wanting me
to make hundreds of phone calls and fill in thousands of forms. It’s simply not
my way. I’m far too busy for all of that with my Africa work.’

‘Africa work?’

‘Yes. And my arthritis,’ she added, drawing her long and rather
nimble looking fingers through ringlets of ash-blonde hair.

‘Well my aunt, Jessica Eustace, is a member of an amateur dramatics
group with a friend of yours, Susan Norris? It was Susan who said you were
looking for a nanny. That’s why I wrote to you.’

‘Susan Norris, Susan Norris...’ she swished the name about in her
mouth as if she were tasting a new wine. ‘Yes, I have a vague recollection. I
meet so many charity people, she must be on one of my boards.’

‘Oh I see. Anyway, as I said, I’m not an experienced nanny. But I
really love children and am quick to learn. I was actually wondering whether I
could meet your daughter?’

‘Of course you can, but I couldn’t possibly tell you where she is
right now. Probably in a bar, or at her club.’

‘But isn’t she... four years old?’

Arabella drew her eyebrows up into her hairline and suddenly
exploded into tinkling laughter.

‘Oh, you mean my granddaughter!’ she cried out. ‘You’ve been
mistaken, Beth is my granddaughter.’

‘Really? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. It’s just that you look so
young.’

‘On the contrary, you’ve made my day.’

My cheeks were burning again. ‘So, would it be possible to meet your
granddaughter then? Beth? I didn’t see her when I came in.’

‘Oh my dear, I don’t have a clue where she is either. Don’t ask me. No,
I don’t watch over her. As I said earlier I have my Africa work.’

‘And your arthritis.’

‘Yes. Now Serena,’ and she clapped her palms firmly down on her
knees. ‘Fascinate me!’

I stared back into her expectant face.

‘What, what would you like to know?’

‘Gosh, I’m not sure really. What does one reveal in these sorts of
interviews? Perhaps you could tell me something interesting about your
upbringing.’

‘My upbringing? It wasn’t all that fascinating I’m afraid,’ I
laughed.

But she said nothing in response. I searched for some words as her
long fingers began to fiddle with the edge of a tablecloth. She raised her
other hand to her mouth for a moment, as if she were stifling a yawn.

‘Um, well my aunt, who I just mentioned, brought me up...’ I began. ‘My
parents died when I was young. But I suppose what’s most interesting about me
is my love of art. Ever since I was a child I’ve wanted to draw and paint and
I’ve had bits and pieces of success so far. I’d love to show you some of it,
perhaps... it wouldn’t interfere with my work here of course. Actually I was
fascinated to see the large collection of art you have in this house.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘To who?’

‘Your parents.’

A flicker of interest seemed to have sparked up in her eyes. Her
fingers had stopped fiddling with the tablecloth.

‘Tell me about it,’ she said in a hushed voice.

‘I really don’t think... It was a long time ago.’

She raised her shoulders in a little shrug. ‘Well it’s up to you of
course, I wouldn’t want to pry.’

A breeze drifted through the room and across my face, the sunlight
winking at me through the gaps in the shutters. I’d never been in a home like
this before, with grand pianos and winding staircases. And yet there was still
something familiar about it; the smell of baking perhaps, bringing back old
childhood memories.

‘Such a long time ago.’

She raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

‘There was an accident. A group of them were in a clapped-out old
minibus on their way into London.’

I glanced into her eager face. Somewhere a clock was chiming.

‘Something snapped in its engine along a busy shopping street. The
driver lost control and the bus veered into a shop window. So... I went to live
with my aunt and there I stayed.’

The shafts of light sneaking through the shutters merged for a
moment into a single golden puddle.

Arabella gazed back at me.

‘And do you believe that they are now with God?’ she murmured. A
silvery scarf had found its way into her hands and she drew it around her neck,
running its tassels through her fingers.

‘No. No I don’t think so.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why not? Surely in your circumstances you
would find it of some comfort to believe in life after death?’

‘I find it hard to believe in things that I can’t see.’