The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,2

enveloped in the scent of something magical: cinnamon, ginger, lavender and several spices she can’t possibly name, and her fears evaporate. She feels three years old again, transported to a wished-for childhood of baking biscuits with her mother on Sunday afternoons. If Peggy is bewitching her, then the spell is complete.

A few minutes later Alba sits at one end of a long oak table, watching Peggy search for a saucepan. The old woman is bent over, clattering around in the wooden cupboards, muttering swear words as she flings unwanted pans aside. Alba begins to wonder just how old Peggy is. With her white hair and papery skin, slight stoop and frail limbs, she might be anything from seventy to a hundred and seven. But her movements are quick and light and her voice doesn’t carry any quiver or depth from age.

Peggy stands, brandishing a saucepan. “I hope you like hot chocolate, dear,” she says. “I don’t think tea will quite do, we need something a little more fortifying on such an auspicious occasion. Hot chocolate with fresh cream, that’s the thing.”

Alba nods, still captivated by the kitchen’s smells, still shocked by the turn her night has taken, not really registering what Peggy’s saying. While the old woman pours a pint of milk into the saucepan, Alba glances around the kitchen. It’s vast, the length of a long garden, with creamy yellow walls that reach up to meet black oak beams running across the arched ceiling. As in the hall, every inch of the kitchen is covered with endless rows of photographs. Alba gazes at them, wondering who they are and why they are decorating the old woman’s walls.

“They’ve all lived here, at one time or another.” Still stirring the milk at the stove, Peggy speaks without turning around. “They came to the house, just like you, when they’d run out of hope.”

Alba frowns at the back of Peggy’s patchwork dressing gown, at the wild white hair reaching down to her waist, wondering how on earth the old woman knew what she was thinking.

“They left to lead wonderful lives or, in some cases, afterlives.” Peggy chuckles. “The old residents can inspire you, if you let them. One in particular, actually.”

“Oh?” Alba asks, only half listening. In a frame just above the kitchen sink she sees an oil painting of a woman with blond hair twisted into knots at the sides of her head. Alba squints for a better look. “But, that’s—”

“Yes.” Peggy doesn’t turn to look. “She stayed here in 1859, suffering from a severe bout of writer’s block. She started writing Middlemarch in this very kitchen.”

“No,” Alba gasps, “really?”

“Oh yes. Half the history of England would be quite different if this house had never been built, believe me.”

And although she can’t explain why, Alba does. She already feels closer to this old woman than to her own family. Peggy stops stirring, steps over to the fridge, tugs open the door, sticks her head inside and takes out a china bowl. “This cream is the real stuff,” she says, and smiles. “I whipped it up myself. I can’t countenance that synthetic crap one squirts from a bottle, can you?”

“No.” Alba agrees, amused to hear such a sweet old lady swear.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Peggy sets the bowl down on the marble counter next to the stove. “I can’t trust anyone who won’t take real cream, or real sugar. Those”—Peggy searches for the word and shudders—“sweeteners. They really are beyond the pale, don’t you think?”

Alba watches Peggy stirring cocoa into the milk. Suddenly she never wants to leave. She wants to sit in this kitchen, surrounded by the smell of spices, forever. Alba slips off her coat, realizing she hasn’t thought about the worst event of her life for nearly twenty minutes, ever since she stepped into the house.

“Why did you invite me in?” Alba asks. “It was very kind, but I don’t see . . .”

“You don’t?” Peggy smiles. “Because I think you see an awful lot more than most people.” She sets two giant mugs down on the table. “Don’t you?”

“Thank you.” Alba glances at her cup. It’s the first time in her life that anyone has ever guessed who she is and what she can do. “Yes,” she admits softly, “I suppose so, though not since . . .”

Peggy takes a sip of hot chocolate. “Since what, my dear?”

Alba looks up. How can she possibly explain the devastating events of the last few days? Her head is so