Garden of Stars (28 page)

“I should think it is a possibility!” Dr Graham's red cheeks wobbled as he guffawed. “It usually is, with you young married women. Although most of them take a bit less time about it.”

I wasn't sure whether to be relieved that I didn't have to explain further or insulted. He unnerved me and made me feel young and silly.

“So – let's do a test…my nurse will show you what's required. I'll write to you with the results and see you again in ten days or so. In the meantime, no vigorous exercise, horse riding or any of that kind of malarkey. Eat sensibly, lots of fresh food, and plenty of rest.”

The doctor got up, opened the door to his room and called out, “Nurse Alves!” His voice was so loud that I jumped out of my skin and dropped my handbag, which crashed to the floor and burst open, revealing my pocket book, keys and assorted ends of lipsticks that lay within. I know that I flushed bright red as I hastily bent to pick it up.

“Steady on, Mrs Morton, easy does it. Not too much bending and stretching, not good for baby.” He was still booming as if talking to Nurse Alves down the corridor, rather than to me right next to him.

“Thank you, Dr Graham. I'll see you…shortly.” My own voice was faint with relief and the desire to leave the room and arrive at the safety of Nurse Alves's comforting presence. I would be able to speak Portuguese with her, and Nurse Alves would reassure me, as she had surely dealt with more mothers-to-be than there were cobbles on the hilly streets of Porto, and was familiar with every detail of pregnancy and childbirth.

It was an anxious wait over the next week for the letter to arrive. I'm not entirely sure how the time passed; I was in a daze. My only comfort was that I
felt
pregnant…felt that inside me, a new life was beginning.

When the letter finally arrived today, I was glad to have the opportunity to read it alone. But all is well. A pregnancy is confirmed. After all this time, it has happened, the thing I have longed and yearned and hoped for.

I am so, so lucky.

This evening, I took John's coat as he entered the apartment's tall double doors on his return from work. I poured him a gin and tonic, and gestured for him to sit down as I placed it on a mahogany side table. “John, I've got something to tell you.”

He took a long swig from the glass and sat back, gazing at me expectantly.

“I'm pregnant!” The words exploded out, faster and louder than I had intended. I was going to have a baby to love and care for and cherish and spoil. It would make up for anything I didn't have, or had lost.

There was a pause and then suddenly John was out of the chair, shouting, “Inês, I love you, I love you. A baby…a baby at last!” He picked me up to swing me around, faster and faster, gripping me so tight I was sure he would squash the unborn child, and making me feel sick. I shrieked in protest and implored him to put me down.

“John, not so fast, you're making me giddy.” I tried to release myself, but his hold was too strong. “John, really. Put me down – you might hurt the baby.”

He stopped instantly, placed me gently onto my feet and relaxed his grip on me. “Oh my God, no. I haven't done any damage, have I? Have I, Inês?”

I bit my lip. I could feel my forehead crease with anxiety. “No, no of course not. I didn't mean it, there's no harm done.”

He rested his head onto my shoulder where it felt warm and heavy, solid. Left it there for minutes of silence, holding me close to him, only our breathing separate.

“Don't worry. This baby will be fine. He or she will be strong as an ox, just like you.”

23

London, 2010

A pure white ribbon tied the book's pages together and Sarah toyed with it between her fingers, its silky smoothness reminiscent of a newborn's skin. It looked like it came from a baby's hat, or a pair of hand-knitted bootees.

“I think I was beginning to guess that perhaps you had had a child,” she said, lifting her head and looking away from the book's thick pages towards Inês. She spoke slowly, considering every word. “I know from the journal how much you wanted one.”

Inês nodded. “We called her Isabel. That's her in the photo you saw. The mother is me, not Maria. It's the only photo I have of her.” Inês paused, her breathing slow and too shallow, as if she scarcely had energy enough to suck in air. “She had blonde hair, you know. Not much of it, but what there was, was blonde, and her skin was pale. She was very fair, unusually so.

“We loved her so much. Just as I've seen you love your girls. We treasured her.”

Sarah's head dropped into her hands. This was unbearable. The pain and raw emotion emanating from her great-aunt were as fresh as if caused yesterday.

Porto, 1938

We were having lunch at the Infante de Sagres, the best hotel in Porto, when it happened. The waiter had just shown me the customary selection of huge wicker-covered flagons containing water from various of Portugal's most renowned spas. In the Algarve, the choice might be between Agua de Monchique or Agua de Mouro, say, whilst here in the north, perhaps water from Luso or Chaves. I was finding it unusually hard to decide when I felt an aching pain across my stomach that made me gasp for air and almost double up in agony.

Seven hours later, with Dr Graham and Nurse Alves in attendance, my baby girl was born. She had a shock of hair and huge, melting eyes. We named her Isabel. She had barely taken her first breath before John and the doctor had uncorked the vintage port that John had laid in for the occasion and were wetting her head. I was too exhausted to care what anyone else was doing. I lay in bed with my baby daughter, tightly swaddled in a snow-white blanket, beside me.

The love that swelled my heart was so great that I could not comprehend it. I kissed the tiny face, cheeks warm but still red and shrivelled from the birth, and together we slept, almost as close as if she were still inside me, until the early hours of the morning.

John is the picture of the devoted father, I the doting mother. Both of us are utterly transported by delight in our infant. Work no longer holds John hostage; instead, he leaves promptly at 5pm every afternoon to make sure he is home to rock and cradle and dote on his daughter before bedtime. I sing her lullabies and songs, tickle her toes and hands and shower her with kisses from morning until night.

We have hired a nursery nurse to help me but, whilst I appreciate Marta's expertise, I don't really want anyone else caring for my baby. Fortunately, Marta finds plenty to occupy herself, washing nappies and cotton nighties and ironing everything to perfection. The only thing she insists on is that I rest every afternoon for at least two hours. She is adamant that a mother cannot provide milk for her baby if she is tired.

Sometimes I sit and cradle Isabel in my arms and simply look at her, regarding how steadily she holds my gaze, how her lips purse and relax, mimicking a sucking motion, and how her tiny arms wave spontaneously in the air. I will the world to stop turning for a few moments so that I can hold time suspended and revel in the rapture I feel for my daughter.

Nothing is too good for the new arrival. John has had a top quality Silver Cross pram imported from England. It's white with a navy hood and cover, and is padded inside. Its two front wheels are large; the back two even larger and set wider apart so that they overlap with the front ones. It springs up and down as I push it over Porto's cobbles; the bouncing invariably sends Isabel to sleep - the bouncier the better, in fact - so I assume that she likes it. When she wakes, she opens her huge eyes and looks straight at me, and waves her tiny arms and kicks her tiny legs in joy at seeing me (or so I like to think!). I wish I could do the same to show how much I love her back. I lose count of the times I have to stop for passers-by, known and unknown, to admire Isabel. Nobody can tell me enough how beautiful, how alert, how obviously intelligent, my baby is.

The Silver Cross isn't the only four-wheeled mode of transport to herald the arrival of Isabel. John has bought a car! I'm happy for him to have it, even though I have never felt the need for a motorised vehicle. It's sweet to see how much he loves it, always keeping it polished and gleaming, making sure it is a chariot worthy of his first child. All Portuguese treasure and adore their children, but everyone else we know has them coming out of their ears. The problem, for most, is how not to have too many children. It seems to be only us, John and I, who have waited and hoped and despaired for so long. It's natural that he wants to spoil Isabel in every way that he can.

For her part, Isabel seems as happy with the internal combustion engine as with my pushing power. I put her carry cot on the back seat and she follows the clouds with her eyes until she falls fast asleep. John insists that, in the summer, when she is bigger, we will drive to the
montado
and spend some time with my parents. Perhaps Isabel will be able to take part - watching from her pram - in the gathering and selection of the acorns from which the cork seedlings will be grown. My father is keen to get started on the new plantation he has promised his first grandchild.

In the meantime, John is full of plans for weekends, what we could do and where we could go - once Marta has deemed Isabel strong enough for journeys, of course. He suggested Aveiro, but I wasn't keen on that idea. It is far too far, much too hot, the water probably harbours diseases, and there are bound to be mosquitoes.

So today, we went to the beach at Miramar, just a few miles south of the city, Praia da Luz instead. I sat in the back, next to Isabel in her basket, and watched the tall houses give way to the rolling ocean. We parked right beside the beach and I carried my baby onto the sand, holding her so that she could see the sea and feel the salt wind on her cheeks.

I tied her bonnet firmly under her chin, and we walked to the water's edge where John dangled her bare toes in the foaming tops of the breakers as they rolled into shore, just a few inches deep by that point, and then snatched her away so that she flew through the air, a white-robed angel. Isabel squealed and waved her arms and kicked her legs so much that John declared her a water baby just like her mother. I fussed that it was too cold, that her feet had turned to ice, that the sun was too hot on her face. But then I stopped myself; I mustn't let motherhood, however long in coming, however striven for, turn me into a worrier.

Day follows blissful day, and although there are sleepless nights and times when Isabel cries for a reason that I cannot discern, in general things go smoothly. Marta is impressed by my calm, confident manner with my infant; she disapprovingly tells me that many new mothers go completely to pieces.

I took Isabel to see Dr Graham today for her six-week check. He declared himself delighted with her progress. She is bonny, she is blithe, she is good and she is gay, just as a baby born on the Sabbath should be.

It was a beautiful day, one of those where the sun glints off every windowpane and the air is full of the scent of the sea. When we got home, I carried Isabel to the tall window that looks out, in the very far distance, over the poor people's houses that resemble a child's fallen building blocks tumbling haphazardly down the hill. I took Isabel's now plump right arm and waved it at those faraway people living faraway lives.

I do not need to envy them any longer.

London, 2010

Sarah tightened her grip on Inês's hands, conscious that her own palms were now damp with sweat. Bile gurgled in her stomach and rose in her throat. There could only be one conclusion to this story.

“When she was a few months' old, we were invited to a ball in Lisbon. It was through work colleagues of John's, and was to be a very grand affair. We were to be guests in their house – a beautiful villa. It was in Cascais. Or perhaps it was Carcavelos…” Inês's voice trailed off and Sarah handed her a glass of water to sip and moisten her dry lips.

“The maid was to look after Isabel while we were out. I wasn't that keen on leaving her, but John said that it was important for his career.”

Inês was gazing a long way into the distance when she began to speak again. “On the night of the ball we all got dressed up and there was a great deal of excitement. It was a fabulous evening. Although I hadn't wanted to go, I remember I enjoyed myself greatly.”

Despite the fact that she knew disaster was surely coming, Sarah couldn't help but picture the scene, the beautiful young people gathered together, the women in their long dresses, gloves and pearls, the men smart in suits and bow ties. She could hear their lively chattering voices and the rich, sweet scent of perfume and fresh flowers mingling with the smoke from expensive cigars.

“When we got back, I went straight to Isabel. I fed her, then put her back to bed. I kissed her and I remember she looked at me with her huge eyes before she fell back to sleep.

“When I went to get her in the morning, she was dead.”

Sarah could feel the agony in Inês's hands, sense the terror, the bewilderment, the horror of that moment.

“Oh my God, Inês, that's awful. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. You must have been devastated. You and John. So devastated.”

Inês's eyes were narrow with grief, the pain visible and real.

“There didn't seem to be any reason why she died. Cot death, the doctor said.”

“Sudden Infant Death Syndrome,” murmured Sarah, recalling what she knew of this terrifying killer.

“That's right. They come up with fancy names and syndrome this, disorder that. But it doesn't change the facts. Your baby dies and you don't know how or why. She was just lying there, blue and cold.”

Inês' lips were trembling but her voice was steady. “To make it worse, we had been going to have her christening before we went to Lisbon, but delayed it for ten days as she had a cold and was very fractious. So she died before being baptised. I've never forgiven myself for that.”