Garden of Stars (3 page)

The sudden, harsh clatter of Inês's teaspoon sliding from her saucer and onto the wooden floor was exacerbated by the deep silence that had preceded its descent. The discordant sound echoed Sarah's emotions, the bittersweet nature of her Portuguese memories.

She picked up the spoon and put it on the tray. “Is there anything else you'd like, before we go?” she asked.

But Inês wasn't listening, lingering as she was in decades past.

“Of course, I was still very young when I moved away,' she murmured, her voice and demeanour almost trance-like. “I had fallen in love with John, married him and moved to the north, all by the time I was twenty.” She pulled her shawl tighter around her as if suddenly cold although the temperature had not changed. “It's strange to think now how little I knew him when I bound my life to his. The innocence of youth, I suppose.”

Inês's gaze wandered from the tall windows back to Sarah and she started slightly, as if surprised to find her still there. It seemed to remind her of something.

“I have something that might help you, my dear,” she said.

Sarah looked at her questioningly but said nothing, waiting patiently for Inês to carry on. Her speech was very slow these days.

“My journal. It's in my bedroom, next to my bed. Please take it, I'd like you to have it. I started it when I got engaged and kept it for a few years, writing in it regularly, until…” Inês stopped suddenly, as if unable to continue.

“Until what?” probed Sarah, gently.

“There are things in it you might find interesting,” Inês continued, ignoring Sarah's question. “That might…” She trailed off again. Her eyes, seeking the light, returned to the tall windows and then her heavy lids closed over them as if it were too bright, too intense.

“That might what?” asked Sarah, more urgently now.

But Inês was silent, dozing in her chair, her hands fallen to her sides.

2

London, 2010

The journal and what she would find in it absorbed Sarah's thoughts as she put the children to bed and prepared supper that evening. She had found the volume exactly where Inês had said it would be; it was bound in thick leather that smelt richly of quality and heritage and Sarah had tucked it firmly into her handbag before gathering up the girls to leave. It would be useful if she were able to glean any information for her article from it, but the real reason she was so intrigued to read it was the feeling she had that Inês had something on her mind that Sarah needed to uncover – and soon, before her great age might cause her health to deteriorate.

She hardly knew anything, she realised as she reflected, about Inês's emotional life, which she had never really shared with Sarah. Inês had gifted to her great-niece the flavours of Portugal through her stews of pork and beans, her custard tarts and the fresh herbs she had grown herself. But she had disclosed little about matters of the heart, about her husband, John, who had died whilst Sarah was still a child. With the absence of information about Inês and John's young life together, Sarah had only the photos in the family albums of a tall, strikingly handsome, athletic-looking man to go on, combined with the snippets of family legend she had heard over the years. So she had created her own impression, one in which Inês's past belonged to a different age of chivalry and courtliness, in which she had met and married her knight in shining armour. Eventually, after unspoken acts of heroism and derring-do in the Second World War, John had brought his beautiful bride to England which had allowed her to be part of Sarah's life.

What must it have been like, Sarah mused as she chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes, to have come from the brightness and light of Portugal to cold and lonely war-damaged London, demeaned by rationing and belittled by years of conflict? So, so different from what Inês was used to it was a wonder she had survived the shock. It had been hard enough for Sarah to return to England after only half a year. What were the words Inês had used that afternoon?
‘The innocence of youth.'
Sarah had been innocent, too, when she first went to Inês's homeland. Innocent – naïve, even – and inexperienced, but hungry for love, just like her great-aunt when she had met John. But her story hadn't ended as Inês's had; things had not worked out for her the way they had for Inês.

Pouring herself a glass of wine and shoving the casserole in the oven, Sarah pulled the journal out of her bag and sat down to read.

I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old (nearly 19). I live on a cork farm in the Alentejo region of Portugal with my mother and father and my younger brother and sister. I have one dog and three cats, and a pony called Pimento. Now that I am finally an adult and soon to be married, I feel like my real life is about to begin. I have decided to document everything that happens to me, for my children and my grandchildren.

But Inês hadn't had any children, thought Sarah, pausing as she read. She had smiled at Inês's mention of her pets, something that showed that, even though she regarded herself as a sophisticated adult, she was really not so very far away from childhood. But now she frowned, wondering as she often had why
her great-aunt was childless. It was a subject that had always been untouched and somehow untouchable, as if some hidden force field barred it from being raised. Perhaps the journal would also shed some light on this mystery.

The Alentejo, 1934

I chose my wedding dress today! It is so hot now that there is nothing to do but sit out the long afternoons inside with the shutters closed and the stone floors cooling my bare feet. If I can't be outside then I thought that I might as well put my time to good use by going through the sheaf of magazine cuttings the dressmaker lent me. Looking at all those immaculately coiffured brides in flowing white dresses gave me a headache; I had to keep thinking about John and how proud he would be to see me walking up the aisle towards him in order to concentrate on it. He is so tall and handsome, I need to look my very best so that I make all his hopes and dreams come true. Though I really shouldn't think like that because I know that John truly loves me and finds me beautiful – he says so often enough, which always, annoyingly, makes me blush.

It will be so thrilling to be married; apart from anything else, I'll be free to do whatever I like. I love my family and the cork farm beyond belief but there are so many limitations on what I am allowed to do. Once I become Mrs John Morton next spring, no one will be overseeing my every move; I shall go where I please and do as I wish. Some people have questioned the fact that John is ten years older than me and cautioned that we should wait a while before marrying but I really don't see why it matters. He says he has been waiting for the perfect woman to come along and now that I have, he wants to get on with it and I agree. At the moment, John lives in Lisbon but he's changing his job and we'll be going to Porto straight after the wedding. Porto! I've never even been there, in fact I haven't been anywhere further north than Coimbra. He'll be working for one of the British port wine companies, a very important job organising the shipping of the port all over the world. I'll have to learn English so that I can accompany him to social events and dinners; I only learnt French at school but I'm sure English won't be too much harder.

I've been imagining where we will live – it'll be completely different to here on the
montado
. This house is in the middle of nowhere but we'll live in the city centre in Porto, in an apartment. I think it will have high ceilings, and tall windows that look out onto a square with a splashing fountain, and the sunlight will catch the water in a myriad jewelled droplets. It will be so romantic.

But back to the dress! I finally found one that I liked. It has a nipped in waist, a beaded bodice and a long train. I will have it made in ivory satin as I think ivory is more sophisticated than pure white and sophistication is what I aspire to. I'm not sure that I'll ever quite make it – can you be sophisticated when what you really love to do is go to the farmyard and scratch the sow behind her ears so that she grunts with pleasure? Or, in the springtime, spend hours amongst the cork oaks watching the kites hunting and spotting the baby black storks in their nests? I'm not too sure…but perhaps one day I'll just wake up and find it has happened to me, as if by magic. Let's hope so.

My sister Maria is to be my bridesmaid. She's only eight and very sweet. She has soft brown hair with a fringe that almost covers her eyes because she hates to get it cut and she smells of sun and green olive soap
and home. We're going to miss each other terribly. That is the bad part of growing up and getting married – I will gain so much but leave so much behind.

Once, Maria got lost. She was already in bed – or supposed to be – as she is so much younger than Jorge, my brother who's 16, and I. When my mother went to kiss her goodnight, she found her bed empty. There was an awful commotion – we all searched the house from top to bottom, but she was nowhere to be found. We went to the farmyard and left no stone unturned but she wasn't there either. Finally, once we were all well and truly frantic with worry, Fausto the dog found her curled up and peacefully asleep amongst the roots of a cork tree.

We were so relieved that she was safe that at first that's all anyone could think of or talk about. But then it turned out that it was my fault, as I had told Maria that the cork trees get their shape because they jig about all night when no one is watching and then freeze to the spot, mid-dance, at daybreak. So she had gone out to see if it was true and unfortunately, because it was a dark night with hardly any starlight, she got completely lost and eventually became so tired with wandering blindly around the forest that she lay down to sleep, blissfully unaware of how much panic her disappearance had caused. Though pretty cross with me, for making up stories!

I'll miss all of this, when I've gone to Porto. But I must stop thinking like this. All of my friends are so jealous. They'd give their eye teeth to be marrying a man like John – so good-looking, so successful – and so exotically English.

To make it up to Maria that I'm leaving, at lunchtime I let her be the one to show the rest of the family the picture of the dress. I think they approved, although my mother reprimanded me for running everywhere, calling me an unbroken pony, if you can believe it! Really, she does exaggerate sometimes. I could hardly stop myself from laughing, especially as I could see Maria biting her lip and trying to keep a straight face whilst I got a scolding.

Soon, I'll be in charge of the dining room and the meals, choosing what to serve, planning menus. That's a scary thought, if I'm honest, because I'm not very domestic. But I'll learn. People say you can learn anything if you put your mind to it. My family are so happy for me to be making such a good match that I have a lot of expectation to live up to.

I can't and I won't let them down.

London, 2010

Sarah was still lost in Inês's past when she heard the key in the lock that signalled that Hugo was back from work. Instinctively, she looked at her watch and saw that it was much later than his text had said he would be back. She had not noticed the passing of time, so engrossed was she in what she was reading. Hastily, she closed the journal and opened her laptop, on which the email asking her to do the Portuguese story was still open. She had almost forgotten about it, and the decision she had to make, with the distraction of seeing Inês, the encounter with her curious visitor, and the gift of the journal. Now some of Inês's courage – preparing to leave all that was familiar to her in favour of the man she loved, to move far away from everything she knew – imbued itself in Sarah. She would not let painful memories that she should have left behind years ago define or restrict her.

She would take the commission. She would go to Portugal.

She heard the plump of Hugo's bag on the hall floor and the click of the catch on the door of the downstairs cloakroom. By the time he had entered the kitchen, she was refilling her own glass and pouring one for him.

“Hi,” she said, handing him the wine. “How was your day?”

As soon as she'd said it, she knew it was a mistake.

“Awful. Needy clients, uncooperative software, ridiculous deadlines.”

Hugo sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. “What's for supper?”

“Oh!” cried Sarah, suddenly remembering the casserole in the oven. Snatching up the oven gloves, she tore open the oven door and hauled out the heavy dish. The damage was confirmed as soon as she lifted the lid.

“I'm sorry, it's a bit – well, dry.” She peered into the pan, the heat from the desiccated food scorching her skin. “I'll make some more gravy, then it'll be fine.”

Hugo got out his phone and started scrolling through it as Sarah struggled to redeem the food. Stirring the gravy pan vigorously, she could feel her annoyance preventing the lumps from melting. He hadn't asked her anything about herself. There had been a time when he had been as interested in her work as in his own, but that time seemed to have been swept away by a tidal wave that had left only indifference in its wake.

“I've got the chance of a really good piece,” she announced, keeping her voice steady and calm. “An article about cork production.” She placed the casserole dish on the wooden mat she had put ready.

“That's great, darling, well done.” Hugo had put his phone on the table but he was still looking at it, either reading a message or expecting one.

Sarah plonked her wine glass hard down, slopping a few blood-red drops onto the table. “Isn't it good? I think it'll be really interesting.”

She paused, rubbing at the spilt wine with her fingertip. “The only thing is – as I said, it's about cork. Portuguese cork.” She realised that she was speaking unnaturally fast, as if getting the words out quickly would confuse Hugo into agreeing. “So – I'll have to go there for a few days. To Portugal. I'll have to go to Portugal.”