Garden of Stars (39 page)

Carrie caught Sarah's eye and they both burst out laughing.

“You are joking? Do women really write stuff like that? Like a bad Mills & Boon?”

“Seems so. It was only twice and then he called it off, hence the message.”

“How are things now?”

“Like I said, we rub along. Love is never going to be earth-shattering and momentous after so many years, is it? But I guess the point is that when you were talking about your problems I was trying to pretend I didn't have any myself. But that wasn't true.”

Sarah smiled sadly. “I'm not sure you can get to our age with no problems at all.”

“I guess not.” Carrie groaned as she got up from her chair and winced as she bore the weight of her enormous baby bump. “Mine feels like it's elephant-sized right now.”

“Just think of how many people would like to have
that
problem.”

Carrie sighed. “I know. Poor Inês.”

Their email account, hers and Scott's, bulged. It was thick with messages, anecdotes, stories. Words of love. Sarah scrolled through them; pages and pages of messages, each with five, ten, fifteen strands within. She opened and reread those whose titles caught her attention. She wondered whether to print them out, store them in a box tied with ribbon as the romantic heroines of bygone days used to do.

She saw herself, old like Inês, looking back at them. Would they make her smile, would she cherish the joy? Should they serve as a permanent memorial to a fantasy that she nurtured for far too long before finally letting go?

She ran the mouse over the smooth cork mat that she had used so often since those hot and sultry Portuguese days when it had all started. She looked at the image of the cork tree, tall and proud, forever held at some midpoint in its lifecycle of harvesting and regeneration.

Once she had made the decision, it wasn't as hard as she had anticipated. They were just words on a page. She knew what she had to say. She could have carried on, written a whole page, two pages, ten… But it wouldn't have changed anything.

Maybe all she had ever needed to know was that, all those years ago through that precious, endless, sun-kissed summer, it was she whom he had truly loved.

Maybe that was enough.

Dear Scott

I so wish things had been different.

We could have been good – no, great - together.

But it's too late now.

We both know that.

Thanks for everything.

Love you so very, very much, forever and always, Sarah xxx

She deleted the email account, knowing that Scott had no other address for her, either real or virtual, no way to track her down. Her landline was not in the phone book, she was not on any company website, had no profile on any social networking site. She set in motion changing her mobile number; she could tell Hugo that she'd been getting nuisance calls.

She felt the tears pour down her cheeks. She could hear the children, calling from downstairs. Their shouts grew louder and louder as she ignored them.

By the time she realised that Ruby was in the room, the little girl had already reached her side. She tentatively stretched out her hand and placed her fingers on her mother's arm, splayed like a pale starfish on the black sleeve of her jumper. Sarah laid her own hand over the top of it. Ruby's skin was soft as the satin edge of a favourite comfort blanket.

“What's wrong, mummy? Why are you crying?”

Sarah felt the sobs rack through her. She struggled to hold them back, so as not to frighten Ruby, but Ruby began to wail, too. Sarah hugged her, gathered her close, held her tight. Honor joined them and the two girls piled onto her lap and they sat with Sarah's arms around them until they heard Hugo arriving home and went downstairs to greet him.

Sarah got thinner and thinner, and more and more tired, seeming to eat and sleep less each day. She knew she had to focus on what was real. Just take each day as it came, each hour. She saw her life stretching ahead into infinity. It was like looking at an old map of the world, with the unknown, undiscovered parts marked ‘there be dragons'.

Frightened.

That was how she felt about the future. Shored up for so long by the cherished dream of Scott, there was nothing but a vacuum to take its place.

She tried to carry on as normal. Making herself physically, as well as mentally, exhausted, working her muscles so that they ached for days, seemed a suitable displacement activity, so she went to the gym, choosing the most challenging circuit class on offer. The studio had been recently refurbished, and was beautiful, all wood and steel beams, high ceilings, fresh paint, massive mirrors. Sarah and her fellow exercisers ran, jogged, sprinted, skipped and star jumped, the instructor leading, a prancing Lippizaner stallion in a brown Superdry T-shirt.

Kneeling on a mat to do press-ups she saw on the floor before her droplets of sweat from the previous occupant, a dark-skinned man with glasses and brand new, blinding white trainers. She thought of Scott, of his sweat, and how it had poured from his forehead as he made love to her in the mountains of the Douro, and so many years ago through the sweltering heat of a Lisbon summer. If it were his, she would put her face in it, drink in the smell and taste of him. It would be like taking possession of a part of him.

She thought of his arms around her, how they made her feel so safe and so secure, loved and protected. In that embrace, she was cherished and adored, and nothing could touch her. She thought of Scott, and she thought of herself, the young Sarah, the Sarah that she was no more and never would be again, the time that had gone and could not be resurrected. The fallout from the explosion of a twenty-year old dream would take time to turn to dust. Meanwhile, the discreet and silent tears that fell from her eyes added to the tiny pools of liquid that shone on the sprung wooden floor.

Inês was fading fast, day by day, along with the light, in the grey days of November. Sarah spent as much time as she could with her. She knew that she was King Canute, unable to hold back time or tide, incapable of forestalling the inevitable.

Arriving at Inês's house one evening the trees stretched out their branches across a sky of greyish white and laced with clouds and the rain lashed down, intermittently turning to snow that faded and died as it fell. It was so cold it felt as if the frozen world might stop turning.

Inês was tired. But she had to ask just one last question.

“Aunt Inês, did I do the right thing?”

But Inês was sleeping, and did not reply. And while Sarah sat by her bedside as she slipped away, she felt Portugal go with her, all of their combined memories, hopes, dreams and disappointments slowly disappearing like a magician's silk scarf drawn deftly back into his hat.

That night, Inês died, just as dawn came, sluggishly and reluctantly in the winter's gloom. The temperature had dropped so sharply overnight that the ash tree outside her window had shed all its leaves in one great avalanche, leaving a skeleton's gaunt outline.

31

Inês's death, at the age of ninety-five, could hardly be called a tragedy, and certainly not a surprise, but together with the loss of Scott Sarah felt almost deranged with grief. It coursed through her veins like heavy silver beads of mercury, clogging her blood so it ran sluggish and slow, dragging her down into torpor and lethargy. She developed a cough which racked her body and deprived her of sleep. When Inês's solicitor rang to ask Sarah to attend a meeting about the will, she could only just summon the energy to agree. She told Hugo the time and date, as he would need to take the girls to school that morning if she were to get to the law firm's offices off the Euston Road in time.

“I hope she's been generous to you, after all you did for her.”

“Oh, Hugo! Really – it's not about the money, or the house or anything. I don't want any of it. I just want
her
.”

“That house of hers alone must be worth at least two mill – more, probably,” continued Hugo, as if he hadn't heard a word Sarah said. “Why shouldn't you get some of it? And anyway, who else is there for her to leave it to?”

“I don't know. And I don't care, either.”

“Right.” Hugo elbowed the fridge door shut, making the magnetic letters that spelt out ‘RUBY' shake and shift position. The yellow B slid slowly downwards until it came to a halt, tilted drunkenly on one side, forlorn and alone. Hugo set off towards the hallway. Then he paused. Turned round and said, “I'm really sorry. Just stressed about everything, this new contract – it's so great but there's going to be so much work to do. I hope it's OK this morning. Don't be too upset.”

“Thanks.” Sarah was surprised; it was unlike Hugo to apologise.

He smiled at her. “I know you're not bothered about the money and I'm not either. I just hope she hasn't left it all to the cats' home or the donkey sanctuary.”

“I don't think that's likely,” said Sarah, looking at her watch. “Anyway, I need to go.”

“Yes. But I wanted to say – I'm sorry that you've lost her, Sarah. Lost your friend and confidante. I know that I can't step into her shoes and replace her – but I'll do the best I can. If you need anything just ask.”

Sarah was staring at him, open-mouthed. She quickly readjusted her face into something approaching normality before replying. “Thank you, Hugo. I appreciate it.”

He came over and kissed her gently on the forehead and then clasped her into a tight, intense hug.

“I'm off,” she said, pulling herself away and busying herself with her coat and bag, unprepared for the unexpected intimacy, unable to deal with it just then. “Hurry on up and get the girls ready, please. I'll be cross if they go in the late book on your watch!”

She let herself out of the house, onto the frosty pavement. Hugo's display of attentiveness and concern was perplexing. She had sought in Scott the attention and appreciation that Hugo did not provide and now everything seemed to be changing again. What if she were as guilty as Hugo of taking her eye off the ball of her marriage, of giving up on the hard work that sustaining a partnership requires? Her thoughts ricocheted around her head; the day was freezing, dusty snowflakes floating in a leaden sky, the cutting wind scything over her cheeks. It was too cold to think straight. Someone tutted crossly at her as she stepped across their path, lost in her reverie. She shook her head to bring herself back down to earth and pushed open the heavy glass door of the solicitor's office.

Sitting in the overheated meeting room, Sarah became increasingly uncomfortable. She was wearing a woollen polo neck that she couldn't take off as she only had a vest top underneath. After she'd been waiting for ten minutes or so, the solicitor, Miles Venables, came into the room, accompanied by a woman in a startling electric blue trouser suit.

“OK, Sarah, let's make a start,” he said, in a tone of boisterous cheeriness that Sarah felt was rather misplaced in the circumstances. “This is my colleague, Jenny Butler.” He didn't offer any explanation as to Jenny's role. Sarah looked at her badge and saw that she spelt her name ‘Jeni'.

“Sarah, you're probably wondering why you're here, and what this is all about.” Miles paused, drew in a big breath and then continued. “As I said in my letter, this is not a formal reading of the will. The reason you are here is because Mrs Morton left specific instructions that she wanted me to have a chance to talk to you personally about her will's contents, and explain the circumstances to you.”

Sarah was starting to feel rattled. Beads of sweat were forming under her breasts and trickling down her stomach. Jeni was clicking the top of her biro rhythmically, up and down. Sarah wished she would stop.

“Sarah, I'm afraid that Mrs Morton's will does not leave much for you. There is a small sum of money – five thousand pounds each – for your two daughters. And ten thousand for you. This money is from Mrs Morton's personal savings.” Miles looked down at the papers on his desk and coughed before continuing. “Everything else – the house, investments, shares etc are all held in trust for William Tanner.”

“William Tanner? Who's he?” Sarah was completely thrown. And then she realised.

“BILLY!” Shock flared red in her cheeks. “You mean Billy the gardener? But how? Why? Why on earth would she leave everything to him?”

“I know what you must be thinking, and it's nothing like that. There's no funny business, it's most certainly not a case of Inês being cajoled or forced into making this decision. The trust was formed perfectly legitimately by Mr Morton, shortly before he died, and Inês's will is merely a continuation of the provisions he made.”

“By John? But I just don't get it – why? I mean I know Billy worked for the family for years, of course everyone was fond of him…and sorry for him, I guess, if truth be told. But fond and sorry enough to leave him everything?”

Sarah's question was left to hang in the stifling air for a moment. There was only the white noise of the office building around them. Even Jeni's pen was still.

“The reason that he did so,” explained Miles, quietly, “is because Billy is his grandson.”

“WHAT!” Sarah opened her mouth wide in shocked disbelief. This was preposterous, impossible.

“I understand that it's a shock,” Miles sighed. “It's a long story, Sarah. Mr Morton had an affair during the war. The other woman's name was Irene, and he had a son by her, Henry, who was born in 1942, and in 1968, Henry also had a son, Billy.”

Slowly things started to fall into place. Billy's job as fulltime gardener, which wasn't really necessary but which she had always ascribed to Inês and John's good hearts. His frequent presence in the house, which Sarah had always found odd, but now was not at all, seeing as it was always going to be his one day. When Inês had said that John no longer wanted a child after the war, Sarah had not guessed for one minute that it was nothing to do with the travails of conflict but because he already had one.