Garden of Stars (41 page)

Sarah looked at her mother, studying her face, the fine bone structure and clear skin, the wrinkles that sat well on her and seemed to reflect experience rather than old age. The tears that she saw moistening Natalie's eyes were so unexpected that they made Sarah cry, too, and wonder whether the crying would ever end.

Once back home, Sarah found that she was still unaccountably, inexplicably, tired. She spent much of the day resting on the worn red-checked sofa in the shabby living room, unable to work, paralysed by inability to stir herself to any kind of action. She thought often of Scott, but found her memories a chimera, an illusion that evaded capture, as you might reach out to grasp a passing butterfly but never catch and hold it in your hand.

One day the phone buzzed with a new message. It was Carrie. Her baby had been born.

It's a girl!!! I can't believe it. 4 kilos exactly. We are calling her Isabel - I hope Inês would be pleased. I'll send some photos as soon as I can. Cx

PS. Any pink clothes going begging??? Can't wait for an end to my life of khaki and sludge!

Isabel was her fourth child and at last, the little girl she so longed for.

Hugo did everything he could to help out, cooking and shopping, even some days leaving work in time to pick the girls up from school. One afternoon, he strode into the room waving a piece of paper as if it were a proclamation from on high.

“We're going on holiday!” he announced.

Sarah's first thoughts were of surprise, followed by what she knew should be delight but was in fact dread. She saw only the suitcases to pack, suncream and insect repellent to buy, flights and apartments to book, meals to cook in some kitchen in a rented villa, never as convenient and well-equipped as one's own, supermarkets and fresh milk to find…challenges that seemed impossible to overcome, and that she had no inclination to face.

“Hugo, that's a lovely idea, but I'm not sure that I've got the energy to organise it all just now. Maybe it would be better to stay at home until I feel a bit better.”

“It's all done, love. I've booked it. A luxury hotel in the Seychelles, with a kids' club. You won't have to do anything, I'll sort out all the preparations and when we're there, all you have to do is rest and recuperate. We're going as soon as the girls break up for the Christmas holidays. In fact, they'll have to miss a few days of school, but that's all right, I already asked the headmaster, he's fine about it, in the circumstances.”

Sarah couldn't believe it. He had never booked so much as a theatre ticket before.

“But we can't afford it, can we?” she faltered. “Unless – I suppose we could spend Inês's money…but I wanted to save that for the future, for our non-existent pensions.”

“It's fine, we've got the money.” Hugo's tone was firm. “I've got the money. You're not spending a penny of yours. I got that big job in, didn't I? They've made an advance payment.” Hugo's voice was coaxing, encouraging her to see the benefit, to understand the wisdom of his words. Asking her to be proud of him for his thoughtfulness and business acumen. “It will be worth it, if it helps you get better.”

Sarah bit her lip doubtfully. “Well, if you're sure.”

“I'm really sure, Sarah.” Hugo faltered, flapping around the piece of paper he was still clutching. “This holiday is something for us. It's my treat, I'm paying, and I don't want you to even think about the money any more. We need it.”

He paused. “Sarah, I know…I mean, I've been wondering…”

Stopping again, Hugo took a deep breath. He looked away from her and Sarah could see his eyelashes moving as he blinked rapidly.

“I don't want to rake things up,” he said, his voice solid, determined. “Going away – it's for us, for all of us, to make us well again. To try, at least.”

A deep, heavy silence descended on the room.

Eventually, Sarah spoke. “I'm sorry I've been so ill. I know how upset you've all been. I don't think I realised how exhausted I was, how much Inês's death took it out of me, and then the revelations about Billy and John and everything. All of that on top of the time I spent looking for the baby, worrying about finding her, trying to end Inês's life of silence and despair about her only child.”

It still hurt to talk too much. She forced herself to slow down. “And…I…I'm sorry. I can't think of anything else to say right now.”

“No, it's my fault.” Hugo's reply jumped out, instantaneously. “I was spending too much time at work and not enough with you and the girls, with my family. I wasn't there for you when you needed me. Will you let me try again?”

In the room, where the dust motes danced and the detritus of family life lay around her – the scattered toys, stained cushions and chipped furniture – Sarah smiled and nodded. It was all she had the energy to do.

A week passed, and then another and then the imminence of the holiday galvanised Sarah into action. There were some things she needed to do before she left, things she had been meaning to get around to since the day that Inês had died. There were a few items that had been promised to her – the photo albums from Inês's childhood, the set of antique
azulejos
that Inês had always known she coveted. The music box that her girls, and herself before them, had so loved to play with. And the love letter with the photo inside of baby Isabel. She wanted to collect them now, in case…. She wasn't sure what it was in case of – that Billy might lose them? Give them away?

She tried to call Billy but there was no reply. She still had her key to the house and so decided to go to Grove Terrace anyway. She took the short cut through the housing estate to get there, past the dull grey garage doors and outdoor gym, its lime-green equipment grim and abandoned on this bleak December day. The trees were completely bare now; the dead leaves cleared away.

On the main road, she passed the strange little dolls' house shop, the Overground station and the entrance to the Lido, the convenience shops and newsagents with their grubby doorways, tacky signs and dirty window panes. The Afghan shop, where the proprietor would give the girls lollipops because they danced to his raga music, had closed down, the metal shutters graffiti-strewn and rusting. Everything seemed run-down and unclean in a way she had never noticed before. She wondered if she would ever walk this way again.

The lock on Inês's navy blue front door was stiffer than ever, making Sarah feel like an intruder. She had no right to be here any more. It was bitterly cold inside, and echoed to the sound of her heeled boots on the wooden floorboards. She understood at once that the house had lost its soul, now that Inês was gone.

She went from room to room, picking up the items she had come for, the precious keepsakes. She stood in front of Inês's chair, with the purple velvet cover of roses and peonies, and ran her finger over the pile of the fabric, first the right way and then the wrong way. She imagined that she could still see the imprint of Inês's tiny, delicate frame upon it.

She went to Inês's dark bedroom, where the bed was neatly made and the curtains closed. The tightly folded square of paper was still there, on the bedside table, and Sarah added it to her collection. She stood by the window, lifting the edge of the ancient damask curtain to let in some light, feeling the icy cold seeping through the glass panes of the tall, elegant sashes.

There was a movement at the far end of the garden, and she saw that it was Billy.

Her feet clattered on the staircase as she took the wooden treads two at a time, and ran outside. Reaching the lawn, she slowed down and called out so as not to startle him.

“Billy! Billy, it's Sarah.”

“‘Lo, Sarah.” Billy grinned at her, and waved, even though she was right next to him by now.

“Hi.” Sarah smiled back at him. He must be lonely without Inês; he'd never known the house empty before. She suddenly couldn't think of anything to say to him.

“Hi,” she repeated. “Um, I…I'm sorry for your loss.” She looked around and nodded her head back towards the house. “Congratulations on the house. Are you going to move in?”

Billy looked blank. Sarah grimaced. Maybe he didn't know it was his, or didn't understand what she was asking. She wished she hadn't mentioned it.

But Billy seemed agitated, his eyes darting to and fro. He reached out his arm to Sarah and said, “Come.”

Sarah followed him through the garden, so beautifully tended by him through so many years. They arrived at the door to the garage, and he gestured her inside. The smell of wood shavings and paint, of dust and soil, assailed her as she crossed the threshold. She looked around and saw fruit, apples and pears from Inês's trees, stored neatly in a tall stack of wooden trays. It was clear that it was something that Billy had made himself for Inês, and Sarah felt her throat tighten and moisture gather in her eyes. She quickly turned her head away and walked further on into the deep room. There were bags of compost and perlite, stacks of yellowing newspapers and piles of plastic plant pots lined up along the walls, and gleaming, well-looked after garden tools hanging from hooks above.

In the middle of the garage was a large table where Billy did his potting up, and which doubled as a woodwork bench at which he whittled and painted the winter days away. It was covered in stuff, rusty keys, off-cuts of wood, paintbrushes, jam jars of cloudy liquids, and an incongruous pile of horseshoes. She wondered where on earth they had come from.

She noticed, with a start of surprise, a can of Burnt Sienna paint she had given Billy years ago. She had bought it intending to paint the kitchen of their first flat with it, to remind her of the heat and light of Portugal. But Hugo had insisted it would make the place harder to sell, and she had put it away in a cupboard until they moved to their house and she decided to get rid of it for good. She saw now that Billy had opened it, and that inside it gleamed, rich and jewel-like, its colour still sun-bright. Billy had painted some of his wooden spinning tops with it; they were tilted on their sides and resting in rows. So it was not too old and dried up to have a use, even after all this time.

She became aware of Billy shuffling around right at the back of the garage, and realised that he wanted her to follow him there. The faint, watery December light filtered thinly through the small dust-covered window high up where the wall met the ceiling, but was strong enough for Sarah to see that this corner was immaculate. A smooth, white painted worktop housed a shiny Apple computer, and right next to it was one of the latest generation laptops. All sorts of other equipment was stacked up neatly against the back wall, and microphones and cables were arranged in trays on shelves above.

Sarah gazed in amazement at the set-up, which looked so professional and she had to admit, too complicated for someone like Billy. This was the hub of his recording empire, and as she looked on, she saw that he was fumbling around in one of the trays. He turned round, triumphantly waving a silver memory stick at Sarah.

“From Inês. For Sarah. Forgot.”

Sarah was bewildered, shook her head in confusion. But Billy was deftly flicking the switches on the power points and starting up the computers, which whirred into action, purring gently, the lights on a myriad dials flashing in the gloom. He plugged the memory stick into the laptop, and made a few hurried clicks with the wireless mouse. For a moment, it seemed very, very quiet in the garage at the bottom of the garden. And then the air was filled with sound, the sound of Inês's gentle, fragile voice, wavering in the cold, powdery light as if coming from another world.

“Hello Sarah.” The voice was faint, hesitant. Mumbling followed that sounded like, “Is this right?” And then again, “Hello Sarah,” stronger this time. Sarah felt as if all her blood were draining out of her. To hear that beloved voice once more, with its perfect, RP English, when she had thought that it had gone forever.

“It seems late in life to try recording myself but my hands are so bad now I cannot write more than a few words. I received your postcard from Amarante yesterday, and I know that a reply is something that you need more than anything you've ever asked of me.”

Sarah's lungs tightened and she felt giddy and light-headed. She realised that she had momentarily stopped breathing.

“So I asked Billy to help me.”

There was another pause, accompanied by noises in the background that might have been Billy turning knobs and adjusting levels. And then Inês again, even clearer now.

“Sarah, I have been so troubled by you recently. I know that you are dealing with some deeply difficult issues and struggling to resolve them. That is why I wanted you to know my story. Why I gave you my journal and my baby book.”

Sarah pulled out a stool from under the worktop and sat down. She became aware that Billy was also listening intently and wondered what Inês was going to say, and if it mattered if he heard, forgetting in her state of shock that he must already have heard it before, when the recording was made.

“I think you have already worked out my message to you, what I wanted you to come to understand. It is that we cannot resurrect the past. Sometimes, we have to let go. You cannot go back to your youth and do it all again, and do it differently, and even if you did, you would still face problems and difficulties. They would just be different ones. I built the same fantasies around Edmund that you have around Scott. But it was not reality and it was only when I came to terms with that that I was able to live, and love, again.

“I could have told you this but you wouldn't have heard. You had to come to the realisation by yourself.”

There was a pause in the recording, the only sound that of Inês's shallow, difficult breathing.

Sarah could not help but remember Scott musing that the point of the journal might be the journey as well as the destination. Ironic that his perspicacity had foretold the end of their relationship.