Garden of Stars (22 page)

Ruby bit her cheek whilst chewing tearfully on her bread and her crying redoubled. Sarah pushed her own bowl away from her and attempted to soothe her. No matter how hard she tried, nothing went right. It hardly seemed worth arguing any more; what was the point? She felt that she didn't have the energy for any of it.

In the end, neither of them went. Hugo went to the pub and Sarah to bed with Inês's journal for company. Despite all the hard work she'd been putting in, the day's events seemed proof of how tenuous it all was. Coming down during the night for a glass of water, she found Hugo fast asleep and snoring on the sofa. She stood and contemplated him for a while, not sure whether to feel sorry for him, for herself, or for them both.

17

Portugal, 1936

It is a slow journey by train and pony cart back to my parents'
montado
in the Alentejo. I had to work hard to persuade John to let me go; he wasn't keen at the prospect of a month without me. But I told him that I needed it, needed a break from the city and the endless rounds of dinner dances and cocktail parties that we had recently been attending. John has been promoted again, and is now a senior partner of the firm, earning more money but also taking on much greater responsibility. He is often tired in the evenings, but entertaining and being entertained is part of the job. He himself has decided not to take a holiday this year.

But now it is August, and everyone else seems to have left Porto for a summer on the coast; the Algarve, Almograve or Viana do Castelo, or perhaps to a country estate in the mountains of the Serra da Estrela. And I am going home. John accompanied me to the station, saw me onto the train.

“Is that all you're taking with you?” He looked in astonishment at my small suitcase.

“I don't need all my smart clothes on the farm, do I? What use would I have for them? They'll only get ruined. And anyway – I don't want my friends to think I'm the grand lady home from the big city, looking down on them all.”

John burst out laughing and held my chin between his thumb and forefinger, bending to kiss me. “Inês, only you would be worried about something like that. Nobody could ever find you condescending. I would have thought that they would have liked to examine your wardrobe, try on your dresses and shoes. Isn't that what girls enjoy doing?”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “And I would have thought you would have known by now that I am not really that kind of girl…but you're right that Ana Sofia and Paula would probably have jumped at the chance. But anyway – I'm going to relax and help my mother. The finery can live without me, and I without it, for a month.”

“But I'm not sure that I can.” John put his arms around me and held me tight. “I'll miss you.” I smelt the familiar smell of his summer suit jacket, a faint hint of moth balls and aftershave, overpowered by cigarette smoke and the fumes of the busy city.

“You'll be all right,” I said, lifting my face away from the thick, smooth fabric and looking up at him, so tall but so unexpectedly vulnerable. “You'll be able to go to the Factory House every night if you want, without a tiresome wife to attend to. Think how much more work you'll get done.”

The guard sounded the whistle and John released me, reluctantly but hurriedly, without responding. Time was running out to get on board. He turned to pick up my suitcase; he had instructed the porter to leave it there, saying that he would carry it onto the train. As he lifted it off the soot-stained platform, he swore and immediately put it back down again.

“Inês, you might not have taken many clothes, but what in God's name have you got in there? Bricks?”

I looked at him apologetically. “Sorry. Books. Lots of books.” I had managed to find room for the last of the novels supplied by Edmund that I hadn't yet read;
A Handful of Dust
,
Brave New World
,
Murder on the Orient Express
and six or seven others.

My husband's eyebrows were raised in incredulity.

“I need to read, John, I can't live without my books, you know that!”

John sighed, pretending to be cross, using it to hide his displeasure at our parting.

“Come this way,” he ordered. “I'll find you a seat with the right sort of people. You don't want to be sharing a carriage with…” He paused and looked around him. Most of the other travellers were already on the train. He spoke again, in English. “I need to make sure there are no ruffians or undesirables around you.”

After peering into several carriages, John found one he deemed suitable. “Make sure you get a porter to give you a hand with that bag when you get there,” he instructed me. He gave me a kiss, walked to the door and jumped down the steps onto the platform, just as the guard came past, slamming the carriage doors and securing the locks.

I sat on the train as John disappeared into the distance and the engine slowly built up steam. I closed my hands around the clasp of my bag as if what was inside it might otherwise break free, might escape and riot through the carriage in the way that it was running wild through my emotions. The resistance of the folded paper was easily felt through the leather; it was the best quality vellum writing paper, the kind I myself use. I thought about it now, how dense and smooth the paper had felt in my hands, how I had slit the flap of the envelope open with the ivory paper knife. How the letter had made that familiar, satisfyingly thick and stiff sound when I had taken it out and unfolded it.

And how I had felt my cheeks redden as I read it, had stopped halfway through and put it back into the envelope, looking guiltily around me in case anyone was watching, even though I knew that John was at work and I was quite alone. And then had locked myself in the bathroom while I read it, again and again, and before I knew it, three hours had passed and I had to come out and tidy myself up and be ready, as usual, for John's return from the office.

As the train rumbled south, I was unable to resist any longer. I opened my handbag, unzipped the small secret pocket at the back, and pulled out the now creased and dog-eared letter. I ran my eyes once more over the words I knew by heart.

Dear Inês

I know that I should not write to you like this, but I can remain silent no longer. I have to speak out, to tell you that I love you, that I am entranced by you, obsessed by you.

Your grace and beauty, kindness and innocence have stolen my heart.

And although I am not handsome and tall like your husband – I know, Inês, that I am the one who truly understands you. And I think, though it is impertinent of me to say so, that you know that too. I could make you happier than any man on earth, of that I am sure.

So come with me, Inês, let's run away, to somewhere we can be together for the rest of our lives. Please come.

I lifted my eyes from the thick white paper and gazed out of the window at the rows of pine and eucalyptus trees growing alongside the river that ran parallel to the track. They went on and on and if I narrowed my eyes enough, they became a blur of different hues of green and emerald. And then there were no more trees and the landscape opened up to a wide vista of fields where the corn swayed long and high and maize grew tall and straight, almost ready for harvest. Slowly, I folded the paper in half again, ready to put it away. As I glanced down to do so, I caught sight of the last lines.

Remember how we read
Othello
together? Please recall those lines of such precise beauty:

‘Then speak of me as one who loved not wisely but too well…'

It would be a ridiculous pretension of me to compare myself to the Noble Moor. But he cannot have adored his Desdemona more than I love you.

I went over in my head, for the millionth time, the course of our relationship, the hours getting to know each other and bonding over our shared love of literature, the adventure of watching the man climb the Torre, all of which had culminated in the day out that had only cemented our feelings, whilst at the same time making it obvious how ill-fated they were.

I don't know what I expected to happen, where I thought it might lead and the unexpected letter shook me to my core. Immediately I read it, I knew I had to stop this – whatever it was – at once. I wrote back to Edmund, explaining that although I was very fond of him, the relationship was no more than that between any two acquaintances. I was married to John and that would never change. Thanking Edmund for his dedication to our lessons, I concluded by wishing him well for the future and asking him not to contact me again.

And then I had had to broach the subject with John. I was sure that he would see straight through me, would immediately become suspicious and demand to know what the hell was going on. The excuse I gave for ending our lessons was that the school had changed Edmund's timetable and he could no longer take private classes. To my surprise, John had merely expressed his annoyance with the inconvenience and short notice, and suggested that he find another tutor. But I insisted that I no longer needed lessons and with a little persuasion, John relented.

“You're right, you really are speaking English like a native now. I'm so proud of you – you could go to Buckingham Palace and meet the King and you wouldn't put a foot wrong!”

A strange idea, that I faltered to compose a reply to. “I think it's unlikely that His Majesty will ever call for my presence, but you're right. I never need worry if he does.”

Sitting stiffly in the carriage in the stifling August heat, I could not stop myself from dwelling on what had happened. To think of Edmund's disappointment broke my heart, which was also breaking for myself. I did not want him to be unhappy, but feared that he probably always would be. I tried not to think about what I wanted for myself.

The train rumbled southwards, its clattering wheels keeping time with my circling thoughts. Crossing the Tejo, I saw a flotilla of gunboats of the Portuguese armada, the crews' shirts hanging out to dry and waving in the breeze as if a multitude of handkerchiefs were bidding me goodbye. In the Ribatejo, south of Lisbon, a herd of careening bulls, bred for the bullring, were being corralled by men on horseback carrying long staves, the tassels of their caps hanging down their backs and looping as they galloped. The huge dust cloud the animals stirred up seemed to mirror the turmoil inside me. One thing is clear and that is that divorce is out of the question. The disgrace it would bring on my family, let alone John and myself, is not to be countenanced. A marriage is not entered into lightly; vows are made in the name of the Lord and cannot just be thrown away the moment it may seem to suit.

We chugged on, through fields of blue cabbages, terraced vineyards and olive orchards, interspersed with snug, whitewashed hamlets. In every village or town, piles of empty wine casks were piled up under the trees, pale cream-coloured new ones together with older brown ones. Each one must be cleaned, ready for when the grape harvest is in, so everywhere young men were rocking the casks backwards and forwards, sloshing around the water and old iron placed inside to give them a thorough scrubbing.

Perhaps that's what I need, I thought to myself. To be washed clean of thoughts of Edmund and what can never be.

London, 2010

The latest instalment of revelations threw Sarah completely off balance. The knowledge that Inês had loved and lost, struggled but survived, was unexpected to say the least. But she had stuck by her marriage vows no matter what. It was understandable, perhaps, that in the 1930s the stigma of divorce would be so great that it would be avoided at all costs. But now? Divorce was supposed to be easy, wasn't it? But that was ridiculous because everyone knew the fallout for the children of separation and marital failure, not to mention the potential financial hardship, the challenges of starting again. She herself had experienced it as a teenager, and she wasn't convinced that being older when it happened made it any easier, despite popular belief. Perhaps Inês wanted to pass on the message that she disapproved of divorce in a way that might seem less censorious than actually saying it.

Ruminations over the journal threatened to prevent Sarah from completing the article; the article that had precipitated all of this and that had so much to answer for. Everything she typed seemed loaded with meaning: No two corks look the same; all are unique. Like people… Sarah mused. Like lovers. She kept getting distracted and failing to finish the piece.

Her efforts to make improvements to home life continued to fall by the wayside, too. Bedtime, always a point when tensions were high, when she and the children were tired and apt to become emotional, was more difficult with the long summer days. One night, the girls were protesting particularly strongly at the brightness of the light outside their window – surely it wasn't night yet, they kept insisting, surely it wasn't sleeping time. Just as Sarah had started to get them settled down, Hugo arrived home unexpectedly early, bursting into the bedroom as she was finishing their story.

“Do be a bit quiet, love, we're about to go to sleep.” Sarah looked up from the book, frowning at him.

“Just a few minutes won't hurt. I want to see my girls, as I've got home in time for once.”

He bounded across the room, knocking a pencil box noisily off the bookshelf as he did so, and flumped down next to Honor on her bed.

“Of course, but just keep it calm – don't wind them up at this…” Sarah started explaining, and then stopped. Hugo wasn't listening, intent as he was on growling and tickling Honor's tummy, pretending to be a dog.

A large and annoying dog, thought Sarah.

Honor giggled in delight, then began to laugh and cry in equal measure as the game got rougher.

“Hugo, please stop. It's bedtime, don't make them hysterical.”

“Why are you always such a killjoy? They like it.”

“Until someone gets hurt. Then they don't like it at all, and I pick up the pieces!”