Garden of Stars (24 page)

But António heard immediately, stopped what he was doing and turned to stare intently at her. Without hesitation, she began to pick her way towards him. Her just-released hair glowed and shimmered in the light from the hurricane lamps, flowing in waves around her shoulders and gaining approving glances from the older women who watched her progress as she dodged the corns being flung into the many piles and skirted nimbly around the huge baskets. Eventually she arrived next to António, king cob still in her hand. She stood in front of him, handed him the cob, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him full on the lips. The barn erupted with noise, clapping and whistling, and Paula, her temporary bravura deserting her, flushed bright red.

Ana Sofia turned to me, sighed and shook her head.

“Thank heavens for that,” she said in a world-weary tone. “She's been after that
rapaz
for the last year or so, but neither of them has had the nerve to do anything about it. I'm sure we'll be hearing wedding bells before too long.”

I nodded, and smiled weakly. What could I say, who had been married before any of them? “As long as she's happy and really loves him. Not just taking the only man she thinks she can find.”

Ana Sofia shrugged her shoulders. “Even if that is what she's doing – it's better than not having a man or a family at all.”

The work went on until well after midnight. When every single cob was finished, a huge meal of thick soup, maize bread and wine was served and then the dancing started. António and Paula were first onto the dance floor, but half an hour later I realised that there was no sign of them. I danced for a bit, with uncles and neighbours and even my brother Jorge - but found myself not in the mood and so sat down to watch with Ana Sofia, who although only five months pregnant proudly claimed to be much too big and cumbersome to waltz any more.

I know that I am lucky. I have a husband who is the envy of all, who earns a good income and provides me with everything. Life is not like that for many of my friends down here in the south, where money is always tight. John is a good man; not romantic and literary, like Edmund, but practical, not a dreamer but a doer. I do love him. I love him enough. I'm sure of that. The only thing I lack is the one thing that money cannot buy and that love does not seem able to provide. I know that my parents are as desperate as I am – only the other day, my father took me to the part of the
montado
that will be the site of the cork oaks he will plant for his first grandchild. I'm sure if I were pregnant, or had a child already, none of this Edmund nonsense would ever have arisen.

What I want, what I need, but what I am beginning to think I will never have, is a baby.

19

London, 2010

The summer days drifted on. Sunshine flooded the city, withering the leaves on the trees and desiccating the grass in the parks. The children playing on the green acres of Primrose Hill were hard outlines against the brightness, as if chromakeyed upon the landscape. Sarah watched them, running and shouting, climbing trees, making daisy chains. Poor, poor Inês, denied the joy, the love, the pride which having her own child would have brought. It explained all the time and adoration she had lavished on Sarah as she grew up and now on Sarah's girls. Had Inês given her the journal because to talk about her lack of children was too painful, too heart-wrenching? But what about everything that had happened with Edmund, her tutor, friend and – no, he had not been her lover. Although it was clear, now, that Inês had loved him.

“We all only have the one life,” Inês had said to her when Sarah had first returned from Portugal. “What's done is done but the future is yours to shape.”

Had she meant that she regretted her rejection of Edmund? Wished she'd been strong enough to end a marriage that was unfulfilling in favour of the man who was her true soulmate? And if so, was this the advice she was giving to Sarah? Everything she read seemed to turn on its head what had gone before. Far from helping, the confusion about Inês's past added to the jumble of Sarah's own emotions and made them even harder to deal with. She felt herself in a sort of half-life, a no man's land where on the surface nothing had changed and yet underneath everything was completely different.

It was so great to see you, wrote Scott. Please keep in touch. X

We all only have the one life.

Sarah answered the email.

Thanks for your messages. I think of you too.

Scott's reply came almost immediately.

I know how difficult it must be for you - your family, your kids. But I so want to speak to you. Want to pick up the phone and hear your voice. Just wanted you to know. xxx

Her answer took her by surprise: Me too. Xxx

The future is yours to shape.

What began with an email every few days grew and grew. Sarah was shocked at how easy it all was, despite 4,700 miles and a seven-hour time difference.

Is it an affair if it's virtual? Is it betrayal if there's no touch involved?

She continued to pass day after day, looking after the family, cooking their meals and washing their clothes, and continued to act as Hugo's partner, but all at arm's length, as if it were someone else doing it while she looked on.

I'm just going through the motions, she thought to herself. I'm pretending, to be a loving wife, a dutiful mother, what I've always been, what I'm expected to be. And it's all a lie. The cork has exploded from the bottle, and the contents can no longer be contained.

Sitting at her desk when she was supposed to be working, she would tilt her head backwards and watch the clouds scudding past, or the moon casting white light across the midnight blue of the night sky, and wonder how she had filled her days before, without the anticipation of a message to greet her when she started up her computer. She still had to do all the things she always used to do. It just meant something different now.

Porto, 1937

It is June, and every day the sun shines brighter on the city of Porto. John and I have been married for over two years now, and for the most part, each day is much like another. I sit with John while he eats his breakfast every morning, help him into his winter coat or summer jacket when he leaves for the office, plan the day's meals and then, by 11am, can often be found standing by the floor-length windows in the elegant living room, staring out at the street below.

I hardly ever strain my eyes to see the poor people's houses on the hillsides any more. I can't bear to watch their tumultuous lives, all the various comings and goings, the numerous babies that arrive in a never-ending succession. It seems that, over there, life is lived with every sense, every day – and I long for such a life.

Sometimes – often, in fact - I think of Edmund and wonder what he is doing. Am I Cathy, the ghost that haunts him? Or Jane to his Mr Rochester? My thoughts become fanciful and laughable. For I am neither. I am just plain Inês, wishing I could make it all better; heal us both by taking away this curse of love.

John has suggested that we have a weekend away, that we go to the nearby town of Amarante and relax for a day or so. He is so tired; he's been working hard and business is getting tougher. There is unease in Europe, with Britain and France rearming hurriedly, and because of his English connections, John is more aware of the tension and possible trouble that lies ahead than most of his Portuguese colleagues. After all, his brother is in the RAF, and the stories he is telling are far from reassuring.

I am worried too – worried because John is, and also through terror of the unknown, of what might happen if Europe or the world goes to war again. I know that John will not stand by and watch, and however confused my feelings for him as a husband, I love him as a person, and I wish no harm to him, ever. Indeed, I fear for him and all the other men who will inevitably be drawn into any conflict that might arise. I recall watching the
bacalhoeiro
preparing to depart on the first day of our married life and how sure I was, then, that John would always be safe. I was sure of other things, too.

Nothing, absolutely nothing at all, seems that certain any more.

The proposed trip to Amarante is something to look forward to and perhaps exactly what we need. A change is as good as a rest, I said to myself, as John poured forth the proposed arrangements and everything we would do there.

“I'll sort out a hotel – I'm sure one of the boys in the office will be able to recommend somewhere – we'll go the weekend after next,” he said, consulting his pocket diary. “And when we get there – I want to eat good food, drink excellent wine and make love to my beautiful wife. Are you happy with that plan?”

“Of course.” I smiled brightly, but inside I could feel my attempt at high spirits deserting me. Making love these days is tinged with sadness and desperation in equal measure. Maybe even irritation. And however much John insists that it isn't important, that he is sure it will happen sooner or later, I know that he is sorely disappointed that I am still not pregnant. And myself? More than disappointed. So much, much more.

I had little to do over the next few days – until today. I was reading a periodical of John's that I hadn't the slightest bit of interest in when the doorbell rang. It was the maid's afternoon off, so I listlessly got up to answer it. I was hardly paying attention as I swung the door open, assuming it would be a neighbour or perhaps one of those people who are always collecting money for good causes.

“Hello, Inês.”

His voice, his fair, freckled face, his shock of red hair, came so much out of the blue that my hand flew up involuntarily to my mouth and a hot flush spread through my veins.

“Edmund!”

I noticed that his visage seemed in some inexplicable way both bright with joy and dull with sadness. Whatever – it was so familiar, so much missed, so unforgotten.

“I'm sorry to call on you unexpectedly; I know you asked me not to contact you again.”

In my shock and amazement at seeing him, I had forgotten all of this. I attempted to pull myself together, drawing myself up to my – not very commanding – height in an effort to seem in control of the situation, whilst inside my heart was pounding and my stomach turning somersaults.

I led him into the drawing room and offered him coffee, and then, registering the pallor of his complexion, changed the offer to madeira. He nodded his acceptance, seeming hardly able to speak. I found the bottle, removed the cork and placed it on the silver tray.

“No two corks are alike,” he announced, picking it up and examining it as I poured the syrupy golden liquid. He spoke as if at a scientific conference where his job was to deliver information to interested strangers. “All are unique.”

He took the glass I proffered towards him.

“Like people. Like women.”

He drank the entire contents of the glass in one gulp. It seemed to give him courage and he looked me in the eye for the first time since he had arrived. “There's no one in the world like you.”

I felt completely overwhelmed; I couldn't think of anything to say. I drank my madeira uncharacteristically quickly, too.

“I've come to say goodbye.”

So this was the reason for his visit. With shaking hands, I put my glass onto the table.

“Where are you going?” I asked, working hard to quell the tremor in my voice. My mind flashed ahead to possible destinations. He was returning to England, presumably. Maybe he had a new post in one of the schools he had mentioned to me once or twice during our lessons; was it Winchester he had talked about? Windsor? My memory, usually so sharp, deserted me and my mind was nothing but fuzz.

“Brisbane,” he replied, staring first at the floor and then out of the window.

“Brisbane!” I heard how shrill and sharp my voice sounded. I searched frantically through my mind for any knowledge of this place. Was it in southern England, or the north? And then I realised.

“Do you mean – Australia? Brisbane in Australia?”

Edmund circled his hat round and round in his hands, crushing the brim between his elegant fingers. “I do.” All his years in Portugal had caused him to speak English as if it were Portuguese, replying with the verb as we do rather than simply ‘yes' or ‘no'.

I turned away. I rested my hands on the table to steady myself, leaving damp fingerprints on the high sheen. What difference did it make where he was going, really?

“I had to see you one more time before I left.” Edmund sounded much calmer now he had got out the information he had come to convey. Just his hands, still turning and turning the hat, betrayed the emotion that strained in every pore of his being. “I had to say goodbye.”

I raised my black eyes to his blue ones. I would never see him again, after today, after this quiet afternoon at the beginning of summer. Never.

I invited him to stay awhile.

Shutting the door behind him a few hours later, I flattened my palms against the smooth wood and rested my head forwards. A sickness rose inside me and I crumpled to the floor where I lay, too sad for tears, on the cool tiles.

Australia. So far. So impossibly, unbelievably distant.

Too far.

A crumb of raw cork lay on the tiles beside me. It must have fallen when I gave Edmund the piece of bark that had been in the drawer in the table ever since my arrival in Porto, all through our hours of lessons when we had got to know each other so well. I had wanted him to take it. I knew he would understand.

Lying on the floor I rubbed the cork between my fingers and watched it disintegrate and disperse in tiny pinpricks of dust across the tiles. I was still there when John got home, and only just managed to jump up in time to let him in. Ushering him to his chair, I disappeared into the kitchen to prepare our evening meal, glad of the fact that he never offers to help so solitude, for a few more minutes, was mine.

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