Authors: Rose Alexander
Garden of Stars
The Alentejo, Portugal 1934
I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old. 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 grandchildrenâ¦
As Sarah Lacey reads the scrawled handwriting in her great-aunt's journal on a trip to Portugal, she discovers a life filled with great passion, missed chances and lost loves â memories that echo Sarah's own life. Because Sarah's marriage is crumbling, her love for her husband ebbing away, and she fears the one man she truly loves was lost to her many years agoâ¦
But hidden within the faded pages of the journal is a secret Inês has kept locked away her entire life, and one final message for her beloved niece â a chance for Sarah to change her life, if she is brave enough to take it.
Garden of Stars
Rose Alexander
ROSE ALEXANDER
has had more careers than is probably strictly necessary, including TV producer/director making programmes for all the major broadcasters, freelance feature writer for publications including
The Guardian
and secondary school English teacher, not forgetting cocktail waitress, melon picker and interior designer.
Writing a novel is, however predictable the line seems, the realisation of Rose's childhood dream and the result of finally finding âa voice'. The triumph is that the voice was heard above the racket created by her three children plus rescue cat (tabby white, since you ask).
Follow her on twitter at
@gardenofstars16
Thank you to everyone who helped with this book â too many to mention individually but you know who you are! And of course to my family, whose support is always invaluable.
For my daughters
With all my love, forever
Table of Contents
If I could have put you in my heart,
If but I could have wrapped you in myself,
How glad I should have beenâ¦
The End
by D.H. Lawrence
The Alentejo, Portugal
The steel blade of the machado slices into the tree with delicate precision. Another blow, from above, immediately follows. The two polished, fan-shaped axe heads send flashes of light glinting between the overhanging branches as the rhythmic strikes continue, keeping perfect time with each other until reaching the crescendo.
Stepping forward, a tirador uses the wooden handle of his machado to prise away the bark. A cracking, tearing sound ensues as the large, rectangular slab of cork peels from the trunk like the skin from an orange and tumbles gently downwards as if in slow motion. It lands with an emphatic thump and a groan on the scrubby undergrowth, sending a cloud of mosquitoes whirling upwards from their daytime hideaway.
The sky above the ancient forest is a fierce, unyielding blue, the soil underfoot a dry and sandy brown. Birds, disturbed by the disruption to the habitual deep silence of their home, call raucously through the trees, their clamour competing with the ringing shouts of the harvesters and the continual thudding of their axes.
In the Alentejo region of Portugal, the cork harvest takes place every year as it always has, over centuries and through generations. A cork oak tree can live for up to two hundred years and will yield up its bark sixteen times or more during its lifespan. Such capacity for renewal, regrowth and regeneration is unsurpassed in nature.
There is a saying here and it goes like this:
“If you are planting for yourself, you plant vines.
If you are planting for your children, you plant olives.
But if you are planting for your grandchildren, you plant cork oak.”
London, 2010
Dear Sarah
How are you? All well I hope.
I have a commission I'd like to offer you - 5,000 words following the story of natural cork from tree to bottle. It needs a Portuguese speaker which is why I thought of you. You'll need to set up interviews in Lisbon, Porto and at a cork farm.
Let me know if you can take this on and we can talk details.
Best,
Rosalind
In her office at the top of her house, Sarah Lacey read and reread the email, the thrill of anticipation causing her stomach to leap and dance. A story to write about something important, interesting, worthwhile. Some meaty research to get her teeth into. Decent money. It was the most exciting commission she'd been offered in a long time, putting her back on the radar of editors looking for writers, giving her a career boost just when she needed it after having had time out for the children. It would not be easy, though; there was so much to sort out, so many logistical arrangements to make, from organising childcare to booking flights, hotels and car hire. She'd need to seek out the best interviewees, find the most compelling locations and draw up schedules. She began urgently tapping search terms into Google, bringing up web pages from cork producers and port wine makers, noting down key facts and figures that might be useful for the article. She spent a long time looking at maps; so many years had passed since she'd been to Portugal that she'd forgotten where some towns lay in relation to others, and it was incredible to see how the road network had developed.
Eventually, however, she could not marvel at new motorways and bridges any longer and pretend to herself that navigating them was the only thing that concerned her about taking the job. The doubt that had lodged itself in her stomach the minute she saw the destination the article required began to spread, icily and insidiously, through her veins. There was a reason she had not set foot in the country since her gap year. Her hands fell still on the keyboard, and she stared at the screen with sightless eyes. Maybe now was the time to face up to what had happened so long ago, to confront the ghosts of the past. Could you hide from your own history forever? A whirlwind of jumbled memories and emotions flooded her mind, tearing her in different directions, making it impossible to discern a clear path.
The bleep of a text coming through startled her out of her reverie. Instinctively, she picked up her phone and, in so doing, caught sight of the time. She swore out loud; she had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she was going to be late for school pick up. Grabbing her jacket and pulling it on as she shut the front door behind her, she headed down the road, half running, half walking, her head full of a potent mix of dread and excitement.
The playground was full of the usual cliques, the small talk the same as ever, the âhow are yous?' and âfine, thanks' that govern social interaction. Sarah's preoccupation precluded her from joining in beyond what politeness dictated. She was glad that the children had already exploded out of their classrooms before she had arrived so that she could focus on scooping them up and checking they had remembered their coats and book bags rather than engaging in any conversations. Honor was in Year 2 and Ruby in Reception, and as always they were full of energy, their excited chatter about house points and ukulele lessons and playground scrapes demanding Sarah's attention and temporarily thrusting thoughts of Portugal away. It seemed too early to go home, the long hours until bedtime too long to fill alone, and Sarah felt the sudden need to share her news with someone, even if she were still so uncertain about its outcome. Inês, her beloved Portuguese great-aunt, the reason for her connection with that country, would love to see them all. Perhaps her calm and composure would soothe Sarah's fractured emotions.
She turned to the girls as they exited the playground gate. “Let's go and see
avó
.”
“Yes!” shouted Honor and Ruby in unison.
“Chocolate biscuits?” added Ruby, hopefully.
Sarah laughed. “We'll see.”
They took the path along the bottom of Parliament Hill Fields to Inês's house. Freed from the constraints of roads and pavements, traffic and ambling shoppers, the girls raced ahead on their scooters. It was well into spring but the wind blustered down from Kite Hill and Sarah drew her coat around her. They passed the café, busy and crowded, windows misted by the fug of hot coffee and warm bodies. A toddler drew a smiley face in the steam and Sarah smiled. She hadn't been this way for weeks, not since Easter when she and the children had come after days of enforced inactivity due to rain that had been biblical and unceasing. The first clear skies had brought them out, Inês too, but when they had got to the café they had found it closed for the holiday, chairs piled on tables, doors locked tight shut, a feeling of desolate abandonment about it. It was good to see it full of life again.
Another gust swept across the heath and Sarah shivered. It would be hot when she went to Portugal, she reflected, and then stumbled as she realised that one part of her seemed to have made the decision to go whilst the other still prevaricated. She felt a sudden, visceral longing for the heat, the sort that seared through the skin and pressed down like an enveloping blanket, the way it had through that long, languorous, scorching Lisbon summer. The temperature had built day by day from the moment she had first arrived, driven on by Inês's stories of her proud and passionate country, desiring to experience it for herself. Portugal had promised â and delivered â so much more than Sarah's dreary London suburb, with its dull rows of red brick terraces, boarded-up shops and rain-sodden, unkempt parks and playing fields.
It was because of Inês that she had gone there, so Inês should be the first to know that she was going back. After all, she had Inês to thank â or was it to blame? â for everything.
Lost in thought, struggling with the stubborn latch on the black wrought-iron gate outside Inês's house, Sarah did not see the man until he was almost upon them. Gate opened, she turned towards the street to usher Honor and Ruby through. Their scooter wheels caught where they always did on the loose piece of York stone, and as she leant forward to propel them onwards, a movement in the shadow cast by the hydrangea that covered the grey brick walls caught her eye. She looked up, and there he was, next to her on the narrow path, saying, “Excuse me,” and strolling casually along as if he had every right to be there. He was wearing a grey suit and carrying a clipboard and he smiled at her as he passed, the kind of smile you give to someone you are not really looking at and are sure you will never see again.
It all happened so quickly and unexpectedly â Sarah had never met someone in Inês's front garden before â that by the time she thought about asking him who he was and what he was doing, he was gone. She glanced towards the house, at the navy blue front door with the peeling paint, and was sure that she just caught the sound of the lock clicking shut on the inside. He looks like an estate agent, she thought, but why on earth would he be visiting Inês?
