Garden of Stars (10 page)

“If I can't step in to help my only child… what sort of a mother would I be? When there's just the two of us – we have to stick together!”

“Absolutely, mum. As I say, I really appreciate it.” Sarah picked up the car keys from the desk and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I better get on. Love to you all, kisses for the girls – and thanks again.”

In the hire car, she turned on the radio and sat half-listening to the rapid Portuguese as she got out the map and traced the way to the processing plant, the next stage of her cork's journey from harvesting to becoming a stopper. It suddenly seemed a long way to go for a small part of her article. Throughout her tour of the factory, with its vast yard piled with towering stacks of cork bark, enormous vats which simmered and seethed as the cork boiled, and long rows of green-overalled workers, images of Scott constantly invaded her mind. The morning passed in a blur. Her host, Amoral da Silva, was solicitous and helpful to a fault; his corks, spewing forth into giant buckets at a rate of thousands an hour, were perfectly formed. But Sarah's heart, and her head, were elsewhere.

Driving back, the evening to come looming large and imminent, her mind drifted inexorably to a time she usually tried to forget. To the last time she and Scott had dined together, just the two of them, in Lisbon, at the Cervejaria Trindade. Sarah had studied its antique tiled walls as Scott dangled Vancouver temptingly in front of her.

“Think of all the things we could do there!” he had urged. “All the fun we could have. My family has a log cabin in the mountains – we'll go horse riding there. And in the winter, we'll ski and snowboard, ice-skate, if you like.”

“It would be amazing,” she had concurred, even though the truth was that she didn't know how to do any of those things.

“In spring we'll make love in the meadow, and in winter we'll stoke up the fire and keep each other warm whilst the storms rage outside.”

Sarah could smell the woodsmoke and hear the maple branches crackling in the stove, taste the bitter roasted coffee brewing on the hob and hear how silently the powdery snow fell onto the already-white ground outside.

But there was her mother to think about, having chemo for breast cancer and embroiled in a bitter divorce from her dad. The image of Natalie had been impossible to ignore, poised in Sarah's mind's eye as if she were listening in on the conversation, willing her not to abandon her as she perceived everyone else had done. That was on top of the call of her degree, the place at university that she had studied so hard to win, that she could not just throw away.

“Let's not talk about it now,” she had said. “I want to eat and drink and dance.”

And so they had done all three, and then taken a taxi back to the little pink and blue house. He sat on the bed behind her to undress her, enclosing her with his long, muscular legs, deftly removing her bra and running his skilful hands over her body and her breasts.

She had looked down at the floor, at the splintered wooden boards that had seen so many people come and go.

He made love to her until she could hardly remember what day it was, bringing her to orgasm again and again, his tongue precise and dexterous, his lips hungry and firm. She ached to his touch, held him tight, wished him never to stop. It had felt too good to be true.

And in the end, it was.

Preoccupied with thoughts of the past, the journey passed quickly. At the hotel, Sarah showered, changed and put on make-up, but she had hurried so much that it was still a while before she was due to meet Scott. She had time to read some more of the journal, which she felt was slowly revealing its secrets to her as if she were a squirrel gradually uncovering a rich seam of buried acorns, one by one.

The Estoril Coast, 1935

Last night, the last evening of our honeymoon, John suggested driving out beyond Cascais, to a place called Praia do Guincho, where he had been told that tiny shacks on the beach served the best fresh fish imaginable. He was keen for a change from the hotel dining room and I agreed with alacrity for as anyone who knows me is aware, I love adventure.

It was a soft, warm spring evening and as we left the streets and houses behind us, we could hear the gentle thunder of the waves breaking onto the shore of pale grey rocks. Not long after we'd passed the Cabo da Roca, the westernmost cape on mainland Europe, we reached our destination. Strolling across the beach to the restaurant, my sandals – the new gold ones that John bought me in Lisbon - filled with the soft, shifting sand until I had to stop and take them off and walk the rest of the way in my stockinged feet, wishing I were barefoot and could feel the golden grains between my toes.

‘Restaurant' was a grand name for the little wooden cabin on stilts that we arrived at. A rickety staircase led up to a wide balcony; inside, the tables were covered with bright cotton cloths and adorned with vases of the yellow sea holly flowers that we had seen growing in great clumps all along the way – simple, basic but charming.

There was little wind and the sea seemed calmer than usual. Whilst John studied the short menu chalked onto a blackboard, I stood on the balcony and gazed at the water. I could feel the longing building up inside me, fed by a week of being utterly conventional, the very model of a dignified young wife. I was itching for activity.

I turned to John and told him that I wanted to swim. I have to admit that my voice sounded unexpectedly loud as it echoed around the empty space. He was surprised, to say the least. His expression of alarm made me smile but he wasn't laughing. I persisted, nevertheless. He has told me often enough how fed up he became at having the daughters of English colleagues paraded in front of him as prospective partners, how they bored him, their conformity and acquiescence all seeming to have come out of the same mould – so let him live by his word! I made the point that we would have all the time in the world for being models of propriety once in Porto, and that once there I would always consider his position at the firm and in society in all my actions. But here we were free so we should enjoy it.

It took quite a bit of cajoling to bring him round to the idea. He remonstrated that I hadn't brought anything to wear or even a towel to dry myself with, but I soon answered those concerns by borrowing a towel from the restaurant owner and saying I could swim in my slip. As soon as I caught him hesitating in his protestations, I knew that I was winning.

“There's no one here to see me,” I added as my final sally, knowing that his professed adoration of my spirit faded fast in public view. And he could not argue with this point for indeed the restaurant, and the beach, were completely empty. After a few despairing shakes of his head, the decision was made and I headed out, carrying my hastily procured towel, John following behind and the bewildered restaurateur staring after us.

I undressed behind a rock, singing all the while, and when I emerged from my impromptu changing room, I danced a little jig in sheer delight. There is nothing quite so delightful as breaking the rules.

As I approached the sea, I had to sing very loudly to compete with the noise of the waves pounding onto the shore. John had been laughing, despite his misgivings, but now this faded to an anxious grimace.

“Inês, please be careful won't you? The currents are really strong here. Don't go too far out.” He worries so much!

Beyond the breaking waves, the reflection of the moon rippled in the dark surface of the sea, inviting me in.

“It's all right, I won't,” I assured him. “I'm used to it, anyway. I've been swimming in the sea since I was a child. You should see the waves on the Praia de Melides, feel the current there! I'll be fine.”

With that, I ran towards the breakers, jumping them one by one, the fresh air whipping past my body, exhilaration filling my soul. I flung myself into the water as soon as it became deep enough, then turned onto my back and let my feet slide into the trough behind each wave.

“Look at me, John, look at me!” I called to him as he stood on the beach, his eyes fixed upon me, smoke from his cigarette drifting up between his fingers.

Flipping myself onto my front, I swam breaststroke into the crest of the waves, my skin tingling with cold and exhilaration.

“I'm flying!” I felt as if nothing could stop me, no force in the world was greater than me as I surged through the surf. It was just a shame that John wasn't in there enjoying it with me.

Lisbon, 2010

Scott's knock on her hotel room door snatched Sarah away from the journal in the midst of Inês's night swim. He took her to the city centre; it was early evening and a soft glow illuminated the grey stone walls of the Castelo de São Jorge. Strolling through the ancient streets, along steep becos and travessias, lanes and alleyways, where washing hung between the balconies and women leant out of windows and gossiped with their neighbours opposite, they reminisced about the Alfama of old, a district that tourists were warned away from in those days, reputed as it was to be full of pick-pockets and other low life. Of course, that had only made them more attracted to it. Now it had been somewhat sanitised and was definitely safer, but it retained its charm. Sarah and Scott smiled to one another as they passed a tiny grocery shop outside which an old lady sat on a crate of fruit, singing.

“Don't even think about joining in!” joked Sarah, as she saw Scott linger to listen.

“But I know that one!” he protested, all wide-eyed innocence as she feigned having to drag him away, laughing.

In the Calçada de São Vicente, the public laundry building advertised its opening hours, Monday, Thursday and Friday, 9-12 and 2-6. Geraniums spilled from pots on every doorstep and from open apartment windows came the sounds of clanking crockery and pans, televisions playing Brazilian soaps, phones ringing, voices talking and arguing.

Scott paused in the shade of an ancient olive tree.

“It's so great to see you, Sarah. It's been too long.”

Sarah's heart contracted as if it were being wrung out and hung up to dry like a pair of old jeans in the washhouse behind them. The sun cast their shadows over the age-worn cobbles, his tall and broad, hers small and slim, two shapes that seemed to fit together so perfectly, it was almost as if they had been moulded as a pair. Overhead, the giant tree spread its silver-leaved branches wide, dappling them with ever-fluctuating patterns of light and dark.

“Way too long,” he said again, taking a step closer to her, his head inclined towards hers.

For one head-spinning moment she thought that he was going to kiss her.

Scott and Sarah, under a tree

K-I-S-S-I-N-G…

Honor's silly rhyme leapt into her mind, unbidden. Scott paused beside her. And then walked on down the uneven stone steps in front of them, beckoning to her to follow him.

There was no kiss. What was she thinking of?

Later, they stopped to admire the view from the Miradouro de Santa Luzia.

“I guess there are beautiful places like this in Vancouver,” mused Sarah, as they walked over to the low wall beneath which the red-tiled rooftops of the city stretched towards the wide blue river Tejo.

“You used to tell me about them…”. Her sentence dried up and was left hanging, suspended over the deep drop below.

Scott opened his mouth to reply, but his words were drowned by a tour group of French teenagers who pushed noisily past them, talking incessantly and loudly. When the commotion had subsided, Scott started again.

“Let's go. We've got a packed itinerary.”

Sarah had the sense that this was not what he had intended to say.

He laid his hand on her back to usher her before him. The gentle touch of his fingertips burnt red hot through her thin cotton top.

8

“You still like seafood?”

“I sure do.” They were heading out of town in Scott's car now, hurtling over potholed tarmac and bumpy tram tracks. Sarah tilted her sunglasses upwards and smiled.

“I see food, I eat it.”

They both hooted with laughter. Sarah felt tipsy even though she had drunk nothing, intoxicated by the atmosphere and the excitement. Her earlier anxieties about whether she should be here had been blown away by the sea wind that buffeted the open-topped car.

The Atlantic was on their left-hand side, white horses dancing on the tips of the surging waves. The names of the towns on the signposts that flashed by were familiar from long ago – Belém, Paço de Arcos, Oieras. And then Estoril, where Inês had honeymooned, and Praia do Guincho where Sarah had left her swimming under the moonlight. It was as if Scott had read the journal, too, and was taking Sarah down a route that would follow her great-aunt's footsteps.

But then they turned away from the coast and headed north, speeding along a fast road where everything was dry and sun-bleached, from the tarmac and the sandy verges to the heat-whitened sky.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going?”

“I see age has not mellowed your impatience.” Scott smiled benignly at her. “But the answer is – no.”

Instinctively, he reached out to grab her wrist as she went to punch him. “All right, I give up,” she said, laughingly. “I'll wait.”

A cluster of white houses hove into view, spotlit by the rays of the sinking sun.

“Azenhas do Mar,” Sarah read out loud from a road sign. “I've never been here before.”

“So tell me I don't take you to new places…”

It crossed Sarah's mind that the double entendre was intentional.

As they neared the village the sun dipped further, throwing the cliff into darkness so that the entire place appeared as if it were floating above the sea. Scott squeezed the car into a tiny space and they strolled through the white-washed streets, the remnants of the day's heat emanating from the walls. Below, the tide was in, and the smell of salt and ozone suffused the atmosphere.

“We'll take a walk on the beach later, when the tide's out,” Scott promised. “But now – time to eat.”