Garden of Stars (21 page)

She shook her head as if it were all of no consequence whatsoever, and took a gulp of her tea, no longer scalding but lukewarm. “Amazing, huh?”

It was a long while before Inês spoke, and when she did, her voice was quiet and low, but steady. “And what is the conclusion of this story, Sarah?”

Sarah scrunched the antimaccasar in her hands. “I realised that I love him from the bottom of my heart and always will.”

“And what will you do with that knowledge?”

“Nothing.”

Sarah told the lie, and Inês heard it as she always listened to anything, with empathy, without judgement.

“Do you really think that's true, Sarah?”

Can you stop loving someone just because you must?

“It has to be true, doesn't it?”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the murmur of Honor and Ruby's chatter in the far corner of the room.

“Being there – meeting Scott so unexpectedly – it was so strange, you know. I had avoided it for so long, that's why we never went to Portugal on holiday, even though I adore it so, not just because of the cost but because I couldn't bear the thought of seeing him.” Sarah spread the piece of lacy cloth over her knees, staring at it without really seeing it.

“But now I have seen him again – I suppose it has brought home to me that I'm getting older, we all are. Those days of being young with your whole life ahead of you are well and truly over. Sometimes it's hard to face up to that, even though you know it's true. You think you can change your future. Then suddenly you realise that your future is now the past, and what you thought was a rehearsal is the real thing, the only performance – and before you've really noticed it, you're halfway through already.”

Inês nodded but said nothing.

“Those years are gone and I can never have them back.”

Inês's gaze seemed very far away, and when she spoke, her voice was faint as a whisper. “Some lives are very short. Far too short. And some, like mine, are very long.” She smoothed the blanket over her knees, although it wasn't wrinkled. “But whether short or long, it's true that you do not get a second chance.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes rose to meet Sarah's. “We all only have the one life, Sarah. What's done is done but the future is yours to shape.”

Sarah cooked Inês an omelette and made some pasta with tomato sauce for the girls, Inês's words running endlessly through her mind.

“I'll just go and switch on the bedside light in your bedroom and turn down the bed for you before we go,” she said, when the meal was over.

Walking into Inês's room, she felt cold and strangely apprehensive. It was immaculate, as usual. As Sarah pulled down the bed covers she created a breeze that sent some papers on the bedside table fluttering to the floor. She bent to pick them up. There was a card from a Portuguese friend, written in that European style of handwriting that Sarah found so hard to read, and a used envelope with a list on the back. A piece of thick, rich, vellum writing paper was folded into a tight square. Without thinking about what she was doing, that it was something private, Sarah undid the tucks in the paper. Inside was a tiny photo, faded and worn, lined with cracks and creases. Sarah had to hold it close to her eyes to see it properly. It seemed to show a mother holding a newborn baby, and despite the photo's age and size, Sarah could see the light of pride and happiness in her eyes. But she couldn't make out who the woman was, and guessed that it must be Maria, Inês's younger sister. Maria had moved to New Zealand in the 1960s and died quite recently; she had one daughter, Gabriella, who as far as Sarah knew had Alzheimer's and lived in a home. Sarah had never met either of them.

She took the photo into the drawing room.

“I've never seen this picture before,” she said, showing it to Inês. “Who is it? Is it Maria?”

Inês's body seemed to stiffen in her chair. “Where did you find that?”

Sarah was shocked at how upset she seemed, hating to think she had caused it. “I'm so sorry, it was by your bed, it fell onto the floor and I picked it up…” She tailed off, feeling dreadful but wondering what she had done to so perturb Inês. “It's a beautiful photo, anyway,” she continued, trying to make amends. “A nice memory.”

“Memories can twist and turn and are not always what they seem.”

Inês's tone was riven as if with some half-remembered pain and her eyes were focused far in the distance, in some space and time long ago.

“We will not talk about it any more now. The time for that will come.”

Sarah stared at her uncomprehendingly, the photo feeling huge and accusatory in her hand. Hurriedly, she took it to the bedroom to put it back. She should not have been looking at Inês's private things; she had been given permission only to read the journal. As she began to rewrap it, she noticed that the paper had writing on it.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you and I always will.

Sarah sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands, hit by the power and force of such simple words. There was too much, much too much, hidden beneath the surface, closeted in some distant past. Right now, she didn't understand any of it, but it was clear that Inês was not ready to talk.

Leaving Inês dozing in her chair, Sarah and the girls left by the back door. There was a gate at the end of the garden that led onto the mews behind and they often let themselves out that way. A crooked path of stepping stones led the way across the lawn. The girls laughed out loud as they jumped from one to the other, pretending the gaps between were a deep ocean inhabited by sharks and terrifying imaginary sea monsters. Billy was standing motionless in the flowerbed amongst the shrubs and roses; as soon as he saw the three of them, he raised his finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh,” he hissed, pointing upwards to the branches of the ornamental cherry tree that stood next to them. Sarah crept over to him and looked up. After a few moments of searching, her eyes fell upon a wooden nesting box tucked between the branches, and almost immediately, she saw a tiny wren appear in the circular entrance. As she watched, Billy bent down to a bag by his feet and quietly pulled out a microphone. He held it up and waited for the bird to sing.

For this was Billy's real passion, even more than gardening or woodwork. He was addicted to sound; to the song of the blackbird and the robin, to the whistle of the March wind through the bare branches of the ash tree, or the scuffle of leaves blowing along the pavements in autumn. As with garden know-how, when it came to technology, his intellectual deficiencies seemed to recede into the distance and he would put his homemade soundtracks onto his iPod and computer and listen to them whilst he was weeding or whiling away the time on one of his many hobbies.

But as they stood by the cherry tree watching the wren, waiting for it to start its lilting song, the girls were suddenly upon them, shrieking and giggling, shattering the peace and frightening the bird into startled flight.

“I'm sorry, Billy,” said Sarah, making frantic shushing gestures to the children. “We're going now…maybe she'll come back when it's a bit quieter!” Her eyes flicked towards the nesting box and she smiled apologetically. Inês loved all the songbirds Billy encouraged to her garden; Sarah didn't want her or the children to drive them away.

“Doesn't matter. I'm going, try again tomorrow.”

“All right then. Bye.” replied Sarah, leading the girls towards the door in the wall. “See you soon.”

“Bye, girls.”

Honor and Ruby dawdled and dragged their heels on the walk home. Sarah cajoled them along, keen that they wouldn't be too late to bed. A young couple passed them on the pavement, arms around each other, the girl all sleek hair and perfect skin, the boy sporting low-slung jeans and two-day stubble. They were enthralled with each other, oblivious to anyone else, so that Sarah had to side-step to avoid crashing into them.

She stared after them as they stopped for a passionate kiss and then resumed their conjoined, ambling walk. They have no idea, thought Sarah, no idea at all that the future could be anything but rosy.

She took the children by the hand and hurried home.

True to her promise to herself, Sarah threw herself into family life with more energy and dedication than she could ever remember having before. She cooked delicious meals and organised kitchen suppers with friends. She was relentlessly positive and encouraging about every mishap at Hugo's work, every difficult client who made impossible demands, every frustration with his business partners. She refused to let the children's bickering and arguing get her down, or to be downbeat about the everyday mundanity of so much that she had to do. She did not allow herself to use the exhaustion of motherhood to put off having sex.

Scott sent an email. How are things? I think of you often. Hope all well.

She read it – the few short words – over and over again. Hesitantly, she slid the mouse across the cork mat depicting a solitary cork tree standing on a hilltop that she had bought at the airport in Porto on the way home. It reminded her of Inês's family
montado
in the shimmering Alentejo.

She closed the email and clicked open the Google Earth icon. She looked at the rectangular ‘Fly To' box flickering on the screen before her. She wanted to see Scott's house, his neighbourhood, maybe spot his car in the drive, know what plants in pots stood on his front step. She wanted to imagine walking out of the door with him, arm in arm or perhaps hand in hand, the way he always used to walk with her and had again so recently, down to the shops, the restaurants, the cinema.

Did he walk that way with his wife? Did he hold Celina's hand, stroke Celina's hair, the way he did her own? After so many years together, did they still kiss the way she and Scott had done? I wonder if he still fancies her, if they are still intimate, she thought, as she gazed at the screen with unseeing eyes. Whether they still have sex.

I could ask all of these questions and more. But what good would knowing do me?

The location box was there before her, cursor flashing, waiting for the postcode. But she didn't know his address, didn't know even that most basic thing about him. The box's emptiness mocked the fact that she had nothing to type into it.

Sarah closed the email without replying and dragged it into the trash.

Perhaps absence had made the heart grow fonder because Hugo seemed to be trying, too. He bought her chocolates and even cooked a meal one night, albeit the infamous spaghetti Bolognese. But still, they seemed only to be able to operate in parallel, doing what needed to be done with children, work and finances, locomotives steaming along the rails of their own track, never deviating, never coming together. Nothing seemed to change that.

“I've got some tickets for a show,” Hugo announced one Saturday lunchtime.

Sarah nodded distractedly whilst ladling leek and potato soup into bowls and trying to persuade Honor to put her Barbies away during the meal.

“Tommo had some spare tickets for Ronnie Scott's tonight that he needed to get rid of, so I took him up on the offer. Free jazz, I think he said, which I rather like. A bit pricey, but I guess that's Soho these days. I know you like a night out.”

The next ladle of soup splashed over the side of the bowl and onto the table where it lay in a viscous green pool.

“Well, what do you think?”

“That's great, Hugo.” Sarah wiped up the spillage before continuing. “And you're right, I do like a night out – when finances allow. The only thing is – as you know – I'm really not keen on free jazz. And who's going to babysit?”

Hugo sank down heavily into the chair next to Ruby. She reached out for her cup of milk and promptly sent her bowl flying. It landed upside down on the floor, splatters of green shooting off in all directions.

“Christ, Ruby, you need to be more careful!” he shouted at her. Ruby burst into tears.

“That's not fair, daddy. You're mean,” Honor pitched in, with good intent but bad effect.

“Don't you get involved, too,” Hugo snapped at her.

Sarah put her head in her hands.

“Don't yell, Hugo, please,” she said, dully, then slowly turned to the sink, rinsed out the cloth and began to clear up the mess.

“Sorry.” Hugo took Ruby on his lap to comfort her. “I didn't think about the babysitter. Can't you sort something out? What about your mum?”

“She's in Cyprus doing her breast cancer survivors' yoga thing,” replied Sarah from under the table where she kept finding more spots of soup. “And the au pair I usually use has disappeared off back to Poland. Boyfriend trouble, apparently.”

“Oh.”

Sarah hauled herself up from her hands and knees. “Of course I could have found someone with a bit more notice but I think it's too late now. Equally,” she went on, working hard to keep her cool, “you could have thought about the fact that we'd need one earlier, as soon as you got the tickets. Did you forget you've got two children?”

“I was only trying,” Hugo muttered petulantly, spooning soup messily into his mouth. “I don't see why you should expect me to do everything.”

The preposterousness of the remark made Sarah feel that she couldn't breathe. “Thank you so much,” she responded, overly calmly. “I do appreciate it, I really do. But it only really works if all the pieces are in place.” She bit into a piece of bread as if it were Hugo's head. “And if we're going to spend money on evenings out, when money's so tight – it's only really worth it if it's something we
both
want to do – isn't it?”

She picked up the breadknife and sawed up the remainder of the loaf.

“So – you go. Go with a mate.”

“No, you go.”

“I really
don't like
free jazz.” Sarah could not stop herself raising her voice. “In fact, I hate it. It's about the only music in the world I cannot bear to listen to. You know that and I don't know why you bought the tickets pretending they're for my benefit, when you know how I feel.”