Garden of Stars (27 page)

The receptionist's enthusiasm was infectious and comical at the same time, and I found that I didn't have to force a smile in response.

“We shall look forward to it. Thank you so much for letting us know.”

The man beamed as if to demonstrate that his was a job well done.

As we emerged into the bright sunshine outside, we could already see the signs of the party to come. Bunting hung between the shop fronts and posters advertising the schedule of events were stuck to every available wall.

I put all the energy I could muster into my voice. “I'd like to go and watch the dancing and musicians tonight. When I was a child, we went to all the festivals in the surrounding villages – there was one almost every week during the summertime.”

“So it will be a chance for you to relive your childhood,” laughed John. “Although I hope they don't go too mad with the fireworks, letting them off all through the night. I've come away for a rest!”

“Oh, you poor old man. I keep forgetting that you are thirty-three now. But it's only one night and I think it will be fun.”

“Very well. I wouldn't deny you anything, Inês, you know that. But right now, I'd like to get some lunch. The journey has left me famished and you know how irritable I get when I'm hungry.”

After lunch, we strolled around the town. The narrow cobbled streets were crowded with people come to enjoy the
festas
, and the heat of the incipient summer carried with it an air of excitement and expectation. We stopped for a while on the bridge where we watched families playing in the natural pools between the rocks, already exposed so early in the summer by the low level of the river. I would have loved to swim again, for the release that the cold water and the battle against the river's current, however mild, would bring. But John never wants to swim and in any case, I didn't have bathing clothes with me.

Eventually, our wanderings led us to the Igreja de Sâo Gonçalo, which is supposedly built on the spot where Gonçalo himself lived in his hermitage in the thirteenth century. Inside, the main aisle is flanked by columns painted with flowered wreaths in dusky gold, and the organ case is supported by a pair of huge tritons, placed on either side of a merman with two black tails. In a small chapel to the left of the altar lies the saint's tomb, said to guarantee a quick marriage to anyone who touches it. I was fascinated to see that its face, hands and feet have been almost worn away by the centuries of caresses by hopeful would-be brides and grooms.

“Look, John! That's how much people wish to be married.”

“I would have been most surprised at myself if
I
had ever resorted to superstition in the attempt to find a wife,” replied John. “Or to achieve anything, for that matter. But – who knows? I've only ever asked one person to marry me – and fortunately for me, she said ‘yes'.”

He laughed, and I joined in. We have so much good fortune, so much to be thankful and grateful for. It is not possible to live a happy life when ‘what if' rules you. I determined, then and there, not to poison the present with regret for the past.

“Let's go back to the hotel. Siesta time, isn't it?” John took my hands in his, raised them to his mouth and kissed them.

“John!” I managed to express my horror, even though I did not raise my voice above the whisper that is customary in church. “Not in here, not in front of Mary and our Lord!” I headed towards the frescos that had caught my eye before he could try to kiss any other part of me. As I walked, I noticed some panels painted with the very figures I had just spoken of; the Virgin Mary recovering from the birth of her son, the baby Jesus being bathed in a wooden tub, whilst behind them maids aired towels and hung out washing. I almost faltered, in my step and in my determination to be optimistic. Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, I am reminded of what I do not have. Hastily, I turned from the panels and followed John to the entrance of the church where he was now waiting for me, holding the door open and gesturing me through.

We dined early so as to have time to join in with the street celebrations. It seemed as if the whole town was out on this hot summer's night, and in the square by the church a temporary dance floor had been erected. Numerous stalls selling food of every description had sprung up, and I flitted amongst them all, tasting everything, just as I and my siblings and cousins used to do when we were children. One of life's greatest and simplest pleasures is eating street food from a paper bag, of that I am sure.

As I looked around for something new to try, my attention was caught by a stall piled high with some kind of creamy brown toy or tool that from a distance I didn't recognise. I wandered away from John, towards the stall, to see if I could work out what the strange objects were. As I got closer, the realisation came upon me and I clapped my hands to my mouth to stifle my rather immature giggles. For I was confronted with the sight of piles and piles of phalluses, hundreds of them, made of dough and streaked with sugared icing, stacked neatly on top of each other.

I was deciding whether to call John over, or to walk away and pretend I hadn't noticed, when I sensed that he was right behind me.

“What the devil…?” he exclaimed as he registered what I was looking at. And then he started laughing and was still laughing when the stallholder bustled over and asked how many we would like.

“They are very good you know. If you are not married – you give one to your
namorado
as a token of your love. And if you are married already – well, every couple who eats one of Sâo Gonçalo's cakes this weekend will have a baby before a year has passed. It's guaranteed.”

I could sense John's dislike of superstition, already so forcefully expressed in the church, and felt a dismissive, derisive answer coming on.

“I'll take two!” I blurted out, before he could stop me. “No – make that three. One each and one to share.”

“Inês, what are you thinking of?” remonstrated John. “It's just a piece of nonsense, you know that.”

We were speaking English, the stallholder wrapping the cakes in brown paper as we talked, oblivious to what we were saying.

“Nonsense or not, I'm buying them. If it's superstitious rubbish, then it won't work. If it isn't – then it might. Surely it's worth a try?”

22

London, 2010

And there the journal ended, abruptly. There didn't seem to be any reason for it to finish – there were plenty of pages left in the book, a dozen or more. What had happened after that trip to Amarante? There was so much going on, so much, surely, to write about: a lost lover, infertility, impending war. Yet the pages were bare. Sarah felt a pressing need to know what Inês was hiding, what else lay beneath the surface.

Next day, the day of Inês's return from the Peak District, Sarah, Honor and Ruby in tow, headed up the hill to Inês's house. The girls had been to a party and their faces had been transformed with face paint; Honor had become a butterfly and Ruby a tiger.

“Well, who is this who has come to see me?” exclaimed Inês, as loudly as her voice allowed these days, as the girls burst into her drawing room. They shrieked in delight that she pretended not to recognise them.

“It's Honor! Honor! You know me.” Honor jumped up and down, thumping herself on the chest for emphasis.

“But I don't see Honor, I see a beautiful butterfly, just like the ones that used to come to my garden in Portugal when I was a girl.”

“Oh, yes, I'm a booootiful butterfly…” Honor flapped her arm-wings and ran around the drawing room, giggling.

“And what's this? My dear Sarah, how did a tiger get into the house?”

It was Ruby's turn now, and she roared as Inês covered her eyes with her hands and cowered in fake fear. “Please don't eat me, tiger.”

Sarah watched and smiled and felt the empty space inside her as hollow and desiccated as a dried-up oasis in the desert.

If only it were so easy, in real life, to step out of your own life and into another. Had Inês felt like this, when torn between John and Edmund? Sarah could only assume that she had.

Ruby leapt onto Inês's lap and was making greedy chomping noises, pretending to bite her. Both girls were laughing but Inês became suddenly pale and silent. At first, Sarah had thought that Inês seemed fine, no different from before the fall, but now, suddenly, her fragility became unmistakeably apparent. Her breathing was slower and more laboured than ever, her frame bent as if she had shrunk into herself.

The questions had to be asked, now, today, or it might be too late.

“Girls!” Sarah called, urgently. “Run along to the garden with Billy to play. I'll be down later.”

She needed some time alone with Inês.

Once they'd disappeared in a flurry of swishing party dresses and crashing of doors, Sarah pulled up the pouffe that had been in the room since she was a child. She sat down on it and took Inês's hands in her own. Despite the heat outside, Inês was cold, her skin soft as a serpent's underbelly. Sarah sensed that Inês also knew that the time had come to talk, had something important, possibly urgent, to tell her, and that she must wait, as long as it took, while the gentle shadows of sunlight filtered by the old ash tree played on the wooden floor as they had done during so many visits over so many years.

“I'm feeling tired now Sarah, my love.” When Inês finally spoke, her voice was almost imperceptible. “So very tired. I feel that the end of my life is coming.”

“No, Inês, don't say that,” interrupted Sarah, aware of her own voice far too loud, her words too quick.

“Sarah, dear, it has to come some time. I'm not scared of dying. But there is one thing that still troubles me.” Inês paused, seemed close to exhaustion, half-closed her eyes.

“You have come so close to the truth, Sarah, or maybe I have been waiting for you to guess. When you found the photograph in my room and pressed me about it – I could tell then that you doubted me, that you knew there was more to it than I was admitting to. Now you have read the journal, which has saved me explaining so much, I suppose the time must be right, because finally I am ready to tell you, and to ask for your help.”

“Of course, Inês. I'll do anything I can. You know that.” Sarah was sure that the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking more slowly now, marking time as time itself became sluggish and slack.

“I've never spoken about this to anyone in the seventy years since it happened. But I had a baby, once.”

Sarah was silent, watching Inês intently. Slowly, she shook her head. “I didn't know that. But I was going to ask – why the journal ends so suddenly after your visit to Amarante. Why you never finished it.”

“I had a baby girl.” Inês didn't seem to be reacting to what Sarah had said, intent as she was on her own course. “She was born three years after John and I got married. That was a long time to wait for a baby in those days; most people had their first child very quickly. But that's the time it took. We wanted a child so much, we longed for one.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I was overjoyed. I was convinced that it was on account of Sâo Gonçalo – the cakes that are supposed to guarantee fertility.” Inês's eyes were focused on some faraway place, and she sighed deeply before continuing.

“John disapproved and I didn't really think they would work, but I ate them anyway, one by one. I thought all that dough was why I was putting on weight.” Inês paused, smiling wryly. “It wasn't until I was four months gone that I cottoned on to what was really happening.”

“Gosh,” said Sarah, inadequately. “You must have been – amazed. Overjoyed.”

“I started a new diary then. My pregnancy book, I called it. I was going to keep mementos in it, as a kind of scrapbook. It's right here, on that table. I'd like you to have it, to keep it, together with the journal you already have. You can start reading it now, whilst I shut my eyes for a moment. I'm feeling a little weary after the journey.”

Porto, 1937

The doctor was jovial in that English gentleman kind of way. He had a large bald patch, a red, veiny nose and cheeks mottled with burgundy and hints of blue. I suspected that he liked the local port a little too much. Sitting in his wood-panelled surgery on that autumn morning, with its prints of
The Rake's Progress
and
The Battle of Trafalgar
on the wall, I shivered slightly, although I had not taken off my coat. Autumn was coming and it was definitely getting colder, even though on this particular day, the sun was shining brightly outside.

“So, Mrs Morton, how are you? And how's that old fellow your husband? Keeping well, I hope?”

I felt a frisson of irritation. Was this appointment about me or John? “He's very well, thank you. A little fatter these days; you would probably tell him to cut back on all the lunches and dinners he has to attend.”

Dr Graham roared with laughter. “Very good, very good. I'll tell him you said that next time I see him on the golf course.” Then he straightened his face and his tie and composed his demeanour. “But my dear Mrs Morton. It is you who has come to see me today. So what can I do for you?”

I froze. Having been impatient for this moment, words now deserted me. I was overcome with embarrassment, not at having to say the word ‘pregnant' but due to the overwhelming fear that I might be wrong, that he would think me a fool, and a time-wasting one at that. I fixed my eyes on
The Hay Wain
, wondering exactly what it is about this picture, which has always struck me as rather dull and ordinary, that has made it so famous.

I realised that Dr Graham was looking at me expectantly, head tilted to one side. He knows, I thought. He knows exactly what I'm going to say.

“I think I'm pregnant.” Hurrah! I managed to get the words out. “I might be pregnant. It's a possibility.”