Under an Amber Sky

by Rose Alexander

  Frank set up a shot on the timer and they all lined up, the sea and sky behind them.

  ‘Closer,’ he kept saying, ‘no, closer still.’

  Sophie was in the middle, with Ton on one side and Anna on the other. Irene was in between Ton and Darko, and Tomasz was in front of Anna. Once happy that they were all snuggled tightly enough together, Frank hit the switch and sprinted to join them. Sophie knew that she’d remember this moment for ever, that with or without a photograph to remind her it would be etched into her mind for all time.

  All of these people who, one by one, had taken up residence in the stone house had become her family – a patchwork one made up of disparate fabrics that melded together because of the fact that they did not match rather than despite it. She loved them all and she loved Ton in an indefinable way that she had never experienced before and was not the way she had loved Matt. She needed now to own that love, to settle into it, as the slowworm she had stumbled upon in Gornji Stoliv would grow into a new skin. To make it hers, and theirs.

  Tomasz went racing past, kicking up sand, disturbing Sophie from her reverie. Frank had given him an instamatic camera and taught him how to use it.

  ‘Isn’t he a bit young for one of those?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘He’ll grow,’ replied Frank, checking that the film was spooling properly. He handed the camera back to Tomasz. ‘You’ve got six more shots – off you go.’

  Tomasz gambolled around on the darkening sand, taking photos and handing them to their subject, laughing with joy at their reactions of delight and horror and mirth as each picture slowly materialized before their eyes.

  He came to Sophie, sitting beside Ton, his arm around her shoulders. Pressing the button, the picture was taken before Sophie had had a chance to prepare herself. For ever after, she could see in her face her expression: of joy and guilt and happiness and pain, against the backdrop of an amber sky.

  ***

  Sophie didn’t know how to react when Ton told her he had to go away for a bit.

  ‘What’s a bit?’ she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘And why?’

  ‘I’ve got some involvement in a hostel business in Indonesia. Something I set up when I left the paper. I mentioned it before, didn’t I?’ He paused and took Sophie’s hands. ‘I’m not disappearing this time. There’s legal stuff that I have to be there to deal with, if I want my money out.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A month. Six weeks, max.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘I see.’

  Ton kissed her, his lips firm and urgent. ‘You could come with me?’

  ‘No.’ Releasing herself from his grasp, she shook her head. ‘I’ve got my new job. I can’t walk out on that. And – I don’t want to go anywhere just now. I’ve always been someone who likes home best.’ She smoothed her hair down around her ears where his hands had ruffled it. ‘That makes us pretty incompatible, I suppose, doesn’t it? When you’re such an inveterate traveller.’

  Ton smiled – his infectious, enveloping smile. ‘I like home too. It’s just that I haven’t had one for a long, long time.’

  Chapter 34

  She went with him to the airport for his flight. He was going to Belgrade from Tivat, and from there on to Frankfurt, then Bali via Singapore. It seemed like a tedious journey. Sophie hoped it would be worth it. The airport – an old military base – was surrounded by fields and scrubland, brown and tired after the long, hot summer. On a few of the trees, the leaves were starting to turn, signalling autumn.

  ‘Rujan,’ murmured Sophie as Ton paused to readjust the strap of his small backpack. ‘Everything is red like wine.’

  She pressed her lips against his cheek. It was smooth from shaving.

  ‘I’m going to grow a beard while I’m away,’ he said, making her smile at the thought. ‘To see if you like it.’

  ‘I do like beards,’ she replied, and then stopped, frowning. ‘I think.’ Matt had never had one; it was totally not his style. But Ton, he might suit the wild man of the woods look – as long as he kept it trimmed. ‘Don’t try and beat the admiral at his own game, though.’

  They both laughed.

  He had no luggage to check in. He always travelled light. They stood before the security gates and she held him close. He was wearing his leather jacket despite the still-warm September weather, saying it was too heavy and bulky to pack. The smell of the material mingled with the musky scent of him that she had come to know so well from all the hours on the back of the bike. And then, more recently, from sharing a bed with him, making love with him. Sophie’s heart ached for that remembered touch. But was it Ton’s touch or Matt’s she longed for? She was no longer sure and that was part of the confusion.

  She lifted her head away from his jacket and looked up, into his impossibly blue eyes, so different from Matt’s hazel ones. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  ‘You need time to work it out. I know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  They kissed again. The loudness of the airport noise all around them receded into the distance. Announcements rattled out, unheard.

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘No. No rush.’

  This time his kiss was harder and he squeezed her tight, encompassing her in his strong, capable arms.

  ‘I should go. They’ve called my flight. Will you be all right getting home?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Sophie, hastily. ‘I could call Petar’s friend – but I’m not sure he’ll have got over the rakija yet!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘So I think I’ll get the bus.’

  Ton smiled. Sophie’s stomach turned over. She grabbed him and kissed him, wildly, passionately.

  And then the flight was called again, final call, and he had to go.

  As he left he grasped her arm.

  ‘Take care. See you soon.’ He was fumbling for his passport in his pocket, not taking his eyes off her.

  ‘You will be back?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ll be back. Before it gets cold, before studeni – or during,’ he promised, and she believed him.

  A large group of tourists was descending on the security gates. Ton indicated towards them with a flick of his head.

  ‘Better get through ahead of that lot.’ Beginning to walk off, he looked back one more time over his shoulder. ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she called, hoping he heard, aware of her voice sounding thin and insubstantial in the vast space of the terminal building.

  She watched him disappear into the crowds until he was finally swallowed up and she could no longer see him and then she turned to go, back to the stone house and the others who would be there, also waiting.

  ***

  When she got back, Irene was playing with Tomasz on the tiny shingle beach in front of the house whilst Anna painted in her garden studio, music blaring. Banging emanating from the attic indicated Frank was putting the finishing touches on what was to be their married quarters.

  Sophie went to her room. She looked at the space where the box with the mother-of-pearl inlay had lain for so many months, since Frank had uncovered it from its hiding place. Next to it was her favourite photo of Matt, his warm hazel eyes, his high forehead indicating his fierce intelligence. She picked it up from the dressing table and kissed it, closing her eyelids tight and squeezing back the tears. She stood, holding it to her for many moments before gently, carefully replacing it.

  A little bit more time. A few weeks. And then she would be ready for the future.

  The sun sent bright bars of light through the half-shuttered window, revealing dust motes dancing. Sophie went to it and opened it wide, just as she had that day over a year ago when Anna had screeched the car to halt outside on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign and insisted they go in and take a look.

  Sophie could never have imagined everything that had happened since then. The friends she had made here: Darko, Petar and
Sandra, Frank, Irene – and Ton. Outside, the water was flat, shimmering in the heat. Seagulls swooped and soared; the admiral – how could she have forgotten him from her list of new friends? – was feeding them the smallest of his catch. The black granite mountains rising behind threw no shadows in the noontime but rose in all their majestic glory, protective, sheltering.

  She looked towards Mount Lovcen, towering at the far end of the bay, the symbol of Montenegro, its peak green, the snow long gone. One thing she knew for sure was that she would never leave now; she was here for good. She had her new job to look forward to, and Irene was going to teach her to sail. She had invited her parents for Christmas and New Year and hoped to take them skiing, at Kolasin or Zabljak.

  This year, it would be a proper celebration. She had also taken the decision to ask them to bring Matt’s ashes. When summer came again, she would take them out into the bay and scatter them there, so that he too could be part of the beauty of this place for eternity. It felt right.

  And then there was Ton. He would be back by the end of October, November latest. They would have the long, dark winter months to get to know each other properly. She had so much to live for, to be grateful for.

  She rested her hands on the cool stone of the windowsill and breathed in deeply of the fresh, clear air. She would never swap it for London’s pollution now. Tomasz and Irene were invisible behind the stone planters in which Sophie’s geraniums, despite Ton’s scepticism, still bloomed profusely, but their happy voices were clearly audible, floating upwards in the stillness. Kicking off her shoes and donning flip-flops, Sophie slipped out of the bedroom, flew down the stairs, and ran across the road to join them.

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  GARDEN OF STARS

  Prologue

  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.”

  1

  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 ‘how are yous?’ and ‘fine, 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 inacti
vity 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 – and delivered – 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 – or was it to blame? – 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.