Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  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 blu
e 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.”

  The restaurant was perfectly positioned to watch the sunset, and was full of both tourists and Lisbonites, who Sarah assumed must be very well-heeled once she saw the prices on the menu.

  “The food is great,” said Scott, noticing her eyes widening in horror. She and Hugo hardly ever ate out and she’d forgotten that it was possible to pay €30 for a plate of prawns. “But of course, you’re paying for the view and the setting. Or rather, I should say ‘I’m paying…’”

  Sarah looked up at him and grimaced, doubtfully. “It’s lovely. Thank you for bringing me here. I’m feeling very indulged.”

  She realised that she sounded prim, unfriendly even. But Scott just smiled laconically and raised his arms in a ‘devil may care’ gesture. “I’ve spent far too much time on my own in Lisbon over the years. It’s a rare treat to have someone to spoil. So thank you, too.”

  Sarah forced her shoulders to drop and her body to relax as she drank her wine, more quickly than she knew she should. The sun was burning a fierce, final red now, that faded to orange as it spread across the darkening sky.

  “It’s your turn to tell me your life story, isn’t it?” Scott’s expectant expression made Sarah blush. “That’s what we agreed.”

  She grabbed the bottle that the waiter had left in an ice bucket by the table and sloshed more wine into their glasses. “It’s soooooo unexciting, you wouldn’t believe,” she replied, dismissively, before telling him about her career and her children and her life in London. She found herself mentioning Hugo only briefly. Scott was intrigued by the story of Inês’s journal, listening attentively, speaking only to ask the odd question, or to request more detail. He was mystified as Sarah as to what could have prompted her to reveal its existence now, so many years after it had been written.

  “I suppose you’ll only find out when you’ve read it all,” he suggested. “And – if it’s not private – I hope you’ll tell me when you do.”

  Smiling, Sarah agreed. She wondered why she had revealed the story to Scott when she had not to Hugo. Perhaps because Scott seemed to be actually listening, and hearing, what she had to say; things Hugo so rarely did these days.

  The conversation moved on to Sarah’s article, all she had discovered about cork, how she was loving the opportunity to get her teeth into such a fascinating topic. The waiter brought their order – swordfish for Sarah, polvo à galega, octopus with sea salt, olive oil and red peppers for Scott.

  “It’s so strange, isn’t it,” mused Sarah as the waiter departed, “to be here in Lisbon together after all this time.” She fiddled idly with her napkin. “And still to have so much to talk about, as if we last saw each other a few months ago.”

  “Strange? Or fate?” Scott raised his glass to her. “Whichever it is, here’s to us – to an old friendship and a chance meeting.” His eyes caught hers as he continued, “I’m so glad it happened. I can’t tell you how glad.”

  A ring echoed out, blasting into the subdued hum of chatter, sounding like a klaxon amongst the closely-packed tables. The cutlery jumped and jostled against their plates, disturbed by the thudding vibration of Sarah’s phone as it danced crazily over the thick white tablecloth. She snatched it up, sending a stray knife scuttling across the table where it crashed into Scott’s water glass and knocked it over.

  “I’m so sorry, is it all over you? You can’t take me anywhere, can you?” Her attempt to cover her mortification with humour floundered as she bent over to pick up her napkin from the floor beneath her chair. She leant towards Scott, uselessly flicking it over his lap to try to mop up the spillage.

  “Sarah, Sarah, it’s fine, it’s only water. Just answer the phone.”

  At that moment, the call rang off. She looked at the screen. “It was my husband, Hugo. I did speak to my mum today, but that was earlier, and she’s gone now anyway. It’s her film club night, so she wanted to be home. I’m so sorry, do you mind, I better go and call him, check that everything’s all right.”

  “Of course. Take as long as you need.”

  “Yes, right, good. Back soon.” All attempts at nonchalance failed and she knew that she sounded as flustered as she felt. “I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.” She gave him a little wave and then turned away to the exit.

  “Hi, sorry, I missed your call.” Sarah stood on the narrow pavement where the restaurant lay between a shop, now closed, and a small but busy bar which was open to the street. “Didn’t pick up the phone in time. Are you OK?”

  “Yes,” said Hugo, noncommittally. “I just wanted to find out if you were. OK, that is.”

  Sarah watched as the barman chopped limes to the beat of a salsa tune, then switched on the blender, blitzing the ice into tiny shards, a tinny, tumbling noise filtering through the chatter of voices onto the street.

  “I’m good. Fine.” Sarah felt as if she were talking to a stranger, a conversation of carefully chosen words too considered and constrained to be comfortable.

  The barman poured the caipiroscas, vivid green lozenges of lime and crystals of ice jumbled together. He raised one glass high up into the air, pointed
to it, then looked at Sarah with a questioning expression.

  “Oh no, sorry,” mimed Sarah, grinning apologetically and shaking her head. The man feigned despondence, his shoulders collapsing and his eyelids drooping. Embarrassed, although she knew he was teasing, Sarah waved, turned and walked away. Hugo was speaking and that she hadn’t heard a word.

  “Sorry, what was that? I lost you for a bit.”

  “The girls. They’re missing you.”

  “They were all right when I spoke to mum this morning.” Sarah felt a tight clenching in her stomach. “I’ll be back on Monday, anyway. Tell them I love them, won’t you?” She paused, then continued brightly. “What are you having for supper?”

  “I’ve ordered a takeaway from Mung Thai.”

  “Oh great, that’ll be nice.” She paused, then resumed. “I should go now, Hugo, the others will be waiting for me.”

  “OK. Take care. Love you.”

  “And you.”

  Back at the table, Scott indicated towards her unfinished meal. “I stopped them taking it away. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” What else could she say? “The girls seem all right and Hugo’s having a Thai.”

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s one way to keep oneself entertained while the wife’s overseas. You Brits are so liberal, aren’t you?”

  Sarah giggled. “What I mean is, he’s having a Thai takeaway. You know, green curry and pak choi.”

  But underneath her jocularity, Sarah could not stop thinking about her children, her precious babies, fast asleep in bed, dreaming. And of her husband, of Hugo, who was constantly preoccupied with the challenges of his business. Who could never find his reading glasses. Who had recently taught Honor to ride her bicycle without stabilisers, and been so proud of her as she wheeled to and fro, brand new helmet glinting in the sun. Who was always careful and considered, never spontaneous. Who often looked straight through her, his wife Sarah, on his way out to work in the morning, as if she were a fixture and fitting of the house rather than a person with needs and desires.