Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  Why did panic always descend at any unexpected phone call, her mind already racing ahead to whatever disaster may have occurred?

  “They’re fine, but we’ve lost Honor’s homework sheet.”

  “Oh dear.” Sarah swerved to avoid a farmer’s small three-wheeled vehicle that was driving erratically along the hard shoulder as relief flooded over her. So that was all it was.

  “She says she had it on Friday, but she doesn’t know where it is now.”

  Sarah could hear the girls squabbling in the background. “If you really can’t find it, just call Lorna and ask her what they have to do; Max will have had the same sheet.” Lorna wouldn’t be surprised to get a request for help from a disorganised Hugo.

  “Do the kids want to speak to me?” she asked.

  Hugo’s voice was faint for a moment as he called over to them, “Girls, mummy’s on the phone.”

  There was a pause, and then Hugo again, louder now. “They’re tidying the dolls’ house. They don’t seem that bothered about talking to you.”

  Sarah could hear him walking and supposed he was getting himself out of earshot. “It’s been an absolute nightmare though, I really needed to have spent the whole weekend in the office, not cooking pasta and arbitrating over disputes on whose turn it is to choose the TV channel.”

  Welcome to my world. Sarah wondered if this was the kind of conversation that Scott and his wife had had when their twins were younger.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, well…” replied Hugo, sounding distracted.

  “I’ll be back soon.” Sarah looked steadfastly through the windscreen. “Hugo, I’m driving. I’m on the motorway somewhere between Lisbon and Porto. I’ll call when I get there.”

  She did not mention that Scott was sitting right beside her, that he was coming to Porto with her.

  It was a while before the nausea subsided.

  They drove into Porto on the Dom Luis I bridge. The lower deck, for road traffic, seemed to barely skim the surface of the river Douro, whilst the upper, used by trains, towered sixty metres above the water. Scott drummed his fingers casually on the window ledge as they inched forward in slow traffic.

  “Have you ever travelled up the Douro, been to the vineyards there?”

  “No. Never. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though,” replied Sarah. Beneath them, boats criss-crossed the water from bank to bank and down towards the estuary. “You always used to be really interested in wine. Are you still?”

  “Well, not to any kind of professional degree, just a hobby I guess.” Scott grimaced, resignedly. “No time for it – like everything else. My son is, though, he even thought about going into it as a career. I guess he still might, if he ever achieves his dream of living in France.”

  “Gosh. That sounds like a drastic move.” Sarah felt flustered at being offered personal information about one of Scott’s children. It felt like an intrusion. Or maybe just too painful a reminder of what might have been. She wished he would drop the subject.

  “Well, Celina’s Quebecois as you know, so we often speak French at home,” Scott continued, shrugging as if to reassure her that it was no big deal. “The kids are bi-lingual. Well, what am I saying – tri-lingual. They were educated mostly in Portuguese.”

  “That’s great.” Sarah thought of her girls, how unaccomplished they seemed in comparison. They’re only little, the voice of reason remonstrated. And they’re beautiful whatever language they speak.

  Scott looked over to her, his eyes crinkling as he smiled, the smile that still tore Sarah’s heart apart.

  “What I mean is…” Sarah concentrated hard on the road ahead, the car in front. “Your kids. They seem wonderful, so talented. I expect you’re very proud of them.”

  “Yes, I am. As you are of yours, I’m sure.” Scott’s appraising eyes were still fixed on hers. “They sound delightful – I’d love to meet them.”

  Sarah attempted to change gear and missed, causing the engine to roar. “Sorry,” she apologised, to who – the car? Scott? – she wasn’t quite sure. She moved forward with the traffic.

  “But anyway,” continued Scott. “Back to the wine. We should try some of the new Douro table wines while we’re here. They’re building quite a good reputation.”

  “I don’t think I’m a very good playmate for you in that regard. My tastes in wine haven’t got any more sophisticated over the years, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t have to appreciate the wine,” replied Scott, grinning teasingly. “Just my feeble jokes and limited conversation as you keep me company drinking it.”

  Sarah laughed and nearly crashed the gears again. A train shrieked and juddered above them.

  “And for the record – I think you’re a fabulous playmate. The very best.”

  Blushing, Sarah glanced down at the steering wheel and then briefly at him. “Thanks. That’s nice to know. When one is a forty-year-old mum with two small children, one can feel oneself to be very dull indeed.”

  “Not you, Sarah. Not dull, never.”

  They reached the end of the bridge and it was behind them, a cat’s cradle of metalwork against the cloudless sky.

  11

  Porto, 1936

  John came home with some unexpected news today. He has engaged a tutor for me so that I can start to learn English properly. He seemed uncertain at first whether this tutor’s name was Edward, or Edmund, Bond but eventually settled on the latter. I had intended to study by myself but John was insistent that Mr Bond, as a teacher at the British School, comes highly recommended and that I would make much better progress with him than on my own.

  “I need you to be able to converse on any topic under the sun when we have to attend functions and dinners,” he explained.

  I personally doubt that there is any tutor on earth who could help me make small talk when I detest it so much but of course I didn’t say this to John. He is doing so well, his career developing exactly as he has always planned; it is my duty as his wife to help him in any way that I can.

  Anyway, I love English, what I know of it already, and it will be enjoyable to get better and more proficient at speaking it. Plus, as I have intimated before, I am often a tiny bit bored and at a loss what to do with myself during the long days when John is at work. I hate to admit that because I should have the resourcefulness to find plenty of worthwhile things to occupy my time. But I am a country girl and here in Porto there is nothing to pickle or bottle, no animals to tend, no cork forests to wander and lose myself in. It will be good to have a purpose.

  And so I replied, “Thank you, John, I’ll do my best, you know I will,” and meant it sincerely. I felt quite optimistic until John’s next words.

  “We need you to start the lessons whilst you have time,” he said. “Babies are a lot of work, you know.” And he smiled, that easy, generous smile of his that is the smile of a man who knows that everything will fall into place, just as it always has before. I found my hand wandering to my belly and resting there, even though I knew that it was empty, the optimism of only a few moments ago deserting me to be replaced by sick disappointment.

  I always imagined a brood of children; three, maybe four. Right now, I would be overjoyed with just one, but there is no sign of even that.

  The day of my first English lesson couldn’t come soon enough for me. Apart from anything else, I was intrigued to meet my second ever English person. My first impression was that it would be hard to find someone less like John. His skin is pallid and freckled where John’s is always tanned. He is as thin as John is well-built and his shock of gingery locks is as untamed and unruly as John’s brown hair is short and trim. He is dreamy and idealistic, where John is down-to-earth and practical. He lives life in his head, unlike John, whose feet are planted firmly on the ground.

  But I liked him.

  We sat at the dining table, which is French polished to a degree that makes its surface shiny and reflective as a mirror. The drawer of this table is where I keep the pre
cious piece of cork bark that I brought from the montado; despite John’s assurances that I would no longer need it once settled in Porto, I find that I cannot think of getting rid of it. One day I’ll show it to Mr Bond; he may not know much about cork if he has only lived in Porto.

  For now, Mr Bond’s books and papers take up all our attention. He proceeded straightaway to teach me modal verbs, the conditional subjunctive and the future perfect continuous until I had a headache. But when I bade him goodbye it felt too soon, and the apartment echoingly empty once he had gone. Over the past few days, I have found my thoughts drifting towards him, his pale face with its ardent, earnest expression strangely fixed in my mind.

  Mr Bond arrives punctually at the allotted time on Tuesdays and Thursdays every week. The part of our lessons that I have been enjoying the most is our study of literature. After all, there is only so much grammar that one can stomach before it begins to be nauseating. I revel in the adventures of Jane Eyre and the drama and wild romance of Wuthering Heights. Jane Austen, Mrs Gaskell and Dickens all are now fixtures of my reading list. I’m even beginning to tackle Shakespeare and the metaphysical poets.

  Othello has particularly caught at my heart. Such dark but beautiful language that play contains, and so at odds with the sunny summer weather outside these past few weeks. Recently, I couldn’t help but ponder to Mr Bond the idea that to live life with such ardour is what we all desire. As I said it, I regarded his finely-drawn face which is framed by heavy eyebrows that lend him an air of precise but ethereal authority, and wondered if he knew what passion was, had ever experienced it, even if only fleetingly. I read one of my favourite quotes out loud:

  “I kissed thee ere I killed thee, no way but this

  Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”

  The book was propped on the table before me, leaning against the crystal fruit bowl that was a wedding present from one of John’s relatives.

  “Can’t you feel his desire, his lust and fervour, intermingled with his pain?” I asked Mr Bond. “You can really believe that Othello loves Desdemona so much that he cannot let either of them live if she has betrayed him!”

  Mr Bond began to shuffle some papers awkwardly and noisily on the shiny table. I know that I shouldn’t tease but the urge to continue was so irresistible that I could not hold back. “Surely, Mr Bond, you can understand how one could feel that way? Could love so intensely that all reason and sanity desert one?”

  A fit of coughing followed this enquiry and I suddenly felt riven by guilt.

  “It is beautiful writing, Mrs Morton,” he eventually concurred, once he had regained the power of speech. “It is hard to think that such lines could be written by someone who had not experienced obsessive love, or be understood by anyone who does not believe such love possible.”

  He is so sincere, so genuine. John is all surface, there is nothing deeper or more profound about him, only what is visible to everyone. He is just John, respectable, traditional, unbendable. Yet Edmund – Edmund has layer upon hidden layer to uncover. I would like to get to know them all.

  He broke my chain of thought and brought me back down to earth by announcing that at our next lesson, we would be studying participal adjectives. As he left, I broached a subject that has been preoccupying me for a few weeks. I requested that we call each other Inês and Edmund, rather than Mrs Morton and Mr Bond. After a small, doubtful pause, he agreed.

  I stood at the door and watched him take the stairs down to the front hall two at a time. I, too, felt uplifted – perhaps rather more so than might be expected after a rigorous English lesson. There’s something about Mr Bond – Edmund – that lifts my spirits and makes the day seem brighter, more real.

  But I don’t know what it is.

  Whatever the reason, it made me feel that I couldn’t stay indoors any longer. I needed some air. I put on my coat and hat, and a pair of comfortable shoes, and slipped out of the apartment. The sun was shining and there was a fresh breeze that brought with it a hint of the sea as I set off down the steep streets. As I walked, I passed the British Factory House which reminded me that John would be dining there later. The Factory House is probably the most exclusive club in the world, as there are never more than a dozen or so members, all from the British port wine companies. The rooms are hung with great crystal chandeliers and furnished with antiques by Chippendale, and the ceilings are burnished with gold. I’ve only once been inside the building as many of the events are men only, as it is with tonight’s dinner. But I really don’t mind not going – I’m much happier staying at home to write up the day’s events and when that is done, to read. Edmund has managed to get hold of a copy of the recently published Jamaica Inn and I cannot wait to get started.

  I walked on from the Factory House and further towards the Douro. In the far distance I could see the iron bridge that spans the river, suspended like a giant spider’s web between the two banks. A passenger train was crossing on the highest level, a plume of smoke trailing behind it. It felt like a day when it was good to be alive, and I decided to go all the way down to the river, to the Cais da Ribeira, where what I sometimes feel is the real life of Porto is played out in all its raucous turmoil.

  John doesn’t much like me going there – marriage sometimes seems to have so many constraints when I had imagined only freedoms! I cannot deny that the area is a little rough but I love the chaos and the noise, the small children darting around my legs, cheekily tugging my skirt and demanding escudos. Today, sea-faring vessels of all types were moored three or four deep along the river bank, planks between them allowing passage to the shore, over which flowed a continuous stream of men and women employed to unload their cargo. Everything, from furniture to building materials, from sacks to baskets and boxes, is carried on their heads and all seem indifferent to the huge weight and unwieldiness of many of the items. On occasion, I have even seen countrywomen carry their babies this way, if they need their hands free for other things. Waiting patiently just beyond the quayside, ready to transport the goods onwards, were the bullock carts. These beasts of burden have such sheer strength that they never falter in pulling the heaviest of loads up the steep hills of Porto.

  As I wandered through the throng, the air resounded with the cries of the street hawkers; the woman selling oranges, the knife-grinder, the vegetable vendors whose donkeys poke their noses through shop doorways and wait patiently while the deal is done. Loudest of all were the fishwives, the varinhas, laden baskets on their heads, calling out their offer of ‘carapaus frescos’. When the weather is bad they go barefoot, carrying their shoes on top of their fish rather than spoil them in the mud. A practical solution, I always feel.

  Eventually, I turned away from the river and started to weave my way through the medieval streets and alleyways, past some of the city’s many churches; Sâo Francisco, Misericórdia and dos Grilos, until I reached the church and tower dos Clérigos. I decided to go in, to escape from the sun for a moment but also to sit and rest after so much walking. It was quiet and dark inside. I knelt, made the sign of the cross and began to pray, before I had even thought about what I was doing.

  Once my prayer was said, I sat for a while with my eyes shut, breathing in the still, heavy air that smelt of incense and beeswax. When I got up, it was to wander up and down the aisles, peering into the side chapels and up at the stained-glass windows. A statue of a small, chubby infant, cradled by the Madonna, caught my attention; it had a face so sweet and enchanting that I was unable to stop myself from reaching out to touch it. But the baby Jesus’s body was not soft and yielding as its appearance promised, but cold and hard, made of stone that although chiselled with love did not possess the gift of living.

  I ran my fingertips slowly over the tubby belly and podgy thighs, feeling the slight abrasion of the statue’s granulated surface, the chill that emanated from it despite the heat of the day. I studied it carefully, the curly hair that begged to be ruffled, the plump cheeks that demanded a gentle pinch, the tiny hands t
hat needed to be held…but all were just an imitation, a lifelike but lifeless replica of a real baby.

  I withdrew my hand and turned to the huge wooden doors, my head bowed, overcome by a sudden and profound sadness. Just one little baby is all I want. Forget the many I once dreamed of. Just one will do.

  Porto, 2010

  When Scott texted to say he was on his way down to meet her, Sarah had tears pouring down her cheeks, smudging the make-up she had so carefully applied. The mystery of Inês’s childlessness was becoming ever more puzzling when it was obvious how much she had longed for a baby. Maybe the words that Inês had been unable to utter had been about that yearning, unfulfilled, unsatisfied. But why would she want to expose this wound now, after so many years? And what of the rather singular English tutor, Edmund Bond? There were telltale signs that Inês was fond of him – perhaps rather fonder than one should be of one’s grammar teacher. If their feelings for each other transcended mere friendship, what on earth would become of it?

  And then, in the midst of all these thoughts, Scott was beside her, asking her if she were all right, if something had happened, if the girls were OK.

  “We don’t have to go out if you’d rather not,” he said, sitting down beside her and anxiously regarding her. “Do you need to stay here, phone home? Is there anything I can help with?”

  Sarah smiled wanly, and then tried again, with more enthusiasm. She reassured him that all was well in London, she’d explain in a minute, and went to the bathroom to repair her mascara. Once convinced that she really did want to go out to dinner, Scott led her out of the hotel. As they walked, Sarah updated him on her latest readings of the journal, although it was hard to articulate why it had affected her so greatly. So absorbed was she in relaying the story that they had reached the banks of the river Douro before she paused to take in her surroundings. Realising immediately that this must be the Ribeira district that Inês so loved, Sarah gasped and tears welled up once more. The tall, thin houses jostled for position along the waterfront, just as Inês had described, wooden balconies and coloured façades melded together to form a perfect tableau. The difference was that the grocer’s shops and ships chandlers were now restaurants and cafés, the fishwives and knife-grinders had been replaced by street artists and souvenir sellers, and the erstwhile haunt of sailors and prostitutes was now populated by a mix of tourists and locals enjoying an evening out.