Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  “Um, well,” I muttered, visions of an even hairier return journey than the way out had been appearing in my mind. “Don’t fret too much. We’ll get there when we get there.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Edmund, distractedly. “Now, we seem to have everything, so let’s be off.”

  He hiked away, disappearing behind the dune before I had had time to scan the area once more, doubting the precision of his tidying. I saw the cork from the bottle of wine resting on a mound of sand and stepped forward to retrieve it. But then stopped and turned away from it, following Edmund’s tracks in the sand. It could stay to mark the spot, the epicentre of our perfect day, until it gradually disintegrated.

  The petrifying blaze of the sun had lessened now that evening was upon us, and the sheen from the marshland water was kinder, more mellow than before. Reaching the car, I climbed aboard whilst Edmund stowed the basket and settled himself down. Before starting the engine, he turned sideways towards me.

  “Thank you,” he said, simply. “Thank you for the most perfect day.”

  I smiled, wistfulness filling my mind. “Thank you, too,” I replied. Was it a coincidence that his words so exactly echoed my own thoughts on leaving our picnic place?

  “We should get going,” I murmured, gently, hating the intrusion of mundane concerns such as the time.

  Edmund nodded wordlessly and fired the ignition. Or at least, Edmund tried to fire the ignition. But absolutely nothing happened. He tried again. And again. Still nothing.

  After the umpteenth attempt, he let his arms fall to his sides and sat, staring at the wheel and the engine that lay under the long bonnet in front, saying nothing.

  “What do you think is the matter?” I asked, tentatively, then immediately regretted it, for it was obvious that if he knew, he would fix it.

  Edmund did not reply, merely pulled the lever that released the bonnet and got out of the car. He propped the bonnet open and disappeared from my sight. I heard a few muted curses, a cling of metal on metal, and then silence once more.

  Edmund reappeared, looking glum.

  “I think I’ve diagnosed the patient’s illness,” he said, the lighthearted nature of his words not matched by either his expression or his tone. “She’s out of oil. The container is completely empty.” He brandished the dipstick towards me as if to prove his point. “That’s why the engine won’t turn over.”

  I nodded, my brow knitted in concentration, almost as if I understood the first thing about what he was saying.

  “If I could get oil, we might be in with a chance. But,” he looked around, at the endless marshland and waterways and dunes and the darkening sky above. “I don’t think we’ll do it tonight. Anywhere that might sell oil will be closed by now, and anyway, we’re miles from town.” He shrugged hopelessly. “I’m so sorry, Inês. What a fool I am.”

  “No, of course you’re not!” I couldn’t let him think that. “It could happen to anyone, and we’ve had the most marvellous day, you’re not to blame for this mishap.” I jumped from the car and flew to where he stood, throwing my arms around him. “We’ll work something out. We’ll sleep in the car if we have to…or…or…”

  My words petered away as I became aware of how close we were, how intently Edmund was staring down at me, how good the outdoor, sunshiny smell of him was, how alone we were in this deserted place.

  He bent towards me. I reached my face up to him. There was utter silence but for the wail of a seabird over the marshes.

  15

  Portugal, 2010

  Turbulence shook the aircraft, rocking it from side to side and causing Sarah’s empty coffee cup to slide off the tray and onto the floor. The ‘fasten your seatbelt’ announcement cut through her absorption in the journal just as the realisation of what was happening to Inês dawned on her. She looked out of the window, at the layers of pure white cloud, pierced here and there by arrow-like rays of sunshine.

  The turbulence cleared and the flight’s normal activity resumed, trolleys wheeling up and down the aisles, drinks and meals served. Sarah cast her eyes back down at the open page, wanting to know the situation’s outcome but at the same time not wanting to. Inês’s purpose in giving her the journal was becoming less, not more, clear the more she read.

  Aveiro, 1936

  The estalgem was basic to say the least. There was no electricity but we were given oil lamps to light our way to our separate rooms. I was glad to find that there was at least a proper wool mattress; I had half expected to find the traditional country bedding made of straw. Despite the afternoon siesta we had enjoyed, I was exhausted, from fresh air, the long tramp through the dunes, the excitement and the emotion of the day. I sank gratefully onto the bed, removed my shoes and got under the covers fully clothed.

  But my mind would not stop racing, leaving me tossing and turning, sleep continually evading me.

  After the bad luck of the oil, good luck had appeared in the form of a donkey cart that miraculously materialised as if from nowhere, the bell around the beast’s neck ringing loudly in advance of its arrival. Once we had explained our situation to the driver, we were encouraged to climb aboard.

  The estalgem proprietor was able to provide us with a basic meal once we were deposited there. We hardly spoke as we ate and it was not so much the companionable silence of the car journey but more a silence heavy with the weight of words unsaid and deeds not done. Before we retired for the night, Edmund arranged with the inn-keeper for me to be transported to the train station in Aveiro for the first departure to Porto the following day, whilst he would deal with the broken-down vehicle.

  Early this morning a victoria, drawn by two matching white horses with flowing manes and flicking tails, was waiting for me at the door. Edmund, I was told, had been up at the crack of dawn and was long gone, in search of oil and a motor mechanic who would be able to accompany him to the car and hopefully fix it.

  It seemed no time at all before I was back at the apartment. I breezed in, shaking the wind out of my hair and going straight to my bedroom, calling out to the maid that I’d gone out early for some shopping but had found myself a little chilly and needed to change. My bed was neat and tidy; it had the unmistakeable air of a bed that had not been slept in. I would have to hope for the maid’s discretion when John got back.

  But I had nothing to worry about. John had not telephoned the night before; he’d been too busy, he told me on his return and even if that had not been so, the hotel charged an inordinate amount for a city to city call. I welcomed him enthusiastically, my hugs tighter than normal with relief that there was no awkward explaining to do.

  But my conscience, in any case, is clear. I did nothing wrong. I have nothing to be ashamed of. The arrival of the donkey cart was a blessing in more ways than one.

  London, 2010

  “Mummy you’re home!”

  “Yes, my love. Mummy’s home.” Sarah bent down and kissed her daughter’s curly chestnut hair, so like Hugo’s but without the auburn tinge. “What have you been up to? Have you been good for grandma?”

  Honor nodded.

  Sarah walked further down the hall and distractedly flicked through the post piled on the hall table, her head still full of the latest journal entry she had read. We always assume that those so much older than us have not experienced what we have, are somehow immune from human frailty, weakness, doubt and temptation, she thought. But of course this is not the case. Why would it be? Sarah could not believe that she had been guilty of such oversight, such complacent belief that only she had the deepest issues of the heart to deal with. And perhaps this was the part of the journal that Inês had really wanted her to have, guessing that Sarah might meet Scott in Lisbon, despite her denials, and wanting her to benefit from the similar experiences she herself had had.

  “And did you look after daddy?” she asked Honor, who was lingering by her side, clinging to her hand and nuzzling her nose against it.

  “Don’t be silly, mummy. He’s a grown-up, he
doesn’t need looking after.”

  “Of course,” Sarah laughed. “But still,” she went on, ruffling Honor’s hair. “Someone has to make sure daddy cleans his teeth and eats his vegetables.”

  “He did,” cried the little girl gleefully and ran off, relief at Sarah’s return turning into noisy over-excitement.

  I must take a leaf out of Inês’s book, Sarah told herself, tearing open a bank statement, regarding it without seeing it, and throwing it back down. Exercise restraint as she had done. Nothing would nor could come of what had happened between her and Scott. Their history was exactly that – history. Hugo was her husband. She was his wife. She must throw everything into it, make the marriage work, rebuild it with hard graft and effort. She must do this for the sake of the children, Hugo, Natalie. For herself.

  Her mother was standing further back in the hallway, half in darkness because a light bulb that had blown ages ago had not yet been replaced.

  Sarah moved forward to greet her. “Thanks so much for all your help, mum.” They kissed and hugged. “How was everything?”

  “The girls were fine,” replied Natalie. “We kept ourselves very quiet. You seem to have had a much more eventful time.”

  Sarah hung her door key on the hook, wondering what was coming next.

  “Hugo tells me that you met your old friend Scott in the hotel,” continued Natalie. “What a coincidence!”

  So Hugo had taken some notice of what she had told him. She screwed up a flyer for a fast food restaurant that lay beside the rest of the mail. Why did they post these things, when she had the ‘No Junk Mail’ sticker on the letterbox? She turned to look at her mother, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

  “Well, I guess you could say met. ‘Bumped into’ would be more accurate. It was lovely to see him.”

  “Did you go all pink? You always used to, when his name was mentioned.”

  The anger came from nowhere, the hurt mixed with rage. Just as the strength of her feelings for Scott had shocked her, the jealousy when she thought of his wife and family, so did the depth of her sudden fury.

  “I don’t think so. I think I was perfectly composed,” Sarah replied, concentrating on keeping her voice neutral.

  “Well, it’s good that you’re back,” continued Natalie breezily, seeming oblivious to any problem. “Hugo has been absolutely marvellous, he’s really kept the show on the road. But it’s too much to expect him to do it all, with so much on his plate at work.”

  He’s only done what I do every day of the bloody year. And what about the importance of my work?

  “I’m sure he couldn’t have done any of it without you, mum.”

  Everyone perceived Hugo as so perfect, just as Inês’s John had always been viewed. But who knew what a spouse was really like, except for the person married to them? And who should judge another person’s feelings?

  Sarah went into the sitting room, switched the overhead light on and turned the dimmer up full. “Now, where is my other baby?”

  Ruby was hiding under the cushions, giggling with relief that mummy was back. Sarah jumped onto the sofa, grabbed her and kissed her. Soon both girls were on top of her, laughing and screaming. She buried her face in their hair, their necks, breathing in the delicious earthy, human smell of them, drinking in their love.

  And wondering what else Hugo might have said to her mother about Scott.

  Hearing Hugo’s key in the door at around 10pm, Sarah went to welcome him, a cold glass of beer waiting for him on the kitchen table. He hugged her briefly and enquired after her journey home. He seemed distracted, preoccupied with something. It didn’t take long for Sarah to find out with what.

  “Sarah, have you got something to tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something about what happened between you and your boyfriend.” The word ‘boyfriend’ was heavy with sarcasm.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hugo’s about turn from the casual indifference of a few days ago to his current mood of querulous jealousy was hard to fathom.

  Absolutely nothing happened, she reassured herself. I only kissed him. That’s all.

  “I rang the hotel.” Hugo had clearly intended to spin it out further, but couldn’t resist launching straight in.

  “Which hotel?”

  “The hotel in Lisbon.”

  “Oh. Why? My mobile was on all the time.” Sarah automatically put her hand in her pocket and pulled out her phone, as if proving to him by doing so that she was always available.

  “I couldn’t get hold of you on it and I wanted to know when you were leaving.” Hugo’s dark-rimmed eyes held hers defiantly, and his voice was hard.

  “I see. I left at about eleven-thirty on Sunday, as planned. I don’t remember seeing any missed calls from you. Anyway, we spoke when I was on the motorway.”

  Hugo ignored this point. “I know when you left. The hotel told me. But what they also told me, which you didn’t, is that he left with you.”

  “Who did?”

  “Scott.”

  “Scott?” Sarah repeated his name with a casual air that belied the sliding fear running through her veins.

  “Yes, Scott. Who else? It was a bit of a shock to find that you’d gone off together.”

  “Gone off together is a bit of an exaggeration, and I’m sure that’s not what the hotel said.” Sarah was flannelling wildly, playing for time. “I gave him a lift to the airport, he was flying home. I was heading to Porto; it wasn’t out of my way, and it seemed like a nice thing to do.”

  “Couldn’t he have got a cab?”

  “Of course he could have got a cab. But I offered him a lift. What’s wrong with that?” She had been hurt when Hugo had not reacted at all to the fact that she was meeting Scott. Now that he was reacting, it was even harder to deal with. “Hugo, I think you’re blowing this up out of all proportion.”

  Since when had she found it so easy to lie? Or at least, to be so economical with the absolute truth. “And if it was such a big deal – why didn’t you mention it when you called me in the car?”

  “I hadn’t had time to think it through then.”

  There was a long silence. Defending herself was making her seem defensive, Sarah realised, which in turn made it seem that she had something to be defensive about. She poured the rest of the beer into his glass.

  “Have some more! It’s been a long day.”

  Hugo drank noisily and then put the glass down again. A film of froth covered the sides. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just a bit confused by what the guy said, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  Hugo’s shoulders had slumped downward and he sat down, letting his head drop. It was as if the fight had suddenly gone out of him, leaving him contrite and beaten.

  Sarah rubbed her hand across her eyes, suddenly feeling overcome with tiredness. “Let’s just forget about it, shall we?”

  “Give me a kiss then, to make up.” Hugo held out his arms to her. “My beautiful Sarah. I’ve missed you so much.”

  She responded with a hug. As she walked behind him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, she wished with all her heart that she could echo his sentiment.

  That it was the man she had married whom she believed herself to truly, wholly love, and not the man she had let slip through her fingers.

  Lying in bed, sleepless, her thoughts went back to the journal. Inês had been married, but found herself drawn to someone else, not because John was awful or abusive or unattractive, but just because these things happen when you are neglected, your needs ignored, and a kindred spirit comes into your orbit and sets your world spinning in a whole new direction. How much even more so when you had a history with that person, a relationship that had never reached a ‘natural’ end? But Inês had resisted temptation – as she herself had, Sarah reminded herself – and that proved that it was the right thing to do and that she must do more of it, better and with greater effort.

  16
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  Walking to Inês’s house the next day, girls in tow, Sarah wondered whether she should question her about the journal. Somehow it felt wrong to until she had finished it. And anyway, what would she ask? Did you love your English tutor or just fancy him? What were your feelings for John? Was the fact that you couldn’t get pregnant the real problem? She could not demean Inês with questions of such utter crassness.

  “I’m so thrilled to see you,” Inês said, as soon as they arrived. “I’ve been dealing with correspondence all morning and I’m thoroughly tired of it.”

  Sarah loved the English she spoke, so measured and antiquated, using words such as ‘correspondence’ and ‘frock’ and never shortening ‘telephone’ to ‘phone’. She felt even closer to Inês than ever before, perhaps from knowing that Inês was not, in fact, perfect, some kind of saint, someone who stood apart from others with her righteousness. She was just an ordinary person, albeit one with uncommon wisdom and grace, with the same flaws as everyone else.

  A loud clattering on the stairs and the dramatic flinging open of the drawing room door precluded further conversation. The brass door handle thudded jarringly as it made contact with the wall and Sarah winced at the thought of the dent in the paintwork that it would create. But Inês merely raised her head calmly, looking towards the source of all the noise, just as a dishevelled figure in an old black donkey jacket came into sight on the threshold and stood there, brandishing a muddy garden trowel.

  “Billy!” exclaimed Sarah. “You gave us a shock, appearing out of nowhere like that.” She paused, taking in the trowel that was shedding clods of earth onto the polished wooden floor. As she spoke, another brown, clayish lump dropped slowly down and landed with a dull thump. “I’m not sure that you should be up here with that filthy thing – it’s making quite a mess. And what are you doing here so late, anyway? You usually go home at four, don’t you?”

  “Sarah!” Inês’s voice was sharp. “Billy’s welcome anytime.”

  Before Sarah could say anything in response to this unexpected reprimand, or react to Inês’s uncharacteristically harsh tone of voice, Inês had gestured to Billy to come closer. “What’s the matter, Billy?” she asked, the words tender and soothing.