Garden of Stars (19 page)

“Are you all right?” asked Edmund, his brow creased with worry.

I threw my fear away. The sea here was dead calm, not a wave nor a ripple disturbing the surface. We were far from the open ocean. I grabbed Edmund's hand and ran into the deep and soon we were swimming and diving and somersaulting like children. Edmund proved to be a true underwater gymnast, executing perfect one-armed handstands and backflips.

“I grew up in Cornwall,” he told me (as if I would know where that is. I didn't reveal my ignorance). “We did nothing but bathe all summer long.”

I thought of us as I dived down into the blue, both swimming in our own seas throughout the years of our childhoods, and now here, together, on this one idyllic day.

Eventually, hunger drove us ashore, Edmund cartwheeling all the way up the beach.

“So let's see what kind of a
lanche
my housekeeper has prepared,” announced Edmund, opening the basket and decanting its contents onto the rug. “She takes picnics almost as seriously as us Brits.”

There was a bottle of water and another of red wine, cork thermoses of soup and coffee, a boned stuffed chicken already cut up, and slices of
paio
- loin of pork spiced, salted and rolled into a sausage. There were buttered rolls, chocolate eclairs, and even a dressed salad.

“What a feast!” There was so much food I wasn't sure where to start.

“Don't be shy,” replied Edmund. “Eat as much as you can. If you don't, I'll just have to carry it all home again! And hide the remains from Senhora de Freitas in case she thinks her menu didn't please us.”

“That will not happen,” I assured him, as delicately as I could whilst taking my first mouthful of chicken and bread.

Later, replete with food and drink and drowsy in the heat of the afternoon, we slept, lying at either side of the rug. Edmund made me a pillow from his jacket and my wrap and as I drifted off, I couldn't remember the last time I had been so contented, so at one with myself and my companion and nature and the still, quiet feeling of just being.

I had no idea how long we had been asleep when I jerked suddenly awake, sitting bolt upright and looking around to find what had so unceremoniously forced me from my slumbers. A strange noise was coming from somewhere, and as I gradually came to full consciousness I realised it originated from behind us. I turned round to be greeted by the sight of a mother duck, five ducklings in tow, poking their yellow beaks through the picnic basket and happily devouring the leftover lettuce leaves. I couldn't help but laugh, a sound that woke Edmund, who until that moment had been snoring lightly and peacefully.

Seeing the duck family he laughed too, and considerately fed them the rest of the salad before flapping his arms at them until they left.

He might not say ‘boo' to a goose, I thought, recalling John's remark of a few weeks before, but he can say ‘shoo' to a duck. I giggled to myself, pulling my hat over my mouth in case Edmund took it the wrong way.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed, studying his watch. “It's six-thirty already. We've been asleep for hours.”

It suddenly occurred to me that John might be intending to telephone that evening and that I should be there. I looked around me as if there might be some hitherto unnoticed means of getting back to Porto in a matter of minutes waiting somewhere in the wings. But of course there wasn't. I knew, with certainty, that there was no way we would make it to the city by the time that John was likely to call, which wouldn't be later than 8pm. After that, he'd be having dinner and he'd want to try when he had time to spare, in case there was a delay in getting a line.

“Don't worry,” cried Edmund, flying around our little picnic spot gathering everything up and stuffing things into the basket. “I'll drive like the wind and we'll be back in no time.”

“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.