“I don’t know about me being tired – it’s you who is exhausted,” murmured Sarah, softly. “I’m sorry, I think that the girls and I have worn you out. We’ll be off very soon. Let you have a rest.”
Inês seemed to have to muster all her energy to reply. “I do feel rather weary today. Must be my age.” She smiled a small, weak smile, her soft, drooping cheeks trembling with the effort. Her eyes seemed many miles away, seeing something that Sarah couldn’t, and she sighed deeply before continuing. “I’m feeling every one of my years these days.”
And then Sarah knew. Knew that one day, and maybe not that long into the future, Inês would die. The time was coming. The realisation hit her with a hammer blow that she could not ignore and caused a surge of icy cold panic to flood her veins.
“Goodness! I can’t believe I’ve been here all this time and I haven’t even made the tea,” she exclaimed. “What are we thinking of?” She needed the distraction of something as banal as tea-making to take her mind off the fact of Inês’s mortality.
In the upstairs kitchen that had been installed a few years ago to make things easier for Inês, she put the kettle on and threw some tea leaves into the pot. She could see Billy the gardener still hard at work even though it was getting dark now. He was tying a clematis to its support, completely absorbed in his task, his shiny balding head the most visible part of him in the early evening gloom. Sarah could imagine, but not make out, how the laces of his gardening boots would be trailing in the damp brown earth as usual.
She picked up her phone and checked her messages as she waited for the kettle to boil. There was one from Hugo, telling her he would be late home again. No surprises there. She felt irritation bubble up within her like the boiling water in the kettle and fought to suppress it. Hugo had to work long hours. That was the way it was.
She carried the tray into the sitting room, put the lemon into the cups and poured the tea, watching as the slices rose to the surface and floated there, yellow flowers brightening a clear brown pond. The girls were getting restless so Sarah instructed them to go into the garden and help Billy clear up his tools; that always occupied them for a while.
The tea appeared to revive Inês a little. Sarah relaxed; she had panicked unnecessarily. Inês was as fine as ever.
“So – at last. Now perhaps you can tell me what you really came for.” Inês’s cup rattled slightly as she replaced it into her saucer with unsteady hands.
Sarah laughed, the constrained atmosphere of earlier forgotten. “I can never keep anything hidden from you, can I? It was the same when I was a little girl – you always knew if I’d stolen a cookie or snatched a nibble from the pasteis de nata.”
She knitted her fingers together, leant forward and took a deep breath. “The news is – that I’m going to Portugal.” Was it really the right thing to do? Was the pain not better left untouched, buried beneath the years? “What I mean is – I might be going…possibly.”
“How marvellous for you, my dear. Is it a holiday?” Inês’s eyes, under their heavy lids, were suddenly bright and questioning. She could not know what turmoil the prospect was causing.
“No,” explained Sarah, her tone as measured as she could make it. “It’s for work. I’ve been commissioned – offered a commission – to write an article all about cork.”
Inês looked down at her teacup, the lemon’s citrus shine stained nicotine-brown now.
“What a wonderful surprise. How you will love to see the country again after so long. But a shame you and Hugo couldn’t be having a nice break there together.”
“The state our finances are in? Not likely. And anyway, I’m not sure…” Sarah glanced around her vacantly as she searched for the right words. “What I mean is, it’s a work trip, not a vacation. I’ll be very busy while I’m there – it wouldn’t be any fun for Hugo, I’d have no time for him.” She drained her tea and picked up the pot to give them both a refill. “Plus all we seem to do these days is argue,” she added as an afterthought, fighting the frustration she felt over the dismal state of her marriage as the last of the liquid trickled into the cups.
“Anyway, if I go, I’ll need to visit a montado just like the one where you grew up,” she continued and then paused, suddenly unable to carry on.
“Why would you not go?” interjected Inês, gently.
Sarah looked down at her hands, folded around her knees. How to begin to explain? It was the only thing she’d never shared with Inês, never really spoken about to anyone. “Well – no reason, I suppose. I mean, I’m sure I will go,” Sarah flannelled, hastily. “It’s just childcare, school runs – you know, all that boring stuff!”
Inês’s quizzical expression indicated that she was not finding this explanation satisfactory.
“Anyway,” Sarah continued, steering the conversation away from any more awkward questions. “The thing is that I thought maybe you could help me with my research, tell me more of your memories? Get me started.”
“Oh, I don’t remember much these days, my dear, as you know – not even who has just been at the door.” Inês gave a grim smile. “Time has taken its toll on my mind along with everything else.”
She looked down at herself, at the loose skin and brown spots on the backs of her hands, seeming to be seeking confirmation, however reluctantly, of her own ageing. “But I’ll tell you what I can recall.”
She looked towards her tall sash windows as if beyond them lay the expansive plains of the montado, filled with glades of ancient cork oaks, instead of the chilly acres of Hampstead Heath.
“Stripping the cork bark from the trees is hard work, Sarah – skilled work – in the sweltering heat of summer. We always threw a huge party for the men – the tiradors – and their families, once every tree had been harvested. Music and dancing under the stars… They were wonderful times. There seemed to be so much more colour there, in Portugal, than there is here. Cowslips, purple heather, the blazing red of the strawberry tree fruits. Or maybe that’s just how I remember it.”
“It sounds idyllic,” responded Sarah, wanting Inês to carry on painting the picture of her youth.
“We spent our summers at the beach, all the cousins together, sometimes at Zambujeira do Mar, but usually Melides. Oh, the sea was cold, but we swam and swam like dolphins. I always loved to swim.”
Inês paused, her thoughts lost in those faraway times and Sarah joined her there, in the wild, sparkling sea under the intense glare of the southern sun.
“It was all so different when I married and moved to Porto. Grapes dictated the pace of life there, not cork; nearly everyone seemed to have something to do with producing the port wine. There were good times, too, though. One Easter, John and I joined a family party on their estate in the high Douro. The family booked an entire railway carriage to get there, and they even took their piano! You could do things like that, then.”
An image of a baby grand balanced on the seats of an Intercity train to Manchester popped into Sarah’s mind, and she smiled to herself. These were the stories that she had grown up with and when she’d finally got there herself, she’d discovered the truth was twice as good. Portugal’s sounds and tastes had assailed her senses and overwhelmed her: the roar of the scooter engines that raced up and down Lisbon’s ancient streets; the pungent, exotic aroma of fresh coriander; the thick, sensual sweetness of a sun-ripened peaches. And then love – the kind of love that tears the heart apart with its intensity, that makes the world turn faster, brighter.
The sudden, harsh clatter of Inês’s teaspoon sliding from her saucer and onto the wooden floor was exacerbated by the deep silence that had preceded its descent. The discordant sound echoed Sarah’s emotions, the bittersweet nature of her Portuguese memories.
She picked up the spoon and put it on the tray. “Is there anything else you’d like, before we go?” she asked.
But Inês wasn’t listening, lingering as she was in decades past.
“Of course, I was still very young when I moved a
way,’ she murmured, her voice and demeanour almost trance-like. “I had fallen in love with John, married him and moved to the north, all by the time I was twenty.” She pulled her shawl tighter around her as if suddenly cold although the temperature had not changed. “It’s strange to think now how little I knew him when I bound my life to his. The innocence of youth, I suppose.”
Inês’s gaze wandered from the tall windows back to Sarah and she started slightly, as if surprised to find her still there. It seemed to remind her of something.
“I have something that might help you, my dear,” she said.
Sarah looked at her questioningly but said nothing, waiting patiently for Inês to carry on. Her speech was very slow these days.
“My journal. It’s in my bedroom, next to my bed. Please take it, I’d like you to have it. I started it when I got engaged and kept it for a few years, writing in it regularly, until…” Inês stopped suddenly, as if unable to continue.
“Until what?” probed Sarah, gently.
“There are things in it you might find interesting,” Inês continued, ignoring Sarah’s question. “That might…” She trailed off again. Her eyes, seeking the light, returned to the tall windows and then her heavy lids closed over them as if it were too bright, too intense.
“That might what?” asked Sarah, more urgently now.
But Inês was silent, dozing in her chair, her hands fallen to her sides.
2
London, 2010
The journal and what she would find in it absorbed Sarah’s thoughts as she put the children to bed and prepared supper that evening. She had found the volume exactly where Inês had said it would be; it was bound in thick leather that smelt richly of quality and heritage and Sarah had tucked it firmly into her handbag before gathering up the girls to leave. It would be useful if she were able to glean any information for her article from it, but the real reason she was so intrigued to read it was the feeling she had that Inês had something on her mind that Sarah needed to uncover – and soon, before her great age might cause her health to deteriorate.
She hardly knew anything, she realised as she reflected, about Inês’s emotional life, which she had never really shared with Sarah. Inês had gifted to her great-niece the flavours of Portugal through her stews of pork and beans, her custard tarts and the fresh herbs she had grown herself. But she had disclosed little about matters of the heart, about her husband, John, who had died whilst Sarah was still a child. With the absence of information about Inês and John’s young life together, Sarah had only the photos in the family albums of a tall, strikingly handsome, athletic-looking man to go on, combined with the snippets of family legend she had heard over the years. So she had created her own impression, one in which Inês’s past belonged to a different age of chivalry and courtliness, in which she had met and married her knight in shining armour. Eventually, after unspoken acts of heroism and derring-do in the Second World War, John had brought his beautiful bride to England which had allowed her to be part of Sarah’s life.
What must it have been like, Sarah mused as she chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes, to have come from the brightness and light of Portugal to cold and lonely war-damaged London, demeaned by rationing and belittled by years of conflict? So, so different from what Inês was used to it was a wonder she had survived the shock. It had been hard enough for Sarah to return to England after only half a year. What were the words Inês had used that afternoon? ‘The innocence of youth.’ Sarah had been innocent, too, when she first went to Inês’s homeland. Innocent – naïve, even – and inexperienced, but hungry for love, just like her great-aunt when she had met John. But her story hadn’t ended as Inês’s had; things had not worked out for her the way they had for Inês.
Pouring herself a glass of wine and shoving the casserole in the oven, Sarah pulled the journal out of her bag and sat down to read.
I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old (nearly 19). I live on a cork farm in the Alentejo region of Portugal with my mother and father and my younger brother and sister. I have one dog and three cats, and a pony called Pimento. Now that I am finally an adult and soon to be married, I feel like my real life is about to begin. I have decided to document everything that happens to me, for my children and my grandchildren.
But Inês hadn’t had any children, thought Sarah, pausing as she read. She had smiled at Inês’s mention of her pets, something that showed that, even though she regarded herself as a sophisticated adult, she was really not so very far away from childhood. But now she frowned, wondering as she often had why her great-aunt was childless. It was a subject that had always been untouched and somehow untouchable, as if some hidden force field barred it from being raised. Perhaps the journal would also shed some light on this mystery.
The Alentejo, 1934
I chose my wedding dress today! It is so hot now that there is nothing to do but sit out the long afternoons inside with the shutters closed and the stone floors cooling my bare feet. If I can’t be outside then I thought that I might as well put my time to good use by going through the sheaf of magazine cuttings the dressmaker lent me. Looking at all those immaculately coiffured brides in flowing white dresses gave me a headache; I had to keep thinking about John and how proud he would be to see me walking up the aisle towards him in order to concentrate on it. He is so tall and handsome, I need to look my very best so that I make all his hopes and dreams come true. Though I really shouldn’t think like that because I know that John truly loves me and finds me beautiful – he says so often enough, which always, annoyingly, makes me blush.
It will be so thrilling to be married; apart from anything else, I’ll be free to do whatever I like. I love my family and the cork farm beyond belief but there are so many limitations on what I am allowed to do. Once I become Mrs John Morton next spring, no one will be overseeing my every move; I shall go where I please and do as I wish. Some people have questioned the fact that John is ten years older than me and cautioned that we should wait a while before marrying but I really don’t see why it matters. He says he has been waiting for the perfect woman to come along and now that I have, he wants to get on with it and I agree. At the moment, John lives in Lisbon but he’s changing his job and we’ll be going to Porto straight after the wedding. Porto! I’ve never even been there, in fact I haven’t been anywhere further north than Coimbra. He’ll be working for one of the British port wine companies, a very important job organising the shipping of the port all over the world. I’ll have to learn English so that I can accompany him to social events and dinners; I only learnt French at school but I’m sure English won’t be too much harder.
I’ve been imagining where we will live – it’ll be completely different to here on the montado. This house is in the middle of nowhere but we’ll live in the city centre in Porto, in an apartment. I think it will have high ceilings, and tall windows that look out onto a square with a splashing fountain, and the sunlight will catch the water in a myriad jewelled droplets. It will be so romantic.
But back to the dress! I finally found one that I liked. It has a nipped in waist, a beaded bodice and a long train. I will have it made in ivory satin as I think ivory is more sophisticated than pure white and sophistication is what I aspire to. I’m not sure that I’ll ever quite make it – can you be sophisticated when what you really love to do is go to the farmyard and scratch the sow behind her ears so that she grunts with pleasure? Or, in the springtime, spend hours amongst the cork oaks watching the kites hunting and spotting the baby black storks in their nests? I’m not too sure…but perhaps one day I’ll just wake up and find it has happened to me, as if by magic. Let’s hope so.
My sister Maria is to be my bridesmaid. She’s only eight and very sweet. She has soft brown hair with a fringe that almost covers her eyes because she hates to get it cut and she smells of sun and green olive soap and home. We’re going to miss each other terribly. That is the bad part of growing up and getting married – I will gain so much but leave so m
uch behind.
Once, Maria got lost. She was already in bed – or supposed to be – as she is so much younger than Jorge, my brother who’s 16, and I. When my mother went to kiss her goodnight, she found her bed empty. There was an awful commotion – we all searched the house from top to bottom, but she was nowhere to be found. We went to the farmyard and left no stone unturned but she wasn’t there either. Finally, once we were all well and truly frantic with worry, Fausto the dog found her curled up and peacefully asleep amongst the roots of a cork tree.
We were so relieved that she was safe that at first that’s all anyone could think of or talk about. But then it turned out that it was my fault, as I had told Maria that the cork trees get their shape because they jig about all night when no one is watching and then freeze to the spot, mid-dance, at daybreak. So she had gone out to see if it was true and unfortunately, because it was a dark night with hardly any starlight, she got completely lost and eventually became so tired with wandering blindly around the forest that she lay down to sleep, blissfully unaware of how much panic her disappearance had caused. Though pretty cross with me, for making up stories!
I’ll miss all of this, when I’ve gone to Porto. But I must stop thinking like this. All of my friends are so jealous. They’d give their eye teeth to be marrying a man like John – so good-looking, so successful – and so exotically English.
To make it up to Maria that I’m leaving, at lunchtime I let her be the one to show the rest of the family the picture of the dress. I think they approved, although my mother reprimanded me for running everywhere, calling me an unbroken pony, if you can believe it! Really, she does exaggerate sometimes. I could hardly stop myself from laughing, especially as I could see Maria biting her lip and trying to keep a straight face whilst I got a scolding.
Garden of Stars Page 2
