Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  But this cloudy morning everyone was eagerly waiting to watch someone climb in quite a different way. There was a stirring amongst the crowd and a cheer went up. Three men had appeared on the steps in front of the tower; two older men, one in a suit and trilby, and a young man dressed in shirt-sleeves and braces and wearing strange white shoes. The man in the trilby patted the younger one on the shoulder, and shook his hand. Then without further delay, the young man turned towards the tower, gave a quick look upwards and started to climb.

  Another, enormous, cheer rang out as he ascended. He climbed effortlessly, scaling the stonework as if on suction pads, using the elaborate carvings and window architraves to give a foothold wherever possible. Hardly pausing for breath or to assess the next move, he appeared to instinctively know the best route to follow, never faltering, showing no sign of nerves. The crowd fell into an unnatural silence as he slowly, surely, steadily worked his way further and further up the tower. The day was dull and cloudy; better for us spectators as it made it easier to look upwards towards the sky. And better for the young man, too, I thought, as at least his hands would not be slippery with sweat as they might if the weather were hotter.

  As I strained my eyes to make out his every move, he reached the tiered section near to the top, where the tower widened out to a viewing balcony and each layer of stone overhung the one below. This appeared from the ground to be impossible to scale. I could hardly bear to watch and without realising what I was doing, I found myself clasping Edmund’s hand and gripping it harder every time I thought the young man was slowing down or tiring, terrified that he might slip, that any minute now I was going to be witness to a horrific accident, that a death would occur right there before my eyes on this overcast day.

  But the young man continued upwards, the overhang presenting no obstacle. He seemed utterly oblivious to both the tense atmosphere and to his own precarious position clinging to a lump of stone on a church tower somewhere between heaven and earth. He climbed and climbed, as if it were no more taxing than taking a stroll down a familiar country road, where you might sometimes step wider to avoid a rock, or jump sideways around a pothole.

  Then suddenly he lost his footing and for one heart-stopping second he was hanging by his hands, legs dangling in mid-air and frantically pedalling as they tried to find a place to lock on to. The huge crowd, myself and Edmund included, took a collective gasp of breath. The tension was tangible and unbearable; I thought I might be sick and could barely suppress a scream of anguish. Edmund let go of my hand and put his arm around me to better comfort me.

  “It’s all right. He knows what he’s doing. Look, he’s fine again already.” His eager eyes darted from the man on the steeple to me and back again, and he smiled reassuringly. I looked up at him, something that is only possible because I am rather small, as Edmund is not tall, and smiled back. At that moment his stature seemed to grow, commensurate with his position as my protector.

  Instinctively, I moved in closer to his sheltering body.

  When I dared to raise my eyes again I saw that by some miracle the young man had reached the top of the tower now and was on his way up to the elaborately carved cupola. It was topped by a giant ball out of which extended a flagpole. I was sure he would end his climb there, prayed that he would, that he would climb down and be safe. But the man continued upwards, right to the very top of the flagpole, where finally he stopped. Stopped and slowly turned to the crowd, one arm extended in triumph, inviting applause. A wave of clapping erupted from the spectators and grew louder and louder, every now and again momentarily subsiding, and then restarting even more enthusiastically than before.

  After five or ten minutes taking in the adulation, the young man climbed back down the flagpole, over the cupola and onto the viewing balcony, from where he disappeared inside. I breathed a sigh of relief; after the nervous stress of the ascent, I didn’t think I could have borne to watch him descend the entire seventy-five metres of the tower as well.

  Realising the spectacle was over, the crowd slowly began to disperse, excited voices marvelling at the man’s skill and courage. The drama of it all had left me keyed up, restless.

  “I can’t go back to the apartment, Edmund, I just can’t,” I exclaimed to him. “I don’t think I could sit still after all that excitement.”

  Edmund was silent for a moment, absorbed in examining the lining of his hat. “If you have the time, why don’t you come back to my house for lunch?”

  The minute he offered the invitation I felt a flash of surprise, and confusion. During all the hours he has been tutoring me, which have amounted to a fair bit of time spent together, he has never offered me much detail of his own life. He has always been timid, unassuming and above all, shy. But now he seemed to have been imbued with some of the bravery of the man who had climbed the tower. I knew I probably shouldn’t say yes. Knew just as certainly that I would.

  “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

  It would be silly not to go for the sake of principle. After all, he was a proper friend by now, all those hours together.

  “Do we walk there?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s further than that. We’ll go by tram.”

  Edmund’s home was a small white cottage in a street of similar houses, in a part of the city that I had never been to before.

  “You go and sit in the garden, and I’ll bring the food,” he said. “My housekeeper leaves everything ready for me as she’s only here for a few hours in the morning.” He opened the door. “All I can afford,” he added as an afterthought, with an apologetic smile.

  I smiled back, not quite knowing how to reply. I felt embarrassed, as if I ought not to have come and exposed Edmund’s so much lower standard of living than my own. Then I remembered that it was he who had invited me, of his own free will. And when I stepped out into the garden, I immediately forgot all my doubts.

  It was utterly gorgeous, with a small flag-stoned terrace that led to a lawn studded with fruit trees of fig, apricot and lemon. The terrace was surrounded by a low wall topped with shiny blue and terracotta tiles and in the corner was a small pond with a gushing fountain. The sun had burnt away the clouds of earlier, and it was warm now. A vine-covered trellis provided shade, and underneath it stood an iron table and two chairs. I sat down and looked all around me, accompanied by the sound of a pair of mistle thrushes calling to each other high above. All around Edmund’s garden were the similar ones of the neighbouring houses. There were grey, leathery-leaved medlar trees, and fences draped in runner beans through which I spotted vegetable patches full of peas, potatoes and lettuces. I realised how much I missed the countryside and the outdoor life of my childhood, now that I live in a city apartment without so much as a balcony.

  From inside the house came the faint but potent strains of fado filtering into the garden; Edmund must have put a record on the gramophone. The singer sang of unrequited love and an abandoned suitor left miserably languishing outside in the rain. I was glad of the day’s warmth and sunshine.

  Before too long, Edmund appeared with a tray bearing a jug of water and two glasses, freshly baked bread, ham, a bowl of green salad and huge, ripe tomatoes, and a spinach tart with a delicate lattice-work of crumbly pastry.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing hot,” he said, as he placed the tray on the table and started to unload its offerings.

  “This all looks perfectly – well, perfect,” I replied. “And I’m enjoying the music, too.” I was conscious of smiling somewhat over-zealously, so keen was I to dispel his obvious nervousness.

  “You’re very kind.” Edmund poured out the water, not quite masking the shaking of his hands. He offered me a glass. “I love music, don’t you? Almost as much as books. Which do you think is most vital?”

  I did not have to think about my reply. “Books. It would have to be books for me.”

  “That’s a good choice, considering what a quick learner you are. I wish all my students were like you.”

 
I laughed. “You’re flattering me unjustly. But I have worked hard at my English, as it’s so important to John that I can speak his language properly.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Edmund looked down at his plate. He cleared his throat and started to say something.

  “Inês, I…” he said, falteringly, and then stopped as his skin paled beneath the abundant freckles. There was a long pause in which the only sounds were the birds in the trees and the far-off rumble of a tram.

  “Are you all right, Edmund? Perhaps it’s too hot for you out here.” I began to be concerned about him, wondering if his red hair and fair skin made him susceptible to heat as well as to sunburn.

  “I’m f-f-fine.” Edmund stuttered. “Absolutely fine. I was just going to say that there’s a cake for pudding. Senhora de Freitas – that’s my housekeeper – made it this morning and it looks very good.”

  I replied that I would love to try some - but I’m sure that he hadn’t been about to talk about cake at all.

  This evening, I recounted the story of my day to John, telling him everything about the young man who had climbed the tower. I didn’t think it necessary to mention the visit to Edmund’s house; it was of no interest to John. He was intrigued by the whole event, but as I had suspected, not entirely happy that I had gone without him.

  “At least you had Bond there to look after you. Not that he looks like he’d put up much of a defence for your honour – that fellow couldn’t say boo to a goose,” were his exact words.

  I felt irrationally irritated by this remark. Is there anything wrong with being gentle and timid? Do all men have to be strong and commanding? And was John always as gallant as he made out? The memory of swimming on our honeymoon, of his inaction in the face of my mortal danger, flitted tauntingly across my mind before I firmly pushed it away.

  “I wonder sometimes if the children he teaches play him up terribly,” I mused, without really thinking about what I was saying. I pictured Edmund, surrounded by hostile fourteen-year-olds, struggling to show them that he was in charge.

  “It would hardly be surprising if they did! Children need a firm hand, in my opinion,” countered John. At this point, we fell silent, for a reason we both knew but neither put into words. I still am not pregnant; there is still no baby on the way.

  In the bedroom, John took me in his arms and helped me out of my dress, kissing my lips, my neck, my breasts. “I don’t mind you going out and having fun,” he whispered. “But I worry about you. I need to know you’re there for me.”

  “Of course,” I murmured in reply. “And I am.”

  Of course I am, I repeated silently to myself as we got into bed. That’s what marriage is.

  13

  Portugal, 2010

  Early the next morning, the phone in Sarah’s room rang. It broke through the dream she was having about Inês, who was rocking a cradle and singing a lullaby, but when Sarah looked inside the cradle it did not contain a baby but a piece of cork bark wrapped in a muslin cloth. Inês was upset about the noise, thinking Sarah was making it and urging her to be quiet, anxious that she would wake the sleeping infant and Sarah didn’t know whether to tell her that there was no infant. Her brain befuddled by sleep and the weirdness of her dream, it took quite a few rings before Sarah realised what the noise actually was and answered the phone. It was Scott. She had another interview to do at a port wine lodge before her flight home but he was leaving early to get back to Lisbon for a meeting. He wanted to say goodbye to her before he left.

  Sarah jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and brushed her hair. She flung the door open the moment she heard his soft tap. They stood inside her room looking at each other, the long corridor just beyond and the packed suitcase beside them portents of destiny.

  Scott bent down and gently kissed the top of her head. “I’ve had a fantastic time.”

  “Me, too,” exclaimed Sarah, aware that her voice sounded abnormally high. “Thanks for everything.”

  Scott knelt down to retie his shoelace.

  “Thanks for buying my dinner – dinners! I owe you,” Sarah continued.

  Scott stood slowly upright again. “You owe me?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Does that mean you’re leaving the door open for another meeting?”

  What she wanted to say and what she ought to say fought a battle in her mind. “Well, I don’t know… I can’t see how…” Sarah stumbled over her words as she tried to say something, the right thing, whatever that was.

  She pulled herself together. “I’d love to see you again. I hope we get that chance, some day.”

  He bent down to her, kissed her and drew away to murmur, “I hope so, too. I really hope so.”

  Then immediately leant forward and, taking her head in his hands, flattening her hair around her ears, kissed her again, long and hard, greedily. Sarah’s insides melted away and her heart thumped wildly whilst tears formed behind her eyelids.

  The kiss came to a protracted, reluctant end.

  “Scott.”

  “Sarah.”

  They both spoke together, stopped, and apologised over the top of each other.

  “Sarah,” said Scott, again. “I’ve got to ask. I’ve never known, I’ve never understood, why you did it.”

  She felt sick. She knew what was coming.

  “Why you melted away into thin air like that. What I did to upset you so badly that you couldn’t even say goodbye.” Scott’s expression was grim, his lips tight. Sarah imagined the taste of their kiss still upon them.

  “Nothing. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Then for God’s sake, why?”

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling, where the central light was on. It burnt into her retinas, momentarily dazzling her, causing bright spots to dance in her vision. “It was me. I…I freaked out. I couldn’t imagine telling my mum that I wasn’t coming back for university, what with everything that was going on between her and dad at the time, the divorce and losing the house and the cancer…” Her explanation fizzled out like a sparkler that’s burnt to its end. “It felt like choosing you over her and I couldn’t do that.”

  Scott was staring at her, his eyes hollow with the intensity of his gaze, his arms hanging heavily by his side. “I see. I’m sorry you felt that way.” His voice was hard, emotionless. “I wish you had explained that to me, rather than just walking away.”

  “We were just kids, Scott!” The words burst out as she angrily clenched her fists and half turned away from him. “I was just a teenager, I knew jack shit about anything. I didn’t have the words to say it, or to express my own pain. It was my mistake, not yours, do you think I don’t know that?”

  She stood, momentarily hopeless, done in. And I’ve paid for it, she thought to herself. I’ve paid for it big time. You don’t know the half of it. She ignored the niggling, retributive voice that added, And anyway, it was what you did, Scott, what you did afterwards that put the seal on it all…

  Scott’s mobile rang. It was the hotel, unable to reach him in his room, telling him that his cab was waiting to take him to the station. They walked to the main door and Sarah watched as he climbed into the car. She waved goodbye, then turned away to avoid knowing for how long he waved back.

  In her room, she pressed her fingers into the corners of her eyes. Maybe she should have given in to her desires and let Scott stay, had sex with him.

  Who would ever have known? Who could ever have found out?

  She thought of Hugo, the man to whom she had made vows and promises, who she had committed to stay with and be faithful to forever. The man with whom she had built a life, had children, formed a bond with that still existed, no matter how conflictingly tenuous and constraining it often might seem. It had never occurred to her that, once made, she might break those vows, sever that bond. It had always seemed inconceivable. All the assignments, in the early days before the kids came along, out and about with handsome and personable young journalists and photographers, many of whom would undoubtedly have
been up for it if she had been. She had never even contemplated it. It had never crossed her mind.

  And now – even under such temptation – she had resisted. There had been no betrayal.

  She looked at her watch. Seven-thirty in the morning. UK time was the same as Portuguese time. The girls would be having breakfast, getting ready for school. Her life had been turned inside out over the course of a weekend, while they had been playing, eating, sleeping, arguing, just as normal.

  Now she had to get back to normal, too.

  14

  Porto, 1936

  John has gone to Lisbon for three days. It is May; there is always a conference around now but this is the first time he has had be away for so long. I had planned to spend the extra spare time I would have in reading and studying my English grammar but I have to be honest and say that this wasn’t the most gripping prospect for a beautiful spring week. Apart from anything else, John being gone frees me from the routine of meals and alarm clocks; there’s no schedule to keep to and nothing that must be done. At our lesson on Tuesday, I told Edmund how restless I felt; he merely nodded sympathetically and then urged my attention back to our books.

  But the very next day, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. The maid answered it and there was Edmund, flushed from taking the stairs up to the apartment two at a time, bringing with him an inescapable air of pent-up excitement.

  “Inês! Quickly, fetch your bathing suit and put on your walking shoes,” he exclaimed, between attempts to get his breath back.

  Despite my astonishment, I couldn’t help but laugh for it was impossible not to be affected by the sheer childish delight in his face. I whirled through the apartment, gathering together my things and picking up my handbag. I still had no idea what Edmund had in store but his face was split apart by the broadest of grins. As we went out of the front door of the apartment building, I had to flatten myself against the wall to get past a motor car that was parked there, gleaming in the sunshine. I felt that it was a rather inconvenient place for someone to have left such an ostentatious vehicle and was about to say as much when Edmund strode right up to it, released the shiny metal clasp of the passenger door and indicated to me to get in.