Garden of Stars Read online

  The Alentejo, Portugal 1934

  I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old. 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…

  As Sarah Lacey reads the scrawled handwriting in her great-aunt’s journal on a trip to Portugal, she discovers a life filled with great passion, missed chances and lost loves – memories that echo Sarah’s own life. Because Sarah’s marriage is crumbling, her love for her husband ebbing away, and she fears the one man she truly loves was lost to her many years ago…

  But hidden within the faded pages of the journal is a secret Inês has kept locked away her entire life, and one final message for her beloved niece – a chance for Sarah to change her life, if she is brave enough to take it.

  Garden of Stars

  Rose Alexander

  www.CarinaUK.com

  ROSE ALEXANDER

  has had more careers than is probably strictly necessary, including TV producer/director making programmes for all the major broadcasters, freelance feature writer for publications including The Guardian and secondary school English teacher, not forgetting cocktail waitress, melon picker and interior designer.

  Writing a novel is, however predictable the line seems, the realisation of Rose’s childhood dream and the result of finally finding ‘a voice’. The triumph is that the voice was heard above the racket created by her three children plus rescue cat (tabby white, since you ask).

  Follow her on twitter at @gardenofstars16

  Thank you to everyone who helped with this book – too many to mention individually but you know who you are! And of course to my family, whose support is always invaluable.

  For my daughters

  With all my love, forever

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Endpages

  Copyright

  If I could have put you in my heart,

  If but I could have wrapped you in myself,

  How glad I should have been…

  The End by D.H. Lawrence

  Prologue

  The Alentejo, Portugal

  The steel blade of the machado slices into the tree with delicate precision. Another blow, from above, immediately follows. The two polished, fan-shaped axe heads send flashes of light glinting between the overhanging branches as the rhythmic strikes continue, keeping perfect time with each other until reaching the crescendo.

  Stepping forward, a tirador uses the wooden handle of his machado to prise away the bark. A cracking, tearing sound ensues as the large, rectangular slab of cork peels from the trunk like the skin from an orange and tumbles gently downwards as if in slow motion. It lands with an emphatic thump and a groan on the scrubby undergrowth, sending a cloud of mosquitoes whirling upwards from their daytime hideaway.

  The sky above the ancient forest is a fierce, unyielding blue, the soil underfoot a dry and sandy brown. Birds, disturbed by the disruption to the habitual deep silence of their home, call raucously through the trees, their clamour competing with the ringing shouts of the harvesters and the continual thudding of their axes.

  In the Alentejo region of Portugal, the cork harvest takes place every year as it always has, over centuries and through generations. A cork oak tree can live for up to two hundred years and will yield up its bark sixteen times or more during its lifespan. Such capacity for renewal, regrowth and regeneration is unsurpassed in nature.

  There is a saying here and it goes like this:

  “If you are planting for yourself, you plant vines.

  If you are planting for your children, you plant olives.

  But if you are planting for your grandchildren, you plant cork oak.”

  1

  London, 2010

  Dear Sarah

  How are you? All well I hope.

  I have a commission I’d like to offer you - 5,000 words following the story of natural cork from tree to bottle. It needs a Portuguese speaker which is why I thought of you. You’ll need to set up interviews in Lisbon, Porto and at a cork farm.

  Let me know if you can take this on and we can talk details.

  Best,

  Rosalind

  In her office at the top of her house, Sarah Lacey read and reread the email, the thrill of anticipation causing her stomach to leap and dance. A story to write about something important, interesting, worthwhile. Some meaty research to get her teeth into. Decent money. It was the most exciting commission she’d been offered in a long time, putting her back on the radar of editors looking for writers, giving her a career boost just when she needed it after having had time out for the children. It would not be easy, though; there was so much to sort out, so many logistical arrangements to make, from organising childcare to booking flights, hotels and car hire. She’d need to seek out the best interviewees, find the most compelling locations and draw up schedules. She began urgently tapping search terms into Google, bringing up web pages from cork producers and port wine makers, noting down key facts and figures that might be useful for the article. She spent a long time looking at maps; so many years had passed since she’d been to Portugal that she’d forgotten where some towns lay in relation to others, and it was incredible to see how the road network had developed.

  Eventually, however, she could not marvel at new motorways and bridges any longer and pretend to herself that navigating them was the only thing that concerned her about taking the job. The doubt that had lodged itself in her stomach the minute she saw the destination the article required began to spread, icily and insidiously, through her veins. There was a reason she had not set foot in the country since her gap year. Her hands fell still on the keyboard, and she stared at the screen with sightless eyes. Maybe now was the time to face up to what had happened so long ago, to confront the ghosts of the past. Could you hide from your own history forever? A whirlwind of jumbled memories and emotions flooded her mind, tearing her in different directions, making it impossible to discern a clear path.

  The bleep of a text coming through startled her out of her reverie. Instinctively, she picked up her phone and, in so doing, caught sight of the time. She swore out loud; she had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she was going to be late for school pick up. Grabbing her jacket and pulling it on as she shut the front door behind her, she headed down the road, half running, half walking, her head full of a potent mix of dread and excitement.

  The playground was full of the usual cliques, the small talk the same as ever, the ‘how are yous?’ and ‘fine, thanks’ that govern social interaction. Sarah’s preoccupation precluded her from joining in beyond what politeness dictated. She was glad that the children had already
exploded out of their classrooms before she had arrived so that she could focus on scooping them up and checking they had remembered their coats and book bags rather than engaging in any conversations. Honor was in Year 2 and Ruby in Reception, and as always they were full of energy, their excited chatter about house points and ukulele lessons and playground scrapes demanding Sarah’s attention and temporarily thrusting thoughts of Portugal away. It seemed too early to go home, the long hours until bedtime too long to fill alone, and Sarah felt the sudden need to share her news with someone, even if she were still so uncertain about its outcome. Inês, her beloved Portuguese great-aunt, the reason for her connection with that country, would love to see them all. Perhaps her calm and composure would soothe Sarah’s fractured emotions.

  She turned to the girls as they exited the playground gate. “Let’s go and see avó.”

  “Yes!” shouted Honor and Ruby in unison.

  “Chocolate biscuits?” added Ruby, hopefully.

  Sarah laughed. “We’ll see.”

  They took the path along the bottom of Parliament Hill Fields to Inês’s house. Freed from the constraints of roads and pavements, traffic and ambling shoppers, the girls raced ahead on their scooters. It was well into spring but the wind blustered down from Kite Hill and Sarah drew her coat around her. They passed the café, busy and crowded, windows misted by the fug of hot coffee and warm bodies. A toddler drew a smiley face in the steam and Sarah smiled. She hadn’t been this way for weeks, not since Easter when she and the children had come after days of enforced inactivity due to rain that had been biblical and unceasing. The first clear skies had brought them out, Inês too, but when they had got to the café they had found it closed for the holiday, chairs piled on tables, doors locked tight shut, a feeling of desolate abandonment about it. It was good to see it full of life again.

  Another gust swept across the heath and Sarah shivered. It would be hot when she went to Portugal, she reflected, and then stumbled as she realised that one part of her seemed to have made the decision to go whilst the other still prevaricated. She felt a sudden, visceral longing for the heat, the sort that seared through the skin and pressed down like an enveloping blanket, the way it had through that long, languorous, scorching Lisbon summer. The temperature had built day by day from the moment she had first arrived, driven on by Inês’s stories of her proud and passionate country, desiring to experience it for herself. Portugal had promised – and delivered – so much more than Sarah’s dreary London suburb, with its dull rows of red brick terraces, boarded-up shops and rain-sodden, unkempt parks and playing fields.

  It was because of Inês that she had gone there, so Inês should be the first to know that she was going back. After all, she had Inês to thank – or was it to blame? – for everything.

  Lost in thought, struggling with the stubborn latch on the black wrought-iron gate outside Inês’s house, Sarah did not see the man until he was almost upon them. Gate opened, she turned towards the street to usher Honor and Ruby through. Their scooter wheels caught where they always did on the loose piece of York stone, and as she leant forward to propel them onwards, a movement in the shadow cast by the hydrangea that covered the grey brick walls caught her eye. She looked up, and there he was, next to her on the narrow path, saying, “Excuse me,” and strolling casually along as if he had every right to be there. He was wearing a grey suit and carrying a clipboard and he smiled at her as he passed, the kind of smile you give to someone you are not really looking at and are sure you will never see again.

  It all happened so quickly and unexpectedly – Sarah had never met someone in Inês’s front garden before – that by the time she thought about asking him who he was and what he was doing, he was gone. She glanced towards the house, at the navy blue front door with the peeling paint, and was sure that she just caught the sound of the lock clicking shut on the inside. He looks like an estate agent, she thought, but why on earth would he be visiting Inês?

  She stood for a moment, gazing up and down the elegant Georgian terrace where rows of tall sash windows threw dark shadows onto the street below, and frowned. What the hell was Inês up to?

  “Meninas bonitinhas! My beautiful girls! How lovely to see you.”

  Having noisily climbed the stairs to the first floor, Sarah, Honor and Ruby found Great-Aunt Inês sitting as usual in her high-backed chair, whose purple velvet fabric was a riot of lush peonies and roses. Her eyes lit up as they entered and her gentle smile welcomed them in her graceful Portuguese way. She was tiny, delicate in every aspect, with impeccable manners and a fragility that matched that of her favourite bone china teacup. The elegant lines of her face were smudged and softened by her ninety-five years like a faded, half-erased pencil drawing, but even so, anyone would understand that she had been beautiful, once.

  That afternoon her tortoiseshell table-lamp shone a soft, warm glow around her, catching every strand of her white hair in its halo of light. Sarah bent down and gently kissed the top of her head; Honor and Ruby flung themselves at her and then just as rapidly rushed away. Their destination, once they had raided the biscuit barrel, was the corner where the toys were kept, and where the bureau that held their favourite treasures also stood; the ancient music box, a set of antique Portuguese azulejos and the ivory card case that had been brought back on a tea clipper from India by a distant Goanese relative two centuries before.

  “So how are you, my dear?” Inês’s voice was bright, but wavered slightly. She was weary, at this time in the afternoon.

  “Not too bad.” Sarah threw her coat onto a chair, along with the girls’ book bags, coats and cardigans.

  “You seem tired.” Despite her own great age, Inês always worried about her niece. “You both work too hard, you and Hugo. I used to think that about John, too, but he was always home by 6pm. Times have changed, não é?”

  “We’re all right,” replied Sarah, slumping into a chair. “But yes, there is a lot on at the moment. Hugo’s business is a constant challenge – well, you know how it is; the world and his wife thinks they can design a website these days. Clients demand the earth, and they want everything the day before yesterday. I think his colleagues Big Phil and Tommo see more of him than I do.”

  She grimaced and then tried to turn it into a smile. Inês had few enough visitors; time spent with her should not be wasted in moaning. She wanted to share her news, hoping that talking about it might make the way forward clearer – but something even more pressing was niggling at her.

  “Inês?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Who was that at the front door just now?” Sarah tried to sound casual and unconcerned, twiddling her ponytail and smiling in what she hoped was an encouraging way.

  The pause before Inês replied was minute but noticeable. “What do you mean?”

  “When we came up the path – there was a man leaving the house, we almost fell over him on the path. He gave me quite a fright.”

  A flicker of something that Sarah could not quite decipher – was it discomfort? embarrassment? – crossed Inês’s face, and she shifted awkwardly in her chair. “I don’t know who he was, my dear. Trying to sell me something as usual, something I don’t want. Gas, I think, or was it electricity?”

  “Oh, really?” Honor had come close by, the lamplight catching the silver clips in her hair and sending diamonds shooting in all directions. Sarah absent-mindedly kissed her cheek, contemplating Inês’s answer.

  “Yes, of course, gas. I’m sure that’s it. My memory these days…” Inês shook her head sadly, mourning her inability to remember something that had only just happened.

  Sarah felt suddenly ashamed of herself for challenging Inês, for insinuating that she did not believe her. She strolled idly to the window and looked out, her eyes following the direction in which the man had disappeared, although she knew he was long gone. The rush hour traffic rumbled on Highgate Road, backed up now all the way from the lights that were a good fifty metres further down. She notice
d from this high vantage point that the wide-lawned area that separated Inês’s house from the main road was newly mown and that the spring plantings of tulips and primroses were nearly over. The trees were almost in full leaf; London planes, horse chestnuts and the one single ash that stood right outside Inês’s front garden. Soon its long green fronds would shield her from the busy world outside once more.

  Sarah realised, despite the awkwardness, that she couldn’t let the matter of the strange visitor rest there. “Inês, he didn’t look much like an energy salesman.”

  Inês did not reply, just opened her hands in a gesture that reinforced her explanation, that implied that indeed it might seem strange, but there it was.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t some kind of con man? You know, one of these confidence tricksters who prey on…on older people?” As soon as she’d said it, Sarah regretted it. Inês hated to be made to feel as if she couldn’t cope. “The thing is, I’m not sure that you should be answering the door to anyone you don’t know,” Sarah continued hastily, trying to assuage the guilt that was sweeping across her. “I never do, and I’m not…” Sarah faltered and tried again. “I mean, even if they’re trustworthy themselves, they might tell someone there’s an elderly lady living all alone in this big house.”

  As she spoke, Sarah saw that although Inês’s face was serene as always, her hands were tightly gripping the edge of the crocheted blanket on her knees.

  “It worries me.” Sarah’s cheeks reddened as her voice tailed off lamely and for a moment, neither of them said anything, and all they could hear was Inês’s old music box, wound up by Honor, playing a tinny and irregular ‘Au clair de la lune’, again and again.

  “It’s fine, Sarah. I can still look after myself perfectly well.”

  Inês’s voice was sharp, harsh and unfamiliar. Sarah wondered what she had said to so inexplicably upset her; it was so unlike her. She looked carefully at Inês, noticing how small she suddenly seemed in her chair, the roses and peonies appearing to have doubled in size and to be smothering her with their untrammelled lush exuberance. Her tiny hands were locked together so tightly that the baggy skin on her knuckles was stretched thin and white.