Garden of Stars: A gripping novel of hope, family and love across the ages. Rose Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ had looked down at the floor, at the splintered wooden boards that had seen so many people come and go.

      He made love to her until she could hardly remember what day it was, bringing her to orgasm again and again, his tongue precise and dexterous, his lips hungry and firm. She ached to his touch, held him tight, wished him never to stop. It had felt too good to be true.

      And in the end, it was.

      Preoccupied with thoughts of the past, the journey passed quickly. At the hotel, Sarah showered, changed and put on make-up, but she had hurried so much that it was still a while before she was due to meet Scott. She had time to read some more of the journal, which she felt was slowly revealing its secrets to her as if she were a squirrel gradually uncovering a rich seam of buried acorns, one by one.

       The Estoril Coast, 1935

      Last night, the last evening of our honeymoon, John suggested that we go out for dinner to a fresh fish restaurant a few miles away, on the Atlantic coast. He was keen for a change from the hotel dining room and I agreed with alacrity for as anyone who knows me is aware, I love adventure.

      It was one of those soft spring evenings when one is glad to be alive; I felt reinvigorated after the strange torpor of the last few days. Once we had left the streets and houses behind, the only sounds we could hear were the gentle thunder of the breaking waves and the screeches of the seagulls high above us. Strolling across the beach to the restaurant, my sandals – the new gold ones that John bought me in Lisbon - filled with the soft, shifting sand until I had to stop and take them off and walk the rest of the way in my stockinged feet, wishing I were barefoot and could feel the golden grains between my toes.

      ‘Restaurant’ was a grand name for the little wooden cabin on stilts that we arrived at. A rickety staircase led up to a wide balcony; inside, the tables were covered with bright cotton cloths and adorned with vases of the yellow sea holly flowers that we had seen growing in great clumps all along the way. There was little wind and the sea seemed calmer than usual. Whilst John studied the short menu chalked onto a blackboard, I stood on the balcony and gazed at the water. I could feel the longing building up inside me, fed by a week of being utterly conventional, the very model of a dignified young wife. I was itching for activity.

      I turned to John and told him that I wanted to swim. I have to admit that my voice sounded unexpectedly loud as it echoed around the empty space. He was surprised, to say the least. His expression of alarm made me smile but he wasn’t laughing. I persisted, nevertheless. He has told me often enough how fed up he became at having the daughters of English colleagues paraded in front of him as prospective partners, how they bored him, their conformity and acquiescence all seeming to have come out of the same mould – so let him live by his word! I made the point that we would have all the time in the world for being models of propriety once in Porto, and that once there I would always consider his position at the firm and in society in all my actions. But here we were free so we should enjoy it.

      It took quite a bit of cajoling to bring him round to the idea. He remonstrated that I hadn’t brought anything to wear or even a towel to dry myself with, but I soon answered those concerns by borrowing a towel from the restaurant owner and saying I could swim in my slip. As soon as I caught him hesitating in his protestations, I knew that I was winning.

      “There’s no one here to see me,” I added as my final sally, knowing that his professed adoration of my spirit faded fast in public view. And he could not argue with this point for indeed the restaurant, and the beach, were completely empty. After a few despairing shakes of his head, the decision was made and I headed out, carrying my hastily procured towel, John following behind and the bewildered restaurateur staring after us.

      I undressed behind a rock, singing all the while, and when I emerged from my impromptu changing room, I danced a little jig in sheer delight. There is nothing quite so delightful as breaking the rules.

      As I approached the sea, I had to sing very loudly to compete with the noise of the waves pounding onto the shore. John had been laughing, despite his misgivings, but now this faded to an anxious grimace.

      “Inês, please be careful won’t you? The currents are really strong here. Don’t go too far out.”

      Beyond the breaking waves, the reflection of the moon rippled in the dark surface of the sea, inviting me in.

      “It’s all right, I won’t,” I assured him. “I’m used to it, anyway. I’ve been swimming in the sea since I was a child. You should see the waves on the Praia de Melides, feel the current there! I’ll be fine.”

      With that, I ran towards the breakers, jumping them one by one, the fresh air whipping past my body, exhilaration filling my soul. I flung myself into the water as soon as it became deep enough, then turned onto my back and let my feet slide into the trough behind each wave.

      “Look at me, John, look at me!” I called to him as he stood on the beach, his eyes fixed upon me, smoke from his cigarette drifting up between his fingers.

      Flipping myself onto my front, I swam breaststroke into the crest of the waves, my skin tingling with cold and exhilaration.

      “I’m flying!” I felt as if nothing could stop me, no force in the world was greater than me as I surged through the surf. It was just a shame that John wasn’t in there enjoying it with me.

       Lisbon, 2010

      Scott’s knock on her hotel room door snatched Sarah away from the journal in the midst of Inês’s night swim. He took her to the city centre; it was early evening and a soft glow illuminated the grey stone walls of the Castelo de São Jorge. Strolling through the ancient streets, along steep becos and travessias, lanes and alleyways, where washing hung between the balconies and women leant out of windows and gossiped with their neighbours opposite, they reminisced about the Alfama of old, a district that tourists were warned away from in those days, reputed as it was to be full of pick-pockets and other low life. Of course, that had only made them more attracted to it. Now it had been somewhat sanitised and was definitely safer, but it retained its charm. Outside a tiny grocery shop, an old lady sat on a crate of fruit, singing.

      “Don’t even think about joining in!” joked Sarah, as she saw Scott linger to listen.

      “But I know that one!” he protested, all wide-eyed innocence as she feigned having to drag him away, laughing.

      In the Calçada de São Vicente, the public laundry building advertised its opening hours, Monday, Thursday and Friday, 9-12 and 2-6. Geraniums spilled from pots on every doorstep and from open apartment windows came the sounds of clanking crockery and pans, televisions playing Brazilian soaps, phones ringing, voices talking and arguing.

      Scott paused in the shade of an ancient olive tree.

      “It’s so great to see you, Sarah. It’s been too long.”

      Sarah’s heart contracted as if it were being wrung out and hung up to dry like a pair of old jeans in the washhouse behind them. The sun cast their shadows over the age-worn cobbles, his tall and broad, hers small and slim, two shapes that seemed to fit together so perfectly, it was almost as if they had been moulded as a pair. Overhead, the giant tree spread its silver-leaved branches wide, dappling them with ever-fluctuating patterns of light and dark.

      “Way too long,” he said again, taking a step closer to her, his head inclined towards hers.

      For one head-spinning moment she thought that he was going to kiss her.

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