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

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      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 noticed 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.

      “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 do 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.

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