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

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СКАЧАТЬ be those who go out and never come back.

      I studied John as we stood on the quayside, and thought of all the newly married brides who each and every springtime say goodbye to their husbands and are left to wait at home for long months, hoping and praying that they might see them again. The wind was forcing back John’s hair, revealing his neat ears and strong forehead. In profile, he looks so solid and determined. I love him so much and I’m so glad that he does not have to go away, that his life will never hold the dangers that the fishermen of the bacalhoeiro face.

       London, 2010

      As the innocence and charm of Inês’s words reeled her further and further in, Sarah found herself increasingly entranced, but also discomfited. It was a while before she recognised the negative feelings niggling at the back of her mind and even longer until she forced herself to put a name to them, ashamed as she was to find herself harbouring jealousy. How lucky for Inês to have been so young and so in love, a lifetime with the man of her dreams to look forward to. What she herself had longed for at the same age, had held in her hands but lost. She could deny to herself no longer that the real motivation for returning to Portugal was not just about a good job, a reassertion of her independence or to kick back against Hugo’s neglect.

      It was about Scott.

      Her first boyfriend, love of her life, the man who she could hardly bear the thought of seeing again, but equally could not get out of her mind or from under her skin. He had populated her dreams for two decades and around his memory she had spun an elaborate web of fantasies of what might have been, what could and should have been – if only. With him, she had always convinced herself, her life would have been so very different. So much better? Sometimes, and more and more frequently these days, it was compellingly beguiling to believe so. Now, having spent so many years trying, and failing, to forget about him, the moment of reckoning had arrived. Should she contact him? How could she? How could she not?

      The network of friends and acquaintances from the year she had spent in Portugal had fragmented and dispersed over the two decades since. She was in regular touch only with Carrie, her vivacious, irrepressible, confrontational crony, with whom she had shared many adventures and experiences. Carrie and Scott had continued to correspond for a while and so Sarah knew that, after a few years back home in his native Canada, he had returned to live in Portugal, and that in all likelihood he was still there, working for the same Canadian/Portuguese shipping company. A similar career to Inês’s John, another thing that, at the time, Sarah had felt tied her even more tightly to her beloved great-aunt, her country and her heritage.

      She would find his email, she told herself – so easy to do, these days, with the internet; she knew his firm’s name. She could send him a message, friendly but casual, announcing her impending presence in Lisbon and enquiring as to whether he would like to meet. She should do this to put to rest twenty years of regret, to close a door that had been left wide open.

      Her stomach churned and flipped at the thought.

      She found his company’s website in just a few seconds online. Closed it again, without clicking on the ‘our staff’ tab, or the ‘contact us’ button, though they boldly advertised themselves on the home page, inviting her. She reasoned with herself that she didn’t know if she was going to have time to fit in anything else but work, wouldn’t know her schedule for a few days yet, not until she’d firmed everything up and gone through all her checklists. There was no point contacting him and then having to cancel; that would be embarrassing, and simply a waste of time. And conversely, the later she got in touch, the more likely that he wouldn’t be able to make it, wouldn’t be in town or available, and then the whole thing would just go away and she’d know that it wasn’t because she had lacked the balls to do it, but just due to a simple matter of logistics, of busy lives and prior engagements. And anyway, how to explain a pre-planned meeting to Hugo? He might easily misinterpret such an action, and even if he didn’t, wouldn’t it be tantamount to throwing in his face the fact that their marriage was worn and crumbling, otiose? And would not that, in turn, draw to both of their attentions that they had let it get this way and that neither seemed able to diagnose the sickness nor prescribe the cure? Fiddling with the mouse at the same time as staring into space, a hot rush of shame engulfed Sarah. No matter what the hardship, she must stay true. If there were to be a meeting, it would be a chance one, organised whilst there, suitably impromptu.

      Satisfied with this non-decision for the moment, Sarah concentrated on making preparations amidst dealing with all the mundanity of everyday life. The short amount of time leading to her departure date flew by in a whirl of planning and grocery shopping, chores and organisation, precluding too much introspection.

      On her last day, she and Inês walked to the top of Kite Hill as they had so many times over the years. A stiff breeze blew down from the north, and Sarah felt its force as she helped Inês onto the bench and sat down beside her. Before them lay a sweeping view of London, the landmarks familiar from a lifetime of visits: St Paul’s and Battersea Power Station, the BT Tower and Canary Wharf. Over the years, new icons had been added to the old – the Millennium Dome, the London Eye, the Gherkin. The kite-fliers, always present at the weekends, were absent today, but instead, far away in the distance, Sarah could make out the hunched shapes of rooks pecking at the grass. They resembled black paper bags scattered at random, sullying the pristine green.

      “You seem somewhat strained,” said Inês once they were settled, her frail voice battling the wind.

      Sarah shifted uncomfortably. She could hide her feelings from most people; from Hugo, her mother, her friends. But not Inês.

      “Just tired with getting everything sorted, making sure all the pieces of the jigsaw are in place.” She shrugged and hoped her excuse was enough. She had never talked about Scott because it had always been too raw, too agonising. The past few days had shown her that it still was.

      “Will you see any of your old companions in Lisbon?” asked Inês, as if she had read Sarah’s mind.

      “Oh no,” replied Sarah, hastily. “I mean, I shouldn’t think so. I’ve lost touch with everyone but Carrie and she lives here.” She shrugged and pulled her hands further inside her coat sleeves.

      “What about your special friend?” Inês continued, unperturbed by Sarah’s taciturnity. “Your boyfriend – Scott was his name, I seem to remember.”

      Sarah watched as a chocolate brown Labrador raced towards one of the rooks in a vain attempt to catch it. The bird waited until the last moment to soar into the air and mock the dog from above.

      “Scott, yes. Scott Calvin. Clever of you to remember.”

      Just the simple act of saying his name sent shockwaves running through her. It was a name that evoked a lost existence, the utterance of which tore down the walls and barriers she had so carefully built and rebuilt, time and time again. It was a name that told of heat-soaked days on deserted beaches and tumultuous nights in the liquorice allsort pink-and-blue house in Alcantâra where she had lived all those years ago. Of sunlight that danced on cobbles and bleached the washing on the lines. Of the scent of sun-warmed skin and sweat and sex. Of the shallow dip between his neck and collarbone which, seen by the light of a full moon, made her heart overflow with an adoration that temporarily stilled her breathing.

      It struck her how few times, in all the years, she had ever said his name aloud. There had been no reason to.

      “You really loved him, didn’t you?” The question, uttered so gently, was like a thunder bolt.

      Sarah felt the breeze snatch at her breath as she looked away and saw him before her; his crinkly-kind eyes, suggestive smile and messy, honey-brown hair. СКАЧАТЬ