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 sears through the skin and presses 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 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.”