But Inês wasn’t listening, lingering as she was in decades past.
“Of course, I was still very young when I moved away,’ she murmured, her voice and demeanour almost trance-like. “I had fallen in love with John, married him and moved to the north, all by the time I was twenty.” She pulled her shawl tighter around her as if suddenly cold although the temperature had not changed. “It’s strange to think now how little I knew him when I bound my life to his. The innocence of youth, I suppose.”
Inês’s gaze wandered from the tall windows back to Sarah and she started slightly, as if surprised to find her still there. It seemed to remind her of something.
“I have something that might help you, my dear,” she said.
Sarah looked at her questioningly but said nothing, waiting patiently for Inês to carry on. Her speech was very slow these days.
“My journal. It’s in my bedroom, next to my bed. Please take it, I’d like you to have it. I started it when I got engaged and kept it for a few years, writing in it regularly, until…” Inês stopped suddenly, as if unable to continue.
“Until what?” probed Sarah, gently.
“There are things in it you might find interesting,” Inês continued, ignoring Sarah’s question. “That might…” She trailed off again. Her eyes, seeking the light, returned to the tall windows and then her heavy lids closed over them as if it were too bright, too intense.
“That might what?” asked Sarah, more urgently now.
But Inês was silent, dozing in her chair, her hands fallen to her sides.
London, 2010
The journal and what she would find in it absorbed Sarah’s thoughts as she put the children to bed and prepared supper that evening. She had found the volume exactly where Inês had said it would be; it was bound in thick leather that smelt richly of quality and heritage and Sarah had tucked it firmly into her handbag before gathering up the girls to leave. It would be useful if she were able to glean any information for her article from it, but the real reason she was so intrigued to read it was the feeling she had that Inês had something on her mind that Sarah needed to uncover – and soon, before her great age might cause her health to deteriorate.
She hardly knew anything, she realised as she reflected, about Inês’s emotional life, which she had never really shared with Sarah. Inês had gifted to her great-niece the flavours of Portugal through her stews of pork and beans, her custard tarts and the fresh herbs she had grown herself. But she had disclosed little about matters of the heart, about her husband, John, who had died whilst Sarah was still a child. With the absence of information about Inês and John’s young life together, Sarah had only the photos in the family albums of a tall, strikingly handsome, athletic-looking man to go on, combined with the snippets of family legend she had heard over the years. So she had created her own impression, one in which Inês’s past belonged to a different age of chivalry and courtliness, in which she had met and married her knight in shining armour. Eventually, after unspoken acts of heroism and derring-do in the Second World War, John had brought his beautiful bride to England which had allowed her to be part of Sarah’s life.
What must it have been like, Sarah mused as she chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes, to have come from the brightness and light of Portugal to cold and lonely war-damaged London, demeaned by rationing and belittled by years of conflict? So, so different from what Inês was used to it was a wonder she had survived the shock. It had been hard enough for Sarah to return to England after only half a year. What were the words Inês had used that afternoon? ‘The innocence of youth.’ Sarah had been innocent, too, when she first went to Inês’s homeland. Innocent – naïve, even – and inexperienced, but hungry for love, just like her great-aunt when she had met John. But her story hadn’t ended as Inês’s had; things had not worked out for her the way they had for Inês.
Pouring herself a glass of wine and shoving the casserole in the oven, Sarah pulled the journal out of her bag and sat down to read.
I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old (nearly 19). I live on a cork farm in the Alentejo region of Portugal with my mother and father and my younger brother and sister. I have one dog and three cats, and a pony called Pimento. 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.
But Inês hadn’t had any children, thought Sarah, pausing as she read. She had smiled at Inês’s mention of her pets, something that showed that, even though she regarded herself as a sophisticated adult, she was really not so very far away from childhood. But now she frowned, wondering as she often had why her great-aunt was childless. It was a subject that had always been untouched and somehow untouchable, as if some hidden force field barred it from being raised. Perhaps the journal would also shed some light on this mystery.
The Alentejo, 1934
I chose my wedding dress today! It is so hot now that there is nothing to do but sit out the long afternoons inside with the shutters closed and the stone floors cooling my bare feet. If I can’t be outside then I thought that I might as well put my time to good use by going through the sheaf of magazine cuttings the dressmaker lent me. Looking at all those immaculately coiffured brides in flowing white dresses gave me a headache; I had to keep thinking about John and how proud he would be to see me walking up the aisle towards him in order to concentrate on it. He is so tall and handsome, I need to look my very best so that I make all his hopes and dreams come true. Though I really shouldn’t think like that because I know that John truly loves me and finds me beautiful – he says so often enough, which always, annoyingly, makes me blush.
It will be so thrilling to be married; apart from anything else, I’ll be free to do whatever I like. I love my family and the cork farm beyond belief but there are so many limitations on what I am allowed to do. Once I become Mrs John Morton next spring, no one will be overseeing my every move; I shall go where I please and do as I wish. Some people have questioned the fact that John is ten years older than me and cautioned that we should wait a while before marrying but I really don’t see why it matters. He says he has been waiting for the perfect woman to come along and now that I have, he wants to get on with it and I agree. At the moment, John lives in Lisbon but he’s changing his job and we’ll be going to Porto straight after the wedding. Porto! I’ve never even been there, in fact I haven’t been anywhere further north than Coimbra. He’ll be working for one of the British port wine companies, a very important job organising the shipping of the port all over the world. I’ll have to learn English so that I can accompany him to social events and dinners; I only learnt French at school but I’m sure English won’t be too much harder.
I’ve been imagining where we will live – it’ll be completely different to here on the montado. This house is in the middle of nowhere but we’ll live in the city centre in Porto, in an apartment. I think it will have high ceilings, and tall windows that look out onto a square with a splashing fountain, and the sunlight will catch the water in a myriad jewelled droplets. It will be so romantic.
But back to the dress. I finally found one that I liked. It has a nipped in waist, a beaded bodice and a long train. I will have it made in ivory satin as I think ivory is more sophisticated than pure white and sophistication is what I aspire to. I’m not sure that I’ll ever quite make it – can you be sophisticated when what you really love to do is go to the farmyard and scratch the sow behind her ears so that she grunts with pleasure? Or, in the springtime, spend hours amongst the cork oaks watching the kites hunting and spotting the baby black storks in their nests? I’m not too sure…but perhaps one day I’ll just wake up and find it has happened to me, as if by magic. Let’s hope so.
My sister Maria is to be my bridesmaid. She’s only eight and very sweet. She has soft