A flash of razor-sharp fury ran through Sarah like a flame along a fuse. She should have challenged him about the way he took her for granted. She had a sudden urge, barely suppressed, to seize his phone and throw it into the dirty dishwater in the sink.
Then, as she sat listening to the dripping tap that had needed mending for ages, and the distant rumble of Hugo talking to whoever it was about whatever it was that was so important, her anger slowly dissipated. If she acted like a doormat, it was hardly surprising if she got treated like one.
She cleared away the dishes and then went into the sitting room to do a bit of half-hearted tidying up. Ruby’s collection of Russian dolls was spread out across the rug, serried ranks of mothers, children, babies, conscientiously arranged in size order. Sarah stacked them up, infant inside child inside teenager inside parent inside babushka. Lining them up on the shelf beneath the television, she contemplated how they regarded her with their sightless eyes. She pushed her finger against the end one, just hard enough to cause it to topple and fall, and watched as it knocked over the next one, and the next.
Hugo came in. “What on earth are you doing?”
Sarah shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.” She looked down at her watch. “It’s time I got to bed, anyway.”
“Oh.”
Hugo stepped over a couple of cushions that lay discarded on the floor and a heap of Lego spewing from an overturned box and negotiated his way to the sofa where he sank down, clutching the TV remote.
“Night, then.” He turned the TV on and began flicking through the channels.
“Night.”
Sarah left the room and went upstairs, remembering to take the journal with her. She had taken herself aback, she acknowledged to herself as she undressed, by sticking her neck out and committing to the trip. She knew, had known for a long time, that she needed to make some changes to her life. Going back to Portugal, where so much that was life-changing had happened in the past, would be the start.
Getting into bed, she turned on the light and began to read.
Lisbon, 1935
It seems incredible, and somehow unreal, to be writing this as a married woman. The wedding was magnificent; everyone had a marvellous time, which is what I most hoped for, and the dancing went on until 2am. My dress, though I feel immodest to say it, was exquisite. Maria was the cutest bridesmaid you could possibly imagine and John the most perfect groom. In his dark suit with its red rose buttonhole he looked more handsome than Clark Gable. He swept me off my feet, literally as well as metaphorically, for this morning, rather than carrying me over the threshold into our new home, he picked me up and carried me out of my parents’ house and placed me in the car like a precious package needing careful delivery.
Although I am so excited to be starting my new life, I could feel tears forming behind my eyes as we pulled away. My family were gathered together and waving us off as if their lives depended on it and I had to turn my face away for a few moments while I composed myself. I didn’t want John to see me crying; he might have thought I don’t want to be his wife, don’t want to move to Porto with him, when I do, I really, really do. It’s just that it’s hard to leave everything you’ve ever known, your beloved mother and father and siblings, the montado itself… I’m sure he would have understood, although I didn’t feel like telling him just then as he is always so self-possessed and faultless, somehow, it sometimes makes me feel very uncouth and dishevelled, in character rather than appearance, if that makes any sense at all.
I had a small, muslin-wrapped parcel on my lap and John asked me what it was. I blushed rather as I explained to him that it was my lucky charm - a piece of cork bark that I wanted to take with me to remind me of the cork forests that have been my life since the day I was born. It is the cork trees’ bark that provides us with our livelihood, and not just us, lots of other families, too. The Alentejo is cork and cork is the Alentejo; it’s always been like that and I suppose it always will be. I wondered whether John would be dismissive of such sentimentality – he is English, after all - but instead he was at his most indulgent, and once we’d rounded the corner and were no longer in sight of the farewell party, he put his hand on my knee and squeezed it. It sent a shiver all through me.
Spring comes early to the Alentejo and as we puttered along the country lanes in the open-topped car, the growing season was in full swing all around us, cartloads of manure wedged between open gateposts in the entrance to every field. The peasant women working on the first plantings had their check skirts tied between their legs to keep them out of the way, and on their heads they wore wide-brimmed felt hats pulled firmly down over black headscarves. I always think that it must be so hot, but I suppose they are used to it for they don’t seem to find it so. The men, sporting sheepskin chaps with the fleece worn to the outside, ploughed neat furrows with their oxen, the overturned earth a rich reddish-brown. Tucked away in tidy rows beneath the hedgerows were their taros, small cork buckets with wooden handles and tight-fitting lids that keep their lunch either hot or cold.
It felt strange to think that I don’t know when I’ll see all these things again. Perhaps that’s why the colours of the wild flowers that adorned the meadows on either side of us seemed brighter than ever before; the scarlet, gold, white and blue of the poppies, moon daisies, field chrysanthemums and wild anchusa blazing in the sunshine. The gum cistus bushes were surrounded by immense clouds of white blossoms, as if a host of butterflies had paused in their flight and become immobilised, intoxicated by the sweetness of the nectar they sought. I felt myself captured in the same way, my life encircled by the man I love like an invisible net that will hold me to him forever.
John clasped my hand and raised it to his lips to kiss it, making me giggle like a schoolgirl. Really, I do have to work on that sophistication I have mentioned before. I urged John to be careful and keep two hands on the wheel; he borrowed the car from a rather wealthy friend of his and although he is as competent at driving as he is at everything else, one does need to pay attention when in charge of a motor vehicle. Apart from anything else, my mother was so nervous about us driving ourselves that I thought she might try to forbid it and it would be too vexing if her fears were to be proved right.
When I waved his hand away, his reply was, “I can’t resist you,” which made me squirm with delicious embarrassment and blush all the more.
After that, my mind kept straying to the night to come when we would consummate our marriage. (I couldn’t possibly have done so in my parents’ house; it just wouldn’t have felt right. John felt the same – he said he wanted to be free of any restraint when he enjoyed me for the first time. Whatever that means!) Anyway, the brush of John’s lips against my skin filled me with a thrill of anticipation which, together with the excitement of bowling along on the open road and the undercurrent of danger thus produced, made me feel quite light-headed and dizzy.
On occasion during our engagement, I have worried about whether it’s possible to get it wrong. Making love, that is. I don’t really know what to do and that makes me anxious, but then I think that everyone else who’s married must do it and they must work it out so surely I will be able to. Better to be optimistic, I say, and assume the best rather than fear the worst. That’s how I try to be with other difficulties I face and so why not with this? And I mustn’t forget that it will be John who leads the way and he does everything with such verve and self-assurance that I’m sure that making love will be no different.
Finally, after rather a long drive, we arrived in Lisbon. John negotiated the bends of the old town’s narrow streets masterfully – those that are accessible by car at all, that is. We went to a favourite restaurant of his and ate bacalhau – dried salt cod - with braised fried onions, buttered rice and a mild mustard sauce. John didn’t have dessert but I had pudim, crème caramel. I always