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

The Alentejo, Portugal 1934

I am Inês Bretão and I am 18 years old. 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…

As Sarah Lacey reads the scrawled handwriting in her great-aunt’s journal on a trip to Portugal, she discovers a life filled with great passion, missed chances and lost loves – memories that echo Sarah’s own life. Because Sarah’s marriage is crumbling, her love for her husband ebbing away, and she fears the one man she truly loves was lost to her many years ago…

But hidden within the faded pages of the journal is a secret Inês has kept locked away her entire life, and one final message for her beloved niece – a chance for Sarah to change her life, if she is brave enough to take it.

Garden of Stars

Rose Alexander

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Rose Alexander 2016

Rose Alexander asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008206871

Version date: 2018-07-02

ROSE ALEXANDER

has had more careers than is probably strictly necessary, including TV producer/director making programmes for all the major broadcasters, freelance feature writer for publications including The Guardian and secondary school English teacher, not forgetting cocktail waitress, melon picker and interior designer.

Writing a novel is, however predictable the line seems, the realisation of Rose’s childhood dream and the result of finally finding ‘a voice’. The triumph is that the voice was heard above the racket created by her three children plus rescue cat (tabby white, since you ask).

Follow her on twitter at @RoseA_writer

Thank you to everyone who helped with this book – too many to mention individually but you know who you are! And of course to my family, whose support is always invaluable.

For my daughters

With all my love, forever

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

If I could have put you in my heart,

If but I could have wrapped you in myself,

How glad I should have been…

The End by D.H. Lawrence

Prologue

The Alentejo, Portugal

The steel blade of the machado slices into the tree with delicate precision. Another blow, from above, immediately follows. The two polished, fan-shaped axe heads send flashes of light glinting between the overhanging branches as the rhythmic strikes continue, keeping perfect time with each other until reaching the crescendo.

Stepping forward, a tirador uses the wooden handle of his machado to prise away the bark. A cracking, tearing sound ensues as the large, rectangular slab of cork peels from the trunk like the skin from an orange and tumbles gently downwards as if in slow motion. It lands with an emphatic thump and a groan on the scrubby undergrowth, sending a cloud of mosquitoes whirling upwards from their daytime hideaway.

The sky above the ancient forest is a fierce, unyielding blue, the soil underfoot a dry and sandy brown. Birds, disturbed by the disruption to the habitual deep silence of their home, call raucously through the trees, their clamour competing with the ringing shouts of the harvesters and the continual thudding of their axes.

In the Alentejo region of Portugal, the cork harvest takes place every year as it always has, over centuries and through generations. A cork oak tree can live for up to two hundred years and will yield up its bark sixteen times or more during its lifespan. Such capacity for renewal, regrowth and regeneration is unsurpassed in nature.

There is a saying here and it goes like this:

“If you are planting for yourself, you plant vines.

If you are planting for your children, you plant olives.

But if you are planting for your grandchildren, you plant cork oak.”

1

London, 2010

Dear Sarah

How are you? All well I hope.

I have a commission I’d like to offer you - 5,000 words following the story of natural cork from tree to bottle. It needs a Portuguese speaker which is why I thought of you. You’ll need to set up interviews in Lisbon, Porto and at a cork farm.

Let me know if you can take this on and we can talk details.

Best,

Rosalind

In her office at the top of her house, Sarah Lacey read and reread the email, the thrill of anticipation causing her stomach to leap and dance. A story to write about something important, interesting, worthwhile. Some meaty research to get her teeth into. Decent money. It was the most exciting commission she’d been offered in a long time, putting her back on the radar of editors looking for writers, giving her a career boost just when she needed it after having had time out for the children. It would not be easy, though; there was so much to sort out, so many logistical arrangements to make, from organising childcare to booking flights, hotels and car hire. She’d need to seek out the best interviewees, find the most compelling locations and draw up schedules. She began urgently tapping search terms into Google, bringing up web pages from cork producers and port wine makers, noting down key facts and figures that might be useful for the article. She spent a long time looking at maps; so many years had passed since she’d been to Portugal that she’d forgotten where some towns lay in relation to others, and it was incredible to see how the road network had developed.

Eventually, however, she could not marvel at new motorways and bridges any longer and pretend to herself that navigating them was the only thing that concerned her about taking the job. The doubt that had lodged itself in her stomach the minute she saw the destination the article required began to spread, icily and insidiously, through her veins. There was a reason she had not set foot in the country since her gap year. Her hands fell still on the keyboard, and she stared at the screen with sightless eyes. Maybe now was the time to face up to what had happened so long ago, to confront the ghosts of the past. Could you hide from your own history forever? A whirlwind of jumbled memories and emotions flooded her mind, tearing her in different directions, making it impossible to discern a clear path.