Page 20 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

19

LISBON, 2000

When I wake the next morning, I feel a little like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when she says to Toto, ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore.’ I look around at the eggshell-blue walls, the polished pine floorboards, and the primrose curtains gently blowing in the breeze and wonder if I’m dreaming. Then I hear the cry of seagulls outside and it all comes flooding back. I’ve got the job. I’m in Sofia Castello’s house. Sofia Castello isn’t dead! I’m going to be ghostwriting Sofia Castello’s life story – or trying to anyway.

My gaze falls upon my Portuguese dictionary on the nightstand and I remember the words I heard Gabriel say so earnestly to Sofia last night while looking at me – ‘ a verdade ’. I’d looked it up last night when I went to bed and discovered that it means ‘the truth’. The truth about what? I wonder. And why did Sofia shake her head so vehemently? Maybe he meant the truth about her faking her own death. Perhaps he was asking her if she was going to tell me yet. If so, it’s disappointing that she said no so vehemently, but it makes me even more determined to win her trust. After last night’s revelation about the Gestapo and the diamond, I’m itching to learn more.

I go over to the window, pull the curtain to one side and inhale the salty sea breeze. It’s a smell that always makes me think of holidays and instantly makes me happy. Sofia certainly wasn’t kidding when she told me I was going to love the view. My room is at the back of the house and looks out onto a small garden, bursting with flowers in a riot of colour. A gate in the white fence at the bottom opens directly onto a small cove. The tide is out, but I can see a head bobbing up and down in the waves. I wonder if it’s Sofia. I lean out of the window and look left and right. I’m guessing it must be as there doesn’t seem to be another house anywhere nearby. It’s been years since I swam, but the water looks so inviting. I wish I’d brought a bathing suit. I could go for a paddle though…

I pull on my new dress and go downstairs. The grass in the back garden is still damp with dew, and it feels wonderfully refreshing beneath my bare feet. I open the latch on the back gate and step onto the sand, which is already pleasantly warm from the early-morning sun. Sofia is now walking out of the water towards me. She’s wearing a mismatching turquoise bikini top and bright pink bottoms, and although her tanned skin is wrinkled, it’s still incredibly taut for someone of eighty. When she sees me approaching, she waves with delight.

‘ Bom dia , Lily! The water’s perfect – come on in!’

‘I don’t have a bathing suit,’ I call back. I wonder if she’d loan me one; she’s shorter than me, but other than that we’re about the same size.

‘That’s OK – swim in your underwear.’

‘Oh – I – uh – I’m not wearing a bra.’ In my haste to get outside, I hadn’t bothered putting one on.

‘Swim in your knickers then – or your birthday suit even.’ She grins at me. ‘There’s no one around for miles, and there’s no better feeling than swimming in the sea naked. It always makes me feel like a mermaid.’

‘Oh – well…’

She stares at me, hands on hips, and I get the feeling this might be some kind of test. Am I uninhibited enough to be her ghostwriter? Am I able to throw caution to the wind? Aware that I haven’t even started writing her book yet and I’m probably still on some kind of probation, I take a quick glance to make sure there’s no one else around, then pull down the straps of my dress and let it slip to the ground.

‘Attagirl!’ she cries, and then before I can say anything, she whips off her bikini top, twirls it around her head like a lasso and flings it onto the sand. ‘Come on!’ she cries before plunging back into the water.

Laughing, I run down and meet a wave just as it crashes onto the shore. I shiver as it splashes up my legs. It’s cold but exhilarating, and in a bid to preserve what’s left of my modesty, I plunge in. The waves roll lazily back and forth, and as I allow my body to drift for a moment, it feels as if I’m being rocked in a cradle.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Sofia calls.

‘Absolutely,’ I call back. And it is.

I have a sudden flashback to how much I used to love swimming as a kid. Every Saturday I’d go down to the local baths and I’d swim all the stress of the week away. I feel the water having the same effect now, the waves caressing my skin, the salt cleansing me. It feels like such a natural state to be floating in the water like this.

Just like a baby swimming in the amniotic fluid of the womb, I think, and this time a more unpleasant memory intrudes, of the doctor’s appointment where I was told I was infertile.

‘You have premature ovarian failure,’ the doctor said, with a sympathetic smile.

‘What could have caused that?’ I heard Robin ask above the sudden ringing in my ears.

‘We’re not entirely sure,’ the doctor replied, ‘but it’s essentially a problem with the follicles inside the ovaries, which house the eggs. It could be that your follicles stopped working earlier than usual, or it may be that they never worked properly, which can be a hereditary condition.’

I felt a double blow at the bitter irony. Not only had my parents abandoned me as a baby, but they could have also denied me the ability to have my own family.

As Robin kept firing questions at the doctor about lifestyle changes and treatment options, I fought the urge to yell at him to shut up. In his desperation to understand the reason for my infertility, it also felt as if he was searching for reasons to blame me. Why couldn’t he see that all I needed in that moment was for him to hold me? To help me grieve the children I wouldn’t be able to conceive.

As I drift in the sea, I’m overwhelmed by that loss all over again, then I see a little red-haired girl bobbing amongst the waves in front of me, brightly coloured inflatable bands on her chubby arms. Tears begin mingling with the sea spray on my face. I’d thought – hoped – that maybe now I was no longer in London I wouldn’t see her again. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

I first saw the ghost of my dream daughter about a week after receiving my diagnosis. I’d been lying on my bed crying and crying, and then, when I rubbed my eyes, she suddenly appeared, standing by my wardrobe, sucking her thumb. She had bright red hair in plaits and looked a little like my childhood hero Pippi Longstocking. Before I’d known I was infertile and we were trying to get pregnant, I’d been convinced I was going to have a daughter, and I’d daydreamed for hours about what she would be like. In my dreams, she was just like Pippi, fearless and headstrong and quirky – everything I’d been too scared to be as a kid for fear of upsetting my latest set of foster parents and being shunted off to yet another family. I was so excited at the prospect of being able to provide my child with a stable, loving home. Somewhere she could feel totally free to be herself. But of course, that opportunity has been cruelly denied me.

When my dream daughter began appearing to me after my world fell apart, I didn’t feel scared. I found her presence strangely reassuring. But now I’m in Portugal, trying so hard to move on, I find it slightly unsettling. I start swimming away from her, swimming away from the sorrow and pain, my arms scything the waves in a powerful front crawl. My follicles might not work properly, but I still have the rest of my body. I’m still strong.

I’m strong , I tell myself over and over. It’s only when my lungs start to burn that I stop and look around.

‘Shit!’ I gasp when I realise how far I’ve come. I see Sofia’s head bobbing up halfway between me and the shore, and I start swimming towards her, against the tide, and suddenly my body feels heavy as lead.

‘I thought for a moment you were swimming back to Britain,’ she jokes when I finally reach her.

I laugh. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten how therapeutic swimming can be. I used to go a lot as a kid, to help deal with the stress at home.’

Sofia moves closer, treading water. ‘Oh really? What was your home life like, if you don’t mind me asking?’ she calls above the sound of the waves.

‘Not great. I grew up in foster care.’

She instantly looks concerned. ‘Please tell me you weren’t abused.’

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. It was more that it was unsettling. I got shunted around a lot.’ I normally feel awkward telling people this – I can’t help seeing it as some kind of admission of not being good enough – but it’s as if the waves have stripped me down to the core, washing away any need for pretence.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Sofia looks so genuinely sad that for a moment I totally forget who she is, and we’re just two women bonding.

‘Thank you, but it’s fine. It was a long time ago – and now look where I am!’ I gesture around at the sea shimmering in the sunshine.

Sofia laughs. ‘Race you back to shore!’ she cries, and off she darts through the water like a little fish.

I start swimming after her, wondering if it’s unfair to beat someone more than twice my age.

Turns out I needn’t have worried as she beats me fair and square.

‘Well, that was exhilarating,’ she says as I walk out of the water towards her. She clearly has no qualms about me seeing her half naked, and her freeness is infectious.

‘It certainly was.’ I tilt my face up to the sun, close my eyes and take a deep breath. The seaweed draped all over the rocks nearby makes the warm air smell even more salty.

‘I’m really sorry about your childhood,’ she says, retrieving her bikini top from the sand. ‘Do you mind me asking what happened to your real parents?’

‘I have no idea,’ I reply, slipping my dress on over my head. ‘But it really doesn’t bother me anymore – it was so long ago and so much has happened since then. And is continuing to happen.’ I look at her and smile. ‘You offering me this job and bringing me here, it…’ I fall silent for a moment, unsure how to articulate how I’m feeling. ‘It’s more than work to me.’ I turn and see that she’s staring at me intently. ‘It’s bringing me back to life again, after my break-up and everything – if that makes sense.’

She nods, her expression deadly serious. ‘It makes perfect sense.’ She steps closer. ‘So, we’re bringing each other back to life then.’

I smile. ‘Yes!’

She links her arm through mine. ‘Come on – let’s get some breakfast.’

Back at the cottage, I have a shower in my en-suite bathroom, which is tiled in the beautiful turquoise-and-white mosaic of mermaids. Then I put on my jeans and T-shirt and decide to let my hair dry in its natural wavy state. Given that I hadn’t been expecting to start the job right away and only brought a backpack with me, I really need to buy some more clothes as soon as possible. Hopefully there will be some stores within walking distance.

I head downstairs and into the kitchen to find Sofia already there, freshly showered, wearing a scarlet kaftan and smelling of lavender. She takes a jug of orange juice from the fridge and places it on the worn pine table. ‘Please, help yourself to a juice; the coffee will be ready soon.’ She nods to a silver pot on the stove. ‘And while I’m making us some breakfast, I thought you might like to look at these.’ She takes a folder from the side and places it on the table in front of me. ‘There’s some memorabilia from the Portuguese World Expo and a couple of other things that I’d like to tell you about today. Things that really changed the trajectory of my life story,’ she adds mysteriously before heading over to the fridge.

I pour myself a juice and take a sip. It’s delicious, freshly squeezed, and so tart it makes my taste buds tingle. I open the folder and see an old flyer, yellowed with age, advertising the expo. Beneath it is a printed list of events, and I notice Sofia’s name about halfway down, next to ‘Jacaranda Sonhos’, which I guess must have been the title of her song. The next thing I find is an old vinyl 45 record in a paper sleeve. The label in the centre of the disc also says ‘Jacaranda Sonhos’, along with Sofia’s name.

‘Your first ever record!’ I exclaim, holding it up.

She looks over her shoulder and nods. ‘And a first edition too. It’s the only record I took with me when I… when I died.’

I put the record down and pick up the next thing in the pile. It looks like some kind of invitation, with elegant gold handwriting embossed on a cream card with the words ‘Exposic?o do Mundo Português’ in the centre.

Next, I take out an old greeting card, also yellowing with age, with the faded picture of some daisies on the front. I open it and see handwriting in faded pencil. It takes me a moment to realise that the words are in English, the writing is such a tiny scrawl.

Dear Sofia,

Thank you for being the best bossy big sister in the world and for all you’ve done to help me. I can’t wait until we can properly celebrate in America!

All my love,

Judith

I feel a wave of relief. ‘So, Judith made it to America safely then?’

‘What?’ Sofia, who had been bringing a plate of cheese over to the table, stops dead.

‘This card.’ I point to the writing. ‘She says she’ll see you again in America.’

‘Oh.’ Sofia sits down at the table and it’s as if all the life has drained from her. ‘Unfortunately, Judith was being a tad optimistic when she wrote that.’

‘No! What happened?’ I ask, feeling a sudden chill.

‘That monster, Kurt Fischer, happened,’ she replies ominously.