Slowly, I wandered around the borders we’d planted together, checking on the progress of our progeny. In July, they came to full fruition: multi-coloured zinnias, purple asters, sweet peas gathered together like tiny butterflies, and the roses that climbed all over the arbour, shading the bench.
I realised there was only me to look after them now. Although Hans, our ancient gardener, was the ‘nanny’ for the plants when Pa and I were not here to care for them ourselves, I could never be sure that he loved them as we did. Stupid really, to think of plants as children. But as Pa had often said to me, the nurturing process was similar.
I stopped to admire a dearly loved plant that sported delicate purple-red flowers, suspended on fine stems above a mass of rich green leaves.
‘It’s called Astrantia major,’ Pa had said, as we’d planted the tiny seeds in pots nearly two decades ago. ‘Its name is thought to be derived from “aster”, the Latin word for “star”. And when it blooms, it has glorious starburst-shaped flowers. I must warn you that it is sometimes difficult to grow, especially since these seeds have travelled with me from another country and are old and dry. But if we succeed, it doesn’t take much looking after, just some good soil and a little water.’
A few months later, Pa took me to a shaded corner of the garden to plant out the seedlings, which had miraculously sprouted after careful nurturing, including a spell in the refrigerator, which Pa had said was necessary to ‘shock’ the seeds into life.
‘Now, we must be patient and hope that it likes its new home,’ he’d said, as we wiped the soil from our hands.
The Astrantia took another two years before it produced flowers, but since then it had happily multiplied, self-seeding in any spot in the garden that took its fancy. Looking at it now, I plucked off one of the blooms, my fingertips trailing across the fragile petals. And I missed Pa more than I could bear.
I turned and walked towards the bench nestled in the rose arbour. The wood was still covered in heavy dew and I used my sleeve to wipe it dry. I sat down, and felt as if the damp was seeping into my very soul.
I looked at the plastic wallet that held the envelopes. And I wondered now if I had made a mistake by ignoring CeCe’s original plea to open our letters together.
My hands shook as I took out Pa’s envelope, and, with a deep breath, tore it open. Inside was a letter, and also what looked like a small, slim jewellery box. I unfolded the letter and began to read.
Atlantis
Lake Geneva
Switzerland
My darling Star,
It is somehow the most fitting that I am writing to you, as we both know it is your preferred medium of communication. To this day, I treasure the long letters you wrote to me when you were away at boarding school and university. And subsequently, on your many travels to the four corners of the globe.
As you may know by now, I have tried to provide each of you with sufficient information about your genetic heritage. Even though I like to believe that you girls are truly mine, and as much a part of me as any naturally born child could be, there may come a day when the information I have might be of use to you. Having said that, I also accept it is not a journey all my daughters will wish to take. Especially you, my darling Star – perhaps the most sensitive and complex of all my girls.
This letter has taken the longest to compose – partly because I have written it in English, not French, and know that your use of grammar and punctuation is far superior to mine, so please forgive any mistakes I make. But also because I confess I am struggling to find a direct route to provide you with just enough information to set you on your path to discovery, yet equally, not disrupt your life if you choose not to investigate your origins further.
Interestingly, the clues I’ve been able to give your sisters have mostly been inanimate, yet yours will involve communication of the verbal variety, simply because the trail that leads back to your original story has been very well concealed over the years, and you will need the help of others to unravel it. I only found out the true details recently myself, but if anyone can do that, it’s you, my bright Star. That quick brain of yours coupled with your understanding of human nature – studied over years of observing and, most importantly, listening – will serve you well if you decide to follow the trail.
So, I have given you an address – it’s attached on a card to the back of this letter. And if you decide to visit, ask about a woman named Flora MacNichol.
Lastly, before I close and say goodbye, I feel I must tell you that sometimes in life one has to make difficult and often heartbreaking decisions that, at the time, you may feel will hurt people you love. And they might, at least for a while. Often, however, the changes that occur from your decision will eventually be the best thing for others too. And help them move on.
My darling Star, I will not patronise you by saying any more; we both know what it is I am referring to. I have learnt over my years on this earth that nothing can stay the same forever – and expecting it to is, of course, the biggest single mistake we human beings make. Change comes whether we wish for it or not, in a host of different ways. And acceptance of this is fundamental to achieving the joy of living on this magnificent planet of ours.
Nurture not only the wonderful garden we created together, but perhaps your own elsewhere. And above all, nurture yourself. And follow your own star. It is time.
Your loving father,
Pa Salt x
I looked up at the horizon and watched the sun appear from behind a cloud across the lake, chasing the shadows away. I felt numb and even lower than before I’d opened the letter. Perhaps it was the sense of expectation that I’d felt, yet there was very little in the letter that Pa and I had not discussed when he was alive. When I had been able to look into his kind eyes and feel the gentle touch of his hand on my shoulder as we gardened together.
I unfastened the business card that was paper-clipped to the letter and read the words printed on it.
Arthur Morston Books
190 Kensington Church Street
London W8 4DS
I remembered I’d once passed through Kensington on a bus. At least if I did decide to go and see Arthur Morston, I wouldn’t have far to travel, like Maia had had to. I then took out the quotation that she had translated from the armillary sphere.
The oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
I smiled, as it perfectly described CeCe and me. She: so strong and intractable, her feet firmly rooted in the ground. Me: tall but wisp-like, swayed by the slightest wind. I already knew the quote. It was from The Prophet, by a philosopher named Khalil Gibran. And I also knew who stood – outwardly at least – in the ‘shadow’ . . .
I just didn’t know how to go about stepping into the sun.
After refolding it carefully, I retrieved the envelope that held the coordinates Ally had deciphered. She had written down the location they pinpointed. Out of all the clues, this was the one that frightened me most.
Did I want to know where Pa had found me?