The Swallow and the Hummingbird (11 page)

The moment she had gone, Maddie burst into commentary. ‘What do you think has happened? They were quite happy this afternoon, ask Eddie!’ Hannah looked at Eddie hopefully.

‘They were kissing in the cave on the beach,’ said Eddie.

‘Which cave?’

‘You know, the one on the left as you walk down the path.’

‘I know the one. The swallow cave. They always used to build their nests there when I was growing up. Year in, year out. But what of it?’ she waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. ‘I wish Humphrey were here. He’d know what to do. I hope she’s all right. Should I go up and talk to her?’

‘Do you think he really doesn’t want to marry her?’ Maddie asked. ‘How dreadful. She’s waited years for him. What a bastard.’

‘Maddie, don’t use that sort of language please,’ Hannah chided gently. ‘I’m sure they’ve just had an argument or something. It’s probably nothing serious.’

‘But why’s he going all the way to Argentina when he’s only just got back?’ said Maddie, biting her bottom lip.

‘I don’t want Rita to leave,’ said Eddie in a small voice. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Rita.’

‘Dear child, if Rita goes to Argentina we will all miss her, but we will all support her choice. Besides, they won’t stay there for ever, I’m sure.’ She picked up the chicken unenthusiastically. ‘When she comes down I think it would be better if we don’t talk about it. Unless she wants to, of course.’

When Humphrey returned from the office Hannah briefed him discreetly in his study. His face turned the colour of the plums in the garden and he knocked back a swig of Scotch. ‘He’ll marry her, by God,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘She’s not going out to Argentina without that ring on her finger.’ Hannah felt more confident now her husband was back. Besides, when Humphrey spoke in such low tones he meant business. When the girls were growing up he never shouted at them when they caused trouble, just spoke to them with that icy calm and they trembled right down to their toes.

‘Have you talked to her?’ he asked.

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Well, let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. After all, the boy’s just come back from the war, he needs time to adjust.’ Then just before he left the room he turned to her and added, ‘But I’ll tell you one thing, he’s not leading our Rita a merry dance and then not marrying her.’

No one mentioned George Bolton at dinner. Rita was aware that Eddie and Maddie were longing to discuss it, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She didn’t even tell them that she had been to see Megagran. When things got bad, Rita liked to lick her wounds in private.

Unable to sleep, she sat on the window seat and stared up at the moon. She wondered whether George was staring up at it too and thinking of her.

Max wandered across the garden and down to the estuary, his path illuminated by the bright, phosphorescent moon. In his hand he held a worn book of poetry that had once belonged to his mother. He thought of Rita and their conversation in the kitchen. At times like this he missed a mother’s advice. He’d like to tell her about Rita. He imagined she would have approved his choice, in spite of the fact that Rita wasn’t Jewish.

His mother had been an actress, a bohemian in long flowing dresses and soft fur stoles; his father a wealthy banker, ennobled by the last Emperor Charles for giving the imperial house its final loan. Max could remember hanging around the Imperial Theatre which his father had built especially for his mother after he had first seen her perform as a young girl. He used to relish telling them how he had lost his heart to her the moment she first floated onto the stage. So bright was the light that shone about her it had penetrated his very soul and dazzled him to the point that he was aware only of her presence and of his desperate need to have her. So he had built a small theatre with crimson velvet curtains and glittering chandeliers, commissioning the best craftsmen in Vienna to mould the ceiling with golden roses and swans, then knelt down on one knee and asked her to marry him. That was before he lost his fortune in 1918, when the empire fell apart leaving his mines in the newly independent Czechoslovakia. As a little boy, Max had loved hearing stories of his mother’s celebrity, how she had been the toast of Vienna. Great figures from Court had graced the gilded boxes to admire her, but none had given her as much pleasure as seeing her husband every night in the small, private box he had furnished for himself, not even the Prince of Wales who had insisted on attending to witness with his own eyes the legendary beauty of Vienna’s secret jewel.

Max pulled his coat tightly about his chest and gazed up the beach. Shallow pools shone silver in the moonlight for the tide was out and the sleeping birds of the sea were now silent. The breeze was strong and fresh and smelt of marshland. He cast his eyes to the sky, to the vast glowing sphere that hung suspended among glimmering stars, and thought how often he must have looked up as a child to see the same display of wonder. His heart ached for Rita. He couldn’t tell Primrose or Ruth of his secret; all he could do was read his mother’s poetry and try to derive comfort from others who had suffered as he did the pain of unrequited love.

Trees slept soundly, unaware of the anxiety that kept his wife up, sculpting in her small studio to the reassuring notes of Strauss’s
Alpine Symphony
. Her hands worked away at the clay, moulding and smoothing, but her mind churned, worrying about her son, unable to bear the thought of him leaving her again. She couldn’t help but resent her husband for his ability to rise above domestic strife. The only things that animated him these days were his walnut trees. Her thoughts drifted to Thadeus Walizhewski.

People in the village dismissed Thadeus as eccentric. He kept himself to himself, went about his own business, never spoke about himself. But he had invited Faye into his secret world and she had discovered a man of education, poise and dignity. He played the violin with the sensitivity of a man who has loved and lost and survived terrible times. He read Voltaire, the plays of Molière and the erotica of Count Mirabeau, and cried over the stanzas of his countryman, the great Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz.

Thadeus had fled to England in 1939 when the Russians arrived at his ancestral home, and had drifted on the wind of Fate to this sleepy corner of Devon. He had always vowed he’d return one day to reclaim his home, but he was older than his sixty-two years and had suffered enough. In Faye he found a soul mate, a woman who understood him, and slowly love had flowered between them. He had captivated her with his pale, liquid eyes and unrestrained passion. Together they played music, read books and talked. Unlike Trees, Thadeus listened. He didn’t just listen with his ears but with his whole body, touching her hand every now and then to show compassion, understanding or when he laughed, which he did in loud, infectious guffaws. At first it had been an affair of the mind. She hadn’t contemplated sleeping with him. But one afternoon he had told her of the horrors suffered by his family at the hands of the Russians and she had given herself to him for comfort. Their lovemaking had been both tender and ardent, like the music they played together or the poetry he read to her. It enabled him to escape his past and she the war and her fears for her son. But since George had been back she hadn’t visited him.

Faye’s fingers worked away as if by remote control while she wondered what advice Thadeus would give her. Even if he had none to offer, he would hold her and listen and she would inevitably feel better for his support. Unable to bear the aching loneliness a moment longer, she looked out of the window, at the large, luminous moon that beckoned her to throw her reservations to the wind and yield to her longing.

George stood at his bedroom window. He knew he had hurt Rita and he hated himself for it. He felt under pressure to marry her, but he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t take her to the Argentine unless they were married. The wheels were now set in motion. His mother had already sent a telegram to her sister in the northern province of Córdoba. George knew he was running away. From his grief, from the memory of his lost friends in the squadron, from the echoes of his past and the boy who used to live there.

His eyes were suddenly drawn to a shadowy figure leaving the house by the back door, just below his bedroom window. It was his mother. She disappeared a moment then returned with a bicycle. He watched, intrigued, as she cycled out of the farm.

Chapter 7

When Rita arrived at Lower Farm for work the following morning, her eyes were red from crying and her face taut. She wondered how much longer she would be needed as a land girl now that the army was now demobilizing and returning home. She enjoyed the open air and loved the animals, especially the calves and lambs.

The sun blazed down but the air was fresh and autumnal. The nightingale had gone and so had the swallows, taking their twittering song and sanguinity with them. But the titmice had arrived. She had noticed them sitting playfully on the washing line, as happy upside down as the right way up. Her mother tamed them with walnuts and pretty soon they’d be eating out of her hand.

When she appeared at the door of the workshop Cyril and the boys were already talking with George and Trees. She smiled tightly and joined them, avoiding catching eyes with George who looked as anxious as she did. She felt the tension in the air and barely heard a word Cyril said. Mildred sensed it too for she lay at Trees’ feet blinking uneasily.

‘Right, Rita, you come with me,’ said Cyril when he’d finished explaining the jobs for the day. George managed to tap her on the shoulder before she left.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he hissed.

‘Later,’ she replied, hurrying after Cyril. Her voice sounded unfriendly.

‘I imagine a Spitfire’s easier to manage than a woman,’ Trees quipped, looking at his son.

‘And so are trees.’ George grinned, but he felt dead inside.

Rita set to work sweeping out the cowsheds. She tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the brush on concrete, focus her eyes on the old pieces of straw that she was clearing away, anything but think of George. She felt anxiety strain the muscles in her throat and neck, making them ache. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice George who had left his job on the tractor to find her, so she jumped when he appeared.

‘George, you shouldn’t creep up on people like that!’ she chided, then began to brush again, this time with more vigour.

‘Stop working for God’s sake. I want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’ She paused and straightened up.

‘Us. I’m sorry I was offhand with you last night.’

She immediately felt guilty for being so unfriendly. ‘That’s all right. I know things aren’t easy for you at the moment.’

‘Come. Let’s go and sit down somewhere,’ he suggested, taking her by the hand.

She followed him outside and they sat on the grass in the sunshine. A few dry leaves blew about in the breeze and a dark brown thrush playfully hopped among them.

‘I hope Cyril doesn’t catch me shirking off,’ she said.

‘I’m the boss’s son, I can do what I like and I want to talk to my future wife.’ His mouth curled up at one corner and something in Rita’s stomach fluttered with happiness. He took her hand in his and sandwiched it with his other hand. ‘I love you Rita and I don’t want anyone else but you. We’ve grown up together. We’re made for each other. I don’t need to tell you that.’ He studied her face for a long moment, eager not to offend her. ‘But I’m not ready to get married. I’m only twenty-three years old. The only life I’ve seen is from the cockpit of an aeroplane. I can’t settle down yet. I’m too young. You understand, don’t you? Part of me feels I’ve reached the pinnacle of my life. I’ll never be so challenged or have such purpose again, ever. The other part feels like I’ve been robbed of something. My youth, my innocence, I don’t know. It’s as if someone has taken me apart and put me back together all wrong.’ His voice was calm but there was an undertone of desperation which made her heart buckle with compassion.

‘I understand,’ she said, pulling his hand to her mouth and kissing it softly. ‘Darling George, I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes. Go to Argentina, explore the world, stretch your wings and let the wind blow through your feathers.’

He settled his eyes on her face and his expression was so tender and full of affection that she caught her breath and blushed.

‘I don’t deserve you, Rita,’ he choked. ‘You’ve supported me with love and letters through years of war and now you’re willing to suspend your life a little longer. You’re one in a million.’ His words made her swell with pride. ‘When I come back we’ll marry at once and start a family. We’ll make beautiful children, you and I.’ She laughed lightly and let him draw her to him so that he could kiss her temple, close to her hairline.

‘Megagran has always threatened to lend me her wedding dress.’

He chuckled, content to indulge her female whim and discuss their wedding. ‘Surely you’d get ten of you into it.’

‘She claims she was slim when she was young, and a smasher too!’

‘I can’t envisage that, even with a long stretch of the imagination.’

‘I don’t mind what I wear on our wedding day. I just want to be your wife and make you happy. I feel so hopeless. I know you’re suffering but I’m ill-equipped to help you.’

‘No you’re not. Just being with you makes me feel better.’

‘I’m glad you came to see me last night, although I would like to have held you until morning,’ said Thadeus, stroking Faye’s hair. She rarely wore it down, but Thadeus insisted on it. Said she looked severe with it drawn into a chignon.

‘Me too. I’ve missed you,’ she replied.

‘Everything always seems so much worse at night. The light of the sun melts away one’s anxieties whereas the light of the moon simply magnifies them.’

She nuzzled against him. It was warm there in the garden. It wasn’t only Thadeus’ presence that filled her with tranquillity but the atmosphere of the garden itself. Shaped in an oval, it was surrounded by trees, rhododendron bushes and a tall yew hedge. A vibrant green paradise where Faye felt secure and detached from her own life. By virtue of being situated up a remote little lane there was no fear that their affair might be discovered by prying eyes or unwelcome visitors. Thadeus had no close friends. He was a big bear of a man. His hair was wild and grey, framing a long, weather-beaten face. He wore a soft beard, which retained some pale yellow tones – the only indication that he had once been flaxen – and thin round glasses. Faye loved to press her cheek to his beard and nestle against it. She had never kissed a bearded man before Thadeus.