The Swallow and the Hummingbird (20 page)

‘It speaks of love, happiness and wedded bliss,’ Rita said. ‘George has sent me a symbol, much more original than a letter.’

‘My dear, I think the pendant is charming,’ said Hannah. ‘What a thoughtful young man he is.’

Humphrey snorted and shook his head, but only Hannah was aware of his scepticism.

When they arrived at Elvestree the drizzle had turned to hail. Tiny balls of ice were blown about on the wind, and the trees, so lush and green in the summer, now stood twisted and tortured and bare. They hurried into the hall, which was warmed by a large log fire and adorned with cats. There were cats on every surface. Five curled up together on the sofa, three on the old oak chest where Denzil’s tennis rackets rotted away in the dark, and another six or seven beneath the table, stretched out on the shabby Persian rug. There were ginger ones, sleek black ones and petulant white ones. Hannah was used to her mother’s house being full of these creatures but every time she visited there seemed to be more.

Mrs Megalith simply shrugged when asked where they came from. ‘I’ll bet there are some very sad families out there missing their little friends. I don’t know why, but they’re drawn to Elvestree. It’s not my place to turn them away.’

Max’s heart suffered a tremor of longing when he saw Rita enter with her family. Her hair was wild and her cheeks rosy from the coastal winds and salty drizzle. Although her dress was pressed and her cardigan clean, she appeared dishevelled. Max smiled to himself, Rita always looked as if she had dressed in a hurry and left something behind. He swivelled the ice around in his glass and quietly watched from the sofa.

Antoinette sat on the club fender with her daughter Emily, who was the same age as Eddie and Ruth. She was a beautiful woman, slim and painted like a china doll with glossy red hair combed into sleek waves. She smoked through a long ebony holder, which balanced between elegant fingers dripping with shiny burgundy talons, always perfectly manicured. Her skin was luminous and damp with eau de cologne and rose water, her eyes a harder version of her mother’s grey ones. She hated cats because their fur stuck to her clothes and because they smelt and she had no time for her sister’s feathered friends either. ‘I would rather sit in a field and watch cows than waste my time studying birds,’ she once said. ‘They fly, so what? So can George but I don’t want him crashing about in my garden.’ This of course made no sense, but Antoinette cared little for logic or for truth. She was a born liar and a show off. Her tidy little nose was a mystery to her sister who was sure that with every lie it would grow like Pinocchio’s, and her ageless skin was the envy of many. Well aware of her beauty and the strength of her personality, she had brought up her daughter in her own image, in spite of the lengths to which poor Emily went in order to rebel. Emily was not blessed with either beauty or strength of character, but she was clever like her father, and kind. The only person capable of silencing Antoinette was, of course, her mother.

Maddie adored her aunt and longed to be exactly like her. ‘Aunt Antoinette,’ she cried when she saw her and rushed past her grandmother and cousin William, an arrogant twenty-year-old she didn’t much like, to embrace her.

‘Darling girl, you grow prettier every day,’ enthused her aunt who saw the loveliness of her own features reflected in her niece. ‘I’ve bought you some nail varnish and eyelashes I found in a charming little shop in Portobello Road. Just the thing for a girl like you.’

Rita felt her stomach cramp with anxiety for her aunt always patronized her. She represented everything that Antoinette despised: a love of nature and animals, an aversion to makeup, and a quiet, submissive nature that her aunt interpreted as weakness of character. If there was one thing Aunt Antoinette abhorred it was weakness.

‘Hello, Rita,’ she said tightly, pressing her cheek to her niece’s but not even bothering to make the sound of a kiss. ‘I hear George has left you again.’ Rita nodded and mumbled something inaudible. Her obvious fear was irresistible to Antoinette who added in a low voice, ‘I hope you’re not hanging about for him like a lap dog. Men have no respect for doormats.’

Rita felt humiliation rise in her face and, as she went to sit next to Max, she heard her aunt turn to Emily and add in an intolerant tone that surely if he loved her he wouldn’t have turned on his heel and left her again. Antoinette greeted her sister and Eddie, recoiling at the sight of Harvey like a vampire in the face of the cross. She let out an ugly yelp, more a gurgle than a cry, before shouting at the child to ‘Take the ghastly winged rat outside and drown him before I throw you both into the pond!’ Eddie, who had inherited her candour from her grandmother, retaliated in the same tone.

‘It’s a shame you’re so big, Aunt Antoinette, because Harvey and I would like to throw
you
in the pond. That would see off Megagran’s foxes, to be sure,
and
probably poison the water.’ Antoinette gazed down at the precocious child in horror, took a long drag of her cigarette then replied in a strangled voice.

‘Eddie, hasn’t your mother told you how to speak to your elders and betters?’

‘Yes, but you’re not better, just older,’ And she swivelled around, grabbing Emily by the wrist, and led her and Ruth out into the hall to play with the cats.

‘I hear you got a letter from George,’ said Max when Rita reached him. Rita smiled, though her eyes revealed the hurt she had just suffered at the hands of her aunt.

‘He sent me this pendant,’ she replied quietly, holding it out for him to see. His heart plummeted.

‘It’s lovely,’ he said, but he felt sick with jealousy.

Hannah, noticing her daughter showing off her gift, turned to her mother.

‘Do look, Mother. George sent Rita a pendant. It’s a lovely silver dove. A symbol of love, happiness and wedded bliss. Isn’t that delightful?’

‘Charming,’ enthused Mrs Megalith, hobbling over to take a better look. Antoinette followed her.

‘Sweet,’ she said. Then her scarlet lips extended into a wicked grin and she cocked her head on one side and said in a loud whisper for all the room to hear, ‘Surely the action of an unfaithful man.’

Chapter 13

Rita fled the room in tears, Max following her, leaving Hannah speechless with shock and Humphrey the colour of a ripe tomato.

‘Was it absolutely necessary to be so wounding, Antoinette?’ he said in a very quiet, steady voice. He wanted to remove the smug expression from her face with a healthy slap.

‘Oh, come on Humphrey, where’s your sense of humour?’ she retorted, sighing melodramatically.

Mrs Megalith slowly removed her glasses and looked at her younger daughter with a dark and serious expression. Antoinette felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle with uneasiness.

‘There is nothing clever about wounding someone weaker than yourself. Pick your equal before you launch into battle. Now, apologize before I lock you in the pantry with every cat and bat in this house.’

Antoinette was thoroughly humiliated. Nursing her dented pride, she strode out of the room in search of Rita. But her niece had disappeared with Max, placing as much distance between herself and her aunt as possible.

‘Here we are again,’ said Rita, seated beside Max on his bed. ‘Why is it I’m always crying on to your poor shoulder? Really, you deserve better.’

Max smiled, delighted to be given another opportunity for intimacy. ‘Antoinette is a bully. Bullies are cowards. They prey on those weaker than themselves.’

‘No, I’m the coward. I should have retaliated like Eddie.’

‘You’re not Eddie. You’re lovely just the way you are.’ Max lowered his eyes bashfully. Rita put her hand on his knee.

‘That’s so sweet,’ she said in a soft voice. She hesitated a moment then swallowed hard. ‘Tell me something, Max. You’re a man.’ Max straightened up, pleased that she considered him a man, not a boy. ‘Do you think I’ve made a mistake letting George go away again without me?’

Max loved her too much to jeopardize their blossoming friendship by telling her the truth. That yes, she had made a terrible decision. That he believed, and hoped, that George would never come back.

‘You have done a very brave thing. A coward wouldn’t be so bold.’ He took her hand in his. ‘Trust him. Loving someone is all about trusting.’

‘I do trust him,’ she replied quickly, ashamed that she had voiced doubts. ‘I miss him, that’s all.’

Max longed to kiss her. He had imagined countless times what it would feel like and now, sitting so close to her, he realized how easy it would be to lean over and press his mouth to her lips. She had pretty lips, pale pink and perfect like the lips of a shell. Overcome by desire and encouraged by the compassionate expression in her eyes, he inclined his head and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. Her skin was still damp from her tears and she smelt of violets. He felt her stiffen and pulled away. Anxious that he might have ruined the tenuous balance of their friendship, he said hastily, ‘I feel you’re like a sister to me. Perhaps I can be the brother you never had.’ Rita’s face relaxed into a smile and she bit her bottom lip shyly.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ve always wanted a brother.’

There was a long pause, during which Max felt the mortification of having so nearly declared himself singe his cheeks with shame. Rita cast her eyes about her until her gaze settled on a faded green book that sat on the small table by his bed. It was smaller than a hand and almost threadbare, its pages coming away from the binding.

‘What an enchanting book,’ she commented, relieved to change the subject.

He leaned over and picked it up. ‘It belonged to my mother. It’s a book of poetry.’

‘May I have a look?’

‘It’s in German. A collection of her favourite poets.’

He handed it to her, wanting to add that the poems about love he now knew by heart. She opened it with care and ran her fingers over the yellowed paper that was thick and coarse like parchment. Rita wondered whether he could feel his mother reaching out to him through the pages and hear her voice, perhaps, whispering softly across the years to comfort him when he missed her. It was an unbearably romantic thought. She lifted her eyes and rested them on Max’s sensitive face.

‘Megagran says that your mother was once a famous actress. Was she very beautiful?’

‘I think so.’

‘I imagine you look a lot like her,’ she said, handing back the book.

Max’s mouth twitched and he shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, not wishing to conjure up his dead mother’s face. It was better if he didn’t focus his thoughts too intensely on his past. ‘Are you ready to face your aunt?’ he said instead.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she chuckled. ‘Come on, they’ll be wondering what on earth has happened to us!’

Eddie scowled at her aunt all the way through lunch. Megagran had told her to put Harvey in the car but she had rebelled, stuffing him up her sleeve instead, where he could peek out every now and then and squeak at Antoinette. Antoinette had apologized to Rita, laughing off her remark by insisting that it was nothing more than a joke. ‘How would I know if he was unfaithful or not?’ Rita knew she wasn’t sincere and made sure she sat at the other end of the table with Max, William and her father. Humphrey had never liked his sister-in-law and admired David, her husband, for putting up with her. David was as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel and just as crafty, but then one would have to be, being married to Antoinette. He was rarely seen by anyone, including his wife. He paid the bills, enabled her to live a grand life, and kept a discreet mistress in a mansion flat in west London. What he did for MI5 was top secret, but it gave him the perfect excuse to shut Antoinette out of his life.

Megagran held court at the other end of the table, watching Antoinette with a weary look in her opaque grey eyes. She noticed Harvey, but said nothing, and she pitied Rita, who looked crestfallen in spite of the pretty dove from George that hung about her neck. She had a strange sense of foreboding. It curled up her spine like a cold eel, causing her to bristle with uneasiness. Something wasn’t quite right about the dove. She chewed on her roast lamb and considered it. A symbol of love and all that, of course, but there was more to it. Wasn’t the dove a symbol of forgiveness and peace, too? Now why would Rita need to forgive?

After lunch she took Rita to one side. ‘What did George say in his letter?’ she asked, placing her glasses on her nose in anticipation of being allowed to read it.

‘I’ve left it at home,’ Rita lied. Megagran frowned. It was no use lying to her grandmother. ‘I was reading it on top of the cliff,’ she whispered, afraid that someone might overhear her. ‘And it was blown out of my hand by a gust of wind. I ran down to the beach to retrieve it but it floated into the sea, where it is now. Lost for ever.’ Mrs Megalith nodded gravely.

‘I see. That explains the pendant and the significance of the dove. Interesting,’ she pondered darkly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Absolute nonsense, I’m sure,’ she said with a deep chuckle. ‘Don’t worry about losing the letter, dear. After all, there will be more, won’t there? And Antoinette’s a brute sometimes. We all have an ugly side to our nature; the trouble with Antoinette is that the balance is all wrong. It’ll start showing on her face soon and then she’ll change. She’s far too vain not to and I shall be the first to tell her.’

‘I’m reading a wonderful book at the moment,’ Antoinette was saying to anyone who would listen. ‘About the tsars of Russia. What a colourful history.’ She ran her hand across the bindings of her mother’s books squashed chaotically into old mahogany bookshelves. Antoinette considered herself something of an intellectual. ‘Humphrey, what are you reading? One must always have a book on the go, don’t you think? In my case, several. Depends on my mood. I do so enjoy reading the classics again and again. I loved
Anna Karenina
. Many women find
War and Peace
hard-going, but honestly I enjoyed that the most. But then I have always relished a challenge. If something is too easy I bore of it.’