The Travellers

by Ann Swinfen

  And then there was Kate. Where did Kate fit into all of this? He knew hardly anything about her, yet she knew most of his history – except, perhaps, about Maria and László. She was Mrs Milburn, so she was – or had been – married, but neither she nor Sofia had mentioned a husband. Was she divorced? Widowed? All he knew about her was that she was English, she lived in a place called Dunmouth on the North Sea coast, and she was a friend of Sofia’s. He turned and leaned his back on the handrail. Looking up past the fields to the higher part of the village he could see the dome of the church reflecting the moonlight and, in front of it, the shaggy silhouette of the heron’s nest on the roof of the csárda. Below it was the room where Kate was sleeping. He wanted to know more about Kate.

  God, he could do with a cigarette!

  * * *

  Two days later, on Friday, István took Kate on the Danube in the rowing boat. The sun continued to beat down and András (who would have preferred to fish) was helping his father and uncle with the harvest. He had been promised basic agricultural wages every time he put in a full day, and had been told that he could spend the money how he chose. József calculated that András would appreciate the coveted Reeboks more if he earned them for himself, and said that he would take him to Györ to buy them as soon as the harvest was in. András threw himself into the work with enthusiasm, reckoning that if he could get enough days’ work during the harvest he might be able to start saving up for a tape recorder as well, which was his next ambition.

  Sofia was feeling the effects of the relentless heat more than she liked to admit and opted to stay in the cool of the house with Magdolna who, having fired the three new figures, was taking a break from work to attend to her own harvest in the vegetable garden. Sofia offered to help with laying beans down with salt in big earthenware crocks, bottling plums, and making preserves from the sudden rush of tomatoes.

  After breakfast Kate and Sofia walked down from the Blue Heron to the rose-coloured house which was beginning to feel like a second home.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ asked Kate. ‘It’s bound to be cooler on the river. And Magdolna says it’s very beautiful.’

  ‘It is. Remember, I have been there often in my youth. I’ll stay quietly at home and help in the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be very restful,’ said Kate stubbornly, somewhat uneasy at the thought of spending the day on the river alone with István. ‘It will be hot in the kitchen, you’ll be standing most of the time, and you’ll be tired out by the end of the day.’

  ‘Nonsense. I will sit outside on the bench under the vine and cut up beans in the shade. And besides,’ she gave Kate a curious, secret smile, ‘I want the chance to get to know my sister.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kate, blushing. ‘How stupid of me. Of course you do. I’m so sorry. I’m a blundering idiot.’

  ‘Never that, Kate, certainly.’

  So here they were, Kate and István, with a picnic basket provided by Magdolna on the bottom of the boat between them, drifting downriver. István sat at the oars, not rowing but from time to time dipping an oar in the water to guide the boat, and telling Kate the Hungarian names of the birds and trees they passed, which she tried to pronounce and immediately forgot.

  ‘Afterwards I want to take you upstream, where we can land on one of the islands for our picnic,’ said István, ‘but first I wanted to come downstream, so I could show you the marshes. It’s a curious area. The whole river bank along here is a network of channels running between the reed beds. In places there are tussocks and islets of solid land, but they are covered with rushes as well, so unless you know the marshes well you could be in danger there if you tried to land. For those of us born and bred in the area it is a secret kingdom.’

  He turned the boat into an opening in the reeds barely wide enough to let it pass, and moved it forward by standing up beside Kate and sculling over the stern with one oar. The reeds rose high above their heads, and as soon as they had rounded the first bend the river was lost to sight. There was nothing to be seen but narrow sparkling channels, appearing and disappearing on either side, and the feathery reeds, and an occasional willow which had managed to take root on one of the muddy islets amongst the reed beds. It was warm, but not as hot as on land, and the reeds made a constant susurration in the light breeze.

  ‘There’s a heron’s nest in that tree,’ whispered Kate. It seemed a place for whispers.

  István stopped sculling and looked in the direction of her pointing hand.

  ‘Yes, look – it’s just coming in.’

  They watched as the heron soared in on huge wings, back-watered with legs dangling, and came to rest, swaying on the edge of the untidy platform of twigs. They could hear the young birds squawking greedily, and see the movement of their heads over the top of the nest.

  ‘It’s a blue heron,’ István whispered. ‘They’re very rare. Most of our herons here are the grey ones.’

  The great bird was larger than the pair nesting in the village and was tinged with cinnamon on its breast and wings.

  ‘This must be good heron country,’ said Kate.

  ‘Famous for them. We always think of our herons as bringers of good luck. Is this true in England?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They aren’t very common, and I’ve never lived in an area where they nest. Do they spend the winter here?’

  ‘Oh, no. Hungary is far too cold! When the autumn comes they fly south to Egypt and the Nile. The herons you see on ancient Egyptian paintings are the ancestors of our Szentmargit birds.’

  Kate was silent, watching the great bird lift itself smoothly from the nest and go winging off with strong slow beats over the marsh. When winter came, the bird would be living near the Pyramids, fishing in the Nile. István would be here, where the waters would be frozen and the snow a high blanket over the fields. And she would be – in grey Dunmouth, in an empty house, staring out over the chilly waters of the North Sea.

  István began to work the boat further along the channel and deeper into the marsh. Kate stroked the side of the boat absently. It was a sturdy fishing boat, but small enough for one man to handle, and well built, with good lines. Linda’s dad would have approved of it. The inside was plain wood, varnished, but the outside was painted a soft, powder blue.

  ‘I love the colours in Hungary,’ she said. ‘You make everything so beautiful. The houses, the boats, all the wonderful embroidery.’

  ‘It is a way of saying “We are free, we will be happy, whatever you do to us”,’ said István with a smile. ‘Like our songs, and our gypsy musicians.’

  ‘And Magdolna’s figures and plaques. There is everything there – ecstasy and grief, tenderness, agony, joy.’

  ‘And love.’

  ‘And love.’

  They moved silently further into the marsh amongst a flock of ducks, until the boat slid through a clump of reeds and grounded with a soft bump on something more solid.

  ‘Here is one of the little islands,’ said István. ‘I thought you would like to see one of the secret places of the marsh.’

  He took her hand to help her out of the boat and led her in through the whispering reeds and the chirruping of invisible insects until they reached a tiny open area, no more than eight feet square, covered with rough marsh grass. A young willow had taken root, but was not yet as tall as the surrounding reeds. It was warm and very quiet.

  ‘Sometimes the partisans hid on these islands during the war,’ said István. ‘Not for long, of course. But there was no way the Nazis could find them here. I think this is where my father would have come, if he could have worked the boat out of the ice before the Ávó reached our door.’

  ‘He was that close to escaping?’

  ‘Yes.’ István turned away from her. ‘But he came to kiss Magdolna and me goodbye. Can you understand this? All my life I have known that but for us our father would have escaped. I have never told Magdolna. It would have killed her.’

  Kate reached up a
nd touched his cheek.

  * * *

  Sofia and Magdolna sat contentedly under the vine arbour sipping home-made lemonade. Sofia was telling her sister about the tisanes she made from peppermint and other herbs. They had put up two crocks of beans and bottled a dozen jars of plums, and they were resting over lunch before tackling the pickles and other preserves.

  ‘I am so grateful,’ said Magdolna. ‘You have saved me hours. It is more than twice as quick with the two of us working together, because I don’t get as bored as I do on my own.’

  ‘You don’t feel you should do less of the domestic things and spend more time on your ceramics?’

  ‘I cannot bear to waste anything!’ Magdolna laughed, gesturing at the garden. ‘It can be a tyrant, can’t it? But I am a true peasant, hoarding everything against a snow-bound winter. And I feel so satisfied when all the shelves in my larder are packed full and there isn’t a centimetre of space on the floor!’

  ‘Yes, I know exactly how you feel.’

  They smiled at each other in complete understanding.

  ‘I am sorry I haven’t met your daughter Anna,’ said Sofia. ‘Will she be staying in Budapest all summer?’

  ‘I had a letter from her yesterday, and she has promised to come down for a few days while István is here – he’s a great favourite with both the children. József is going to telephone her tonight from the inn and ask if she can come while you are here. When do you have to leave?’

  ‘Our flight back is on the first of September, and we’re booked into the hotel in Budapest for one night before that, so we will have to leave here on the thirtieth or thirty-first.’

  ‘What day is it today? I always lose count.’

  ‘The nineteenth, I think.’

  ‘Of course – tomorrow is the festival. I will tell József to make sure that Anna comes at least a few days before you leave.’ Magdolna looked fondly at Sofia. ‘It is like a miracle, to find a sister in middle age.’

  ‘In old age, for me,’ Sofia said. ‘Even more of a miracle.’

  ‘Would you consider coming back to Hungary? Permanently, to live?’

  Sofia looked out across the garden to the Danube with its familiar pattern of islands, gliding under the August heat, and she thought of her bee-filled garden where the sound of the crashing waves was a permanent accompaniment to her life.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I belong, now, to the astringent north. But part of me will stay here with you.’

  * * *

  István had sculled them out of the marshes, quietly, so as not to disturb the nesting birds, and was now pulling upriver. In here close to the southern shore, where the flow was broken by the islands, the current was not as strong as in the main shipping channel, cut to the north of the islands. There the river’s unimpeded weight pressed on inexorably, flowing down from Germany and Austria. Along this stretch it formed the border between Hungary and Slovakia. But even here amongst the narrow channels István had to work hard. He grew red from the exertion in the midday heat.

  Kate, watching him, said, ‘Take off your shirt and tie.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous – you look like a boiled lobster!’

  He laughed and rested on his oars while he tugged at his tie, nearly losing one of the oars in the process. They began to drift downstream again.

  ‘Wait! Let me,’ said Kate, and kneeling on the bottom of the boat in front of him she untied his tie while he made half-strokes with the oars to stop them being carried away. She rolled up the tie and put it in the picnic basket, then began to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘I can’t remember when a woman last unbuttoned my shirt for me,’ he said into her hair as she leaned over him, trying to remove the shirt without disturbing his rowing too much.

  Kate kept her face turned away. She was already regretting her spontaneous gesture of affection and sympathy in the marsh. She folded his shirt in silence, and laid it flat on top of the basket.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said István ruefully. ‘That was unpardonable.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Kate still would not look at him, so she did not see the glint of amusement and self-mockery in his eye.

  They were well past Magdolna’s house by now, and nearing the mouth of the trout stream with its wooden bridge. István was taking the boat between the shore and a large, flat island covered with grass and edged with reeds, shorter than those they had seen in the marshes.

  ‘Is this the island where we’re going to stop?’

  ‘No, there’s a better one a little further up.’

  ‘You’re sure you aren’t getting tired?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve rowed amongst these islands all my life. It’s nice to have someone to show them off to.’

  ‘Look, there’s another heron! Do you suppose he’s one of our herons, from the village?’

  ‘Watch where he goes.’

  Kate shaded her eyes from the sun and saw the heron rise from the bank and circle over the river before heading back in the direction of Szentmargit.

  ‘I think it’s one of ours. Isn’t it odd – he might have popped over to Slovakia just now for a spot of fishing!’

  István nodded. ‘When I was young and Hungary was closed in behind barriers, except where the Russians allowed us to move, I used to watch the birds and envy them. We are so close to Austria here, and Austria meant freedom. On every other side we were surrounded by communist countries.’

  ‘It’s very difficult for me to understand how it felt. I mean really understand. We have been so lucky in Britain – never invaded for nine hundred years – and I dare say it has made us thick-skinned and complacent.’

  ‘You? Thick-skinned? Never. But it isn’t exactly luck, is it? It comes of having the good sense to be born on an island, your demi-paradise.’ He pulled hard on his right oar and back-watered with the left, swinging the boat around the end of another island and into a small, sheltered bay. ‘Now I am going to introduce you to my island.’

  He jumped out into the shallow water and pulled the boat up on to a narrow beach.

  ‘Allow me to help you ashore in my kingdom,’ he said with mock solemnity, putting his hands around Kate’s waist and lifting her from the boat on to the dry land.

  ‘The picnic! Don’t forget the picnic!’

  ‘Of course I won’t. You have no soul. You are supposed to be admiring my island, not worrying about your lunch.’

  ‘I am admiring it, I do admire it. I just wouldn’t want you to faint away after all that rowing.’

  It took ten minutes to explore the island, which had a hill (about ten feet above river level) with two willow trees, one silver birch and a tree Kate couldn’t identify. A screen of rough bushes grew around a hollow at the bottom of this hill, where a fireplace made of round stones showed that István had picnicked here before.

  ‘I’m going to light a small fire,’ he said. ‘So we can make your English tea later.’

  He knelt beside the hearth and swiftly assembled a neat wigwam of broken branches above a heap of leaves and twigs. The dry wood caught quickly, and he sat back on his heels in satisfaction.

  There was also, as István displayed with some pride, a spring of fresh water, which bubbled up between the two willows.

  ‘Usually there is more water than this,’ he said, ‘but the drought this summer has affected even the underground streams. It is beautiful water, very cold and pure.’

  He held one of the glasses from the basket under the lip of rock from which the spring flowed down to spread and then lose itself in a stretch of dark green moss, which contrasted sharply with the bleached yellow-green of the grass all around. The glass filled slowly and when István was satisfied he held it up for her to see. The water did indeed look clean and pure. He offered it to her with a flourish. She hesitated.

  ‘It is quite safe, is it? I mean, the Danube...’

  ‘Quite safe. This comes from deep under the rocks, nothing to do with the Danube. L
ook, I will drink first.’

  He drank deeply from the glass, then offered her the other side to drink from. The cold of it startled her. She hadn’t known that water could taste like this. Thinking of the disgusting liquid, smelling of chemicals, which she had drunk for years in London, she was amazed by it. She drank it all, smiling at him over the rim of the glass.

  They spread out their picnic where the trees gave some shade. Kate, with her legs curled under her, began setting out the food Magdolna had provided. István lay back with his arm across his eyes, shading them from the sun. He was, in truth, feeling tired, and was glad that the return journey would all be downstream. He was getting too old to be showing off to a girl, he thought humorously.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’

  ‘Nothing. Just my own foolishness. What has she given us?’

  ‘Egg sandwiches.’

  ‘Her own eggs,’ said István.

  ‘Tomato sandwiches.’

  ‘Her own tomatoes.’

  ‘Ham sandwiches.’

  ‘Her home-cured ham.’

  ‘Cake, fruit, lemonade.’

  ‘Delicious.’ He rolled over and sat up.

  ‘I love your sister,’ she said seriously. ‘Both of your sisters.’

  He realised that she truly meant this, and was touched. ‘Here,’ he said, urging sandwiches on her, suddenly unsure of himself. ‘We must eat it all or she will be hurt.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Obediently she took one of each of the sandwiches, but then put down her plate, thinking deeply. ‘I love them for the people they are, and for a wonderful quality of serenity which I envy. I wish I could attain it.’

  He glanced down. Her hands were clutching each other, a gesture oddly at variance with her face, which seemed calm.

  ‘I do understand what you mean. I don’t know about Sofia, of course, but Magdolna has had that quality all her life. That’s why I always come running home to her when I am distressed.’

  ‘Despite that serenity,’ Kate said, ‘Sofia herself was unhappy before we came here and met you. She seems to have felt guilty ever since she left Hungary, as if she had somehow betrayed her father – I mean, your father. But he chose to stay behind and face the Germans. It wasn’t her fault.’