The Travellers

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Kate curiously.

  ‘Making you a crown of poppies. A Paparuda crown.’

  ‘I thought you said that was an old superstition which had died out.’

  ‘Ah, but I remember this from my childhood. My grandmother taught me how to do it.’

  He gave the stems a final twist, tucked in the ends, and placed the garland of poppies on Kate’s head. A few of the petals fell, brushing her cheeks.

  ‘There, now you are almost a Paparuda.’

  Kate laughed and looked around. ‘Was that thunder?’

  ‘Perhaps. The air does feel charged, as if a storm is coming.’

  ‘Why “almost” a Paparuda?’

  ‘Didn’t Sofia tell you about the Paparuda?’

  Kate shook her head. They continued to walk along the edge of the field till they came to a fallen hazel, where they sat down instinctively amongst the scatter of branches and nut husks.

  ‘The villagers would capture a gypsy girl,’ István explained. ‘And they would strip her naked and dress her in grasses and poppies.’

  ‘Truly?’ There was another rumble of thunder, unmistakable this time.

  ‘Truly. Do you think we will be safe here, if the storm breaks?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind getting wet after all the unremitting sun. Go on about the Paparuda.’

  ‘They would parade the girl through the village, pouring jugs of water from the Danube over her head – she had to kneel down in the dust – and they sang a song, begging the Paparuda to bring the rains and break the drought.’

  ‘But I won’t do for a Paparuda?’

  ‘You haven’t been stripped and dressed in grass and poppies. And you aren’t a virgin.’

  ‘No. No, I’m not a virgin.’ She smiled at him. ‘So I’m a very poor second best.’

  ‘Not that. Never that.’

  There was a flash of lightning, forking down the sky over towards the village, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder which made Kate flinch.

  ‘Do you think we are safe?’ It was she who asked this time. ‘The trees...’

  ‘There are much taller ones at the beginning of the lane, and – look – up there, at those on the rising ground.’

  The very air seemed to crackle. At the dusty ends of the rows of sunflowers, miniature whirlpools of grey dust were lifted by an invisible breeze, then dropped again. The whole field and the encircling hedge, the rustling rows of sunflowers and the drooping hazel trees, seemed to hold their breath. There was no sound of birdsong. A kind of creeping darkness seemed to be swallowing the world. Then the whole eastern half of the sky was lit up from end to end with a white curtain of light, followed at once by a bolt of forked lightning leaping from heaven to earth in a dazzling flash which forced Kate to close her eyes, though she could still see the jagged line on the inside of her eyelids. There was a great rushing sound like a drawn breath, and then the ground shook with the crack of thunder.

  István put his arms around Kate, who was shaking, but with excitement not fear.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ she cried. ‘Feel it! You can feel it on your skin. The rains are coming.’

  The rush of air came again, and then the rain. It did not start gently, with a few hesitant drops. Like a dam bursting the rain fell on them, in the first few seconds starring the grey dust with exploding patches of reddish brown. The very earth was changing colour. They sprang to their feet and stood under the hazels and Kate held up her arms to the water. In moments they were drenched, their clothes clinging to them, petals from the poppies washing down Kate’s face and spattering István’s white shirt like drops of blood. Her hair lay on her head like seaweed, and the rain poured from it down between her breasts, and her skirt clasped her legs like a second skin, like wet leaves, and the water cascaded down to the ground so that she became a spring, a waterfall, a column of living water feeding the soil.

  They clung together, exhilarated, as the rain licked their skin like wet silk, and he began to kiss her on the lips, on the eyelids, and they were covered with the petals of the poppies, and the water ran over them and down their backs, and flowed down their legs in rivers till they were standing in a sea of mud, clinging and kissing and laughing.

  ‘I love you, Kate,’ said István. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me.’

  She silenced him with her fingers against his mouth.

  * * *

  The journey back to Szentmargit was the strangest either of them had ever made. For a while they would drive in silence, and then – as though forced by some mutual compulsion – they would draw into a lay-by and cling to each other.

  ‘I cannot bear you to leave,’ said István again and again. ‘There is only one more day. We have one more day. Please stay, beloved, I beg of you.’

  And Kate, crying, said, ‘I must go. I have no choice.’

  ‘There is always a choice.’

  ‘For you, perhaps. You are free. I am not.’

  Sobered, they would drive on, only to stop again when they could no longer bear not to be holding each other. When darkness fell and they drew nearer to Szentmargit, Kate fell asleep at last, exhausted, and István cradled her against him with his right arm and tried to think.

  * * *

  And now it was the last evening. Magdolna and Sofia had prepared a family feast for all of them at the rose-coloured cottage standing beside the Danube. There had been rain here too in the north, though not the spectacular thunderstorm of the fields near Mohács. It had blown away now, leaving the air cooler and slightly damp, with the first hint of autumn. In two days it would be September.

  They put together two tables outside on the thin lawn near Magdolna’s vegetable garden, and covered them with the dowry linen made by Juliska’s mother as she waited for her fiancé, the young village potter, Miklós Rudnay, to come home from the first world war. The jug with the leaping dolphins was filled now not with water from the Danube but with József’s best wine.

  ‘As fine as you would have in Gundel’s restaurant in Budapest,’ he promised Kate.

  Anna was supposed to have returned to Budapest at the weekend, but she had telephoned a friend and made arrangements to stay until Wednesday morning, when she could be given a lift back with Sofia and Kate in the hired Peugeot. She laid the table now with the best china and glass, and István and József carried out an assortment of chairs, including some borrowed from the neighbours.

  They lit candles and sat over the five courses, talking, talking. And if István and Kate were quieter than usual, no one commented, although Magdolna glanced at them from time to time, and turned away with pity.

  Anna had gone into the kitchen to fetch a another bottle of wine, and Sofia and András were clearing away the worst of the dirty dishes to make room for a bowl of fruit, when Magdolna turned to Kate and touched her arm.

  ‘Kate, while Anna is opening the wine, will you come with me a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kate got up obediently and followed Magdolna to her studio. The door stood ajar and Magdolna pushed it fully open and switched on the light.

  The shadowy shapes on the shelves and worktable sprang into dramatic life, and Kate saw that the three new figures Magdolna had been working on had been fired and were standing on the freshly scrubbed worktable. She thought she knew why Magdolna had brought her here.

  ‘Would you like us to take the new figures to the gallery in Váci Utca for you? I’m sure we will have room for them.’

  ‘No, no. The gallery sends out a regular carrier every month. I will finish some small pieces as well before they come for the next collection.’

  Kate touched one of the figures, a mother and child, delicately – nervously – with one fingertip.

  ‘They are wonderful, Magdolna. You have such vision. Such ability to see inside people.’

  ‘I want to give you one of them. Any of the three, but in particular I would like to give you that one.’

  Kate was astonished.
/>
  ‘Why me? They are pieces for an art gallery or a museum, not for an ordinary person like me.’

  ‘I do not make them for art galleries or museums. I make them for people. Especially for people like you, Kate. And don’t undervalue yourself. You are anything but ordinary.’

  Magdolna took both of Kate’s hands in hers and looked at her directly and unflinchingly. ‘I know that you and István have come to love each other. For him you have been like rain after drought, and he has flowered after the dust of all these years. You will think I exaggerate to say this, but it is true. I have been watching you together. But you see I understand, as perhaps he does not, how it must be for you. Whatever you decide, I know you will try to do what is best. Remember that my thoughts will be with you.’

  She stood on tiptoe, for she was a small woman – shorter than Kate and Kate was not tall – and kissed her first on one cheek and then on the other.

  ‘Will you let me give you the figure of the mother and child?’

  Carefully, Kate lifted it, finding it surprisingly heavy. The mother held the baby against her shoulder, his legs curling around her breast, her hand cupping the back of his head. Her eyes looked down at the child with anxious tenderness, and in that expression and the curve of the protecting hand, Magdolna had caught all the joy and agony of motherhood. Kate turned the figure slowly in her hands, and caught sight of the baby’s face. He looked over the mother’s shoulder, with a clear, innocent, perceptive gaze reaching out to the wider world.

  The two women looked at each other with understanding.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate.

  * * *

  And now József had escorted Sofia back to the Blue Heron, and Magdolna, Anna and András had gone to bed. A full moon was rising in a clear sky, bright with stars in this wide countryside so far from city street lamps. A few rags of cloud, the last traces of yesterday’s storm, obscured a hand’s breadth of sky from time to time, then drifted on.

  Kate and István had walked away from the house, down to the wooden bridge over the trout stream for the last time. There was movement in the air now, and the trailing branches of the willows stirred and whispered. The stream chattered a little with the new fall of rain, and out beyond the islands the lights of a ship were moving slowly down the Danube towards Budapest, Mohács, the Iron Gates, and the sea.

  They did not speak much. Everything had already been said, and tonight words would simply bring more pain. So they leaned on the handrail of the bridge where the silvered waters of the stream flowed under their feet to join the river, and István tore a leaf from the willow and set it sailing on the current. They watched it until it was taken by the stronger current of the river, spun around dizzyingly, then swept away out of sight.

  ‘I am like that leaf, you see,’ said Kate abruptly. ‘I may spin here for a moment in your orbit, but there is a stronger current dragging me inexorably away.’

  ‘Promise me,’ said István, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him, ‘promise me that you will try to see a way out of this? I know you think that I do not understand, but I do. Your husband...’ he said the words with difficulty, and tried again. ‘Your husband – you loved him once, deeply. I know you. It cannot have been otherwise. I loved Maria. I have never denied that. But time passes. Maria has long been lost to me and my grieving for her is part of my past, not of my present. I think your love for your husband is also part of your past.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kate whispered, looking away from him, looking down.

  ‘Look at me, Kate. I said I think your love for your husband is also part of your past. I think you do not know. I think you will not know until you confront him again. I know that you are in love with me. Look at me, Kate.’ He tilted her chin up. ‘Can you look at me and deny it?’

  She looked at him. ‘I cannot deny it. But my children...’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ His voice softened. ‘I do understand. Your children. But they are nearly grown. Today, the children fill our lives – tomorrow they are gone, without a backward look. But you have all the rest of your life ahead of you.’

  Kate sighed. ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Promise me, promise me, that when you return to your grey village in the north, you will think very carefully. That you will be fair to me as well as to that husband of yours, and that you will truly listen to what your own heart tells you. Then write to me.’

  She looked at him. ‘I promise. I will write. I will decide, and I will write by Christmas.’

  ‘So long?’

  ‘By Christmas.’

  Chapter 13

  Both Kate and Sofia were quiet on the journey back to Britain. The Guarneri, collected from the Sterns on Wednesday after their early morning drive to Budapest, rested in the overhead compartment. It had been carefully wedged in with coats by the flight attendant, but Kate noticed that Sofia’s eyes strayed anxiously upwards from time to time. They had left Anna at her student hostel before hurrying to the instrument shop.

  ‘I’ll try to come over to England next summer, Aunt Sofia,’ Anna promised. ‘I was going to hitch-hike to France with a friend, but now that I’ve got you to visit I’ll see if we can come further.’

  It is that generation who will keep in touch, Kate thought. Travelling casually across continents, and accepting as a right their new freedom to go wherever they wish. Unlike the young István, trapped in a country surrounded by the prison walls erected by a foreign invader. She remembered her own student days. She had not been particularly adventurous, but she had gone by bus to Greece with two friends and stayed at cheap tavernas, living off fruit, cheese and ouzo. Until these last few weeks she had forgotten how it had felt to be that carefree younger self. Briefly she had inhabited once again that former Kate, with her spontaneity and intense feelings.

  But not for long, she thought grimly, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes. The view outside the aircraft window today was a sombre landscape of grey clouds. They were stacked high, and the plane ploughed in and out of them. Against the windows they rubbed like wet fur.

  There was a scramble again at Schipol, trying to cross the terminal from one gate to the other in ten minutes. Sofia was a seasoned traveller now, stepping on and off the moving walkway with aplomb, but Kate thought she looked tired. On the final leg of the journey, Kate refused the meal and fell asleep, waking only as they began their descent to Edinburgh airport. As usual the plane made its hair-raising turn over the Firth of Forth – enlivening things for the passengers by making them fear they were going to ditch in the cold grey water – then it swung in low over the city. Kate watched Arthur’s Seat and the Castle pass by underneath, and reflected that the Festival was probably in full swing down there. And this made her think of a small carousel in a village square, and men in baggy white trousers dancing the csárdás, and a little gypsy girl performing handstands on a cantering horse. As the plane touched down she was not looking out at the drizzling day in Edinburgh, but at the ghostly scars on her forearms, and thinking again about the nature of guilt.

  As they came out into the main concourse and headed for the baggage collection point, a familiar voice shouted, ‘Mum! Over here, Mum!’ It was Beccy.

  ‘Darling!’ Kate hugged her daughter with surprise and pleasure. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘Took the bus up to Edinburgh to meet you.’

  ‘That was terribly kind of you.’ Kate looked at her keenly. ‘Was there a particular reason?’

  ‘Yes, but it will wait till we’re in the car. Can I help you with that?’ Beccy asked Sofia. ‘Have you bought a violin in Hungary?’

  ‘No,’ said Sofia, ‘just recovered one. Thank you.’ She handed over the violin case and went with Kate to reclaim their luggage.

  They shared the minibus this time with an elderly couple, and whatever it was Beccy wanted to tell them, she was going to wait. Given this reluctance, Kate could not believe that it was something she would want to hear. It wasn�
�t until they had left Edinburgh behind and were heading south-east on the A1 that Kate glanced over her shoulder to Beccy, who was sitting on the back seat behind Sofia.

  ‘Now, are you going to tell us what all this is about?’

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t good news.’

  ‘I didn’t suppose it was. Would you like to get on with it?’

  ‘It’s Dad.’

  Kate gripped the wheel and the car lurched slightly. ‘Has something happened? Is he all right? Oh, Beccy...’

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Beccy. ‘I mean he hasn’t been injured or anything. I would have let you know, but you never phoned. You promised to phone from Hungary.’

  ‘I did try to phone, and no one answered.’ But Kate remembered guiltily that after trying twice from Budapest and once from Györ she had not thought of phoning again, not after arriving in Szentmargit.

  ‘Dad’s been made redundant.’

  ‘What!’ Kate couldn’t believe her ears. So soon after a major promotion – it couldn’t be true.

  ‘There’s been a takeover of Crossbow Computers by an American company. Some of Dad’s colleagues at head office did a secret deal – sold their bulk holdings of shares for vast profits. They’ve virtually become millionaires. Apparently Ted Giles – you remember Ted – tried to phone Dad and warn him, but couldn’t reach him. The following day he himself went into hospital for a heart bypass operation. He’s had a bad time with complications, and only phoned again a few days ago, after the takeover had happened. Dad says Ted must have rung the day the air conditioning failed and he sent everyone home. That was the only day he hasn’t been in one or other of the Crossbow offices since we came up here. Do you remember?’

  She remembered. They had sailed the dinghy out on to the North Sea, past the headland and the seal colony. For two hours Tom had looked almost young and happy again, explaining all those ropes to her. Now, when he had needed her most, she had not been there for him.