She touched Rita’s arm. ‘The waiting will soon be over. You will come back with us, won’t you? George will drive you home after tea.’ Rita nodded then caught her breath, for there she saw, over Faye’s shoulder, the bus approaching in a stately fashion down the road.
They all turned and silence fell. The bus seemed to move in slow motion and they craned their necks to look through the windows, but all they saw was the mist in their eyes as they anticipated the faces of the young men they loved and longed for. Finally, the sound of squeaking brakes pierced the silence, then the thud of the door as it opened. A roar of joy burst from one family whose son was the first to descend. They swelled forward like a wave, then retreated, taking him with them so that only his blue hat could be seen bobbing above flapping arms and hands. Then another young soldier jumped out to a similar reception and finally, just when Rita was beginning to believe the horrors of her nightmares, George stood at the top of the steps, a broad smile stretching his face to the limit.
He leapt from the bus into his mother’s arms. He was much taller than she, so had to bend down in order to bury his face in her neck and smell the familiar scent of his childhood. His father patted him on his back, a little too hard, and his eyes glistened with joy. Alice lifted her two-year-old daughter into her arms and George embraced them both, then crouched down to kiss the little boy he had met only once. Awed by the unfamiliar man in a starched blue RAF uniform the child wrapped himself around his mother’s legs.
George stood up and cast his eyes over the heads of the crowd. It was then that he saw the pale face of his sweetheart. He felt his throat constrict. She stood quite still. Only her long hair blew in the wind, catching in her mouth and around her neck. He gazed on her intently and waded through his family to reach her. Then with great tenderness, as if he were picking up a wild bird, he took her in his arms and held her against him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his face against her hair, murmuring ‘my Rita’ over and over again. Rita’s tears cascaded down her cheeks, but she felt no shame, just an overwhelming sense of relief.
George pulled away and took her chin in his hands, then kissed her fervently on the lips. Rita was stunned. It felt different, more ardent, more passionate. His face was rough with bristles and his hands dry and calloused, even the smell of his skin had changed into something more animal. She knew then that her mother was right, he had left a boy and returned a man. With that thought the blood grew hot in her veins and caused her skin to prickle with something basic and primitive.
Trees had driven into town in his truck, so he, Faye and Alice sat in the front with the children, and Rita and George were left alone in the back with the wind racing through their hair and across their faces. George leaned against the cabin with his arms around her, his chin resting against her head. ‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for years,’ he murmured.
‘Pinch me, George,’ she laughed. ‘Show me it’s real.’
He squeezed her hard and kissed her neck. ‘I carried your photograph with me and looked at it whenever I felt sad. I missed you all the time. Your letters kept me going.’ He squeezed her again and sighed. ‘It’s like paradise here. England looks more beautiful than I remember it.’ He paused a moment, then added quietly, ‘And so do you.’ They were both aware they were separated from his family only by a pane of glass, so they contented themselves with chaste kisses and soft whispers.
‘You smell of violets,’ he said, sniffing her. ‘I want to kiss you all over.’
She laughed nervously, not recognizing the strange shadows in his eyes. He ran a hand down her naked arm to hold her hand, then over the thin fabric of her dress, which billowed about in the wind revealing slender calves and ankles. She had grown plumper, he noticed, her breasts had swelled, but her open face and sherry eyes were still full of childish brightness. She hadn’t changed, but he had and suddenly he recoiled in the presence of such purity and innocence.
What had he become? To what levels of depravity had he sunk? How many lives had he taken? He felt soiled right down to his very soul as if he had handed it over to the devil and was now asking for it back. It wasn’t possible. The devil didn’t work that way. He could never erase the unspeakable things that he’d done. The war had changed him irreversibly and he longed for the boy he had once been.
Not only had he taken life, but he had witnessed the brutal killing of those who had become brothers to him. He had dwelt in his own private hell, mourning the loss of his friends, fearing his own destruction and the inevitable void of death. His values had changed too. Love and life were all that mattered and to forget . . . but how could he expect Rita to understand? He gazed into her trusting eyes and resolved to marry her and secure his own immortality with a large number of children. He had risked his life to save his country from Nazi Germany. In the process he had lost his boyhood and the innocent expectations of his youth.
As they drove into the farm the sweet smell of cows mingled with the fertile scent of awakening fields. George leapt out to embrace Mildred who barked behind the gate. Trees parked the truck beside a pink hawthorn and helped his wife and grandchildren down. Rita watched as Cyril, the farm manager, appeared with the other farmhands to welcome home the man they had known since he had been a small boy. Mildred jumped up at George as he opened the gate to let her through, panting and crying with excitement. He ruffled her fur and kissed her wet nose, then turned to shake hands with Cyril who patted him firmly on the back. Rita watched from the truck. She was so full of admiration and pride. George was so handsome in his uniform. She found herself thinking of Elsa Shelby and wondered whether it really did feel like bathing in warm honey.
Faye and Alice walked into the house with the children. A weather-beaten red-brick farmhouse with small windows into rooms with low ceilings and wooden beams, it was typical of the 17th century. Trees was loath to spend money on repairs which he believed he could do himself, so in wintertime there were buckets to collect the rain that seeped through broken roof tiles, and rugs were placed over the stains in the carpets caused by the damp or mice. Classical music always resounded from either the gramophone or Faye’s own piano playing, and flowers spilled over vases in order to distract from the questionable decoration and chaos.
George held out his hands for Rita and she jumped down from the truck. They were both aware of the sexual tension that now quivered between them and their faces burned with anticipation. ‘Come with me to the beach after tea,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘I want to be alone with you.’ She felt his breath on her skin and nodded eagerly.
George was happy to change out of his uniform and to find his room exactly as he had left it. His mother had made sure it was clean and tidy, the only room in the whole house that remained unaffected by her chaos. He took a moment to sweep his eyes over the place that had once been his boyhood sanctuary and felt saddened, for the things it contained now seemed to belong to somebody else. To an innocent boy who had not yet grown into a man. He blinked away his wistfulness and pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt, then remembered they were going to the cave later and wriggled his feet into a pair of brown boots.
Faye had prepared a cake especially for her son’s homecoming. They were fortunate enough to have fresh eggs from their chickens and butter from their cows, and the children had covered the icing with small sweets that Trees had acquired on the black market in exchange for a pig. There was a pot of steaming tea and china cups from the set they had been given as a wedding present, handed down from Trees’ parents. They sat in the sitting room, surrounded by the homely chaos of Faye’s artistic life. Little Johnnie tinkled the keys of the piano until Alice told him to sit down and eat his Marmite sandwiches.
‘Come on, sweetie,’ she said. ‘We can’t hear Granny’s nice music if you’re clanking around over there.’
‘I’ll teach you how to play it properly when you’re a little bit bigger,’ suggested Faye, watching him reluctantly slide off the stool. The child gazed at George with wide eyes full of cu
riosity.
‘I don’t want to play, I want to be a soldier like Uncle George,’ he whined and wandered over to help himself to a sandwich.
‘You can play soldiers with me any time,’ said George.
‘Do you have a gun? Grandpa has a gun and shoots rabbits. We ate a rabbit, didn’t we, Mummy?’
Alice smiled at him indulgently. ‘Yes, we did, Johnnie. It was delicious, wasn’t it?’
‘Do you shoot rabbits, Uncle George?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Will you teach me how to shoot rabbits? Grandpa says I’m too little.’
‘Why don’t you go and fetch Granny’s box of toys,’ interrupted Alice, pushing him gently in the direction of the cupboard. ‘You know where they are.’ And Johnnie skipped off to find them.
There was a moment of silence as they all wondered what to say. George had been away for so long they didn’t know where to begin. Rita was speechless with love and admiration, and Faye was overcome with happiness marred by anxiety. She noticed something strange in her son’s countenance, something dark and unfamiliar. George knew that he could never describe to them the unspeakable horrors of war, that he could never share them with anyone. They were beyond any decent person’s comprehension. Only Trees knew how much he had changed for he had lived through the Great War. ‘So, son, how do you find your home?’ he said, and everyone looked at him with surprise for it wasn’t like him to indulge in small talk.
‘Nothing’s changed, Dad,’ he replied. He suddenly looked sad. He was sitting on the long stool in front of the grate, his knees apart and his arms resting on his thighs. The china teacup looked ridiculously tiny in his large hands. Shaking his head he gazed into the tea leaves. ‘Nothing’s changed. Everything’s just the way I remember it.’
How could he describe his sense of loss, his sense of guilt? He had survived when so many had perished. How could he explain the feeling of displacement that came from suddenly finding himself in his mother’s sunny sitting room, drinking tea out of pretty china cups, in a place untouched by conflict. The war may as well not have happened for them. They could never understand.
‘We had a good crop of winter barley,’ Trees continued, much to the astonishment of his wife who looked anxiously from him to her son.
‘Good,’ George replied. ‘And the livestock?’
‘Not bad. Everyone needs milk, don’t they?’
‘They certainly do.’
‘Ray retired, which was a great sadness. But those early mornings were doing him in, especially in winter.’
‘Who’ll do the cows now?’
‘Barry’s stepped in.’
‘Good.’
‘Ray wasn’t happy, though. It’s for his own good.’ Trees’ voice trailed off and he put his cup to his lips.
Once again there was a long moment of silence. Rita wanted to speak, but she felt shy. Finally George spoke.
‘This cake is good, Ma.’ He bit into the sponge and nodded at her appreciatively. Faye blinked back tears for she sensed why her husband was overcompensating. It was because of the strange shadows in her son’s eyes that only Trees recognized and understood.
‘Faye bakes terrible cakes,’ said Trees suddenly, putting down his plate. ‘Let’s all admit it. It’s a terrible cake.’
Faye stared at her husband then put her hand up to her lips and laughed nervously. ‘Oh, dear Trees. You might not speak much but when you do, you’re straight to the point.’
George threw back his head and laughed too, and suddenly the atmosphere cleared, like humid air after a heavy rainfall.
‘It’s a shocking cake,’ agreed George, who was now laughing so much he could barely speak.
‘But the eggs were fresh,’ Faye protested.
‘What else did you put in it, Ma?’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Alice loyally, her shoulders shaking as she tried to control her laughter. ‘What do you think, Rita?’
‘Don’t ask Rita, she’ll just be polite,’ George interjected.
Rita smiled and bit her lip, blushing at the sound of his voice articulating her name.
From that moment, George was able to tell them some of his stories. Faye’s tears dried up and Trees retreated into silence again. Normality was resumed. Once George started talking he was unable to stop and they listened with interest and delight, for he was a natural storyteller. Rita didn’t once take her eyes off him and he felt her attention like the warm rays of the sun. But as he recounted his experiences he was aware of the minutes passing and of his desire to be alone with her in their secret cave. Finally, he stood up and put down his teacup.
‘I could talk all night, but it’s getting late and I must drive Rita home,’ he said.
Rita felt the palms of her hands grow damp at the prospect of being alone with him. Nervously she pulled her hair behind her ears and stood up.
‘Thank you for tea,’ she said to Faye.
‘Don’t mention it, Rita. I gather Trees doesn’t need you on the farm over the weekend.’
‘He’s got George to help him now,’ Rita replied, imagining the fun they were going to have working alongside each other.
‘I suppose you’ll be too busy with George to continue your sculpting lessons.’ Faye had been only too happy to see those feminine hands put to better use than farm work. Besides, she had enjoyed the company, even though Rita wasn’t a natural artist.
Rita shook her head enthusiastically. ‘Not at all. I dearly love to sculpt. I’ll always make time for that.’
‘Good.’ She touched Rita’s arm affectionately. ‘Then we’ll see you tomorrow night at the party. Thank you for helping Trees clean out the barn. I hope the weather’s good.’
‘I’m sure it will be.’
‘Take the truck,’ said Trees to his son. George nodded and slipped his hand around Rita’s waist, leading her away.
Finally they were alone. George changed gear and then, when they were on the main road, he threaded his fingers through hers. ‘Let’s go straight to the beach.’
‘It’ll be high tide,’ she said.
‘Then we’ll just have to get our feet wet.’ He took his eyes off the road to smile at her. His smile was wide and reduced his face into lines around his mouth and eyes where they extended into crow’s-feet. ‘It’s good to be home.’
‘Your mother went to great trouble to make that cake,’ she said and laughed lightly. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘It was terrible. I dream of your mother’s walnut cake. Ma’s a hopeless cook. She’s better at sculpture.’
‘My mother couldn’t sculpt anything, even if her life depended on it.’
‘How is Hannah?’
‘As you said, nothing’s changed.’
‘Good. I’d hate to think of dear old Hannah changing. I imagine Megagran is still going strong.’
‘As ever.’ They both laughed at the thought of Mrs Megalith.
‘Still reading those damned Tarot cards?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’ll remember to cover myself with garlic before I see her.’
‘She’s not a vampire!’
‘Well, how do you repel witches then?’
‘I don’t know about witches, but she hates dogs because they chase her cats.’
‘I’ll bring Mildred.’
‘And risk a nasty spell? I don’t want to kiss a frog.’
‘You know what they say about frogs?’
‘That if you kiss one it might turn into a prince?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want a prince. I just want you.’
He parked the car above the cliffs beneath the darkening sky.
‘I can’t walk in these shoes,’ she said, climbing out. Besides, the stockings were a gift from an American GI she had befriended. A rare luxury she wasn’t prepared to sacrifice to the sea.
George lit a cigarette and watched through the dusk as she bent down to unstrap her shoes. Then she leaned back against the truck and c
oyly lifted the skirt of her dress in order to release the stockings from her suspender belt. She was aware that his eyes were upon her and her face burned with shyness. He so unsettled her that her fingers fumbled with the catches. She laughed nervously.
‘These damned things!’ she exclaimed. George put his cigarette between his lips and strode over to assist. He knelt down and ran his hands appreciatively up her legs. She laughed again and attempted to push him away. ‘I can do it, really,’ she protested.
But his fingers were already unfastening the first stocking. His hands were warm against her skin and she knew he was taking longer than he needed to. She held her dress up for him and hastily looked around, afraid of being seen in such a compromising position. George didn’t seem to care. He dealt with each catch deftly then slowly slid the silk down her thigh and calf and over her ankle and foot as if he were admiring them at the same time. She took the gossamer silk from him as he began on the other leg. He was aware that his touch was pleasurable for he deliberately stroked the skin above the silk with soft fingers. Then he threw his cigarette to the ground and kissed her there. She flinched and gasped in surprise, pushing her dress down modestly.
‘A bit late for that, isn’t it?’ he teased, slipping the final stocking over her foot. He stood up. Her face was so pink he took it in his hands and pressed his lips to it before pulling away and smiling at her affectionately. ‘Let’s go to our cave.’
They walked hand in hand down the path to the beach. The sun hung low in the western sky, reflecting copper in the rise and fall of the waves. Rita stopped talking as they landed on the sand, aware that she was only minutes from being alone with him once again in the secrecy of the cave. The sand felt wet and cold beneath her feet as the rough grains oozed between her toes with every step. When they reached the rocks, George swung her into his arms, lifting her over the little pools full of sea urchins and crabs where they had played as children and across the narrow strip of sand that was now under four inches of water. His boots weren’t impervious to water but he splashed through regardless and into the cave where the land rose enough to protect the sand at the back from the encroaching sea. There he put her down and, before she could utter a word, he was upon her, his mouth kissing hers deeply and urgently.
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 3