The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I won’t. Look there’s the swallow again.’ Megagran was suitably distracted so that they talked about the swallows all the way round to the front of the house where Rita had left her bicycle.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ she said, waving at her grandmother, pedalling as fast as she could up the drive and out of sight.

  Trees wandered into the house at the same moment as his wife alighted at the foot of the stairs in a pretty blue dress printed with cornflowers. His hands were dirty from handling the sticky leaves of his precious walnut trees. One of his favourites was the large Juglans Negra that had been planted beside the house about three hundred years before with the intention of catching the summer flies in the leaves before they flew inside. It was tall and majestic and produced the sweetest nuts in the autumn. He had planted forty-seven varieties in the last thirty years and, although most took at least twenty-five years to produce fruit, he was excited at the recent discovery in France of a variety that produced fruit in only three years. Sadly, the war had thwarted his plans to investigate further.

  ‘Our guests will be here very soon and you haven’t even bathed,’ said Faye. She looked at the chaos in the hall and was glad the party was in the barn. The hall table was covered with papers, books and the laundry she had intended to take up to her bedroom before she got distracted by Johnnie standing on a chair removing all her scores of music and photograph frames from the lid of her piano. Trees nodded at her and rubbed his hands together purposefully. ‘Is everything ready in the barn?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go and change.’

  ‘The barbecue lit?’ she added as he passed her. He nodded again. ‘Good. It’s not much, only twenty or thirty people at the most. I’ve asked the village and who knows, maybe some of George’s old friends will turn up. It’s just a gesture to welcome him home. I want him to feel appreciated. We can all raise our glasses, there’s plenty of cider.’

  It was a windy evening. The sun had disappeared behind heavy clouds and it looked as if it might rain. Faye raised her eyes to the sky and hoped that it would at least stay dry for the party. Her attention was drawn to a flock of starlings that flew across it like a waft of black smoke, diving and dancing their aerial evolutions, and she thought of George in his Spitfire. She walked over to the barn, which stood on the periphery of the farm nestled among a cluster of apple trees. It was used for storing hay at harvest time. When George and Alice were little they used to climb the stacks like mountains, hiding from their parents at bedtime. How innocent life had been back then, she reflected.

  It was warm and sheltered out of the wind and smelt of cut grass and smoke from the barbecue. She had set up two long tables that they had improvised with logs and planks, made a tablecloth out of sheets, and borrowed cutlery, plates and glasses from Mrs Megalith who had enough for a banquet. She had offered the use of her garden, which would undoubtedly have been a prettier setting, but Faye had declined. It was George’s homecoming party and nowhere else would do but home. She lit a candle and proceeded to light all the hurricane lamps on the tables. It felt surreal that he was home, that the war had ended. She tried not to think about the dangers he had been through. He was still her little boy and she couldn’t bear to imagine how much he had suffered. She lit the lamps and silently said a prayer of thanks and another one for the future. She sensed he might need it.

  As the sun waned people began to arrive armed with food and drink to contribute to the party. Reverend Elwyn Hammond strode in with his wife and two grandchildren carrying bags of bread buns; old June Hogmier, who ran the village shop, brought potatoes for baking which she had scrounged from the chuck basket, being too mean to bring fresh ones; and Cyril and his sweet wife, Beryl, brought vegetables and baked apples for pudding. The farm labourers came with chickens, and a boisterous group of George’s old friends, the few who had survived the war, carried bottles of beer. George mingled beneath the large banners that the children had painted with Alice that spelt ‘Welcome Home George’. He was touched by the effort his parents had gone to, if a little self-conscious. He didn’t feel he deserved so much attention. He was unable to shake off the feeling of guilt that had gnawed at him ever since he had come home. So many men hadn’t lived to see victory.

  He was talking to Reverend Hammond when Rita arrived with her family. He excused himself politely and made his way through the people to greet her.

  ‘How was Megagran?’ he asked, putting his hand in the small of her back and pulling her against him so that he could kiss her.

  ‘She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,’ she replied.

  ‘Losing her touch, is she?’

  ‘No, I’m just improving mine. She’s coming tonight.’

  ‘On her broomstick or will she be jumping out of a cake?’

  ‘I hope neither. I don’t think your mother is up to making a cake that size.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Hello, Eddie. How’s my favourite girl?’ He grinned down at her and ruffled her hair.

  ‘Don’t lie. I’m not your favourite. Rita is.’

  ‘My second favourite then.’

  Eddie sighed melodramatically. ‘One day I’ll be someone’s number one!’ And she strode off into the crowd with Harvey the bat clinging to her sleeve.

  When Mrs Megalith arrived the crowd seemed to part like the sea before a big liner. No one dared stand in the way of the Elvestree Witch. She had stuck peacock feathers into her hair and draped herself in her favourite purple dress over which she had thrown the green tasselled shawl her late husband had bought her in India. She wore the heavy moonstone around her neck on a black cord and her fingers were laden with crystals.

  ‘Hello George, remember me?’ she said, tapping him firmly on his shoulder. He swivelled around.

  ‘Mrs Megalith, how nice of you to come.’ He ran his eyes up and down her eccentric costume. ‘You look glorious!’

  ‘One mustn’t disappoint. These good people expect me to dress like a witch,’ she said with a wink.

  ‘Don’t witches wear black?’ he asked. Rita put her hand to her lips to suppress nervous laughter. Her grandmother was notorious for her unpredictable nature. Only Max could get away with teasing her about being a witch. To Rita’s surprise Mrs Megalith narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Not this one,’ she replied with a grin and George raised his eyebrows. Was it possible that she was being flirtatious?

  ‘You’re a bright star shining through war-torn Britain, Mrs Megalith.’

  ‘Thank you, George. You certainly know how to flatter an old girl. Now where’s your father? I hear he’s had some more information on that rare variety of French walnut.’

  ‘What is so special about walnut trees?’ Rita asked. Then when Megagran launched into a lengthy explanation she wished she hadn’t asked.

  ‘Dear girl, how much time have you got? They are very special trees with a fascinating history. Really, I’m surprised George hasn’t already told you. Walnut is so precious it was believed to belong to the Gods, that they ate it! The Persians referred to the nuts as “Royal Nuts” and it was a crime to touch them. The Greeks brought the tree to Rome in about one hundred BC where they grew at the time of Christ and the Romans brought them to England. It’s the most beautiful timber, deliciously rare and expensive. You have to guard your mature walnuts with your life, like Trees does, bless him. The one that overlooks your house, George, is a real corker! There’s nothing batty about your father, he’s a genius, a wonderful, much misunderstood genius. I bet he has one of the largest collections of walnuts in the country. Oh, and squirrels love them and we love squirrels, don’t we?’ Rita nodded, remembering how she used to feed them as a child in Megagran’s garden. ‘Especially barbecued with a little bacon,’ she added, smacking her lips.

  ‘Pa’s over there,’ said George, pointing to his father, towering at least a head above everyone else. When she moved regally on, Rita rolled her eyes.

  ‘Why did I get her going? I was simply humouring her.�
��

  ‘You need never humour a witch. They humour themselves. It must be a hoot to live like she does, with cats and cards and crystal balls.’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps she gets lonely,’ Rita said. ‘Even with all those cats.’

  ‘Not with Max and Ruth. They must be saints to live with her.’

  ‘They have no choice, poor lambs,’ said Rita with a smile.

  ‘But she’s never dull. The world has enough dull people in it. She’s a spark of colour in a grey world.’ For a moment his face clouded and he looked sad. She touched his arm and remembered her grandmother’s advice.

  ‘I’d like a glass of cider,’ she said. ‘I want to toast your homecoming more than anyone.’

  ‘Right, follow me,’ he said, smiling once again, and they weaved their way to where the drinks were set out at the far end of the barn.

  Max and Ruth had arrived with Mrs Megalith but had got left behind in her wake and swept to one end of the barn where the barbecue was cooking. After a moment of hesitation, Ruth was dragged off by Eddie and her friends, leaving Max alone with a glass of cider. He watched his sister and felt heartened by her happy face. He was aware that, although Mrs Megalith was like a mother to them, they were very much alone in the world and he felt desperately protective of her. She was still a child and he was now seventeen. He ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the room. His eyes settled on Rita who was nuzzled up against George, and he suffered a pang of jealousy. He was ashamed that he had hoped George might not come back from the war. Shocked that he was capable of such a thought. He took in her long wild hair and pale face scattered with freckles like a thrush’s egg and wished that she would look at him with the same devotion she reserved for George. He wrenched his eyes away for the sight only caused him pain and observed with amusement the rapacious eyes of the Elvestree witch.

  Mrs Megalith had the rare ability of being able to concentrate on many things at the same time. While she listened to Trees telling her about the French walnut trees he hoped to import to Devon, she noticed Maddie in the midst of a group of young men at the other end of the barn. She was sitting in a very unladylike fashion on the knee of one of George’s friends. She had her arms around his neck and her legs slightly apart, roaring with laughter with her mouth wide open. Hannah was too busy talking to Reverend Hammond’s wife, Vera, to notice, and Humphrey was discussing the continuing war in Japan with Mike Purdie, his neighbour. Eddie had found Ruth and a few other young people to entertain and was running through the barn like the pied piper of Hamelin, making a frightful din. She looked back at Maddie. Suddenly in her mind’s eye she had the vision of her granddaughter in the arms of a GI in the back of a jeep. She blinked the image away; it was most distasteful, not to mention intrusive, but it certainly made sense of Maddie’s lack of motivation. ‘She has discovered the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, God bless her,’ thought Mrs Megalith to herself, remembering her own first taste of it many moons ago. She hoped the girl’s desire wouldn’t get the better of her.

  The party was jolly, a veritable celebration of George’s homecoming and victory. The atmosphere was carefree and vibrating with excitement. Years of conflict had united everyone in fear and purpose and now liberation united them again in festivity. Yet they didn’t forget those who had given their lives in service and held a moment of silence to honour them. During that moment Max thought of his parents and suppressed the dull ache that came on the occasions that he allowed himself to remember them. Reverend Hammond took his wife’s hand and silently prayed for the soul of their son Rupert, killed at Dunkirk. Then Trees toasted George, too overcome to say more. Rita looked up and noticed that Max was staring at her, his eyes glazed and sad. She smiled at him but he seemed not to see her. Then the dancing began and the sound of feet tapping caused the whole barn to shudder and the record on Faye’s gramophone to skip.

  Faye watched her son as he swung Rita off the dance floor and out into the night.

  It was raining now, a light drizzle on a strong wind. The air was fresh and smelt heavily of damp earth and foliage. George took her by the hand and they ran through the farm to an old shed that stood low and squat beside a large chestnut tree. He pulled the bolt and opened the door. They crept inside to where it was pleasantly warm and dry and full of newborn calves. When George closed the door behind him, the soft shuffling of hooves on straw and low mooing rose out of the silence as the animals strained their senses to observe them. The place was illuminated by a dim light and Rita was enchanted by the shiny-eyed calves who pushed their faces through the bars of their pens to look at her. Without saying a word she crouched down and stroked their silky faces and wet noses. The mooing grew louder as they all demanded to be petted. George took her hand and raised her to her feet. She followed him up a ladder to the hayloft, where it was cosy and sweet smelling.

  They could hear the wind whistling over the roof of the shed but the hay was soft and warm to lie on. The rustling from the pens diminished as the calves settled down again and only the odd moo disrupted their peaceful breathing.

  George kissed her. It wasn’t the fevered kissing of their cave but slow and tender and full of significance. ‘I can’t cope with the crowd. I just want to be alone with you,’ he said, burying his face in her neck and running his lips over her damp skin.

  Her dress was wet from the rain and clinging to her body like seaweed. She smelt of violets and her own brand of innocence and George was reminded, by the contrast, of the loose women he had bedded during the war in order to feel human again and to forget the carnage of combat. But it felt strange. Familiar, comforting, but strange, as if he had come home expecting to fit into his old mould, surprised that he had grown out of it. Rita seemed unaware of the difference, which made it somehow harder to make sense of and certainly impossible to communicate. He looked down at her flushed, still childish face and realized that, as much as he enjoyed her, he didn’t want to mar her purity by making love to her. Everything about the war had been sordid. Rita remained untarnished. He wanted to preserve it for as long as he could.

  She looked at him quizzically as if aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. ‘Forget the war, my love,’ she whispered, smiling up at him timidly. ‘It’s over. You’re home and I’m here to comfort you.’

  ‘Thank God for you, Rita,’ he mumbled, burying his face in her neck again. ‘Thank God for you.’

  Chapter 5

  The following day Rita sat in church next to her mother and Maddie. Hannah wore a simple beige hat beneath which her face assumed an expression of intense piety as she stared solemnly into her prayer book, unable to read a word because of her poor eyesight. If she had known that one of her daughters sat before God tainted and unashamed and the other entertained thoughts of a sexual nature, she would have sunk to her knees in horror.

  But Maddie was careful to keep her voice low. ‘So, what was it like?’ she hissed into her sister’s ear.

  Rita blushed and lowered her hat to hide from her mother. ‘Lovely,’ she replied with a contented sigh.

  ‘Where did you go? You didn’t get back until dawn.’

  ‘I know!’ Rita stifled a yawn. ‘We went to the shed full of newborn calves. They were adorable.’

  ‘You made love in a cowshed?’ Maddie gasped in horror.

  ‘No, we were in the hayloft, not the cowshed. And we didn’t make love.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because we’re not married.’

  Maddie shook her head. ‘You foolish girl!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Shhh,’ silenced their mother. ‘Don’t forget that this is God’s house and you, Rita, have much to thank Him for.’ Rita nodded and glanced across the aisle to where Faye and Trees sat with Alice, the children and George. They, too, had much to be thankful for. She caught George’s eye and he grinned back at her discreetly, the intimacy of the night before still shining in his
speckled grey eyes.

  As Reverend Hammond strode into the centre of the nave, dignified in his long black robe and white dog collar, only his long grey curls rebelled against the studied perfection of his demeanour. Like Hannah, he assumed a different guise in church. He seemed taller, broader, more imposing in his role as vicar than when he was Elwyn Hammond, the husband and grandfather buying vegetables from Miss Hogmier’s village shop. In God’s house he was God’s spokesman. A man of vocation whose duty it was to be God’s shepherd, to lead His sheep home, to show that the way to heaven was through suffering and repentance. Reverend Hammond knew suffering better than most, having lost his only son, and he knew love and compassion too, for his daughter-in-law had brought his grandchildren to live with them in Frognal Point. Every day he saw his son in the faces of those two children and every day he mourned him, but he took comfort that Rupert was with God now. He had found his way home and was at peace.

  The congregation fell silent as Reverend Hammond’s deep voice resonated through the church like the low moan of a double bass. He spoke slowly, articulating his words with care so that even the old and partially deaf could hear him at the back. Rita looked past her mother to Eddie, who sat doodling on a small notepad. She was careful to draw patterns of crucifixes in case her mother took her eyes off Reverend Hammond to see what she was doing. Humphrey sat beside her, his small round glasses perched on the end of his nose, flicking through the hymn book. He wasn’t a religious man and found Reverend Hammond extremely tedious and self-satisfied. But he liked to come to support Hannah, who never missed church, even when she was sick.

  Suddenly the door burst open and Reverend Hammond’s voice trailed off in surprise. There was little that could silence the good Reverend so every head in the congregation turned to the door to see what kind of demon stood there. Rita craned her neck, then nudged Maddie urgently. Mrs Megalith paused a moment at the entrance while the fresh coastal wind blew in and caused her long blue dress to billow about her ankles. She sniffed as her moonstone eyes surveyed the scene before her. It had been years, literally, since she had last been to church, but only a matter of weeks since she had last clashed with Reverend Hammond over the corruption of the word of God by organized religion. Reverend Hammond found he could not continue. Mrs Megalith had reduced him to a gasping fish floundering on a riverbank.