The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  Trees slept soundly, unaware of the anxiety that kept his wife up, sculpting in her small studio to the reassuring notes of Strauss’s Alpine Symphony. Her hands worked away at the clay, moulding and smoothing, but her mind churned, worrying about her son, unable to bear the thought of him leaving her again. She couldn’t help but resent her husband for his ability to rise above domestic strife. The only things that animated him these days were his walnut trees. Her thoughts drifted to Thadeus Walizhewski.

  People in the village dismissed Thadeus as eccentric. He kept himself to himself, went about his own business, never spoke about himself. But he had invited Faye into his secret world and she had discovered a man of education, poise and dignity. He played the violin with the sensitivity of a man who has loved and lost and survived terrible times. He read Voltaire, the plays of Molière and the erotica of Count Mirabeau, and cried over the stanzas of his countryman, the great Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz.

  Thadeus had fled to England in 1939 when the Russians arrived at his ancestral home, and had drifted on the wind of Fate to this sleepy corner of Devon. He had always vowed he’d return one day to reclaim his home, but he was older than his sixty-two years and had suffered enough. In Faye he found a soul mate, a woman who understood him, and slowly love had flowered between them. He had captivated her with his pale, liquid eyes and unrestrained passion. Together they played music, read books and talked. Unlike Trees, Thadeus listened. He didn’t just listen with his ears but with his whole body, touching her hand every now and then to show compassion, understanding or when he laughed, which he did in loud, infectious guffaws. At first it had been an affair of the mind. She hadn’t contemplated sleeping with him. But one afternoon he had told her of the horrors suffered by his family at the hands of the Russians and she had given herself to him for comfort. Their lovemaking had been both tender and ardent, like the music they played together or the poetry he read to her. It enabled him to escape his past and she the war and her fears for her son. But since George had been back she hadn’t visited him.

  Faye’s fingers worked away as if by remote control while she wondered what advice Thadeus would give her. Even if he had none to offer, he would hold her and listen and she would inevitably feel better for his support. Unable to bear the aching loneliness a moment longer, she looked out of the window, at the large, luminous moon that beckoned her to throw her reservations to the wind and yield to her longing.

  George stood at his bedroom window. He knew he had hurt Rita and he hated himself for it. He felt under pressure to marry her, but he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t take her to the Argentine unless they were married. The wheels were now set in motion. His mother had already sent a telegram to her sister in the northern province of Córdoba. George knew he was running away. From his grief, from the memory of his lost friends in the squadron, from the echoes of his past and the boy who used to live there.

  His eyes were suddenly drawn to a shadowy figure leaving the house by the back door, just below his bedroom window. It was his mother. She disappeared a moment then returned with a bicycle. He watched, intrigued, as she cycled out of the farm.

  Chapter 7

  When Rita arrived at Lower Farm for work the following morning, her eyes were red from crying and her face taut. She wondered how much longer she would be needed as a land girl now that the army was now demobilizing and returning home. She enjoyed the open air and loved the animals, especially the calves and lambs.

  The sun blazed down but the air was fresh and autumnal. The nightingale had gone and so had the swallows, taking their twittering song and sanguinity with them. But the titmice had arrived. She had noticed them sitting playfully on the washing line, as happy upside down as the right way up. Her mother tamed them with walnuts and pretty soon they’d be eating out of her hand.

  When she appeared at the door of the workshop Cyril and the boys were already talking with George and Trees. She smiled tightly and joined them, avoiding catching eyes with George who looked as anxious as she did. She felt the tension in the air and barely heard a word Cyril said. Mildred sensed it too for she lay at Trees’ feet blinking uneasily.

  ‘Right, Rita, you come with me,’ said Cyril when he’d finished explaining the jobs for the day. George managed to tap her on the shoulder before she left.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he hissed.

  ‘Later,’ she replied, hurrying after Cyril. Her voice sounded unfriendly.

  ‘I imagine a Spitfire’s easier to manage than a woman,’ Trees quipped, looking at his son.

  ‘And so are trees.’ George grinned, but he felt dead inside.

  Rita set to work sweeping out the cowsheds. She tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the brush on concrete, focus her eyes on the old pieces of straw that she was clearing away, anything but think of George. She felt anxiety strain the muscles in her throat and neck, making them ache. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice George who had left his job on the tractor to find her, so she jumped when he appeared.

  ‘George, you shouldn’t creep up on people like that!’ she chided, then began to brush again, this time with more vigour.

  ‘Stop working for God’s sake. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’ She paused and straightened up.

  ‘Us. I’m sorry I was offhand with you last night.’

  She immediately felt guilty for being so unfriendly. ‘That’s all right. I know things aren’t easy for you at the moment.’

  ‘Come. Let’s go and sit down somewhere,’ he suggested, taking her by the hand.

  She followed him outside and they sat on the grass in the sunshine. A few dry leaves blew about in the breeze and a dark brown thrush playfully hopped among them.

  ‘I hope Cyril doesn’t catch me shirking off,’ she said.

  ‘I’m the boss’s son, I can do what I like and I want to talk to my future wife.’ His mouth curled up at one corner and something in Rita’s stomach fluttered with happiness. He took her hand in his and sandwiched it with his other hand. ‘I love you Rita and I don’t want anyone else but you. We’ve grown up together. We’re made for each other. I don’t need to tell you that.’ He studied her face for a long moment, eager not to offend her. ‘But I’m not ready to get married. I’m only twenty-three years old. The only life I’ve seen is from the cockpit of an aeroplane. I can’t settle down yet. I’m too young. You understand, don’t you? Part of me feels I’ve reached the pinnacle of my life. I’ll never be so challenged or have such purpose again, ever. The other part feels like I’ve been robbed of something. My youth, my innocence, I don’t know. It’s as if someone has taken me apart and put me back together all wrong.’ His voice was calm but there was an undertone of desperation which made her heart buckle with compassion.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, pulling his hand to her mouth and kissing it softly. ‘Darling George, I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes. Go to Argentina, explore the world, stretch your wings and let the wind blow through your feathers.’

  He settled his eyes on her face and his expression was so tender and full of affection that she caught her breath and blushed.

  ‘I don’t deserve you, Rita,’ he choked. ‘You’ve supported me with love and letters through years of war and now you’re willing to suspend your life a little longer. You’re one in a million.’ His words made her swell with pride. ‘When I come back we’ll marry at once and start a family. We’ll make beautiful children, you and I.’ She laughed lightly and let him draw her to him so that he could kiss her temple, close to her hairline.

  ‘Megagran has always threatened to lend me her wedding dress.’

  He chuckled, content to indulge her female whim and discuss their wedding. ‘Surely you’d get ten of you into it.’

  ‘She claims she was slim when she was young, and a smasher too!’

  ‘I can’t envisage that, even with a long stretch of the imagination.’

  ‘I don’t mind what I wear on our wedding day.
I just want to be your wife and make you happy. I feel so hopeless. I know you’re suffering but I’m ill-equipped to help you.’

  ‘No you’re not. Just being with you makes me feel better.’

  ‘I’m glad you came to see me last night, although I would like to have held you until morning,’ said Thadeus, stroking Faye’s hair. She rarely wore it down, but Thadeus insisted on it. Said she looked severe with it drawn into a chignon.

  ‘Me too. I’ve missed you,’ she replied.

  ‘Everything always seems so much worse at night. The light of the sun melts away one’s anxieties whereas the light of the moon simply magnifies them.’

  She nuzzled against him. It was warm there in the garden. It wasn’t only Thadeus’ presence that filled her with tranquillity but the atmosphere of the garden itself. Shaped in an oval, it was surrounded by trees, rhododendron bushes and a tall yew hedge. A vibrant green paradise where Faye felt secure and detached from her own life. By virtue of being situated up a remote little lane there was no fear that their affair might be discovered by prying eyes or unwelcome visitors. Thadeus had no close friends. He was a big bear of a man. His hair was wild and grey, framing a long, weather-beaten face. He wore a soft beard, which retained some pale yellow tones – the only indication that he had once been flaxen – and thin round glasses. Faye loved to press her cheek to his beard and nestle against it. She had never kissed a bearded man before Thadeus.

  ‘How one worries about one’s children. It’s the curse of motherhood,’ she said and heaved a sigh.

  ‘You can only do your best. You bring them into the world then you set them free. George has to find his own way. Destiny is a river you cannot control. It sweeps them off, around rocks, down waterfalls, then into quiet, peaceful waters for a while. You cannot swim after them so you have to surrender yourself to the greater force and put your trust in God.’

  ‘But how will I cope without him?’

  Thadeus pulled her close. ‘The same way you coped when he was flying those planes.’

  ‘He may never come back.’

  ‘That is something you will have to deal with when the time comes. Don’t fear things that might never happen.’

  ‘It’s hard not to.’

  ‘Live in the moment, Faye. Unhappiness comes from trying to put up resistance. Let the current take you too, don’t swim against it. What will be will be. Life is a long time.’ She took his hairy face in her hands and kissed him.

  ‘Darling Thadeus, what would I do without you? You’re so strong and wise.’

  ‘Do you know why I’m wise?’ he asked, looking at her with pale, sensitive eyes. ‘Because I have made a point of learning from every experience that life has thrown at me. No experience is worthless, however small, however painful. Everything that happens to you is for your own higher good. Don’t ever forget that. Through pain we learn and through happiness we celebrate our learning.’

  ‘I shall try to let George go with gladness in my heart. He doesn’t belong to me. I will remember that.’ Then she smiled at him timidly. ‘It won’t be easy, though.’

  ‘If things are too easy you are in the wrong class of life. After all, if we are not stretched we don’t learn.’ He stood up. ‘Come, let us play some music together. There is nothing like the magic of music to soothe the soul.’ She followed him inside and watched him pick up his violin. He placed it under his chin and poised the bow above the strings. ‘Let us play Chopin. It reminds me of my childhood. Not even the Russians could rob me of that.’ And he played while Faye sat and listened, her chin in her hands, her eyes misted with admiration.

  When Faye returned home for lunch Trees was washing his hands while Mildred sniffed the boots that reminded her of walks in the woods and picnics on the beach.

  ‘How is George?’ she asked, hovering at the door. Her hair was once again drawn into a tidy chignon. Nothing about her appearance would give her away, only the rosy hue in her cheeks and the languor of her gait, but she knew her husband’s mind was on the farm and his walnut trees. He looked up and nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I think his future with Rita is secure again,’ he replied.

  Faye’s spirits rose. ‘Oh, I am pleased. Thank God. Is he going to take her to the Argentine? Did he tell you anything?’

  Trees shook his head. ‘He hasn’t said a word.’

  ‘Are they coming in for lunch?’

  ‘That will be them now,’ he said, turning off the tap.

  Light, happy voices signalled their approach at the back door. Faye left her husband drying his hands and went to greet them. She was delighted to see the colour had returned to their cheeks and they were teasing each other and laughing again.

  ‘What’s for lunch, Ma?’ George asked, taking off his boots.

  ‘Cold meat.’

  ‘A man needs a good lunch after a hard morning on the land.’

  ‘So does a woman,’ said Rita, putting a hand on his back to steady herself as she too removed her boots.

  While Faye laid the table and set out the food George told her of their plans. ‘So we’ll marry the moment I return. You’ll look after Rita while I’m away, won’t you, Ma?’

  Faye smiled at Rita with admiration. ‘You are a good girl,’ she said. ‘George is very lucky to have you.’

  ‘I’ll wait for him as long as he wants,’ she replied, enjoying the attention her self-sacrifice awarded her.

  ‘You have the rest of your lives to be married,’ said Faye, recalling with wistfulness Thadeus’ wise words. ‘Life is a long time.’

  It was only during lunch, when Faye stifled a yawn, that George remembered his mother’s midnight parting witnessed from his bedroom window. A secret rendezvous, perhaps. With whom he did not know and he instinctively sensed not to ask. He watched his father tuck into the cold ham, his thoughts far away as usual. If his mother was having an affair his father would be the last to notice. Then he looked at Faye. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed but her expression was innocent, as innocent as an angel’s. He dismissed the idea as preposterous and felt ashamed for having entertained it. Faye was a devoted wife and mother and a good Christian besides. He took Rita’s hand and thought no more about it.

  In the evening George drove Rita home, stopping on the way as they often did to sit on the cliff top and watch the sunset. It was breezy up there, a chilly northern wind that signalled for certain the end of summer. They both looked out across the sea and in the golden light of the dying day they felt the warm afterglow of an enchanted season.

  ‘Rita and George love each other again!’ squealed Eddie, running into the house to tell her mother the good news. ‘They’re sitting on the cliff kissing.’

  Hannah continued to knit. She didn’t want to encourage her youngest to put her nose into other people’s business, even though Eddie’s news was heart-warming.

  ‘What were you doing down there?’

  ‘Collecting shells with Amy. I wasn’t spying, I promise.’ Eddie flopped into an armchair. ‘So does that mean Rita will be leaving us?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait until she gets back.’

  ‘She’s always down on the beach. She should have been born a sea gull!’

  ‘What would that make you, then?’ Hannah laughed and paused her knitting needles to give full attention to her most amusing child.

  ‘A bat like Harvey.’

  ‘They’re rather ugly little things, bats.’

  ‘Not Harvey, he’s beautiful. Daddy always says that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. I think he’s adorable.’ She pulled him off the sleeve of her jersey and held him in her hands. ‘Look at his little nose and shiny eyes. I swear he smiles at me.’

  ‘I thought bats were blind.’

  ‘He can sense me, though. We’re real friends.’

  ‘Then you’re most certainly not a bat, my dear, for you see far too much for your own good.’

  Rita returned home with the good news. Humphrey poured himself a whisky and Ha
nnah telephoned her mother.

  Mrs Megalith put down the receiver and shook her head ominously. ‘That was Hannah. George is going to Argentina and Rita is going to wait for him here,’ she said to Max and Ruth. ‘It’ll come to no good. I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘For how long is he going?’ Max asked, putting down his book.

  ‘He has no plans. He’s just going to fly out there and take it as it comes. Damned casual if you ask me.’ Mrs Megalith sat down at her card table and plunged her hand into a bowl of small crystals. She breathed deeply, dragging the energy up her arms and into her tense shoulders. When she opened her eyes there were five cats sitting at her feet, licking their fur. ‘Rita should go with him,’ she said, ignoring the cats.

  ‘It’s not proper to go as an unmarried woman,’ said Max, not wishing to encourage Rita to leave Frognal Point.

  ‘Damned convention. She should flout it and leave or she’ll lose him.’

  ‘He might fall in love with someone else,’ said Ruth, who said very little but listened to everything.

  ‘He might well, Ruth, dear.’

  Max rubbed his chin. ‘Poor Rita,’ he muttered.

  ‘She’s young, young people recover very quickly. A broken heart is a heart ready to be put together again. She’s far more resilient than Humpty Dumpty, I assure you.’ She touched her moonstone pendant thoughtfully.

  Max recalled the night before when Rita had cried in his arms. She wouldn’t notice him now that she was happy. He stepped over the cats and out into the dark. He lit a cigarette, the way George did, holding it between his thumb and his forefinger. How he wished that he had been old enough to fight in the war, to wear a smart blue RAF uniform with wings. George was a brave and glamorous man. A hero. How often had he heard it said that it was because of men like George that the Nazis hadn’t occupied Britain? Where would he be now if Hitler had won? Dead like his parents? He would have liked to have blown some Nazis out of the sky. But he was still a boy and boys didn’t impress girls like Rita. He wandered around the garden, illuminated by the lights of the house. It was quiet, except for a cooing pigeon and the odd cough of a pheasant. If the war had continued he could have signed up. Now he’d never be a hero. But one thing was certain, he’d make something of his life, for his parents, for Rita, and then, when he had made his fortune, he’d buy back the Imperial Theatre his father had built and restore it to its former glory.