The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  The autumn passed and winter set in. The day of George’s departure arrived and Rita was reminded of the day he left for Malta. She felt the same hollowness inside, the same wrenching of the gut, the same dread of being left on her own again with nothing but letters to connect her with the man she loved. But she told herself the sooner he left the sooner he would return and the sooner they would marry and begin their life together.

  It rained all morning. George picked her up in the truck and they drove to the beach one final time. They hurried down the path and across the sand towards the cave. The sea was tempestuous, the sky grey and dark. There were few birds, black-headed gulls mostly, their barking banter carried on the wind with the salt and sea spray. It was a mournful sight. Looking at the desolate bay Rita felt spring would never again flower on this shore.

  It was cold and damp inside the cave. They sat huddled together at the far end, where the sea had not encroached to wash away the love that they had left there. He ran his hand down her face and brushed away her tears with his fingers. He kissed her, tasting the salt on her lips and the unhappiness on her skin and promised that he would be home again soon.

  ‘One day we’ll sit here while our children are at school and we’ll remember today.’ Rita sunk her face into his chest and cried quietly. ‘I think you had better get Megagran’s dress out of the cupboard and start taking it in. It’ll need a hell of a lot of work. I want it ready by the time I get back.’ Then he thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a little black box. ‘I want you to wear this always,’ he said, placing it in her hand. She sat up and wiped her face on her sleeve.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, opening it. Set firmly into velvet a small diamond solitaire ring sparkled.

  ‘I was going to give it to you on my return, but I want you to have something to assure you of our engagement.’ He took the ring out himself and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. ‘There, it fits like it was made for you.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she sighed happily. ‘Really beautiful.’

  ‘Every time you look at it I want you to remember how much I love you,’ he said solemnly. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  ‘And I want you to remember, every time you look up at that moon, that I love you too.’

  They stayed in the cave as long as they could, then walked back to the truck. Rita was unable to take her eyes off the ring and moved her hand around in the light to watch the diamond sparkle. They held hands all the way back to Lower Farm, where Trees and Faye, Alice and the children awaited them. It was a grim parting. Faye tried to hold back her tears, remembering the wise advice Thadeus had given her and Alice, who was saddened by her brother’s decision to leave again, held Jane in her arms and watched Rita with sympathy. Her husband Geoffrey had been lucky to survive the war like George. She didn’t think she’d cope very well if he announced on his return that he was leaving her again, for the other side of the world. Besides, she suspected what none of them dared to admit – that George wouldn’t be coming back.

  George kissed his family, then held Rita in his arms for the last time, breathed in the scent of her skin and felt her tears on his face as he pulled away. He couldn’t express what was in his heart so he just gazed upon her with tenderness before climbing into the truck with his father who was to drive him to the station. He rolled down the window and waved. They all waved back, but his eyes clung to Rita until the very last moment when the truck turned the corner at the farm entrance. Only then did he look away.

  Later that day Faye sat at her sculpture and tried to keep her mind distracted from her grief. She reminded herself of Thadeus’ words, that she didn’t own George, she had simply brought him into the world and loving him meant setting him free to make his own mistakes and learn from his experiences. It was a comforting philosophy.

  Alice went for a walk with the children, returning later to her cottage to brood. When Geoffrey finally came home from France she was going to hold onto him.

  Rita sat in her bedroom watching the drizzle through the window, allowing her misery to engulf her. She played with her ring and relived their most intimate moments. After a while she noticed a robin alight on the windowsill and proceed to peck at the glass with its small beak. It seemed to want to make contact. Slowly Rita stood up and with great care, so as not to frighten it away, opened the window. To her astonishment the robin flew in and, after circling the room for a while, landed on the bookshelf. It hopped from book to book then perched on the edge of a pottery bowl Eddie had made her at school, and danced about the rim before flying out in search of materials with which to fashion its nest.

  Chapter 8

  George sat on the deck of the Fortuna. The harbour was shrouded in damp, grey mist out of which the cranes of cargo ships rose up like dinosaurs from a bygone age. It was noisy too, voices resounding through the drizzle accompanied by the low rumble of engines and the distant bugle of a parting cruiser. He was numb with sadness and more alone than he had ever felt. A wheeling gull flew above the harbour, its melancholy cry echoing his own inner discord and reminding him of the cave, of Rita, and the youth he had lost up there in the sky. He felt like an old man. Burdened with guilt and resentment, weary of life. He wanted to iron out all his feelings. Remove them one by one and sort them into colour and shade. They were so jumbled up he sensed nothing but turbulence.

  He smoked into the fog, taking comfort from the one thing that had been consistent throughout the war. Smoking relaxed him, made him feel better as it had done in the mess after an offensive sweep or an escort over northern France. With his squadron around him he had enjoyed that sense of belonging, of achievement and purpose. A peace of sorts came later when he was reconciled with his fear of dying, but he would never get over the deaths of his friends: Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges, Lorrie Hampton – he’d never forget. Having conquered his own fear of death he now battled against his fear of living. He had no purpose, no drive, no sense of belonging. He felt adrift.

  The boat shuddered and slowly began to move away from the dockside. He cast his eyes to the sea and the foam that now frothed on the surface, then took a final look at the bleak coastline. Goodbye England, goodbye war. When I return I’ll be a different man.

  George kept himself to himself for the first couple of weeks. He barely noticed the people around him, and discouraged conversations with strangers he had no desire to know. He sat on the deck, smoking into the wind, lost in the past. He didn’t think too much about the future. Having never been to South America he had no idea what to expect. There were plenty of passengers on the boat who would have been only too happy to share with him their experiences of Argentina, but he deliberately kept away. They busied themselves with deck quoits, chess and bridge. Put on plays with the children, danced the nights away, made friends in the bar. They were too occupied to notice him, or perhaps they had seen his scowl and told their children not to approach.

  The boat stopped along the way, in Lisbon, Madeira, Rio and Santos. He was able to spend those days stretching his legs and seeing the sights. It was good to step onto solid ground for a few hours and smell the scents of the earth and nature. Small boats drew up alongside the Fortuna and tradesmen clambered aboard to lay out their wares. George thought of Rita when he saw the silver bracelets and cheap Brazilian gold. He wanted to buy her something to show that he was missing her. Something special. He searched through all the jewellery, some of it fine, some badly made and sure to fall apart in the post by the time it got to England. Then his eyes alighted on a pendant. It was of a bird with its wings outstretched, crafted in silver with eyes of turquoise. The moment he saw it he knew he had to have it. The skinny salesman with black hair and a long, brown face smiled crookedly when George said he would buy it. He thought of a price and doubled it, delighted when George paid without hesitation. The man wrapped it in brown paper and handed it to him. ‘Bird, good luck,’ he said in broken English, pointing to the packet. ‘Good luck.’

>   ‘He means,’ interjected a fellow passenger who was also browsing through the jewellery, ‘that birds symbolize good luck. In fact, in ancient times they were considered magical because they could fly. Each breed has a different meaning. What is your bird?’ George unwrapped the paper and showed the old scholar his purchase. He studied it carefully, much to the bewilderment of the salesman who thought they were scrutinizing it for faults. ‘It appears to be a dove. The dove symbolizes love, happiness and wedded bliss. It features in the flood stories of the Babylonians, Hebrews and Greeks as a symbol of peace and reconciliation. The dove carrying the olive branch in his beak to Noah in his ark has become an international symbol.’ George thanked him. It must have been Fate that he should find such an appropriate gift for his sweetheart.

  It was not until the beginning of the third week, just off the coast of Brazil, that his curiosity was roused by one of his fellow passengers. It was early evening. He was sitting alone watching the sun set and remembering how he and Rita used to sit on the cliffs as children and watch the sun sink into the sea. A very different sea from this tropical ocean. His eyes were drawn to a woman who stood leaning on the railings, gazing out towards the horizon. She was quite still. Only the skirt of her pale dress billowed about in the wind, revealing with each gust slender ankles and fine, shapely legs. She had blonde hair, almost white, that was scraped back into a chignon at the nape of an elegant long neck. The angles of her profile were thus accentuated to her best advantage. Straight nose, high cheekbones and a well-defined chin and jaw. She looked haughty, confident, a little disdainful. George wondered who she was with, whether she was married and, if so, to what sort of man. She had great beauty and poise. A real handful, no doubt, he thought with a chuckle. She didn’t seem to sense his eyes on her for she continued to stare out without flinching. As he scrutinized her, he realized that there was something wistful and sad about the way she stood. Perhaps because she didn’t move. A happy person would surely move every now and then, look around, smile. But she just stared as if she wasn’t concentrating on the sunset after all, but on pictures in her own mind.

  She remained there a long time. George finished his cigarette and the sun descended deep into the earth, leaving a pink glow where the sea joined the sky. Finally she dropped her hands and stepped back from the railings. As she turned towards him he was stunned to see that down the left side of her face ran a large, ugly scar. He gasped in horror and pity that this exquisite woman could be so cruelly disfigured. She met his eyes but didn’t allow them to linger for more than a moment. Before he could stand up she was gone. Now his curiosity was thoroughly roused. Who was she? What had happened to her?

  He wandered inside and scoured the public rooms for her. How could she have been dealt such a cruel blow? In a man such a wound would enhance his masculinity and appeal, but in a woman it was a curse to have one’s beauty so maligned. Drawn out of himself by compassion he suddenly became aware of the world around him and felt a renewed desire to be a part of it.

  After dinner, exasperated that the mystery woman hadn’t appeared in the dining room, George wandered into the bar. He placed himself on a high stool and ordered a Scotch. No sooner had he taken a sip than the old man two stools away leaned towards him and said, ‘You escaping the war too?’

  ‘The war is over,’ George replied.

  ‘Brigadier Bullingdon.’ The man extended his hand. George shook it, noticing at once that the brigadier’s eyebrows were so large and bushy they appeared ready to crawl off his face at any moment. ‘It might be over, young man, but the cloud still hangs over the country. I played my part in the Great War, wounded on the Western Front, hence the gammy leg, damn it. Would have relished the opportunity to serve in this one. Bloody Huns.’ He shook his head and knocked back his whisky, neat and warm the way he liked it. ‘You did your bit. I can tell. It’s in the eyes. You change and that never leaves you.’ He raised those furry eyebrows at George.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant George Bolton,’ he replied automatically. The brigadier nodded his approval.

  ‘Brave man,’ he said and his voice was thick with admiration. ‘So what takes you to this part of the world?’

  ‘Nothing more than the promise of adventure.’

  ‘You’ll get plenty of that,’ he chuckled. ‘Where?’

  ‘The Argentine, Córdoba.’

  The brigadier nodded and stuck out his lips thoughtfully. They were fleshy, the lips of a young man. ‘My wife and I went there before the war. Very green. Mountainous. Lovely. You on your own?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, remembering Rita and wondering whether she’d survive on another continent. The brigadier leaned towards him unsteadily.

  ‘Between you and me, wish I was on my own. Argentine women are a juicy lot. Can’t get a look in with the little lady. She keeps a sharp eye on me, as well she might.’ He coughed and chuckled into his glass. ‘Few pretty young fillies on this boat.’

  George thought of the mystery woman and wondered whether the old brigadier would know anything about her. But before he could open his mouth a small, shrivelled woman appeared and tapped the brigadier on the shoulder.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough of that, dear.’

  ‘Ah, the lovely Mrs Bullingdon. Esther, let me introduce you to my new young friend. Flight Lieutenant George Bolton at your service.’ She gave him her hand. It was limp and dry and dappled with liver spots.

  ‘Ah, one of the boat’s loners,’ she said in a high, quavering voice. ‘I’ve just seen the other one on deck. Strange girl. So disfigured. What a pity. It’s no wonder that she keeps herself to herself. Poor child.’

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ George heard himself asking.

  ‘She’s an American, Susan Robertson. I took the liberty of introducing myself at the start of the trip. She was rather aloof. Of course, I forgave her. With that ghastly scar on her face. She’s not married,’ she added, indicating the small sapphire ring on her own hand. ‘A woman notices these things.’

  ‘What a waste of a good-looking girl,’ the brigadier commented.

  ‘No one will have her now. Every woman deserves a husband and children. After all, what else is there for a woman to do?’ George didn’t like Mrs Bullingdon’s tone. She was clearly delighting in the younger woman’s misfortune.

  ‘It’s been nice meeting you. Will you excuse me?’ he said, slipping off the stool.

  ‘I’m being dragged to bed by matron,’ said the brigadier with a snort and a wink. ‘Like being back at school being married to Esther.’

  ‘You’ll only have yourself to blame when you wake up with a hangover, dear,’ she said. Then she turned to George. ‘I’m glad you’re not unfriendly. Perhaps you’d like to join us for dinner tomorrow night?’ George nodded reluctantly, hoping they’d forget by the morning. Then strode out of the room towards the deck.

  It was a clear night. The sky shone vast and eternal above them, illuminated by stars and a large phosphorescent moon. All was quiet except for the low rumble of the engines and the sound of the bow cutting through the water. The air was balmy and a warm wind blew over the ship, carrying with it the fresh smell of the sea. George walked out onto the deck by the same door as before. The woman was standing in the same place, staring out into the darkness. He hesitated a moment, uncertain how to ignite a conversation. He didn’t want her to think his attentions were motivated by pity. He pulled his cigarette packet out of his breast pocket and tapped it onto the palm of his hand. While he played for time the woman remained oblivious of him. He cupped his hand round the cigarette to light it, then exhaled into the wind. For a moment he thought she had noticed him because she lifted her hand to curl a wisp of hair behind her ear and turned her head in his direction. But she didn’t see him. The wisp of hair danced disobediently about her cheek, reluctant to be restrained.

  He stepped lightly across the deck and leaned as she did on the railings. ‘May I join you?’ he asked, turning to look at her. She straightened and glanced
at him with an imperious look on her face.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she replied in a soft American drawl. Then, in response to his quizzical frown, she added. ‘I noticed you watching me earlier.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I was intrusive.’

  She shrugged. ‘You couldn’t possible have been. I was deep in thought.’

  ‘You just looked sad,’ he ventured boldly. She was clearly irritated by his compassion.

  ‘What do you know?’ She glanced at him disdainfully. ‘You’re just a boy.’ George was affronted. She couldn’t have been that much older than he was.

  ‘A boy who has lived more than most men.’ He returned her stare with the same arrogance.

  ‘Really?’ She sounded intrigued. ‘Now you’re inciting my curiosity as I have incited yours. That is why you have come to talk to me, isn’t it?’ He was lost for words. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not the first.’ She chuckled bitterly. ‘I have a funny effect on men. At first they look on my face with admiration. It is truly beautiful when one only sees it from this side.’ She touched her flawless cheek. ‘But then their admiration dissolves into horror when I turn. It’s a game I often play. It amuses me.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Oh, please, spare me the pity. I’m a grown woman,’ she snapped. George wouldn’t usually persevere with such a rude person, but his instincts told him that her fury was not directed at him personally, but at life or whatever had done that to her. However, that was the one question he felt he couldn’t ask.

  ‘Have you come on your own?’ he said instead.