‘I have some explaining to do,’ he began. Susan put her hand on his knee and smiled at him in understanding.
‘Now isn’t the time, George. Let’s get to Santa Catalina and spread out the blanket in the shade of some big tree. Then you can tell me about Rita.’
‘It isn’t what you think,’ he began.
‘It never is,’ she replied drily with a slow shake of her head. He chuckled, feeling foolish.
‘You have an answer for everything,’ he said. ‘The day I strike you dumb I will know I’ve got the upper hand.’
‘I’m an American woman. We’re taught to answer back.’
‘They taught you too well. What do you think of Aunt Agatha?’ he asked, changing the subject. Now it was her turn to chuckle.
‘What an extraordinary couple they are. She’s short, stout and rather fierce in a very English way. I imagine she would make a formidable headmistress in one of those cold English boarding schools of yours. He’s coarse and rough and bombastic, but not without charm. He’s got a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a good sense of humour, though I wouldn’t want to cross him. I wouldn’t want to cross either of them.’
‘They’re unlikely, aren’t they?’
‘As a couple, yes. But he’s probably got a beautiful mistress tucked away somewhere. He’s Latin after all.’
‘Not like us Englishmen.’
She glanced at him sidelong. ‘I should hope not.’
The route to Santa Catalina was no more than a dirt road that rose and fell as it cut across undulating plains and thick woodland. The snow-capped sierras soared out of the mists on the horizon to touch the sky with their jagged peaks, and George could imagine the condors riding the winds in search of prey. It was already hot and they drove with the windows down, taking in the scenery, happy to be there in this remote place where only the most persistent memory could find them. The church of Santa Catalina stood proud and magnificent, the two bell towers and dome rising high above the ancient trees that gave it shade. There seemed to be no one else there. It was peaceful and quiet, almost eerie. They could very well have stepped back across the ages to the eighteenth century when it was built by the Jesuits in the flamboyant style of German baroque. The building hadn’t changed and neither had the air it breathed.
George parked the truck in the shade and walked around to open the door for Susan. She left her book on the seat and stepped out into the sunshine. George took her hand and helped her down then lifted the picnic basket and blanket from the back. They found a cool spot beneath a cluster of plane trees not far from the walls of the church and spread the blanket on the ground. A couple of doves settled nearby, eager to see what delights lay in the basket and determined to be the first to seize upon any crumbs.
Susan leaned against the trunk of the tree and sighed happily as she surveyed the surroundings. ‘Oh, it’s so pretty here,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s peaceful. Churches always give off an unearthly serenity, don’t you think?’
‘They never change, we do and the cities we build around them. They’re timeless and that in itself gives them a certain poise.’ George lay on his side, propping up his head with his elbow, barely able to believe that the woman he thought he had lost for ever was sitting with him now, as naturally as if they had known each other a lifetime.
‘Are you going to read your letter now?’ she asked coolly. George looked up at her and his brow furrowed.
‘I wish she hadn’t sent it,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I wish it wasn’t full of her hopes and dreams, all of which rely on me.’
‘Tell me about her. She’s the reason you needed time alone, isn’t she?’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,’ he began, but Susan simply silenced him with a soft laugh.
‘You owe me nothing, George. Besides, if you were intending to return to England to marry her you wouldn’t have declared yourself to me, nor would you have looked so forlorn on the boat. In fact, if you were in love with her, you wouldn’t have left her in the first place.’
‘You’re right on every count, Susan. I’m a cad.’ He sighed and his face seemed to sag with misery. Susan shuffled across the rug to lie next to him, resting her head on her elbow as he did. She touched his forearm tenderly.
‘Tell me about her, then let me decide if you’re a cad.’
So George told her everything. ‘You see, I’m a cad because it would have been kinder to have finished it there and then. This is worse. She’s in England pining for a man who doesn’t want her.’
‘But you do care, George. I don’t think a cad is capable of caring.’ George looked into her eyes and was grateful for her compassion and understanding.
‘I do care for Rita. You can’t love someone all your life and then turn it off like a tap. I love her like a sister. I just don’t want to marry her.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll have to write and tell her.’
‘Would you mind if I give you a bit of advice?’
‘I would welcome it.’
‘Don’t tell her about me, George. That will hurt her more. Tell her what you have just told me. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, George. This is going to cause her pain whichever way you put it. But it will make the blow less hard if you tell her that you still love her but not enough to marry her.’
George chuckled bitterly. ‘I’ve been putting it off. When I met you on the Fortuna I was ready to write to her and break it off, but when I thought I’d never see you again, I decided to avoid the issue altogether.’
‘Avoiding things doesn’t make them go away. Rita will certainly be crushed by your rejection but people heal in spite of themselves. She’s young. With good fortune she will find someone else and a new happiness. If you no longer love her then let her go.’
‘I’ve never hurt anyone like this in my life. I’ve always been mister nice-guy. It’s not a pleasant feeling.’
‘Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. In this case, you’re being kind to yourself. Don’t you deserve to be happy?’ He fixed her with his speckled eyes and the intensity of his stare weighed so heavy that she had to look away.
‘You make me happy,’ he said simply. When she raised her eyes again he was still looking at her.
‘You barely know me,’ she whispered gravely.
‘There’s much I don’t know about you. But I do know for certain that I love you and I trust that, when you feel ready, you’ll tell me about yourself.’ She patted his arm and smiled, though her eyes seemed to shrink with apprehension.
‘Let’s take a look around the church before we eat,’ she suggested. ‘We can leave the picnic here, we seem to be alone.’
‘Except for a couple of doves,’ said George with a chuckle, getting up and stretching his limbs.
‘If they manage to open the basket I’ll be most surprised,’ she said, putting on her sunglasses and striding out of the shade.
Holding hands, they entered the church. It was cool inside and smelt of the ages mingled with incense. The sound of their shoes on the stone floor echoed off the walls and they spoke in whispers, although there was not a soul in sight, just the silent presence of God in the paintings on the gilded altar-piece and in the air that still vibrated with the echo of centuries of worship.
‘I’ve never understood the catholic need to confess,’ said Susan in a quiet voice when they found themselves standing before the black confessional.
‘Confessionals make me think of perverted priests,’ George replied, drawing back the red curtain to peek inside.
‘I object to the idea that one can only communicate with God through a priest. It’s the church’s way of controlling people.’
‘Now you’re sounding like Mrs Megalith,’ said George with a chuckle. ‘She’s Rita’s grandmother, they call her the Elvestree Witch because she’s psychic. She says God’s in everyone’s kitchen and if they knew that they wouldn’t bother going to church.’
‘S
he sounds quite a character,’ mused Susan, running her hand over the wooden banister that ran up to the pulpit. ‘Though church has a restorative effect on many people. Sometimes it’s good for the soul to share things. I’m not a crowd person. I like to stand back, to have my own space, to watch from a distance. But some would find it very lonely talking to God in their kitchens on their own.’
George walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist, nuzzling his face into her neck.
‘Do you talk to God?’
‘Sometimes. At my lowest ebb. I don’t know what He is, or if He is at all. But it feels good to reach out to someone.’
‘Oh, I know He exists. I felt Him up there in the skies. I felt Him very close. I could even feel His breath on my neck.’ Susan turned around to face him.
‘You must have been very frightened,’ she whispered and ran her fingers softly down his cheek. He took her hand in his and held it there.
‘I had terrible dreams. I was afraid to sleep,’ he said, shaking his head and frowning solemnly as the faces of Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges and Lorrie Hampton surfaced in his mind. ‘But since I met you, they’ve gone.’ She smiled and withdrew her hand.
‘I’m glad I’m frightening those demons away,’ she said.
‘I wish I could frighten yours away,’ he ventured. She shook her head.
‘Only I can do that,’ she replied. ‘But with your help, I will.’
They walked out into the light to find a group of brown-faced children playing on the steps of the church. They were jumping up and down, laughing and shouting, their voices ringing out across the silent grounds. When they saw the two strangers they stopped what they were doing and stared. George took Susan’s hand as they walked down the steps. One by one the children gazed at Susan. Their mouths dropped open and one or two pointed. Then, like a pack of animals who all understand each other without having to speak, they ran around her, holding their hands up to her, asking to touch. George was seized with fury. In a bid to protect her he waved at them and shouted in Spanish as he would to the stray dogs that roamed the farm. ‘Get away! Get away!’ But to his astonishment, Susan simply smiled, let go of his hand and crouched down. As she did so the children recoiled and fell silent as if suddenly afraid.
‘She’s an angel,’ said the smallest.
‘Is it real?’ asked another.
‘I’m not an angel,’ said Susan with a laugh. ‘Go on, touch it.’ And George watched as one by one their grubby brown hands touched her hair. Susan looked up at him and grinned.
‘Children are a law unto themselves,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, feeling foolish.
‘You don’t need to apologize. To these children my face is not nearly as exciting as my hair.’
Susan clearly loved children. She talked to them, stroked their hair, their dusty faces, she did up the buttons on the shirt of one, brushed down the shorts of another, commented on a grazed knee and a bruised forehead. Once she had kissed the knee and the forehead they all rushed at her, inventing ailments for her to kiss away and she laughed as she tried to satisfy them all, a laugh so natural and so happy that George stood transfixed by her joy. He realized then that part of her sadness must come from her longing for children.
It took her a long time to break away. They hung onto her like little monkeys, giggling in their efforts to keep her, determined to have their way. Finally she retreated into the shade where they had left the picnic in the care of the doves and the children returned to their games, though their eyes wandered over to the trees every now and then, hoping she’d come back.
George opened the bottle of wine and poured her a glass. Agustina had packed beef sandwiches and potato salad.
‘You have a magical way with children,’ he said, before biting into a sandwich. She suddenly looked sad.
‘I love children so much,’ she replied, taking a sip of wine. She looked over to the steps where they played, and smiled because she recognized that their voices were louder and their games more exaggerated for her benefit.
‘You will be a wonderful mother,’ he said, then wished he hadn’t as her cheeks flushed and she sighed heavily.
‘Let’s drink to that,’ she replied, raising her glass. And George was more aware than ever of the secrets of her past that lay hidden from him, and bit his tongue to restrain his impatience.
They remained under the trees until the sun had descended behind the church, casting them in shadow. The air was sugar-scented and balmy and crickets had replaced the chatter of children. Susan’s eyes were sleepy with wine and pleasure and shone from her laughter. Yet, as the shadows of evening crept across the grass into nightfall, her thoughts turned to the shadow of war that was the weight on George’s soul.
‘You think about them all the time, don’t you?’ she said, watching him carefully. He understood her at once.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘All the time.’
‘You feel guilty that you survived when they died.’ He returned her gaze with dark and troubled eyes. He shook his head slowly and sighed.
‘My brain tells me that some gamblers win and others lose. It’s logical and inevitable. I just can’t help but feel I don’t deserve to have been a winner. I wasn’t the bravest pilot or the best.’
‘It wasn’t your time.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’
‘But it doesn’t make you feel any better, does it?’
‘Not really. Guilt sticks to me like clay.’
‘They were young, like you. It’s so senseless.’
‘Lorrie had a girl at home he was going to marry and Rat was his mother’s only son.’
‘Rat?’
‘Short for Humphrey.’
‘Of course, silly me!’ she quipped, grinning back at him.
‘We grew closer than brothers and yet, in the end, only Brian and myself remained out of the original squadron. The others dead.’ He drew his lips into a thin line. ‘Dead, at the bottom of the sea or in pieces. Jamie, Rat and Lorrie, their names are engraved on my heart and on my conscience.’
‘Give yourself time, George. Time has a way of ironing these things out.’
He looked at her intently and his expression lightened as if the sun had defied the force of nature and risen above the towers of the church.
‘You really understand, don’t you, Susan?’
She reached over and placed her hand upon his. ‘A little, and the little I don’t, I try to.’
He shuffled across the rug so that he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her. With Susan he could muffle the insistent scream of war, the nagging of his conscience and the small, plaintive voice somewhere deep inside his heart that was Rita’s.
Chapter 16
Max was unable to concentrate. He lit the small candle and began slowly to ignite the eight flames of the menorah, the symbol of Hanukkah. From the moment he and his sister Ruth had arrived at Elvestree, Primrose had resolved to practise their Jewish festivals and customs as they had done in Austria, before Hitler had set out to extinguish the very soul of their people. Ruth’s face was solemn. She never spoke of the family they had lost but it was impossible not to think of them at such a time. Some memories never fade. Mrs Megalith’s glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose and she dug her chin into the folds of flesh on her neck. Her face was serious too, in spite of the cats that circled her ankles and rubbed their backs against her calves. Max’s thoughts were far from Vienna and the small dining room where his mother had nodded at him across the table to indicate the moment to light the candles and say the accompanying prayers. They were with Rita. Since the day he had kissed her in his bedroom they had spent evenings together playing chess, reciting poetry or writing their own prose to read out to each other beside the fire in Primrose’s drawing room. She had finally noticed him.
Ruth watched her brother’s hand tremble as he lit the candles. She wondered whether he was remembering, as she was, the dimly-lit dining room i
n Vienna where their father presided over the family gathering of uncles and aunts and cousins to celebrate the festival of Hanukkah. She could almost smell the smoke from his cigar and taste the wine in the air. She shook away the invading sense of nostalgia with a toss of her head and focused her now glittering eyes on the flame in her brother’s hand. Mrs Megalith felt the contradicting vibrations in the room, Ruth’s heavy sadness and Max’s light excitement, and sent one of the cats scurrying out from under the table with a firm kick of her foot.
‘That’ll teach the little rotter!’ she exclaimed as Max lit the eighth candle. Then she raised her glass. ‘To absent friends, that we may always remember them.’ Max thought of Rita, Ruth of her mother, and Mrs Megalith cast her mind momentarily to Denzil. He wouldn’t have put up with all these cats and they wouldn’t have dared intrude if he were still alive. She felt a cold nose against her knee and sent a fat ginger cat flying out from under the table to join the other. Ruth felt tearful and sunk her eyes into the steaming soup, silently fending off the memories that now threatened to swamp her. Mrs Megalith launched into a story about her late husband’s disastrous tiger hunt in India and Max began spooning the soup into his mouth with relish. Neither seemed to notice her anguish.
Then, just when Ruth’s tears threatened to spill, Max’s spoon hesitated before his lips. Mrs Megalith was laughing raucously at the thought of Denzil being chased by a tiger when he had been told very firmly to remain still. Max was no longer listening. He looked down to see a small white cat sitting quietly at his feet staring up at him with large, unblinking eyes the colour of the peridots on Mrs Megalith’s earrings. Max shifted his eyes to his sister and felt his heart, a moment ago as light as a soufflé, now slump with compassion. Without further thought he swept the cat into his arms, stood up and walked around to the other side of the table where Ruth sat hunched over her cooling soup. Mrs Megalith’s laughter faded into a chuckle as she watched him place the cat onto his sister’s knee where it proceeded to nuzzle her face affectionately. The old woman understood the boy’s gesture and gazed at him with admiration. When she turned back to Ruth, the cat was licking up her soup with her neat pink tongue and Ruth was giggling, her tears settling into her eyelashes, her misery forgotten.
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 19