The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Well, there’s some logic in that,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘But Rita is hopelessly in love. I sympathize with her. I know what love is and how much it hurts.’ She looked across at him and sighed melodramatically. ‘How old are you, Harry?’

  Harry shook his head and laughed. ‘For a young woman you ask very strange questions,’ he said in astonishment.

  ‘Is it wrong to ask?’ She looked hurt.

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied gently. ‘Only unexpected.’

  ‘You can ask me how old I am and I won’t take offence. I’m nineteen,’ she said with a broad smile, as if she expected praise for the achievement of reaching such an advanced age.

  ‘I’m thirty-six,’ he stated. Maddie’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Only thirty-six! That’s not so old,’ she exclaimed cheerfully, clapping her hands together.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Harry in bewilderment.

  ‘Not old at all. You’re only . . .’ she squinted and mumbled. ‘Seventeen years older than me.’ She sat back in the seat, content that at least one of the obstacles in the way of her future happiness was surmountable.

  They swept up the long drive lined with trees, naked and crippled by the frost, and parked on the gravel outside Elvestree House. In spite of the winter bareness the house exuded an inviting warmth. The windows blazed with light and life. The sun had melted Jack Frost’s flamboyant sketches and the snow on the roof was now only in patches where there were still shadows. The chimneys choked out smoke and the sweet smell of burning wood reminded Harry of autumn, when his father had set fire to mountains of leaves on Saturdays. A robin played with a crust of bread on the steps that led up to the porch and didn’t bother hopping away when he saw them approaching. Harry followed Maddie through the front door, decorated with a wreath of holly tied up with a red velvet ribbon.

  The sound of animated voices rang out from the drawing room and the scent of cinnamon and orange mingled with the overpowering smell of Aunt Antoinette’s perfume. Eddie was telling everyone about Harvey and inviting them all to the burial, which would take place at six in the garden at home, beneath the apple tree he had so loved for all the insects it attracted. Antoinette knew better than to speak ill of the dead, especially a dead Harvey, and bit her tongue as she almost stumbled into asking Rita about George. Family politics, she thought wearily, are so trying. Her husband, the mysterious David, was standing by the window seat with Humphrey, discussing with indignation the nearby unspoilt land under threat from developers.

  ‘What will become of the countryside, I ask you?’ exclaimed Humphrey hotly.

  ‘Buildings go up with much too little thought,’ David agreed. ‘I suppose the poor buggers have to be housed. But what will people think fifty years from now?’

  Maddie strode in with Harry close behind, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to look as inconspicuous as possible.

  ‘Madeleine, come and help me fill everyone’s glasses. This is not a dry house,’ said Mrs Megalith in a booming voice, waving her becrystalled fingers at her granddaughter. ‘Ah, you must be Harry Weaver, how jolly nice to meet you. Shoulders back, dear boy, or you’ll develop a hunchback!’ she added, handing him a glass of champagne. ‘Had this in the cellar for years. My Denzil kept a bountiful cellar, but was loath to drink any of it himself. All the better for us, don’t you think!’

  Harry took the glass and straightened up. He was at least a head and shoulders above everyone else. Mrs Megalith hobbled past him. Dressed in a rich purple dress that fell from her breasts to her feet she looked every inch the witch of village legend. The shining moonstone swung hypnotically as she limped across the room and she had pinned her hair up with chunky square amethysts.

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks, blinked in amazement at the misty image that appeared before her eyes and very slowly turned around, her face a pale shade of pink.

  ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed under her breath, looking from Harry to Maddie. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

  ‘Is everything all right, Grandma?’ Rita asked, distracted a moment from her lonesome pining.

  ‘Better than ever. I thought only cats had that kind of luck.’

  Mrs Megalith smacked her lips together in satisfaction. Rita looked bewildered. Mrs Megalith shook her head dismissively.

  ‘Just the ranting of an old woman whose gift still has the ability to surprise her. Think nothing of it,’ she said before looking worriedly at Rita.

  ‘No more letters from George, Rita?’

  Rita shook her head mournfully. ‘Not yet. I’m sure he’s written. I don’t doubt him, Grandma.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Mrs Megalith with sympathy, patting her on the arm. ‘Of all the people I know most deserving of luck, it’s you.’ She turned and narrowed her pale eyes at Maddie. Then she shook her head and pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Sometimes the least deserving win the lot.’

  Chapter 17

  George wrote to Rita just before Christmas. He decided it was kinder if she received the letter after the celebrations were over. He sat in his bedroom in the early hours of the morning, when sleep resisted the summons of his weary body, having ridden out all day with the gauchos. He sensed Susan in the next-door room and strained his ears, as she did, for a sound. The last he had heard was the closing of the door and then his imagination stirred as he thought of her undressing and climbing into bed, reading perhaps and then turning out the light. He ached for her with every muscle in his body. Of course he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to kiss her all over, to stroke her, to give her pleasure. But more than that he just wanted to lie beside her and hold her in his arms all night long. He wondered how long he should wait. Susan wasn’t an innocent like Rita but she had obviously been hurt. She commanded respect but, above all, she needed to trust. Only time and patience would banish the demon in her past that still haunted her.

  Resisting the temptation to knock on her door he sat at the desk and began to write.

  My darling Rita. This is the hardest letter I will probably ever have to write in my life. There is no easy way to put it, I only wish that I could say it to your face rather than on paper. Then I could hold you and we could part as friends, understanding one another. I don’t think I’ve been entirely honest with you. I was afraid of hurting you, which is ironic as I’m hurting you more now. I cannot marry you. I still love you. I have loved you for as long as I can remember. But I love you more like a brother loves a sister. I’m no longer the George you knew. He died up there in the skies over war-torn Britain. I have decided to stay in the Argentine indefinitely. Frognal Point was stifling me and I needed to find my feet in a new place. I’m happy here. I cannot express how grateful I am to you for waiting for me during those years when your support meant more than you will ever know. It kept me alive. I’m sorry to let you down. I’m sorry to hurt you. To think of your sad face fills me with terrible regret. Please forgive me, Rita. I wish you happiness. You are young and beautiful and will no doubt find someone to replace me in your affections. I thank you also for giving me the very best of you, my darling. They were the most wonderful moments of my life. George.

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand where sweat had gathered in beads. He read the letter over and over again. Agonized over one or two of the sentences. Tried to read it from her perspective, hoping he hadn’t been too blunt, checking that she would understand beyond a shadow of a doubt what he endeavoured to communicate. He knew Rita so well. He knew this would break her heart.

  The following morning he gave the letter to Agatha to post along with one to his mother, explaining what he had done. At breakfast Susan noticed that his face was taut around the eyes and grey beneath his suntan. She understood at once, but Agatha interpreted it as a bad case of lovesickness.

  ‘The best cure for that, my boy, is to ride out hard. Take your mind off her. You won’t last very long if you’ve such a soft heart. What you need is a nice Argentine girl. No point pining for a woman
so far away. Never did anyone any good, long-distance love.’

  George went along with it but at the end of the day, when he was alone once again with Susan, he was able to voice his anxiety to someone who sympathized completely.

  ‘I feel so cruel, Susan,’ he said, sitting beside her on the swing-chair beneath the veranda. She took his hand and held it firmly. ‘I did as you suggested. I refrained from telling her about you.’

  ‘Good,’ she replied. ‘I would hate to be the cause of her heartbreak.’ Then she added in a quiet voice. ‘I know what it’s like to have one’s heart broken.’ George turned and looked deeply into her troubled eyes.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to have it mended?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes, I think I do,’ she said, gazing at him steadily. ‘To think I thought you were just a boy.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve proved you wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong.’ Suddenly, gripped with longing, he grasped her upper arms with both hands and held her gaze with the sheer force of his.

  ‘I don’t want you to go back to Buenos Aires after Christmas, Susan. I want you to stay up here and marry me.’ He half-expected her to laugh. If he had delivered such an outburst on the boat she would have laughed at him. That condescending laugh that had so irritated him. But she didn’t.

  ‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she protested weakly.

  ‘Then tell me. I promise you there is nothing in your past that could be bad enough to stop me loving you. My God, Susan, you’ve enchanted me. I love everything about you. I even love the things about you that I don’t know.’

  She looked away and her profile toughened. ‘I’ll tell you if you promise not to pity me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I hate sentimentality,’ she warned. ‘Far worse things have happened to people.’

  ‘I promise,’ he repeated. She sighed heavily and leaned back against the chair.

  ‘I was engaged,’ she began. ‘To an Englishman called John Haddon. I was very much in love. We had known each other a number of years and with each year I loved him more. There was no question that it wouldn’t lead to marriage. My future with him was settled and needed only to be legalized.’ She hesitated a moment, staring out into the night as if her demons were there in the shadows beneath the bushes. ‘Then I got pregnant,’ she stated in a matter-of-fact way, but her voice grew thick and quiet. George couldn’t help but silently pity her. No wonder she had looked so sad at Santa Catalina among all those adoring children. ‘John was delighted and we brought forward the day of the wedding.’ She placed a hand on her belly and gently rubbed it. ‘I felt so sick. Lethargic with sickness. But it didn’t matter because a child was growing inside me. A mother will suffer anything for her child. Then one day, playing golf, John got distracted. I can’t remember exactly. But he must have swung his club for when he followed through it hit me in the face.’ George was horrified. He put his arm around her, but remembered he had promised not to pity her and let his hand flop beside her rather than onto her shoulder.

  ‘The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital with half my face throbbing with pain. It’s a strange thing, pain. You can’t imagine a person can hurt so much and live. But I did. They stitched me up and covered me in bandages. I was drugged to the eyeballs, but it still throbbed. John was distraught, as you can imagine. He felt terrible and was full of apologies. I was more concerned about my baby. To my relief he was fine. Of course, the wedding had to be cancelled, or rather postponed. I remember playing a lot of solitaire in my hospital bed.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Then they removed the bandages and I was faced with the horror of a disfigurement that would be with me for the rest of my life. You see, George, I had been very vain. I had taken beauty for granted. I enjoyed people admiring me. Suddenly I looked like a monster. Beauty is a very fragile thing. I would have to learn to live all over again. It sounds foolish, but it was as if I had lost the use of my legs, an important limb, a vital organ. You can’t imagine how much a beautiful woman relies on her looks. Then John broke off the engagement. He couldn’t cope with an ugly wife.’

  George gasped, sickened and furious. ‘The bastard!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, he wasn’t the man I thought he was after all. It was a difficult time.’

  ‘What happened to the baby?’ he asked gently. Susan’s voice had been steady until that moment. It now quivered for he had plucked the most vulnerable string.

  ‘I suffered a miscarriage,’ she whispered. It sounded so much worse when said out loud.

  ‘From the shock of the accident?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a sigh, then added dispassionately. ‘From a broken heart, I think.’

  ‘My God! I’m so sorry!’ He groaned, his face crumpling with sympathy.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t pity me!’ she protested angrily as he drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to her temple. ‘I don’t want your pity.’ She tried to push him away, but he held her in a vice until she was forced to surrender to his superior strength.

  ‘I don’t pity you, Susan. I’ve just realized that I love you even more. I’m going to marry you and look after you for the rest of your life.’

  That night the humidity brought on a torrent of rain. Susan slipped quietly into her dressing gown. Her skin felt damp to the touch and the blood pounded against her temples. With a trembling hand she opened the door of her room and stepped into the tiled corridor. The lights on the veranda swung in the wind as the downpour clattered against the glass in the hall, casting a mobile of shadows across the white walls like a cinema screen. She ran her fingers over her throat where her skin was hot and moist, straightened up and turned to face his door. She hesitated a moment. The sound of the gale whipping across the roof sharpened her resolve. It wasn’t a night to be alone. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it. It made no sound and opened easily, as if facilitating her purpose. She saw him lying on his back, a sheet thrown casually across his waist, exposing his torso. The smell of him mingled with the natural scents of the farm: wet grass, eucalyptus, jasmine, leather and horses. She breathed quietly and stepped lightly towards the bed. He opened his eyes to see her standing over him, her white dressing gown luminous in the moonlight, like a ghost. He didn’t say a word. He simply pulled back the cover and made room for her.

  She stood a moment beside the bed, encouraged by his smile. Slowly she shed her dressing gown then lifted the straps of her nightdress so that it, too, fell to the ground to form a white puddle at her feet. Her naked body was now lit up by the lamps that illuminated the veranda and George ran his eyes over the soft undulations of her breasts, hips and thighs, and Susan was confident that in this gentle, unassuming light she looked beautiful again. She climbed in beside him and let him gather her into his arms. He unclipped her hair and scrunched it in his hands so that it fell about her shoulders in disarray. His kiss was slow, exploratory, tender and she surrendered to the longing that had almost suffocated her. George surprised her. His touch was unhurried for he wanted to savour every inch of her body and he was masterful, the man she had fallen in love with, not the boy she had laughed at on board the Fortuna. Only his enthusiasm was boyish and that she was grateful for. She kissed him fervently, intoxicated by the warm smell of him and the sensation of her flesh against his and he grinned at her in delight for she was a woman unashamed of her experience and the pleasure she could give to a man.

  Depleted of energy they lay together talking until the storm passed and the wet plains were lit up by the early rays of dawn. Susan was pleased she had found the courage to let another man make love to her. It was a hurdle that had once seemed insurmountable. But George reduced all her hurdles to a size that she could kick down with her foot. Her ghosts now seemed to be made out of nothing more than cobwebs.

  Rita watched the snow melt and with it her hopes for the future. The week after Christmas saw no letter from George, nor the week after that. Maddie was rarel
y at home; she spent her time in Bray Cove painting or organizing Harry’s office, having muscled her way into his life. Love had transformed her into an efficient secretary, which surprised her as much as her mother. She didn’t ask to be paid; being close to Harry was more than enough. But, as much as she flirted and encouraged, Harry didn’t so much as touch her.

  Then one rainy morning John Toppit brought Rita George’s letter. She accepted it tearfully, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude and at once feeling foolish that she had ever been so weak-hearted as to doubt him. She scrambled into her boots and raincoat and grabbed a large golf umbrella and set out for the cliffs, the letter folded into her pocket. With a buoyant heart she skipped through the rain, enjoying the light tap-tapping of the drops as they landed on the umbrella. In her altered state of mind she now saw beauty in the bare trees and heavy grey skies. She could hear the sea crashing onto the rocks in the distance and smell the salty scent of ozone and wet sand. It was windy up on the clifftops. Just the way she liked it. She sat beneath the umbrella, sheltered by a grassy knoll. This time she held onto the paper with great care so as not to sacrifice another precious epistle to the sea. She savoured his writing on the envelope and shuddered with anticipation as she tore it open and pulled out the thin sheet of paper. As diaphanous as the wings of a butterfly. Slowly she read what he had written and slowly her throat constricted as if an invisible hand was wrapping its icy fingers around her neck, choking her to death. Her breathing became laboured as she struggled for air and understanding. The paper shook in her grip and tears blurred the words so that she could no longer make them out. All she saw was a gloomy future that stretched out before her like the grey sea and the grey sky. Bleak and cold and unfamiliar. She had no experience of living without George. She was afraid she didn’t know how.

  When she had read the letter enough times to know the words by heart she put it back in her pocket and drew her knees up to her chest where she hugged them inconsolably. George meant everything to her. She loved him more than she loved life. Without him there was no reason to go on. No reason to live. After sobbing came an empty feeling of resignation. A strange serenity. An unsettling calm. George had taken away his love and therefore the very oxygen that she needed to breathe. There would be no home, no children, no family Sunday lunches in a kitchen that smelt of freshly baked bread and stew. Only silence and sterility, like a vast, dry desert where nothing can grow.