Tonito and Pia adored her, and she loved them too and spent hours with them riding across the fields or at home inventing games for them and their small band of friends. They had asked her on her first day why one side of her face was ‘broken’ and she had replied with a smile that she had been clawed by a lion in Africa. Their eyes had widened and more questions had tumbled out as their curiosity increased with the thought of such delicious violence. Had he wanted to eat her? How had she got away? Had she been afraid? And she had answered each one with patience and humour, wishing that adults were as easy to deflect as children. Sometimes George would catch her watching them wistfully, a sad smile softening her face with tenderness and he would take her hand and squeeze it. He didn’t have to speak and she didn’t have to explain for they understood each other perfectly. Her longing for her own children would stir inside her breast like a small, caged humming-bird, its wings tiny and quivering. She would place her hand there to calm it and will herself to be patient. Then she would look at George and hope would glimmer in her eyes that seemed so cold to everyone but him.
Now she sat in a simple ivory dress, while the hairdresser pinned her hair onto the top of her head, wondering whether she had been foolish to choose a dress rather than a suit that would have perhaps been more appropriate for a woman of her age. She felt a fraud playing the young bride. She believed herself tainted in some way, having been engaged and pregnant before, or too much of a woman for such a girlish wedding. The civil ceremony had been more comfortable. No confetti and a simple bouquet of flowers. They were already married by law, but George had insisted that they marry before God. To him that was almost more important. She heard voices downstairs and knew that Father O’Bridie had arrived.
‘Praised be the Lord for bestowing on this young couple a morning of such splendour to bless their nuptials with sunshine!’ he exclaimed in an exuberant Irish lilt. In spite of having lived in the Argentine for the best part of his adult life he spoke Spanish badly, preferring to speak English wherever possible. ‘God’s language is universal,’ he was often heard explaining to people who asked him how come, after so many years, he hadn’t managed to learn more than the odd phrase. ‘Love is the same in all tongues,’ he would say piously. But love didn’t buy meat at the butchers or write his correspondence and there were many times he had to rely on a friend to translate for him. But today was different. He had been invited to conduct the service in English, as he did in the small Irish church of All Saints in Buenos Aires, and most of the congregation were well educated in English, if not English by birth. He would knock back a little tipple and give them an address they wouldn’t forget. Like most good men of the clergy, he loved the sound of his own voice.
George mingled outside with the arriving guests. Dressed in a light summer suit he was relieved the breeze was cool and fresh for he was already hot with nerves. He knew very few people, but everyone made a great fuss of him for weddings tend to bring out the genial in most people. He hadn’t thought of Rita in weeks, but now his attention turned to her. Frognal Point seemed so far away, so distant, no longer a real place at all. He was happy he wasn’t marrying Susan there; he could imagine the fuss had he married Rita. The stifling attention, the overpowering excitement, the Reverend’s pompous address and the simpering faces of the villagers who had all known him since he was a boy. He was glad he was in the middle of the Argentine, he was glad that none of his family had travelled out for the wedding, and he was glad that it was Susan who was preparing herself in the house to make her vows before God to love him until death parted them. He watched Aunt Agatha, resplendent in blue, meet and greet her friends and people she had never met before, and he was grateful to her for giving him a refuge from the war and from that small coastal village that had suffocated him so. If it hadn’t been for her he might have lost his sanity staring out to sea, and perhaps he would never have seen Susan again. He would remember to thank her in his speech.
The guests took their seats and the small quartet Agatha had hired from Jesús Maria began to play. Father O’Bridie’s ruddy face took on a grave expression of the utmost piety as he led George down the aisle to wait for his bride. Ernesto, one of the gauchos, stood as his best man in the front row, grinning at him crookedly as he approached. ‘Good luck, gringo!’ he hissed as George joined him. ‘When I married Marta she was as thin as a pencil, how could I have predicted she’d grow into a cow?’ He shrugged and turned to watch Father O’Bridie, who raised his eyes at the appearance of Susan, crossing the lawn, followed by Pia and Tonito.
George’s heart stumbled when he saw her. She looked fragile next to the ursine Jose Antonio who had agreed to give her away, like an elegant arum lily beside a bulrush. She seemed to float towards him, the sunlight dancing off her simple dress and the flowers that were pinned into her hair fluttering in the breeze. She walked slowly, with her shoulders straight and her chin high, although her smile was shy and almost bashful. She held her bouquet tightly and looked directly ahead of her, while Jose Antonio grinned broadly at his friends as he passed them. The music rose in a melodramatic climax and George and Susan locked eyes in mutual understanding while they did all they could to contain their amusement. Hand in hand they stood together facing Father O’Bridie until the music finished. George could smell lily of the valley on her skin and that unique scent that was hers alone, and was reminded of the first time he had kissed her on the deck of the Fortuna.
The music stopped and the congregation fell silent. Father O’Bridie raised his bloodshot eyes and began to speak in a very slow brogue. Agatha sighed with relief that he hadn’t had more than a shot of whisky, although beneath his eyes the bags looked as heavy as wineskins. ‘We are gathered here today, in the sight of God, to witness the marriage of this man and this woman. I stress the word witness, for that is what you good people are here for. Oh yes, you’re here for the wine and the desserts and believe me there’s a fair banquet out there for I’ve been into the kitchen and the work that’s going on is quite spectacular!’ He licked his lips. ‘There’s dulce de leche mousse and ice cream and meringues.’ Susan squeezed George’s hand again. They could both feel Agatha’s fury rising behind them. ‘But let’s get back to the matter at hand. Yes, you are here to witness George and Susan make their vows, to love and honour each other until death does them part.’ He opened the old, saggy, prayer book he carried in his unsteady hands and began to read. Agatha’s relief was visible.
In spite of the melodramatic music, the kitsch nature of the garden ‘church’ with its floral canopy and white pews, and Father O’Bridie’s questionable enthusiasm, George and Susan were moved by the service and made their vows solemnly. It didn’t matter that they knew few people – for the witnesses were mostly strangers, for when they stood before God and promised to love one another for ever they were very much alone.
Agatha was reluctant to give Father O’Bridie anything more to drink, and could barely contain her annoyance: not only had he swayed from side to side as if on the deck of a galleon in a rough sea but his address had gone on and on without any recognizable point. She had softened, however, when she saw Susan and George’s obvious happiness as they mingled with the guests and crouched down to praise Pia and Tonito who had both played their parts to perfection. She reminded herself that the day wasn’t about Father O’Bridie; he had now served his purpose and could drink himself into a stupor if he so wished.
When she saw Dolores appear on the lawn with a tray of empanadas she forgot the inebriated priest, the bride and groom, even her own children, for the flimsy pink chiffon dress that Dolores had chosen looked like something one of the whores from Jesús Maria might wear to please a kinky client. It was completely transparent, crudely exposing her large white pants beneath. Agatha feared Dolores, too, had succumbed to the bottle.
‘Dolores, where is your uniform?’ she asked, recoiling at the maid’s extravagant makeup. Dolores smiled coyly and looked up from under congealed black eyelashes.
&
nbsp; ‘I thought it would be nice to dress up for Señor George’s wedding,’ she replied with pride.
‘Do you know that we can see your knickers?’ Agatha retorted bluntly.
‘Can you?’ the old woman replied, a small smile tickling the corners of her pink mouth. Agatha was horrified that an employee could speak to her with such little respect.
‘I think it’s most inappropriate, Dolores. I would be very grateful if you could go and change into your uniform.’ Before Dolores could reply Father O’Bridie staggered over, his lustful eyes doing their best to focus on the apparition before him. In his drunken state Dolores looked like a Botticelli Venus.
‘Praise the Lord!’ he exclaimed, reeling backwards then lunging forward, still on the deck of that imaginary galleon. Agatha had a brainwave.
‘Dolores, Agustina and the girls can do lunch, would you do me the very great favour of looking after Father O’Bridie? I think the sun is too much for him. Take him into the floral spare room and give him lots of water. He must be dehydrated.’ Dolores, recognizing the lascivious glint in the old priest’s eye, was only too happy to do as requested. She handed Agatha the tray of empanadas and took Father O’Bridie by the arm, leading him gently into the house. Agatha sighed. ‘That kills two birds with one stone,’ she said to herself. Then she picked up an empanada and took a bite, silently thanking God that the old woman was still able to cook.
Jose Antonio’s laughter rose above the light chatter like a bellowing bull. He threw his head back and roared boisterously. Naturally, he was enjoying his own coarse jokes, but his charm was such that everyone laughed with him. The guests complimented the beauty of the bride, then asked each other in whispers how come she was so cruelly disfigured. When Tonito or Pia overheard their conversations they trilled in loud voices the story Susan had told them about the lion in Africa. ‘She was nearly eaten, you know! She said she wasn’t frightened until afterwards because while she was in the lion’s mouth she was too surprised to feel fear. If it hadn’t been for a man with a gun she would have ended up as dinner.’ The guests were so shocked by the story that they accepted it without question. Instead of regarding Susan with pity they looked on her with admiration. Her scar was heroic.
Suddenly the barking of Bertie and Wooster rang through the house. Agatha and Jose Antonio raised their eyes expectantly for the dogs rarely barked, except at the arrival of a very unwelcome visitor. George frowned and took Susan’s hand while the rest of the guests continued to drink and eat empanadas, oblivious of the unexpected disturbance. Gonzalo, the gardener, hurried around the side of the house, hat in hand, bowing deferentially as he approached his mistress.
‘Who is it, Gonzalo?’ she asked, feeling the north wind rattle through her bones.
‘Señora Velasco,’ he replied, looking at her with fear. Agatha stiffened and turned to her husband who was wading through the crowd with a thunderous face.
‘Your mother has turned up,’ Agatha told him furiously. ‘We haven’t seen her in years and she goes and turns up uninvited on George’s wedding day. It’s unforgivable.’ Gonzalo hovered anxiously, hoping to be released from any further task. He didn’t like the idea of having to return to the prickly old woman in the car. Agatha, for once considerate of her employee, dismissed him with an uncharacteristic ‘thank you’ and stood her ground. ‘I’m not dealing with her. She’s your mother, after all.’
Jose Antonio didn’t protest but took a deep breath, like a dragon working up a fierce fire, and marched purposefully around the house.
Señora Velasco sat in the back of the car fanning herself with an elaborately embroidered Spanish fan. She wore black, as she had done since the divorce from Jose Antonio’s father, not because she mourned him, but to spite him: he had always hated women wearing black. She was very tall and bony with pigeon-grey hair, cut into a severe bob with a sharp fringe that rested just above reptilian eyes, and a large, hawkish nose. Her lips were thin and drawn into a tight grimace, scarlet lipstick bleeding into her skin, which was as white as death. She began to fan with more agitation and the chauffeur, a long-suffering man with the physique of a toad from spending most of his life in the front seat of a car, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Stop that tapping!’ she snapped irritably. His fingers froze and didn’t move again until Jose Antonio appeared at the window, Agatha in his wake.
‘Mother, this is quite unexpected,’ said Jose Antonio, barely able to restrain his fury.
‘Oh, grow up! If I can’t come and visit my own son for God’s sake . . .’
‘We’re in the middle of a wedding,’ he explained.
‘Oh, good. Haven’t you got rid of Agatha yet?’ Agatha clenched her fists.
‘If you’re going to be rude I’ll send you right back to Buenos Aires!’
‘Have you lost your sense of humour, son? In spite of the hard life I have suffered I have managed to retain mine. It was a joke. Hello, Agatha, how nice to see you.’ Agatha didn’t smile. ‘Who’s getting married?’
‘George Bolton, Agatha’s nephew from England.’
‘Well, don’t just sit there, Blanco, I’m cooking in here.’ The chauffeur struggled out of the car and came round to open the back door. Señora Velasco climbed out with some difficulty. Her bones were old and brittle and her muscles shrivelled. She ached all over.
‘I’ve come to die,’ she stated impassively, taking her walking stick from the melting Blanco.
‘Oh good!’ her son retorted. She smiled, and her lips disappeared completely, leaving only the red stains like rivers on a map.
‘So you haven’t lost your sense of humour, after all. But I don’t joke. I have come to say goodbye.’ Jose Antonio frowned at her and his eyes shifted, not knowing how to react. ‘I won’t be melodramatic about it, that is not my way.’ Agatha rolled her eyes. ‘I shall go quietly and you can bury me in the garden under that eucalyptus tree where I used to sit and cry when your father disappeared into Jesús Maria to lie with other women.’
‘Will you come and enjoy Dolores’s lunch before you pass away?’ Agatha asked, knowing that the irritating old woman would now be with them for months.
‘I never thought Dolores would outlive me,’ she sighed.
‘She hasn’t yet,’ Jose Antonio reminded her.
‘But she will. At least I will enjoy her famous empanadas before I go.’
‘There are plenty of those,’ said Agatha, anxious to get back to her guests.
‘I want to meet the bride and groom. They are just beginning their lives while I am ending mine. It seems significant somehow. Is the priest still here? Tell him not to go home. You might as well let the funeral run on while everyone is still in the mood for an event.’
They walked slowly around the house, Señora Velasco grimacing and groaning with each step, refusing to be helped when her son attempted to hold her arm with his large, calloused hands. ‘You can hold me when I’m dead,’ she barked. ‘Until then I will walk unaided. I’m not crippled, you know.’ The guests parted for her instantly for they could smell death on her breath. She staggered through without a smile for anyone. Finally Jose Antonio stopped in front of George and Susan who stood with Pia and Tonito. The children shrank back at the sight of the hideous old woman who resembled the witch in their fairy tales. Hidden behind the skirt of Susan’s white dress they peered around fearfully. Señora Velasco raised her hooded eyes and settled them on George. ‘What a fine-looking young man,’ she said in perfect English. ‘Who is the lucky bride?’ She turned to Susan and her eyes flickered with surprise.
‘Good God, girl. Whatever happened to your face?’ she shrieked rudely. A gasp hissed through the crowd of guests. Susan straightened but retained her smile with icy calm. She could feel the children behind her bristling to tell the story for her.
‘I was attacked by a lion in Africa,’ she replied nonchalantly.
‘A lion?’
‘A very large lion. If it hadn’t been for the guide who carried a gun, I would ha
ve been dinner.’ Susan caught George’s eye and she smiled triumphantly. Señora Velasco turned to her son.
‘Take me to my room. I am weary after the drive. Bring me a plate of empanadas.’ She took one last look at Susan before she stumbled away. ‘Wear it as a badge of honour, my girl. A badge of honour!’
Another hurdle had been kicked down and how easy it had been. Suddenly Susan realized that her scar no longer hurt her so much. She watched the old woman retreat into the house and ran a hand over her wound. Señora Velasco was right, she would make a feature of it and wear it as a badge of honour. She bent down and embraced the children. They didn’t realize she was silently thanking them for the lion story; if it hadn’t been for their innocent questions she would never have thought of it.
Chapter 23
Much later, when the last of the guests had drifted away and the little nightlights that Agatha had lit around the garden twinkled through the darkness, George and Susan retired to bed. They were exhausted with so much happiness. Tomorrow they would leave for Mar del Plata where a friend of Jose Antonio was lending them his house, overlooking the sea. They would spend a few weeks alone together before returning to Las Dos Vizcachas and the rest of their lives.
Upstairs Jose Antonio knocked on the door of his mother’s room. She made no answer, which was strange; he expected a bellowed command to leave her alone or to enter. The stale odour of death seeped out from under the door and clung to his nostrils. He grimaced at the smell of decay and the suspicion that his mother had, for once, been true to her word and passed away. When he entered, the little lamp on the bedside table illuminated her waxy features as she lay on her back with her mouth gaping in a silent scream. He approached the bed with reluctance. He felt nothing. No sadness, not even relief. He hadn’t been fond of her, even as a child. Then he noticed the half-eaten empanada she still clutched in her hand and the foam that stuck to the corners of her mouth. She must have died from choking on one of Dolores’s famous delicacies. He wondered whether she might have lived for years had it not been for her greed.
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 28