The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What kind?’

  Mrs Megalith leaned forward and whispered darkly. ‘You remember all those birds in the garden?’ Charlie nodded. ‘They were once outspoken little boys like you.’ Mrs Megalith turned to Susan with a grin. ‘You can tell that husband of yours that if he spreads such nonsense he must take responsibility for it.’

  Charlie insisted all the way home that he hadn’t believed her. Ava teased him and called him gullible and various other names from school that Susan hadn’t heard before, while she drove in silence, unable to take her mind off Rita. Her rosy face lingered in Susan’s mind, reminding her that, as much as she tried to fit in to this coastal community, she could not. She had discovered another side to the man she thought she knew. The side that loved the same things that Rita loved. The side that belonged in Frognal Point. The side that she didn’t fit into. Like an odd piece of a jigsaw puzzle, she was simply the wrong shape.

  That night she was tidying up the bedroom. George was in the bath, singing the songs Jose Antonio had sung with the gauchos at Las Dos Vizcachas. When she folded his trousers she heard something rattle in his pocket and pulled out the pendant. She had never seen it before. To her fury her heart began to pound. She berated herself for feeling so insecure. If she had found it in the Argentine she would have thought nothing of it. Regaining her composure she strode into the bathroom. George’s face was covered in shaving cream. He looked up at her expectantly. She held out the pendant and let it swing in front of his eyes. ‘What is this?’ she asked, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

  ‘I found it in a cave on the beach,’ he replied innocently.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was sticking out of the sand. I thought you might like it.’

  She looked at it and lifted her chin. The suspicion still lingered. ‘How sweet of you, darling. Some poor girl must have lost it.’ She studied it more carefully. ‘It’s a dove, much more appropriate for a young girl, don’t you think? A girl who loves birds.’ She cast him a frosty glance. ‘I’ll give it to Ava.’ She walked out and placed it on her dressing table, wondering if she had overreacted.

  George dragged the razor down his face. Suddenly he flinched as the blade nicked the skin of his chin. He sat quite still and watched as the blood dropped into the bath water.

  Chapter 30

  The weeks went by and winter set in, bringing with it icy fog and sharp winds. Ava wore her pendant with pride after Susan bought her a smaller chain to hang it on. George admired it then never mentioned it again and Susan scolded herself for having jumped to the wrong conclusions. The children broke up for the holidays and spent much of their time with Maddie’s children playing on the farm and building camps in the woods. Much to Susan’s surprise she and Maddie became friends. Maddie didn’t resent her like the rest of the community in spite of the fact that, out of everyone, she had the most cause. It seemed inconsequential to her that she should befriend the woman who stole the man her sister loved. They never discussed Rita. After a while Susan stopped thinking about her. She discovered that she and Maddie had a lot in common. As well as their children and Frognal Point, Maddie shared Susan’s forthright nature and sophistication, though from where she had acquired it not even her mother knew. Neither enjoyed the seaside activities so beloved by Rita and George, preferring to sit over cups of tea talking in the cosy comfort of their sitting rooms. They laughed together and stood as allies sharing stories about the ghoulish Miss Hogmier and eccentric Mrs Megalith. They both found Reverend Hammond tiresome and exchanged looks during his sermons when his mind wandered and he began to repeat himself.

  George, however, was unable to forget about Rita. He noticed her absence every week in church and caught himself looking out for her when he walked on the cliffs or climbed the rocks with his children. In his mind she grew out of all proportion and Frognal Point became increasingly incomplete without her. He didn’t notice the coolness that began to permeate his marriage. Susan withdrew more and more into the lives of her children while he scanned the beach for his past.

  Then, the weekend before Christmas the two families were out on the cliffs when finally he saw her. It was a bitterly cold afternoon. The sun had melted the frost and was doing its best to creep under the trees to burn off the light covering of snow that had fallen during the night. He had run on ahead with Charlie, having made a kite that was proving hard to control as it danced and dived on the wind. Charlie was delighted and shouted back at his mother to make sure that she was watching. Susan broke off her conversation with Harry and Maddie to shout back every now and then but soon they were too far away, a pair of tiny figurines silhouetted against the sky.

  Finally, as they approached the cove near the secret cave, George lost his grip of the string. He watched helplessly as the kite flew into the air in triumph, only to turn and dive suddenly over the edge to catch on the rocks directly below. Charlie followed his father to the verge where they both lay on their stomachs and peered over. George stretched as far as he could but the little kite remained just beyond his reach. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We’d better wait until Harry gets here, perhaps he can help.’ At that moment his eyes were distracted by a movement down on the beach. He caught his breath and blinked to focus. She was far away in the distance but he was in no doubt that it was Rita.

  He stood up. ‘Charlie, why don’t you run back and tell them we’ve lost the kite,’ he suggested. Charlie set off without hesitation, leaving George alone to watch his old love walk slowly in his direction, followed by a bouncing yellow dog. As she got bigger he could make out her long hair that blew about beneath a woolly hat pulled low over her forehead. She wore a beige coat and Wellington boots and had stuffed her hands into her pockets.

  Battered about by the wind and the sudden cascade of memories, he stood high above their beach knowing that in a few moments she would raise her eyes and see him watching her. He wanted to run down the little path as he had done in his youth and talk to her but Susan and the others were now approaching, spurred on by an overexcited Charlie. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Overwhelmed by sadness he gazed helplessly as Rita’s features came into focus. Her face was impassive. Her nose was red and her skin as pale as the white throat of a tern. To George her tragedy endowed her with a beauty that in reality she did not possess and his heart lurched for what might have been. Inadvertently he romanticized her, casting her in a timeless spell that would have surely broken had he the chance to speak to her. But he did not and the spell remained complete.

  Rita raised her eyes as he had expected and stopped walking. She stood quite still. Only her hair continued to dance about on the wind regardless of the sight that froze the blood in her veins. Silence seemed to descend upon the small cove where memories now merged into a surreal moment beyond the limits of time. The dog ran up and down the beach, barking at the waves that rolled onto the sand and the birds that scrounged for food. Then Rita raised her hand and her movement shattered the enchantment.

  George turned to see Susan and the others now only a few feet away.

  ‘Now where’s that silly kite?’ Susan asked. ‘It doesn’t matter, darling. We can buy another one.’ Then she looked over the edge. At first she saw the kite lying sheltered on the rocks, its tail twisting and curling like a long snake. Then her attention was drawn to the woman standing on the beach staring up at them. It seemed a long moment before she put her hand back in her pocket and continued to walk. She didn’t look up again but kept her eyes fixed in front of her, determined not to give the American woman the satisfaction of seeing her pain. Susan recognized Rita immediately but pretended she hadn’t noticed her. ‘I think if you and Harry hold onto Charlie’s ankles you might just reach it,’ she suggested casually, but she felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.

  The kite was retrieved and launched once again, but George didn’t recover his light-hearted mood. He sank deep into his tho
ughts where even his wife was unable to reach him. Seeing his brooding face, she wished they had never come to Frognal Point. They had been so happy in the Argentine.

  Rita’s legs were shaking so much she was barely able to walk. He had seen her and he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. During that long moment when their gazes had interlocked she could have sworn she saw, even from this distance, a glimmer of regret. She stepped along the sand aware that he was still there on the cliff top, his wife now at his side. She could feel his disappointment. Perhaps he had wanted to talk. Perhaps if he had been alone he would have run down the sandy path as he had done so often in the past and embraced her on the beach. Maybe he would have held her in his arms and told her how sorry he was, that he had made the wrong decision, that he had spent the last eighteen years regretting it. Rita played with the diamond solitaire ring. Somewhere in the most forgotten corner of his heart she was certain that he still loved her.

  Now her spirits lifted and she felt a sudden urge to run up the beach with her arms outspread. When she stole a glance back to where George had stood she saw that everyone had gone. Only wild grasses swayed against the sky, accentuating the void his absence made. Filled with the childish exuberance that had so dominated her youth she extended her arms and ran into the wind. She laughed as Tarka barked in excitement, wagging her tail and jumping across the sand with her. The birds scattered and flew into the air and Rita was sure that she could fly too, so light was her mood.

  That evening Susan was subdued, wishing they could just pack up and return to Argentina. Tormented by her fears she opened the fridge to discover there was no milk left. George was in the sitting room reading the papers while Charlie and Ava played chess in front of the fire listening to their Jimmy Hendrix records. Knowing the village shop would be closed and that the milkman always arrived too late for George’s breakfast, she decided to go over to Faye’s and borrow a pint.

  Across at the farmhouse, she followed the low sound of voices coming from the sitting room. She would have called out had she not heard Alice mention her name. She froze and held her breath as she realized they were talking about her.

  ‘. . . Susan’s perfectly pleasant, she’s just rather cold,’ Alice was saying.

  ‘But she makes George happy and that’s what’s important,’ said Faye. Pause.

  ‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ came Alice’s small voice. ‘I think he would have been happier if he had married Rita. He grew up believing he could have everything he wanted. He’s always been too ready to give up what’s good for him in the hope that something better will come along.’

  ‘Not now, darling. He’s completely content with Susan. She’s given him lovely children and stability. I agree she’s not the warmest of people, but it must be hard for her here. She must find the English countryside dreadfully wet and cold.’

  ‘She doesn’t fit in. At first she made an effort to share all his interests, now she rarely accompanies him anywhere. I’ve bumped into him numerous times on the beach and she’s nowhere in sight. I don’t think she makes much of an effort any more.’

  ‘That’s no crime. I made no effort to love your father’s silly trees and he didn’t share my passion for sculpture.’

  ‘That’s different. I’m not talking about a hobby but a way of life. George is the sea, the beach, the cliffs, the birds. He loves people, she clearly doesn’t. Have you noticed how she holds back after church as if no one’s good enough for her? She reminds me of Antoinette . . .’

  Susan couldn’t bear it a moment longer. With tears stinging in her eyes she crept back down the corridor and out into the wind once again. The cold dampened the flames in her cheeks and quietened her thumping heart. So that’s what they all thought of her. That he would have been better off had he married Rita. She felt the resentment rise in her chest. Is that what George thought too?

  She wouldn’t take it any more. She was fed up of stepping aside and pretending nothing was wrong. When she got home George was in the kitchen helping himself to a biscuit. He saw her ashen face and closed the tin. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, immediately thinking of his mother.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she stated firmly. He followed her upstairs, wondering what on earth had inspired her wrath. Once in the bedroom he closed the door behind him so the children wouldn’t hear.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She turned and folded her arms in front of her chest. Two small red stars appeared on her white cheeks where they smarted angrily. ‘I’ve just overheard your mother talking to Alice.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That you would have been better off had you married Rita.’

  George dropped his shoulders and chuckled. ‘And you believe them?’

  ‘I saw the way you looked at her today. I’m not blind, George.’

  ‘She lives here, Susan. I’m bound to see her.’

  ‘It’s not that you saw her, it’s the way you looked at her. Do you still love her?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I love you,’ he said, as if he thought the whole conversation ridiculous.

  ‘Even though I don’t fit in?’

  ‘You do fit in.’

  ‘Not according to your mother.’

  ‘It’s according to me that matters.’

  ‘God, George,’ she raged. ‘I’m now haunted by your demons!’

  He strode over and drew her into his arms where she yielded without resistance. ‘We’ve only just arrived. It was never going to be easy, you knew that. It’s not easy for me either. I’m tormented by memories of the war, not Rita.’

  ‘We were so happy in Argentina,’ she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. ‘I wish we could go back.’

  ‘Give it time, Susan. It’ll get better, I promise.’

  The following morning George felt the need to be alone among his father’s beloved walnuts. Perhaps amidst those trees he would feel him close. If Mrs Megalith was to be believed, he was there, separated only by the intangible wall of vibrations that made it impossible to see him. In his mind’s eye he pictured his tall weathered frame, complete with the tweed cap and heavy boots he had always worn, standing beside the friends he had lost in the war: Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges, Lorrie Hampton. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bracing wind that swept in from the sea. Then the sight of a small grey plaque at the foot of a young tree diverted his attention and he bent his head to get a better look. Charles Henry Bolton, 24th October 1949. His father had never told him he had planted a tree for his grandson. He crouched down to run his fingers over the words and his eyes misted with sorrow. He missed him. He missed the boy he had once been, and then his thoughts turned to Rita. He missed her too.

  Max looked forward to returning to Frognal Point for Christmas. Christmas at Elvestree was always memorable, although it wasn’t their event to celebrate. Mrs Megalith had respected Max and Ruth’s Jewish roots and had read up on the festivals that had punctuated their childhood in Austria. According to what she had learned she had decorated their playhouse out of fruit for Sukkot, lit candles on a Friday night, and hidden their presents at Hanukkah, displaying the eight-candled Menorah in the window according to the Law. She had never taken them to church and had on occasions made a synagogue out of her drawing room. The first time Max and Ruth attended synagogue in England was long after the war, when she had made a point of taking them, as teenagers, to London to stay with her sister. She had sat through an entire Saturday morning service in Bevis Marks without understanding a word of Hebrew so that Max and Ruth could stay faithful to the religion of their parents. That was the first time Ruth had cried for her home. Hearing in the language and ritual of synagogue such distinctive echoes of her childhood she had sobbed all the way back to Devon in the train. Max had wanted to cry too, but he knew he had to be strong for his sister. He had clenched his fists and blinked away tears, for the associations were almost too much to be
ar. When he got home he had filled the hollowness in his spirit with his mother’s little book of poetry. Reading the verses she had once read to him, he had given in to memories usually too painful to remember.

  Sorrowfully, he had recalled the last supper she had prepared for them before their long journey to England on the Kindertransport train. His father had sat solemnly, his thick whiskers twitching, the distinctive smell of tobacco surrounding him in a familiar cloud. Talk of war had dominated their small house, but that night they had tried to talk about other things. No one could have predicted the horror that was to come or the lucky escape that was to be his and Ruth’s destiny. Lydia slept unaware of her fate in her cot upstairs. Their little suitcases were packed and placed by the door, full of warm clothes and hope. Max had noticed his mother’s white hands trembling as she served him from a large pot of steaming soup and he had felt a solid ball of anguish forming in his throat. Had she known that she would never see them again? That she wouldn’t live to watch them grow up? The pain must have been unbearable. She had tried to hide her anguish behind a tight smile, but she was unable to control the trembling in those slender white hands. Max’s heart had filled with fear and the dreadful sensation of suddenly being cut loose from the strings that supported him.

  The following morning he had sat on the train with Ruth, staring out at the bleak wintry landscape, remembering with all his might the colour and majesty of the Imperial Theatre. Those crimson velvet chairs, blazing golden lights and the smell of paint and perfume. The sound of raised voices, the scraping of furniture, the screeching of actresses in fur and lace. He imagined he was hiding in his father’s box watching rehearsals, crouched low so no one could see him, enveloped in the warm fog of familiarity.

  Christmas had always been a pleasure. It didn’t remind Max and Ruth of the family they had lost in the war or of the childhood that had been so abruptly snatched from them. Christmas was shiny and novel and full of new memories. Most notably for Max, however, Christmas meant time with Rita, more eagerly anticipated than any present could ever be. This year it would be even more special because he was going to ask her to marry him.