The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  Christmas was damp in every sense. Max didn’t come home so Mrs Megalith was more cantankerous than ever, vociferously blaming Rita for his non-attendance. How could Rita explain that she missed him as much as her grandmother did? Elvestree wasn’t the same without him. It was far less magical and that year it didn’t even snow.

  Rita settled into sculpting, a solitary occupation that cut her off even more from life outside. At first Mrs Megalith helped out by ordering the odd piece and Hannah had made endless requests for birds, but the reality was that she could barely scrape by.

  By the spring Mrs Megalith had lost patience with her granddaughter’s foolishness and had withdrawn her patronage. Hannah had far too many sculptures of birds and nowhere to put them and the odd commission that had come from the library dwindled. Charming as her objects were, they didn’t have much appeal for those who didn’t know her. She was beginning to feel a dark sense of hopelessness. She had been imprudent to give up her job in the library, but since her fight with Max she had lost the confidence to continue her author events. Max had been the mastermind behind them and it was he who had put her in touch with all the authors. When she had approached publishers independently no one had been interested in her small library and some of them had been extremely rude. The change of occupation had been good, but it didn’t bring in much money. Rita wondered whether Max missed her as much as she missed him, or whether he had cut her out of his life and moved on. Occasionally she read about him in the national press or heard about him from Ruth, who had taken to visiting with Mitzi.

  Ruth’s happiness was obvious. Her daughter was a constant source of delight to her, and her husband quite clearly loved her. They both exuded joy and serenity and Rita couldn’t help but feel envious.

  Max coped with his unhappiness very differently. He lost himself in the scented flesh of beautiful women. He took them home to his town house in Cheyne Walk, made love to them, looked for the unique and special in every one, but awoke in the morning repulsed and disillusioned because each was the same as the last: lovely to look at but hollow inside. There was nothing singular for him to fall in love with. He thought of Rita and despaired that he would never find someone with whom to share his life. He longed for children. He thought of Lydia who didn’t even have the chance to live more than a couple of years. She had been less than mortal, a grain of dust in the wind that never found a place to settle, but he was determined to settle and sow and continue the cycle of life. In that way he would ensure his immortality and that of his entire family.

  Secretly he fed upon the dream of buying back the Imperial Theatre, as if in some way he might recapture the world that was lost to him as a small boy. He fantasized about sitting in his father’s private box with Rita while an actress of unparalleled loveliness retraced his mother’s footsteps on the stage below. It was childish. Castles built in the air by the part of him that had never grown up. But he didn’t travel to Vienna. He feared he wouldn’t recognize it.

  When Max met Delfine Bonville he saw a gentle character he thought he could grow fond of. She was an elegant French girl in her early twenties whose parents had settled in London just after the war. She worked at the French Embassy as a secretary, carrying home a bag of scrunched-up paper every day because she was embarrassed to fill the bin with all the typing errors she made. She was impressionable and naïve but charming. He liked the way she looked, with her dark chestnut eyes and short brown hair cut into a chic bob, because she didn’t remind him of Rita. Petite and feminine she was like a little magpie, seizing with unrestrained fascination upon anything that shone. There was no doubt that she was awed by Max’s celebrity and wealth but he was the first man she had taken to her bed who knew how to pleasure a woman. Most of the English lovers she had had considered sex a competition, like a game of tennis, the first to orgasm being the winner. Max was different, he was sensual and earthy and the longer he could make their lovemaking last the better. He would feast on her for hours and her Continental enthusiasm for sex made them both laugh.

  He bought her jewellery, which she would take out every evening before she went to bed and play with like a child with a doll. She’d try on the rings and necklaces, striking different poses in the mirror, slipping in and out of the pretty dresses he bought her. Max found this childlike delight enchanting and took pleasure from her happiness. He spoiled her. Took her away for romantic weekends to Paris, Venice, even Morocco, and bought her everything she admired. He overwhelmed her with material things because he couldn’t give her his love. Rita had always held his heart and always would. How he wished she had treated it with more care.

  When Rita finally swallowed her pride and prepared to make the first move, her intentions were dashed when Mrs Megalith announced in her tactless way that Max had fallen in love. ‘She’s French,’ she said admiringly. ‘Very pretty and charming and Max says he’s never been happier.’ Rita was stunned by her own reaction. She was devastated. Max was now lost to her for ever because of her fruitless obsession with George.

  Months slipped away and Rita only noticed the passing of time because of the changing seasons. She grew increasingly desperate. She couldn’t face going back to the library. She couldn’t bear to admit that she had failed. Besides, working at home now suited her. She could sculpt all day in her dressing gown if she so wished and she was grateful for the privacy of her house where no one could see her miserable decline. Then, one winter day, when she was at her lowest ebb, a stranger came calling.

  Rita was in her kitchen spooning condensed milk out of a tin to make fudge for Maddie’s children when there was a knock at the door. Tarka sprang up and barked excitedly. Rita was immediately irritated for she hadn’t bothered to get dressed and was still in her dressing gown and slippers with her hair in tangles. She hoped it was someone she knew well enough not to mind. When she opened the door to find an elderly man standing bent in the doorway her face flushed crimson with shame. ‘I’m so sorry to call unannounced,’ he said in a deep, fruity voice. Rita pulled her dressing gown tightly around her and swept her hair off her shoulder with her hand.

  ‘Not at all. What can I do for you?’ she asked, noticing at once his smart suit, navy blue cashmere coat and felt hat.

  ‘You are the talented sculptress from the library, are you not?’ he asked with a small smile. Rita immediately straightened up and took more interest. ‘My name is Benjamin Bradley,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Rita Fairweather,’ she replied, shaking it. ‘Why don’t you come in?’ She closed the door behind him and led him into the kitchen. Tarka followed him curiously, wagging her tail. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ She wished she had taken the time to tidy up, the room was as messy as the beach at low tide.

  ‘A cup of tea would be very nice,’ he replied, clearing a space for his briefcase on the table. Rita put on the kettle and tried to find a clean teacup and spoon.

  ‘Please, do sit down. I’m afraid it’s a little chaotic around here.’

  ‘You’re an artist. It’s called creativity.’

  ‘You’re far too kind. I’m not even dressed.’

  ‘That’s the luxury of working at home. What are you cooking? It smells delicious.’

  ‘Fudge for my nieces and nephew. It’s always a favourite.’

  ‘No children of your own?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Not for want of offers, I’m sure.’ He smiled at her warmly and Rita felt herself blushing again. He took off his coat and hat and sat down.

  ‘Would you excuse me while I dress?’ she said, leaving the kettle to boil on the stove. She returend a few moments later in a pair of trousers and sweater with her hair drawn into a ponytail. She noticed that Tarka was sitting down at Mr Bradley’s feet, rubbing her face on his trousers.

  ‘You’ve made a friend, I see,’ she said with a smile. ‘Tarka doesn’t take to just anyone.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ he replied, stroking her gentle yellow face.

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bsp; Rita poured him a cup of tea and decanted the milk into a jug in an effort to appear more civilized. She sat down at the kitchen table and raised her eyebrows expectantly. ‘You’ve seen my work?’ she asked hopefully. He nodded, stirring sugar into his tea.

  ‘Indeed I have and I’m very impressed. The heron in the library is a very good piece. A very good piece indeed.’

  ‘Really?’ she exclaimed incredulously, scrunching up her nose.

  ‘I think you have great talent and potential.’

  ‘It’s a hobby really. I don’t make much money out of it.’

  ‘I think you should.’ He took a sip of his tea. His white fluffy eyebrows met in the middle as he frowned with pleasure. ‘Ah, this is just what the doctor ordered. How very nice.’

  ‘I don’t sculpt for money but because I love it,’ she said, trying not to think of the bills that were piling up on her desk.

  ‘Well, I’ve come to make you an offer. You see, Miss Fairweather, I own a small gift shop in London. I’m always on the lookout for fresh new talent. I want to commission you to produce a certain number of sculptures a year, if that sounds agreeable to you.’

  Rita looked at him askance. ‘This all seems too good to be true.’

  ‘If it’s too much, I understand,’ he began.

  ‘No, no. It’s not too much. A commission like that would be a wonderful opportunity. How many pieces would you want?’

  ‘Let’s say we start off with five or six, see how they sell and then take it from there? I have a painter who produces about thirty to forty works a year. He sells very well. Very well indeed.’

  Rita bit her bottom lip. ‘How much would you pay me?’ she asked, trying to sound as if she had some business experience.

  ‘I’ll pay a hundred pounds a piece initially then, depending on how they sell, I’ll consider raising it.’

  ‘A hundred pounds a piece?’

  ‘Is that not enough?’ he asked, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘That’s more than enough.’

  Mr Bradley smiled again. ‘London prices are different from those in the countryside. People in London have more money and are willing to spend more. Your work is of the highest quality. If we price things too low customers will think they’re not buying the best.’

  Rita couldn’t believe her luck. She gave Mr Bradley a few pieces that he admired in her studio and promised to send more within a month. He opened his heavy black briefcase and pulled out £300 in crisp twenty-pound notes. Rita had never seen so much money all in one go and held the bundle with reverence. That afternoon she went for a long walk up the beach, excited that she now had a purpose, something to wake up for, a goal. When she returned home she telephoned Maddie and told her the good news. Maddie was impressed. ‘Better than rotting away in that dreary old library,’ she said. ‘Sculpting is much sexier. Now all you need is a lover and you’ll be entirely satisfied.’

  Rita ignored this and asked herself over for tea. ‘I’ve made some fudge for the children,’ she explained.

  ‘Good,’ Maddie replied, with a little smile. ‘They’ve invited some friends over from school so they can all enjoy it. I’ve only got Marmite sandwiches and trifle.’

  Rita hid the money beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom then drove into town to buy more supplies. The woman in the craft shop was very surprised to see her looking so happy. ‘I’m selling my work in a gift shop in London,’ Rita told her with pride. ‘They want up to forty pieces a year!’

  ‘That’ll keep you busy,’ said the salesgirl, impressed. She couldn’t wait to tell Faye Bolton of Rita’s change of fortune.

  In the afternoon Rita walked Tarka to Bray Cove. She took the path that wound its way along the coast, taking pleasure from the little bays and choppy sea. The air smelt of salt and ozone and the grey clouds were swept across the sky by a strong, icy wind. Rita walked with a spring in her step. Finally a ray of light had penetrated her dark soul.

  When she arrived at her sister’s house, the children were all outside in the garden, playing ‘kick the can’ with an empty baked bean tin. Elsbeth waved at her from ‘prison’ as Freddie stalked the lawn hunting for the others. She wore a tall witch’s hat that she had made at school and an old black cape from the dressing-up box in the playroom. Maddie was in the kitchen, reading a magazine at the table with a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

  ‘Doesn’t Elsbeth remind you of Eddie?’ Rita said, as she hung up her coat and wriggled her feet out of her boots.

  ‘That’s Eddie’s cape she’s wearing. She always wanted to be a witch,’ Maddie replied with a chuckle.

  ‘I thought I recognized it. Strange how history repeats itself, isn’t it?’

  Maddie nodded and raised her eyebrows. ‘It certainly is. You should see Daisy and Charlie Bolton, they’re just like you and George were. Can’t separate them for anything in the world.’

  Rita suddenly looked apprehensive. ‘Is Charlie here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maddie, getting up to start preparing their tea. She noticed her sister’s sudden wilting, and huffed impatiently. ‘For goodness’ sake, Rita, don’t let Charlie rattle you. He doesn’t look a bit like George. He’s his mother’s son entirely.’

  ‘I’m not rattled,’ said Rita, putting the kettle on the stove and taking a cup from the cupboard.

  ‘Congratulations on your commissions. Just shows, I know nothing about art.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought that heron was dreadful!’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I like the ones you do of children. They’re charming in a rough kind of way. As I said, it just shows that I know nothing about art.’

  ‘Well, Benjamin Bradley thinks he can sell up to forty a year,’ said Rita, trying not to feel hurt.

  ‘Good luck to him. He must know his market and if he doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. As long as he keeps paying you.’ Rita changed the subject and asked her about the book Harry was working on. ‘It’s about unrequited love,’ Maddie replied. ‘You’ve been a perfect example, Rita. We should pay you a commission. Lucky you’re going to be so rich now, you won’t need one!’

  Before Rita could retaliate, the back door opened and the children hurried in from the cold, scrambling out of their coats and hats and leaving them in a heap on the floor. Elsbeth rushed over to Rita and hugged her. ‘I’m a witch,’ she said. ‘Shame I’m not a real one or I’d turn Freddie into a toad. I’ve spent all afternoon in prison.’

  ‘You shouldn’t hide in such dumb places, then!’ he retorted, striding past her to take his place at the table. ‘Any chocolate cake, Mum?’

  ‘Rita’s made you some fudge,’ she replied, placing the trifle in the middle of the table.

  ‘Goodie!’ he exclaimed eagerly. ‘You can come again, Aunt Rita! Hey, Charlie, come and sit over here, I’m about to tuck into the trifle.’ Charlie sauntered over and climbed onto the bench against the wall. Rita had seen him already in the village shop and once in church, but now she could get a better look. Maddie was right about his resemblance to his mother, but only marginally. The crooked way he smiled was very much his father’s.

  ‘Daisy, grab the cream for me, will you?’ said Freddie, spooning a huge dollop of trifle onto his plate.

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’ she replied coolly, taking the place next to Charlie. ‘Go and get it yourself.’

  ‘Elsbeth!’ he ordered.

  His little sister sighed and opened the fridge. She pulled out the carton of cream, found half a gherkin in the vegetable drawer and dropped it in. With a completely straight face she handed it over and sat down next to Ava, who was chewing quietly on a piece of fudge at the head of the table. Daisy narrowed her eyes. She could always tell when her sister was up to something. Elsbeth pulled an innocent expression and took a sip of her milk, leaving a thick white line on her upper lip. Freddie didn’t even say thank you and was talking so much to Charlie that he didn’t notice the piece of gherkin fall into his trifle. Daisy di
d and she stifled a giggle. She nudged Charlie under the table with her leg. He turned to her and frowned. She indicated her brother’s plate with her eyes. It wasn’t long before Freddie had taken a large mouthful. When he bit on the gherkin he let out a loud yelp, spitting all the fruit, sponge and cream onto the immaculate table cloth. Maddie just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘If Frognal Point doesn’t send me mad, my children will,’ she said with a wry smile.

  Rita watched Ava. She was quiet and shy, with sensitive grey eyes like her father and long white hair like her mother. Rita wondered what her children might have looked like had she married George. While she was dreaming she noticed a pendant hanging around the child’s neck. When she looked closer she saw, to her amazement, that it looked like the very same dove that she had thrown into the sea. Unable to contain her curiosity she approached the table.

  ‘What a lovely pendant you have, Ava. Where did you get it from?’

  Ava touched the little dove with thin white fingers. ‘Mama gave it to me,’ she replied. ‘Papa found it in a cave on the beach.’

  Rita felt as if she had been winded by an unexpected punch to the stomach. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said in a thin voice.

  ‘Thank you. Luckily for me, Mama said that she didn’t want it.’

  Rita felt the anger rise in her chest as she thought how close Susan had come to wearing it. She wondered why George hadn’t kept it for himself. It seemed so careless to have given it away. Once it had been very special to both of them. She tried to ask Ava a few more questions about her parents but the child answered in monosyllables, so Rita had to give up and retreat to the other side of the kitchen where Maddie was flicking through her magazine again. She suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if she didn’t belong there. A small, sticky hand slipped into hers. She looked down to see Elsbeth the witch gazing up at her fondly.

  ‘Aunt Rita, will you play with me?’ she asked.

  Rita’s heart softened. ‘I’d love to. Why don’t we go outside and sit on the rocks in the dark? I’ll tell you about witches. Real witches like your great-grandmother,’ she said, leading the child to the door.