The Swallow and the Hummingbird (16 page)

This thought disturbed him. Surely he had loved Rita for as long as he could remember? Besides, Susan was gone. He would never see her again. He paid the bill and took a taxi to Retiro station. The driver was a jolly man with a large belly and a keen sense of patriotism, for blue and white Argentine flags were stuck in every possible place in his cab. Disappointed that George didn’t speak Spanish, he chattered away regardless, sure that the young foreigner would pick it up after a while. George let him talk on, nodding and saying
sí
and
no
in agreement, depending on the driver’s tone. When he was dropped at the station he was amused to see that it was a replica of London’s Waterloo, built by the Victorians in the same cast iron as the original. Even the details of the ticket windows were identical. He felt a sudden nostalgia, remembering the trains he had so often taken at the beginning of the war when coming home on leave.

When he found a seat on the Rayo del Sol train bound for Córdoba it was strange to look out of windows free of blackout fabric, to sit comfortably in an uncrowded carriage, to find himself opposite a brown-skinned woman with a parrot perched contentedly on her shoulder. He watched the city for a while, the buildings becoming shabbier the farther they travelled until they were little more than shacks with corrugated iron roofs. He must have drifted off to sleep for when he awoke countryside had replaced the concrete of the city.

As they cut across the pampa, flat plains of long grasses extended as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by clusters of trees where there were dwellings. The odd ombu tree sat proprietorially, squat and weathered but undeniably the king of the pampa. Occasionally herds of shiny ponies, the colour of rich honey, grazed in the sunshine or gathered under tall plane trees. They tossed their heads lazily, too hot to canter around. He passed terrain dotted with small towns, and huge fields planted with corn, wheat and sunflowers. The sky was vast, as if the earth had fallen away exposing the gateway to heaven, and occasional fluffy clouds, drifting across it, like angelic chariots. They stopped at quaint, old-fashioned English stations that once again reminded him of home. The lady opposite him nodded off to sleep unaware that her parrot, so beautifully behaved during her waking moments, now snatched the opportunity to hop about the carriage. He used his claws to climb up the seat, over the luggage rack and down the other side. George watched him with interest, wishing he had something he could offer him to eat.

George dined alone. He remembered his last dinner with Susan on the
Fortuna
, the way she smiled, the dreadful scar on her face, which he found so endearing, and the stony blue eyes that had softened for him. He recalled little about their conversation. The history of Uruguay and Argentina, what did he care? But he could envisage her as if she were opposite him now. He could even smell her. The sweet scent of lily of the valley and her own, unique perfume. He didn’t desire the company of anyone else. He was content to be left alone with his thoughts. After dinner he retired to his berth to sleep. Although he had the compartment to himself the man next door snored so loudly the dividing wall shook. In the morning, having slept fitfully, he emerged to discover, to his horror, that the snorer was the woman with the parrot.

Finally the terrain changed. Hills appeared on the flat plain like giant waves breaking on a beach and he remembered that Susan had told him how those mountains were home to condors, coral snakes and pumas. They were rich in vegetation and waterways as well as heritage, for colonial monasteries and churches remained as testimony of a once-thriving Jesuit culture. At last the train drew up at Córdoba station. He was pleased to get out, stretch his legs and cool down in the shade of the awning.

‘George, is that you?’ He turned to see a stout, determined-looking woman striding purposefully towards him. ‘Yes, by God, you’ve grown!’ Aunt Agatha’s face was weathered and brown like an old leather shoe. She held out her arms and pulled his face down to her level to kiss him. He was at once engulfed in a fog of perfume.
‘Carlos, traiga el equipaje, por favor,’
she said, waving at the skinny youth who hovered awkwardly beside her. Even with George’s little knowledge of the language he could tell that his aunt spoke it badly. ‘George, what a delight it is to see you after all these years. Yes, you were little more than a boy when I married Jose Antonio. Of course, you probably don’t remember me. But I remember you. Oh yes, you may have grown but that cheeky face of yours hasn’t changed a bit!’ She linked her arm through his and led him out into the sunshine. ‘Isn’t it hot? Lovely. Bet you haven’t seen sun like this in all your life. And Faye can’t understand why I haven’t set foot in England for fifteen years! Well, you can tell her now, can’t you. How is Faye?’ George did not remember Aunt Agatha and usually switched off when his mother spoke of her. He wondered for a horrible moment if he had made the right decision coming to stay with her. Perhaps he would have been better off remaining in Buenos Aires, searching for Susan.

‘Mother is well. Sculpting, looking after Father,’ he replied, suddenly feeling very weary.

‘Good. Trees is keeping the country fed, no doubt. And how is Alice? I gather she’s waiting for Geoffrey to come home. Shouldn’t be long now. Thank God the war is over. What a dreadful business. Faye wrote me wonderful letters. I gather you’re something of a hero. I’m very proud of you. Told all my friends. Very glamorous flying those planes. What fun it must have been!’ George didn’t have the energy to disagree with her.

Agatha climbed into the front seat of her canvas-top Ford, leaving the young boy to load the luggage in the boot before scrambling into the back. ‘Only an hour to Jesús Maria, we’re not far from there,’ she said, squeezing his leg enthusiastically. ‘Now tell me, how is Rita and when will she be joining us?’

‘She’s not coming out, Aunt Agatha. It wasn’t appropriate. After all, we’re not married.’

‘Oh, pooh to that.’

‘I’m too young to settle down.’

‘Jose Antonio was your age when we married. I’m a little older than him. He’s always liked the older woman.’

George began to take interest. ‘How much older are you?’

‘Five years, I think. He still looks like a boy, whereas I look like an old hag. That’s what the Argentine sun does to a woman’s skin. No good at all. Not that I’m bothered. Faye was always the pretty one. I’m strong on personality.’ He looked across at her forceful profile and silently agreed with her. She might have been small in stature but she was built like a Panzer tank, with thick wrists and ankles and a generous girth. ‘So you’ve left that poor girl in England pining after you. You brute!’ She gave a deep, throaty laugh.

‘I asked her to come. She didn’t want to. She loves Frognal Point. I can’t imagine her ever leaving it. I’ll return in a year or so and marry her.’

Agatha snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, George. You won’t marry Rita. It’s all about timing, you see. Perhaps if you were a little older I’d say it had a chance. But you’re young. You’ll fall in love out here. The Argentine girls are famous for their beauty and femininity. Don’t know why Jose Antonio chose me when he could have had any of them. Don’t think we’re out in the sticks here,’ she continued. ‘I travel down to BA every now and then, and friends visit us up here. Some stay for months. Jesús Maria is very sociable. Nice people. You have to learn Spanish, you know. I’ll get someone in the town to come and give you lessons. You simply won’t survive without it. Jose Antonio will take you around the farm this evening, show you how things work. You ride, I presume?’ He nodded. ‘Good. We go everywhere on horseback. Tracks not good enough for cars. It’s the rain, you see. Rains a lot here in summertime, that’s why it’s so green. They say the climate is like Spain. I’ve never been to Spain so I wouldn’t know. The children will love you. You’ll be a hero to them, flying planes in the war. Told them all about it.’

George listened with half an ear to her ramblings. She told him about her children, the education in Jesús Maria, how they were contemplating sending them to school in Buenos Aires. His mind wandered to Rita, out of guilt; he felt duty-bound to remember her. He would post his letter and gift to her as soon as possible, and felt a stab of pain when he envisaged her pining for him on those cliff tops, the wind whipping through her wild curls.

Finally the car left the highway and rattled along a dirt track for what seemed miles and miles. It was bumpy and dusty and the sun burned through the glass windows causing him to sweat. Unlike the pampa, Córdoba was thick with trees and vegetation and undulating with hills. He felt his stomach rumble in protest for he hadn’t eaten breakfast. At last they turned into a driveway lined with leafy trees.

‘Home sweet home,’ said Agatha. ‘Welcome to
Las Dos Vizcachas
, The Two Hares.’

George sat up and paid attention. Agatha drove slowly down the shady drive in order to give her nephew a good look at her beautiful home. She was immensely proud of
Las Dos Vizcachas
and ran it with military efficiency. Of course George would never appreciate the work she had done for he hadn’t seen it when she arrived.

At the end of the drive the house stood as squat and sturdy as its mistress. Built around a courtyard, it was painted white with a roof of green tiles, rising into two towers at either end. The windows peeped out from behind green iron bars to deter intruders, and the shutters were closed from within to keep it cool. At the back a wide veranda shaded a tiled terrace that faced an ornamental lake and then beyond, across those seemingly interminable plains. Borders spilled over with flowers and large bushes of gardenia and bougainvillea dazzled in the sunshine. Eucalyptus trees rustled in the breeze and filled the air with the smell of camphor, reminding George of Malta. Carlos carried his bag inside, receiving a scolding on the way from a woman with a shrieking voice. She ejected her words like bullets, raising her hands in the air and waving them madly.

‘That’s Dolores,’ said Agatha. ‘As you can see, she is quite unable to control her temper. She was here when I arrived and there was no way I could get rid of her. One tolerates her as one tolerates an aged relative.’

‘What does she do?’ he asked, following his aunt into the house.

‘She’s the maid. She cooks, but she’s far too superior to clean. Agustina sees to that. She’s a younger woman, more agile and, thank the Lord, as docile as a cow.’

The house, although very colonial, betrayed Agatha’s English upbringing by the paintings that hung on the walls and most notably the two large dogs who lay on the cool tiles in the hall. They barely lifted their eyes when George walked over them, so he gathered they were not there to guard. ‘They’re meant to be Great Danes, but didn’t quite make it. They answer to Bertie and Wooster,’ said Agatha. At the sound of their names their long tails thumped happily. He followed his aunt down a dark corridor and into a bedroom at the end. ‘I thought you’d like this room, it looks over the park,’ she said. ‘It’s also the other end of the house from us, so you’ll have some privacy.’

George was delighted with his room. It was large and cool with dark wooden floorboards, white walls and a queen-size iron bed imported from England. The light fell in through a tall open window, its shutters ajar and the linen curtains pulled back. George stood in front of it admiring the view and feeling rejuvenated by the fresh, sugar-scented air and the peaceful song of birds.

‘When you’re ready I’ll be outside on the terrace. You’ll need a drink I should imagine.’ Before she left the room, George unzipped his bag.

‘I have a letter to post,’ he said, pulling out the small package in brown paper and the letter. ‘It’s for Rita.’ Agatha raised a knowing eyebrow.

‘I’ll see to that for you,’ she said with an air of efficiency. Nothing was ever too much for Agatha. ‘Any washing put in the basket. Agustina will do it and return it to you in the morning.’

George unpacked, bathed, shaved, and dressed in light trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. He splashed his face and neck with cologne then walked through the house to the terrace. Agatha was standing beneath the veranda talking to one of the gardeners. She had her hands on her hips and her feet akimbo, like those old portraits of Henry VIII. George was sure she could be just as terrifying if she so wanted. The gardener held his hat deferentially and listened to everything she said with a bowed head. When she saw George she dismissed the man without so much as a thank you and turned her back on him. He shuffled away, wiping the sweat from his brow with a filthy handkerchief.

‘That’s Gonzalo. As strong as an ox and just as stupid,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the round table. ‘Lemonade?’ She poured him a glass, which he drank gratefully, then continued boisterously, articulating her words in that old-fashioned aristocratic way, barely opening her mouth as she did so. George thought she would have made a very formidable colonel in the army. ‘When I arrived here I barely spoke a word of Spanish and this place was a wreck. Jose Antonio grew up here. His grandfather built it and at one time he lived here with his parents, grandparents and two sisters. The grandparents died, then the father, and his two sisters buggered off. One married a Mexican, the other lives down south.’

‘What happened to his mother?’ George asked, though he wasn’t really very interested in Jose Antonio’s family history.

‘She lives in Buenos Aires. Mad as a hatter, though. Never comes up, the journey’s too much for her. I can’t say I’m sorry. She always was rather hard work.’

‘You’ve made this into a paradise,’ he said. Agatha was pleased.

‘It wasn’t easy. Coming here, not speaking the language. It wasn’t Jose Antonio’s money, either. They lost it all, the fools. I had a bit, enough to get the place up and running. Didn’t know much about farming. Had to learn all that as I went along. We’re comfortable and labour is cheap. We live off the land. You’ll see. There’s plenty of meat and vegetables. We’re self-sufficient. Come, I’ll show you around. Bring your glass with you.’