The Swallow and the Hummingbird (51 page)

‘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.

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 did 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.

Maddie didn’t even look up from her magazine and the other children were too busy feasting on fudge and trifle to notice that Aunt Rita was about to weave her much-loved stories under the bright crescent moon.

Having given up on Rita and determined not to live on the residue of broken dreams, Max asked Delfine to marry him. She was too young and blinded by the brilliance of her jewellery to notice that he didn’t love her. She accepted his proposal and moved into his house.

‘Everything that I own will be yours,’ he told her. ‘But there is one room in the house that belongs only to me. It is my private room and I always keep it locked. I don’t want to share that room with anyone, and I trust you to respect that and not to try to go in there. Every other room in the house is yours.’

Delfine reassured him that she would never betray him. She was too happy to care about a secret room locked with a mystery key. She was going to be Mrs Max de Guinzberg and that was all that mattered.

When Rita heard the news from her grandmother, she was broken-hearted. He hadn’t even bothered to tell her himself. She obviously meant nothing to him any more. She felt betrayed. She walked along the cliff top with Tarka, recalling the time she had nearly thrown herself over the edge for George. It seemed like an age ago, another era, when she had been a very different girl. Suddenly she realized that everyone else’s life was continually moving, like a river, on and on and on. Her life, however, was a stagnant pond where nothing could grow. She was tired of it.

Chapter 34

It had been almost three years since Trees’ death, and Faye had had enough of mourning. Secret visits to Thadeus’s house were simply no longer enough. George was busy with the farm and his children, Alice had her own life. What of her? She sculpted in her studio and enjoyed her grandchildren, but she felt incomplete now she had no one to look after. She longed to take care of Thadeus. He was old and needed her. She wanted to cook for him, wash and iron his clothes, keep him company during the long winter evenings by the fire in his sitting room, discussing books they had read and music they loved. She dreamed of playing the piano, accompanying him as he played the violin, sharing those melancholy moments when his memories turned his heart to liquid. She loved him. It wasn’t enough to see him only occasionally.

Faye was now in her late sixties and no longer cared what other people thought of her. Hannah could disapprove, Miss Hogmier could gossip to Reverend Hammond and his wife if it gave her pleasure, the church could vibrate with the shattering news of her love affair, it no longer mattered.
Freedom is when you no longer care what people think of you
, she thought to herself as she packed her bags,
I’m going to live for me
. That evening when George popped in for tea after a busy day on the farm, Faye’s bags were piled up in the hall.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked her as she took his crumpets out of the Aga.

‘I’m going to live with Thadeus Walizhewski,’ she stated casually.

George sat down and rubbed his chin. ‘What about the house?’ he asked, for he couldn’t think what else to say.