The Swallow and the Hummingbird (52 page)

‘It’s yours, darling. Trees left everything to you.’

‘Why doesn’t Thadeus come and live here?’

Faye put the crumpets on the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Because this was your father’s house. I have too many memories of him ever to be happy here with another man.’

‘Have you told Alice?’

‘No. Only you.’

‘Everyone will ask questions. You’re ready for that, are you?’ He thought of Susan and the hostility she still faced for being an outsider. He didn’t wish the same fate for his mother.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be. I loved your father and I mourned for him as a widow should. But it’s been three years now. Three Christmases without him. I don’t want to waste more time. Life is short and I don’t have years ahead of me. I want to spend the rest of my life with the man who loves me. I can’t live without love, George.’

‘No one should live without love,’ he agreed solemnly, thinking of Rita.

‘You know, Max asked her to marry him,’ she said, reading his thoughts.

‘Max asked Rita to marry him?’ His possessiveness stunned him. ‘She didn’t say ‘yes’, did she?’ He hastily corrected himself. ‘I mean, I’d never put those two together.’

‘She refused him,’ his mother replied, watching the jealousy tinge his cheeks red. George bit the skin around his thumbnail, ashamed of his profound sense of relief.

‘Have you seen her, George?’

‘Only from a distance.’ He lowered his eyes and buttered a crumpet.

‘I see.’ She watched him eat for a moment in silence then she added, ‘Funny how one can live only a few miles away from someone and never see them.’

As much as George had tried to put Rita behind him he was unable to stifle the yearning that was slowly choking him. As long as he lived in Frognal Point, amidst all the memories of their growing up together, he would never be free of her. Her ghostly figure would continue to haunt him on the rocks, in the cave and on the beach. He would look out for her on the cliff tops, afraid yet longing for her at the same time. She was as much part of the place as the birds that flew there – and so was he. He couldn’t bear it any more. Dizzy with excitement he didn’t consider his wife; all he could think of was Rita. He had to talk to her.

With his heart in his mouth he drove up the coast. The roads were strewn with autumn leaves that danced about in his wake, the sunlight catching their golden edges and causing them to sparkle. He rolled down the window and enjoyed the cold wind on his face. He was nervous. His stomach was tight. He felt as if he were in the cockpit of his Spitfire, looking out for German bombers. The prospect of seeing Rita again was almost as frightening. When he arrived at her cottage he sat in the car a little way from the entrance, wondering what he was going to say, anticipating her reaction.

He bit the skin around his thumbnail, which was now raw and bleeding. His hands were rough from farming. Not the hands of the pilot he had once been. He caught himself in the mirror and noticed suddenly the lines around his eyes, the broader face, the tougher, redder skin, the thinning hair. He wasn’t the man Rita had fallen in love with all those years ago and she probably wouldn’t be the girl, either. He braced himself and climbed out of the car, leaving it parked in the lane. He felt as guilty as if he had already been unfaithful.

He walked up the short driveway, beneath tall chestnut trees that shed their conkers onto the ground to rot with the leaves and fallen twigs, and approached the cottage. He was aware, as he stood in the doorway, that the next few moments could either stamp a seal on the past or rip it open again, leaving him more disoriented than before. It was a gamble. He hoped to find a paper tiger in Rita. Taking a deep breath and pulling back his shoulders he rang the bell. There was no sound from within, only the desperate beating of his own heart. He rang it again. Remembering she had a dog, he listened for a bark or the patter of paws. Nothing. Nothing at all. His nervousness turned to frustration. She wasn’t here. He doubted he’d have the courage to come again, and fought his disappointment. After hovering a while in the doorway he reluctantly decided to leave.

He was about to walk out of the driveway when curiosity motivated him to turn back and take a quick look around her property. What sort of woman was she now? After all, a place reflects the person who lives in it, he thought, as he walked back towards the little gate in the hedge that led into the garden. He was surprised at the size of the garden; it was much bigger than he had expected because the cottage was small. The lawn sloped down to the beach and the sea swelled below the wheeling gulls. He put his hands in his pockets and swept his eyes across the bay where the waves gently rose and fell in the soft autumn light. Following his instincts he wandered down the well-trodden path to the beach. The sand was damp for the tide was slowly edging its way out, leaving small crabs and crustaceans exposed to the birds. A salty breeze ran through his hair like the familiar caress of a lover’s hand and his head felt light with nostalgia. He thought of Rita. He thought of Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges and Lorrie Hampton, and their faces merged with hers as pictures arose in his mind from the misty corners of his past. To the hypnotic music of the surf he spread out his arms like a mighty eagle and ran up the beach. The farther he ran the higher his spirits soared until he laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. But suddenly, in that brief moment of ecstasy, he rediscovered the boy who had grown up in Frognal Point. He found him deep inside himself, in his carefree, laughing spirit, and he searched the cove for the girl who had lived there with him.

He strode back up the path into the garden. He could smell Rita in the flowers that grew there and in the grass that now glistened with dew. He would wait for her to return and then he would tell her that he still loved her and that he should never have let her go.

To the left there was an old, crumbling wall. The rickety gate was open. He sauntered over, taking pleasure from this wild house that seemed to reflect Rita’s nature to perfection, and peered through it. There, lying on the grass beside a sleeping dog, was Rita. She was some distance away and could not see him, for she was partially obscured behind the netting that had protected the raspberry bushes from birds in the summer. Her hands were outstretched and she was taming titmice with pieces of walnut. She lay quite still as the dainty little birds hopped about her hands, debating whether or not to trust her. The dog looked old, her face grey around the mouth and eyes, and did not sense his presence at the gate. George shrank back in horror, suddenly afraid that she might see him.

He breathed as quietly as he could, regained his composure, then peered around the wall like a spy. Rita looked beautiful in the burnt light, her face pale and serious with concentration. She was exactly as he remembered her. She didn’t look a day older. Her hair was still long and unkempt, her body fulsome, her clothes carelessly chosen. Even when she had tried to dress well she had looked scruffy. He tilted his head to one side, forgot his nerves and enjoyed the tranquil scene as his spirit remembered and filled his heart with love.

A light breeze rustled through the desiccated raspberry bushes, sweeping away her hair and exposing the side of her face. The face he had so often brushed with kisses and stroked with tender fingers. Where he had tasted the salt of the sea and the bitterness of her tears. How many times had he held that body in his arms? He could feel her now as if it had been only yesterday. The warmth of her flesh, the solid confidence of her affection, the unbound enthusiasm of her youth. He had thrown it all away. It was then that he noticed a small twinkle of light as she altered the angle of her hand. He recognized the little solitaire ring immediately and felt a flutter of pride tickle his stomach. She had kept the ring he gave her. Suddenly the promises they had made to each other the day of his parting came back in words that echoed across the years in ghostly whispers.
‘Every time you look at it I want you to remember how much I love you.’

‘And I want you to remember, every time you look up at that moon, that I love you too.’

Now the titmice began to eat from her fingers. He shrank back against the wall as if he had been scalded. He had made vows before God to love Susan for ever. If he gave into his desire now he would surely lose everything. His heartbeat accelerated and thumped against his ribcage. Choked with regret, his head buzzing with confusion, he staggered across the lawn, desperate to get away before she noticed him. He couldn’t possibly see her now; he didn’t trust himself. How was it possible to love two women? The thought of losing Susan filled him with complete desolation. The thought of coming face to face with Rita filled him with terror.

He hurried to the road and climbed into his car. As he turned on the ignition he saw in the rear mirror the yellow retriever running out of the driveway. He sped away without another backward glance.

Rita called for Tarka. ‘You silly dog!’ she exclaimed as she came trotting back into the garden. ‘What did you see out there?’ She patted the furry coat and shook her head. ‘You’re getting on, old girl. Chasing ghosts!’

She was pleased the titmice were now eating from her hands. She had learned how to tame them from her mother. Maddie used to paint such pretty birds, she thought to herself, such a shame that she had retreated once again into magazines and movies. As she wandered into the house she had no idea that George had only been a few yards away, watching her, or how close she had been to realizing years of futile dreams.

As George drove back to Lower Farm he realized that he could never see Rita again. As his mother had said, it is possible to live close to someone and never see them. Perhaps he would live out the rest of his days in Frognal Point and never come across her. For Susan’s sake and for the sake of their marriage, Rita must simply cease to be a reality.

Susan prepared supper. She was now getting used to living at Lower Farm. Faye had taken all her books and manuscripts, odd photograph frames and trinkets, but it was still full of their family things. Susan planned to redecorate. Faye’s taste was eccentric at best, shocking at worst. A blind person could have chosen better. She was grateful for the excuse for she wanted to make it into
their
home. At the moment she still felt like a guest, embarrassed to move anything for fear of offending her mother-in-law. George loved it just the way it was, for it reminded him of his childhood, but he understood her need to feel that she belonged. She looked at her watch and wondered when he’d be finishing for the day.

She was distracted by the sound of a car. She looked anxiously out of the window to see George pull up and turn off the ignition. As he climbed out she noticed that he looked different. His cheeks were flushed and his hair ruffled. He seemed younger, like the boy she had met on the deck of the
Fortuna
all those years ago. She wondered where he had been. And with whom.

He walked through the door to see her standing in the kitchen, leaning against the sideboard. In that moment, she appeared older. Her face was gaunt and lines had formed around the corners of her mouth, dragging it down. How strange that he hadn’t noticed before. They stared at one another warily. Neither spoke. The aroma of her cooking filled the room. Susan had never been a very good cook. In Argentina they had had the fortune to have Marcela. In Argentina they had had the fortune to be happy.

Susan studied her husband’s face with cold, unfriendly eyes. ‘Are you having an affair, George?’

Her question was as unexpected as it was aggressive. George was stunned. His eyes widened and their boyish expression disappeared to allow the man to reassert himself.

‘No,’ he replied firmly.

‘Where have you been?’

‘On the beach.’

‘Alone?’

‘You don’t ever want to come with me.’

‘Because you never ask me.’ She felt her chest tighten with anguish as she realized that he had drifted away from her, and that she had allowed him to.

‘Then I’m asking you now,’ he smiled at her hopefully and the skin creased around his eyes. ‘Will you come down and watch the sunset with me?’

She fought hard against tears. She had always detested self-pity and weakness, in herself as much as in others. She turned to take the supper out of the oven, lest it burn while they were away, and said, ‘I’d like that.’

After that, they never spoke of Rita again. Her ghost slowly faded from their marriage, relegated to the cave, the beach and the windy cliff tops where it remained as whispers in the rise and fall of the tides. George felt her presence there when he took solitary walks but he did not let it interfere with his life and certainly did not allow his occasional yearning to show. He had made his decision.

‘Do you suppose, Reverend, that Faye was seeing Thadeus Walizhewski during her marriage to Trees?’ asked Miss Hogmier, leaning eagerly across the counter so that the poor Reverend could smell the stale odour that surrounded her. She spoke in a loud hiss even though the shop was empty.

‘That is not for us to judge, Miss Hogmier,’ replied the Reverend reproachfully. ‘Her husband is with God now. It is right that she should love again.’

Miss Hogmier’s eyes narrowed and she grinned as far as her bitter little mouth allowed. ‘I’ve heard, although I won’t mention any names, that she was with him the night Trees died.’

‘Yes, she was delivering a sculpture.’

‘So she says.’ She stood up and crossed her arms. ‘If you ask me, and I’m not one to gossip, live and let live is my motto, she’s been itching to move in with Thadeus ever since she buried her husband. She thinks no one will be any the wiser. But she doesn’t fool me.’

‘She keeps herself to herself,’ said the Reverend, tapping his goods with his fingers, hoping she’d notice and start adding up the shopping.

She nodded slowly. ‘Dark horse more like,’ she retorted with a sniff. ‘What are the young supposed to think? It’s our job to set a good example. Not surprising that George married an American, his mother’s run off with a Pole!’