The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  A couple of days later, when the ship anchored just off the coast of Uruguay, they took a small boat into the port to wander among the shops and up and down the beach. It was soft and fine, quite unlike the sand in Devon.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful here? Gone are the grey clouds and drizzle of England,’ said George, enjoying the sapphire-blue sky and bright sunshine.

  ‘The smell is what delights me,’ said Susan. ‘It’s thick and sweet like honey.’

  ‘I grew up by the sea. I’ve always loved it.’

  ‘It pulls at you, doesn’t it? Right here.’ She placed a hand on her chest. ‘It makes me feel my own immortality and question what there is beyond. I suppose death is like the sea. The horizon is only the limit of our sight. You have to have faith. I like to think heaven is there, beyond our senses.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ George asked suddenly.

  She laughed. The same laugh that a mother might give a child in order to indulge him. ‘Oh, George,’ she said and sighed.

  ‘Tomorrow we arrive in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Let’s live that long first, shall we?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll live that long, I assure you,’ he replied tightly.

  ‘I know, you survived the war.’ She took his hand in hers. He held it reluctantly.

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Susan.’ His voice was angry but she still smiled which infuriated him all the more.

  ‘I’m not patronizing you, George. You’re asking me something I don’t know the answer to. It’s easier not to think about these things. To avoid them.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you meeting a lover?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see me again?’ He stopped walking and withdrew his hand, putting it into his pocket defensively. She put her head on one side and looked at him gravely.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps we are just destined to meet and part on this boat.’ Her fingers traced the scar absentmindedly, running up and down her cheek.

  George swallowed hard. ‘Is it because you think I’m a boy?’

  ‘You’re certainly much younger than I am.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Age is like beauty, George, irrelevant.’

  ‘Then what is the problem?’

  ‘I’m not ready for you,’ she said, and her eyes dimmed once again with sadness. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Instead of sulking, which is what a boy would have done, he made a conscious effort to behave like a man. He shrugged off her rejection, knowing that he had the rest of his life to brood on it if he so wanted, and tried to behave as before. At dinner they discussed the history of Uruguay and Argentina, of which she knew a great deal, and afterwards they stood where they had met, leaning on the railings looking out into the darkness. George felt suffocated, as if the air was too thick to breathe. He was suddenly afraid of being without her.

  ‘What are you thinking, George?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m staring into the void,’ he replied, feeling that familiar sense of loss engulf him. ‘I can’t accept that I won’t see you again.’

  ‘Who knows what destiny holds for us?’

  Overcome by desire and desperation, he swung her around and kissed her. Her body went rigid and she pushed him away in terror. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her cheeks aflame. Then her voice wavered. ‘You don’t understand.’ But her eyes betrayed her longing. Ignoring her protests he kissed her again. She felt frail in his arms, vulnerable even. For the first time since they had met, she let down her guard. Slowly the tension in her body subsided and she sank into his embrace. He held her tightly, knowing she would be lost to him in the morning, and kissed her deeply. She smelt of the sea and lily of the valley and of something sweet, entirely her own, that he would never forget.

  Finally, she pulled away and looked at him with eyes brimming with regret. ‘That wasn’t the kiss of a boy,’ she quipped. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Spend the night with me?’ he groaned, the world falling away from him.

  ‘No, George. I’m going to my own bed.’

  ‘So this is it?’

  ‘Don’t be sad. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. You’re only just beginning.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Susan. I feel as if it’s the end.’

  ‘Good night.’ She pressed her lips to his and kissed him tenderly. Then she was gone.

  George wanted to run after her but he knew it was useless to beg, not to mention undignified. Besides, she would think less of him for it. He lit a cigarette and inhaled through a constricted throat. He wanted to cry. What the hell was wrong with him? He had been on the brink of tears waving farewell to Rita only three weeks before. He put his head in his hands and listened to his breathing and the clashing of his thoughts.

  When he finally sank into a troubled sleep his nightmares resurfaced to torment him again.

  The blackness dissolves like mist and there he is, flying high in a clear blue sky. The vibration of the plane rattles his bones. The thunder of the engine is an urgent battle cry. The oxygen mask is hot and he’s finding it hard to breathe, but his eyes are focused on the cloud of German Messerschmitt 109s moving ominously towards him. He’s not alone. Lorrie’s on his right, and Tony? He turns. Yes, Tony’s there on his left. Just knowing they’re there boosts his confidence. We’ll show you buggers. The MEs loom large and menacing and suddenly he’s in the thick of it. So many planes he doesn’t know where to start. Fear takes hold. An icy fear that once again forces his concentration and steadies the turbulence in his mind. Sometimes fear is a good thing. This battle’s going to be a bloody one. Focus, George, keep your wits about you. The voice on the R/T articulates with urgency: 109s at 4 o’clock, 3,000 feet above, eight at 6 o’clock. Watch out. They’re swooping down. For God’s sake, break! Gun button to fire, press emergency boost override, straps tight, focused. Very focused. Calm as never before. He looks about for a target. Dorniers below. One of those will do. He casts a glance about him. It’s chaos out there. Planes everywhere. Spitfires lost in the swarm of German gnats. He swoops down to the Dornier, never takes his eyes off him. The sound of a tracer whizzes by, then gunfire behind. But nothing deters him from his target. I’ll get you, you bastard. You’ll be sorry. He presses the gun button and fires. Got you. The Dornier takes a dive. Black smoke coming out of her tail. Loads of it. Too busy to watch her crash into the sea. Too busy to wonder who will mourn him back at home. He’s quick to spot a Heinkel III, he fires in short bursts but the enemy turns away and breaks for the sea. George is hot on his tail. He’s aware that they’ve left the battle. It’s just the two of them and one will surely die. Sweat trickles down his forehead and into his eyes. He’s hot and uncomfortable. The sea lies shimmering in the early evening light. It looks hypnotic, alluring even. The final resting place of so many brave men. The Heinkel is below him so he has the advantage and swoops down, gaining on him fast. Goes for the quarter attack. Eases back the throttle and settles just off his port side. Short bursts of fire. Black smoke. He’s hit. God, I’m good at this, he thinks triumphantly. Too slow to avoid the counterattack. Sound of bullets on metal. Damn, he’s got me! Uneasy relief when he realizes that it’s only the wing. But it was close. He pulls up on his starboard side and fires in long bursts this time. Determination and controlled fury. Never takes his eyes off his target. He’s sure he can see the fear on the face of the enemy. The German rolls away. He’s like a slippery eel. How he avoided those bullets George will never know. Suddenly he’s out of eyeshot. George looks around, a strange feeling of anticipation strains his nerves. A bloody 109 on my tail. How did he get there? George flies for his life. Flies all over the sky. This way, that way, anything but straight. He knows he’s a hard target. Then a streak of red passes his cockpit. More gunfire, an explosion, the smell of cordite and his own terror. Then it dawns on him. He’s been hit. He blinks to get the sweat out of his eyes. They’re sore and his head hu
rts. Pull yourself together, George, for God’s sake. You’re not ready to meet your maker. The 109 pulls away, leaving him for dead, no doubt. But to George’s amazement he’s still flying. Must be the fuel tank. He turns on his back and now he’s above the enemy. The pursued is now the pursuer. Bloody arrogant sod! Gaining speed as he swoops down after him he fixes his target and fires. Long bursts. The last of the ammo. I don’t care if you take me with you, but you’re going down, he shouts, firing like a crazed man. Grey smoke puffs out of the fuselage. The propeller slows down and the nose dives. More black smoke and, like a winged bird, the 109 falls away, trailing oil and despair behind him. George watches as the plane crashes into the sea, swallowed up at once in a thick froth of white foam. Then all is still and quiet. He looks about him. He’s entirely alone. With his heartbeat slowing down he throws open the hood and loosens his mask. With his head in the slipstream he begins to calm down. He’s wounded, but he’ll make it home. That was a close shave. Nearly copped it. Then he’s overcome with a sudden feeling of loneliness. Where’s everyone got to? He sees the coastline. Scans the sky for planes. But there are none. Where’s Lorrie and Tony? He knows they didn’t make it. He can feel it. He’s alone. Quite alone.

  Chapter 10

  George awoke in a sweat. His heartbeat raced and his body trembled with fear. It took him a while to shake off his dream and remember that he was aboard the Fortuna, bound for Argentina. Then he thought of Susan and he was suddenly thrown back into his dream, feeling lonelier than ever.

  As he dressed he could feel the vibrations of the ship as it docked in Buenos Aires. He raced up the corridors and out onto the deck, hoping that by some small miracle he would catch a final glimpse of her as she disembarked. It was hopeless. He stood against the railing watching the passengers walk down the ramp onto the dockside, his eyes scanning them for that familiar blonde hair, neatly combed into an elegant chignon. The port was teeming with uniformed officials but, unlike England where they exuded efficiency, here the atmosphere was languid. Although still early morning, the heat of the sun was intense. The flow of passengers dwindled and he resigned himself to the fact that she had long gone. One more face in the millions of unfamiliar faces of Buenos Aires.

  He returned to his cabin and threw his things into a bag. He hesitated when he came across the letter he had written to Rita and the dove pendant he had bought her. He fingered it thoughtfully before placing it at the top and clipping shut his bag. Then he left the ship and its sweet memories. He had nothing to remember Susan by: no photograph, no letter, no small token to mark their meeting and their parting. Nothing. Once he left the ship it would be as though they had never met.

  Buenos Aires was a fragrant, romantic city. He imagined Susan in the small cafés and beneath the violet jacaranda trees that had burst into blossom with the unexpected flowering of his own fragile heart. He envisaged her walking down the wide, tree-lined avenues, perhaps residing in one of those pretty Parisian buildings, with their high roofs and ornate façades. He had time to kill before his train to Córdoba so he wandered into a plaza that was ablaze with flowers and trees in bloom, the air thick with the heady scent of gardenia and the happy twittering of birds. It was peaceful there beside a fountain.

  The delicate trickle of water soothed his spirit and he was able to appreciate the change of scenery and the promise of something new that this country offered him. He lunched alone in La Recoleta, at a table that looked out from under sinewy rubber trees onto the wall of the cemetery. A flower stall was set up at the entrance and the smell of spring mingled with the aroma of cooking meat and diesel. He ate Argentine beef, a steak that spilled over the sides of the plate, juicy such as he had never tasted. He drank wine and allowed it to numb the sense of rejection that still gnawed at his heart, and watched the scenes play out around him through lazy eyes.

  This was a country untouched by war. People sat in the sunshine, sipping cocktails, chatting happily and eating luxuries that were a rarity in Britain. It felt good to be a part of this carefree world. It made it easier to forget. He shook off the winter and let in the spring. But as much as he tried to think of Rita, Susan’s face still invaded and lingered in his mind. He was too drowsy with wine to fight it. So he looked upon her with wistfulness and longing, his eyes staring ahead but focusing on nothing. He realized with a shudder that if he had really loved Rita he would have married her there and then and brought her with him. But she was tied to Frognal Point, to his past, to the ghosts from which he was running. He was running from her too.

  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 Jesu
it 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.