‘What is it?’ Hannah asked, while Eddie sprang up from her chair, spluttering questions through a mouthful of toast.
‘Open it. Go on!’ instructed Maddie, sipping her tea. Fully made up in scarlet lipstick and black mascara, with her hair combed in the style of Lauren Bacall, she looked like a movie star herself.
Hannah had tried to dissuade her from making such an exhibition of herself, but she was nearly twenty now with a personality of steel. There was no job either. She wouldn’t hear of it. And she spent far too much time with the boys in the White Hart pub. Hannah turned a blind eye. She had to accept that her child was now a grown-up.
Only Eddie was still at school and biddable. Hannah often wandered around the house, picking up relics from their childhood, taking pleasure from the memories they triggered. Time raced and children grew up and away. Thankfully her birds remained. Some migrated, but they always came back and seemed happy to see her.
‘I’m going to open it on the cliffs. I need to be alone,’ Rita announced to everyone’s disappointment. But before they could object she rushed out, her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.
‘What do you think it is?’ Eddie asked her mother.
‘He’s already given her a diamond ring,’ said Maddie sulkily.
‘I’m sure it’s a souvenir from Buenos Aires,’ said Hannah. ‘I don’t think it matters much. The fact is, he’s thinking of her.’ She caught eyes with her husband and nodded at him triumphantly. She was well aware of his doubts, but this letter simply proved that Rita had done the right thing. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ she added pointedly. Humphrey grunted behind his paper.
‘Don’t forget we’re going to Megagran’s for lunch,’ Hannah shouted up the stairs. ‘Aunt Antoinette will be there with Emily and William.’ It was Saturday and on Saturdays Rita was apt to spend all day on the beach, by herself. What she did there Hannah didn’t know. Probably daydreamed. At least she now had a job at the library in town otherwise she’d disappear altogether into those fantasies of hers. Working on a farm was no life for a girl. She eyed Maddie, dressed up as if she were going to a party, and wondered what she was going to do with her day. Not that she dared ask. Maddie would only snap at her. She was growing more and more like Aunt Antoinette, which wasn’t a compliment.
Rita walked through the village towards the sea, clutching the brown envelope to her chest. She was unable to contain her smile or the bounce in her step. Spotting Reverend Hammond in the village shop talking to Miss Hogmier she quickened her pace in case they saw her and came out for a chat. She didn’t much like Miss Hogmier, a sour old lady with disappearing lips and protruding nasal hair, and did almost anything to avoid having to go in with her mother’s shopping lists. When she reached the cliff top she sat with her legs dangling over the edge, in the exact spot where she always sat with George, and tore open the brown paper.
It was windy and bitterly cold. She was wrapped in an old sheepskin coat of her father’s and almost hidden beneath a woolly hat pulled low over her head. She had to take her gloves off to open the envelope, but it was worth the discomfort for, to her joy, she discovered the little dove pendant George had bought her aboard the Fortuna. She held it in her hand while she unfolded the letter. It wasn’t long. George never wrote long letters, not like hers that went on for pages and pages. But she was sure it contained words she needed to hear. Oblivious of the worsening winds and the tempestuous sea that crashed against the rocks below, she devoured his words hungrily.
My darling Rita. I write this aboard the Fortuna, just off the coast of Brazil. It is night-time and I find my mind wandering once again to you. I hope you like the pendant. I bought it from a wizened old man who came aboard to sell his wares. I’m sure he tripled the price. I would have bought it for ten times as much because you are worth it. The dove symbolizes love, happiness and wedded bliss. I send it to you as a lucky charm and hope that it brings you all those things and more. I miss you, my darling, and sometimes wonder why I’m doing this, whether there’s any wisdom in it. But we will both be richer for it for I will come back settled, I am sure, having found inner peace. I will make a better husband and father because of this experience. You are a wonderful girl to let me go, certain that I still hold your heart. You have mine too, for ever. All my love, my sweet Rita. George.
Rita read it again and again. Unlike previous letters this one didn’t dwell on the past. He didn’t mention the summer, the cave or their picnics on the cliffs. It was also very short. But she couldn’t complain. He loved her and missed her and that was all that mattered. She opened her hand and studied the pendant. It was very pretty. She would always wear it. Eager to put it on straightaway she fumbled with the catch, still holding the letter. But her fingers had grown numb in the cold, and suddenly the flimsy page of paper caught in the gale and was whisked out of her grasp. She gasped in horror as it flew into the air where it danced about, blown this way and that like an autumn leaf. She scrambled to her feet and watched helplessly as it floated towards the sea. She ran down the sandy path to the beach. She looked up at the sky, sure that it would fall within reach. Not a single bird braved the weather. Only George’s letter hovered and dived like a gull as if grateful to have been set free. For a moment it looked as if it would indeed fall onto dry land, but then an unexpected gust swept up the beach, causing it to soar over the sea where it finally fell. Lost for ever in the water.
Rita was desperate. She shed tears of fury and frustration. Having waited a month for such a letter it was now gone. Mortified, she touched the pendant with gratitude and consoled herself that at least the wind hadn’t taken that. She walked slowly back up the path downheartedly, her head bowed low to protect her face from the icy gale. She sniffed miserably and tried to remember exactly what George had written. She decided to write it down the minute she got home so that she wouldn’t forget.
As she walked back through the village, her eyes lost on the road in front of her, she bumped straight into the mad Pole, Thadeus Walizhewski. He too had his focus fixed on the ground. He rarely met anyone’s eyes for he hadn’t the need or desire to make friends. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. He noticed at once her tear-stained face and blue lips and was filled with compassion.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and his voice was so deep and gentle it took her by surprise. She felt an expanding lump lodge itself in her throat.
‘Yes,’ she replied unconvincingly.
‘You look cold. Come.’ He took her elbow and led her up a narrow lane and through a small gate almost hidden in a thick hedge. ‘Let me make you a cup of something hot. You are in no state to be walking alone on a day like this.’
For an instant, when she gazed up at him with her large, sad eyes, he was reminded of his daughter. He felt a stab of pain in his chest, but was quick to dispel the memory. It was not healthy to dwell on those moments of fear and anguish for they were past, and only became present in the mind if one allowed them to.
Thadeus’ cottage was warm and vibrated with a strange tranquillity which gave Rita the feeling that she had been there before. It smelt familiar. Even the clutter of manuscripts and books was reminiscent of somewhere else. Then she made the connection. Lower Farm had the same sense of cosy chaos. The same scent of burning wood in the grate, of kindness and hospitality. She felt she could throw off her boots and curl up on the sofa. That Thadeus wouldn’t mind. She had never really spoken to him before. If she hadn’t been so utterly miserable she probably wouldn’t have now, but he had sounded so understanding and it was dreadfully cold out there in the wind. She took off her coat and settled into an armchair beside the fireplace. She breathed in the smoky air and found it pleasantly comforting. Thadeus came back with a pot of tea on a tray. None of the china matched and the teapot was chipped. Without saying a word he walked over to the gramophone and put on a record of Strauss’s Alpine Symphony. At once the notes filled the room, injecting her with the cheerfulness that she had lost out there on the cliff top.<
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‘“If music be the food of love, play on,”’ he said, sitting down on the armchair opposite.
‘Shakespeare, Twelfth Night,’ she replied with a smile.
‘You see, you are already feeling better.’ He nodded gravely. ‘Only love can make a woman weep so.’ Rita poured herself some tea.
‘You have a lovely home,’ she said, stirring in the milk.
‘I am very happy here,’ he replied. ‘You must be Rita Fairweather.’
‘Yes, I am.’ She laughed because it seemed absurd to be sitting in his house having never been properly introduced.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then his eyes fell onto the pendant that hung about her neck.
‘That is a very pretty necklace,’ he said admiringly. ‘Did George give it to you?’
‘Yes, I received it today. I was out on the cliff and the wind blew away his letter.’
‘Had you not read it?’
‘I had read it. Several times.’
‘But you are a sentimental woman and like to keep all his letters to read over and over, am I not right?’ He chuckled. ‘I thought so. I don’t imagine you ever found the letter?’
‘It’s at the bottom of the sea,’ she replied forlornly.
‘Imagine how much worse it would be had you not read it. Besides, I’m sure there will be more.’
‘I feel so foolish.’ She sighed and drank her tea.
‘But the dove is much more valuable. Words fade, but that is made out of silver and will be with you for always. You know, the dove speaks its own language if you listen to it.’ Rita laughed at the ridiculous thought, but Thadeus was serious. ‘You may think me a little eccentric but it is true. The dove speaks of peace, of love and reconciliation. It speaks of forgiveness, serenity and joy. In fact, George has sent you a message in a symbol. Much more original than a letter, don’t you think? When you are up on the cliff next time, when it is not so windy, take a good look at it and listen.’
‘I will,’ she said in order to humour him. He scratched his grey beard and watched her with his pale, watery eyes. ‘Do you play the violin?’ she asked, noticing the instrument languishing on top of the piano.
‘Yes, I play to soothe my soul. Music is a wonderful healer.’
‘The piano as well?’
‘It is old and not well tuned, but I suffer it, yes.’
‘I sculpt,’ she said. ‘Badly. Faye, you know, Faye Bolton, she’s giving me lessons. She’s incredibly talented.’ Thadeus’ face softened as if the light in the room had suddenly changed from white to amber.
‘With practice I’m sure you will be as good as she is,’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘Oh no, I won’t be. But I don’t expect to be that good. Like you said, music soothes the soul, sculpting is the same. I’m able to lose myself in it.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Like the sea. I lose myself in that too.’
‘As well as George’s letters.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘Yes. Silly, really.’
After about an hour she thanked him for the tea and for his company. She felt much better having talked to him and promised that next time she was on the cliff she would listen to her pendant. Before leaving she asked if she could use his lavatory, and hurried upstairs, aware that she was due at Megagran’s for lunch. As she opened the door she turned to cast a quick glance into his bedroom. She was struck immediately by a large sculpture of a bear, which sat on the mantelpiece, all on its own. This was strange, for every other surface was scattered with objects and curiosities. There was no doubt that it was one of Faye’s, her style was so distinctive. She wondered what had possessed her to part with such a masterpiece, but knew instinctively not to ask.
Thadeus helped her into her coat and watched as she pulled the hat over her head; her hair fell out of it like seaweed washed up on the beach. ‘I hope you will come and have tea with me again sometime,’ he said.
‘I would like that very much. Perhaps then you can play the violin for me.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
Thadeus watched as she disappeared through the garden gate. Faye had spoken so highly of her and she was right. She was a sweet-natured child and if he hadn’t bumped into her, literally, he would never have met her. Sometimes it wasn’t good to walk around with one’s head bent, avoiding people’s eyes, hiding from the world. He closed the door and picked up his violin.
When Rita arrived home she crept in through the garden and tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom to write out what she remembered of George’s letter. The little robin had made a fine nest out of moss and grass in the pot that Eddie had made her at school. Rita loved her new friend, the way it watched her from the bookshelf without fear, its small black eyes unblinking. It flew in and out as it pleased, for Rita always left the window open. Hannah often came in to observe it and to offer it food out of her own hand but the robin would accept nothing from anyone but Rita. Hannah found this hard to accept for she had always had a special relationship with the feathered creatures that made their homes in her garden.
Rita decided to keep the fact of the lost letter to herself. She was ashamed that she had been so clumsy. Instead, she would show off her pendant. A symbol of love, happiness and wedded bliss.
They all piled into Humphrey’s car at twelve and drove to Elvestree for lunch. Eddie was fascinated by the silver dove but Maddie sniffed rather dismissively.
‘Sweet,’ she stated flatly. If the eye had been studded with something worthwhile, like a diamond, she would have been more impressed. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked.
‘I want to keep the letter to myself. Besides, the dove speaks if you listen to it,’ Rita replied.
Maddie screwed up her nose. ‘Love is turning your mind to sawdust, Rita. If that dove speaks I’m the Queen of England.’
‘Thank goodness you’re not, Maddie. You’d be a frightfully bossy queen,’ said Eddie. ‘I want to hear the dove speak.’
‘It speaks of love, happiness and wedded bliss,’ Rita said. ‘George has sent me a symbol, much more original than a letter.’
‘My dear, I think the pendant is charming,’ said Hannah. ‘What a thoughtful young man he is.’
Humphrey snorted and shook his head, but only Hannah was aware of his scepticism.
When they arrived at Elvestree the drizzle had turned to hail. Tiny balls of ice were blown about on the wind, and the trees, so lush and green in the summer, now stood twisted and tortured and bare. They hurried into the hall, which was warmed by a large log fire and adorned with cats. There were cats on every surface. Five curled up together on the sofa, three on the old oak chest where Denzil’s tennis rackets rotted away in the dark, and another six or seven beneath the table, stretched out on the shabby Persian rug. There were ginger ones, sleek black ones and petulant white ones. Hannah was used to her mother’s house being full of these creatures but every time she visited there seemed to be more.
Mrs Megalith simply shrugged when asked where they came from. ‘I’ll bet there are some very sad families out there missing their little friends. I don’t know why, but they’re drawn to Elvestree. It’s not my place to turn them away.’
Max’s heart suffered a tremor of longing when he saw Rita enter with her family. Her hair was wild and her cheeks rosy from the coastal winds and salty drizzle. Although her dress was pressed and her cardigan clean, she appeared dishevelled. Max smiled to himself, Rita always looked as if she had dressed in a hurry and left something behind. He swivelled the ice around in his glass and quietly watched from the sofa.
Antoinette sat on the club fender with her daughter Emily, who was the same age as Eddie and Ruth. She was a beautiful woman, slim and painted like a china doll with glossy red hair combed into sleek waves. She smoked through a long ebony holder, which balanced between elegant fingers dripping with shiny burgundy talons, always perfectly manicured. Her skin was luminous and damp with eau de cologne and rose water,
her eyes a harder version of her mother’s grey ones. She hated cats because their fur stuck to her clothes and because they smelt and she had no time for her sister’s feathered friends either. ‘I would rather sit in a field and watch cows than waste my time studying birds,’ she once said. ‘They fly, so what? So can George but I don’t want him crashing about in my garden.’ This of course made no sense, but Antoinette cared little for logic or for truth. She was a born liar and a show off. Her tidy little nose was a mystery to her sister who was sure that with every lie it would grow like Pinocchio’s, and her ageless skin was the envy of many. Well aware of her beauty and the strength of her personality, she had brought up her daughter in her own image, in spite of the lengths to which poor Emily went in order to rebel. Emily was not blessed with either beauty or strength of character, but she was clever like her father, and kind. The only person capable of silencing Antoinette was, of course, her mother.
Maddie adored her aunt and longed to be exactly like her. ‘Aunt Antoinette,’ she cried when she saw her and rushed past her grandmother and cousin William, an arrogant twenty-year-old she didn’t much like, to embrace her.
‘Darling girl, you grow prettier every day,’ enthused her aunt who saw the loveliness of her own features reflected in her niece. ‘I’ve bought you some nail varnish and eyelashes I found in a charming little shop in Portobello Road. Just the thing for a girl like you.’
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 15
