The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  Agatha strode into the bedroom and covered the corpse with a sheet. She should have taped her mother-in-law’s jaw together so that it didn’t gape so grotesquely, but she couldn’t bear to. It had been bad enough laying eyes on that dead flesh. She opened the window and lit a candle, less out of respect than to get rid of the stench. Then she left the room as quickly as possible in case Señora Velasco’s ghost still remained there.

  Jose Antonio and Agatha undressed and climbed into bed. Suddenly Agatha remembered Dolores and Father O’Bridie who hadn’t been seen since she sent them inside at midday.

  ‘Jose Antonio,’ she whispered, as if death might hear her.

  ‘What, Gorda? I’m trying to go to sleep,’ he growled gently.

  ‘I sent Father O’Bridie into the floral spare room with Dolores to sober up. I haven’t seen them since. Have you?’

  Jose Antonio chuckled throatily. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Leave them. When Father O’Bridie wakes up in the morning he’ll get one hell of a shock if Dolores is still with him.’

  ‘Perhaps she left him asleep and retired to her own quarters,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps. Though it is strange that she didn’t help the girls tidy up.’

  ‘Oh God!’ she groaned. ‘You know, she’s not of sound mind, Jose Antonio. Don’t you think you should let her go?’

  ‘Not while she makes such delicious empanadas!’ he laughed.

  ‘One of which killed your mother,’ she reminded him in a serious voice.

  ‘Exactly!’ he replied and rolled over. ‘The woman stays!’

  The following morning George and Susan appeared flushed and smiling on the terrace under the vine. Agatha and Jose Antonio were already having breakfast with the children, who squealed in delight when they saw the bride and groom. Agatha, who firmly believed that their children should not be raised to fear death, had told them of their grandmother’s passing and had been surprised when they had yelped with joy and relief and burst into commentary about how old and ugly she had been. George and Susan showed more respect, though neither could think of anything nice to say about her. ‘She’s here in this very house,’ said Tonito, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  ‘Her body’s upstairs,’ added Pia through a mouthful of croissant. ‘She’s going to be buried in the garden so the worms can eat her all up!’ Agatha was about to intercede when Father O’Bridie’s pale face appeared at the door.

  ‘Top of the mornin’ to you,’ said Tonito in a perfect Irish accent, then giggled. Father O’Bridie walked unsteadily, his eyes as shiny as two oysters in brine.

  ‘What a beautiful day,’ he said, taking a seat at the table. His voice wasn’t quite as robust as it had been the day before.

  ‘Are you all right, Father O’Bridie?’ Agatha asked, searching his face for clues. ‘You had a nasty turn yesterday. It must have been the heat.’

  ‘Oh, yes. We Irish aren’t too good in such strong sunlight,’ he explained, pouring himself a cup of strong coffee. He shovelled three large spoonfuls of sugar into it and took a gulp, after which he seemed to calm down a little.

  ‘I trust Dolores looked after you well?’ Agatha persevered.

  ‘Oh, she did. Thank you. She certainly did.’

  ‘We haven’t seen her all morning. Poor Agustina has had to make breakfast all on her own,’ Agatha added, filling his cup. ‘When you’ve had breakfast I have another job for you.’ Father O’Bridie raised his eyes apprehensively.

  ‘I’m afraid Jose Antonio’s mother is dead upstairs. She died in the night, choking on an empanada.’

  ‘An empanada?’ he repeated, crossing himself.

  ‘One of Dolores’s famous empanadas.’

  ‘We’ve called the doctor, but as it’s Sunday he’s enjoying his breakfast,’ said Jose Antonio. ‘I told him not to hurry, after all, she’s not going anywhere, is she?’

  ‘Her spirit is already with God,’ said Father O’Bridie, thankful of the digression.

  ‘If God can put up with her,’ added Agatha drily.

  ‘God is loving of all his creatures,’ said Father O’Bridie piously. Agatha sniffed. ‘How are Mr and Mrs George Bolton this good morning?’ he said, turning to George and Susan who sat listening, amazed at the events that had taken place on their wedding day without their knowledge.

  At that moment Dolores appeared on the terrace with a large oval plate of freshly baked pastries. She was once more dressed in black with her hair pulled back into its characteristic bun. She didn’t smile and she didn’t look at the priest. She said a tight good morning, put the plate in the centre of the table and straightened up self-importantly. The whole table gazed at her in astonishment.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Agatha asked. Dolores nodded.

  ‘How many for lunch?’ she asked, rubbing her hands together nervously.

  ‘Señor and Señora George leave at eleven, so it will only be us and Father O’Bridie.’ Father O’Bridie put down his coffee cup with a loud clank.

  ‘I’ll be leaving before lunch, I’m afraid. The work of the Lord cannot be delayed.’ He smiled tightly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll get Gonzalo to drive you to the station.’

  Dolores then settled her eyes on the priest. For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. The old maid sighed heavily, dropped her hands to her side and spoke in Spanish with a sudden burst of emotion.

  ‘I’m a God-fearing woman, Padre O’Bridie.’ The priest seemed to understand and raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross.

  ‘May God bless you, señora, and forgive you your trespasses as he forgives those who trespass against you.’

  Dolores shook her head and frowned; she had failed to understand a single word. Agatha quietly translated for her. Dolores straightened up again and lifted her chin before snorting rudely and striding back into the house.

  Jose Antonio chuckled and buttered a pastry. If Dolores had returned to her normal, irritable self, all was right with the world once again. Agatha disagreed; while Señora Velasco’s decomposing body remained in her house all was not right with the world.

  George and Susan left for Mar del Plata and Gonzalo drove Father O’Bridie to the station. Dolores scowled in the kitchen as she had done for the best part of forty years while Agustina laid the table for lunch. Jose Antonio organized his mother’s burial because Agatha had refused to, retiring to her bedroom complaining of a headache. Pia and Tonito spied on their father, watching in fascination as the body was placed in a coffin and sealed. That evening, with little ceremony, a hole was dug in the ground beneath the eucalyptus tree where Señora Velasco had requested to be laid to rest, and the priest from Jesús Maria read the short service. Unlike Father O’Bridie he was a strict Catholic and took his duties very seriously indeed. Agatha, whose head still throbbed, was greatly encouraged by his humble piety and humility. She felt her faith return and stood with her head bowed during the prayers. When, after the service, Pia and Tonito tried to call the dogs, they would not obey, but pressed their tails down and thrust their ears back, trotting anxiously into the house. They had not liked Señora Velasco in life; even in death she unsettled them.

  Susan and George were relieved to be left alone to enjoy each other in peace and solitude. The house was a beautiful white bungalow overlooking the sea, with a little sandy path that led down to a deserted beach. Autumn had set in, drying the leaves on the trees and withering the flowers, and yet the place was rich in the song of birds and the chirping of crickets. A cold breeze swept off the sea and they had to light the fire at night, but that only served to increase the romance. Together with the smell of salt and wood smoke the distinctive scent of autumn made their hearts full of wistfulness. They walked up and down the beach as the setting sun simmered on the surface of the water, turning it pink, and recalled the time they had walked along the beach in Uruguay. Her rejection then had hurt him deeply. Now they had
the rest of their lives to love each other.

  One afternoon, while Susan lay reading on the terrace, George walked along the beach on his own. Memories of Frognal Point invaded his senses so that he could smell the ozone and hear the plaintive cry of gulls as they glided on the wind. He sat on the sand and rested his elbows on his knees, staring out across the ocean. It had been months since he had last given a thought to home. Happiness had shrouded the past in a fog so that he couldn’t see it. Now, with the sound of the sea breaking on the beach and the sensation of sand in his toes, he remembered Rita.

  He thought of Hannah and all those little birds she loved and nurtured in her garden. He remembered Megagran and her bags of crystals, and chuckled with affection. He thought of his mother, her love of art and music, and his father who said very little and cherished his walnut trees in the way that he should have cherished his wife. Geoffrey had returned from the war. Had war changed him too? Did he suffer from guilt? Did Alice understand Geoffrey like Susan understood him?

  George no longer suffered nightmares but he often thought about his dead friends. He saw them in the strange formation of clouds or as misty reflections on the surface of a lake. Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges, Lorrie Hampton – it was his duty to honour them by remembering them and his due to suffer the nagging in his conscience. What would they be doing now had they lived? Often he would daydream about his fights, the skirmishes up there in the sky, the danger, the adrenaline and the fear, the sense of purpose and camaraderie. Then he would sit back and look at the world around him, glad to be alive and on the ground.

  He raised his eyes to see Susan walking up the beach towards him and waved at her. She wore a long cream cardigan, which she pulled tightly around her body against the cold wind, and her hair was loose and falling over her shoulders in waves. She sat down beside him. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Memories.’

  ‘They’ve found you, have they?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘They were bound to. You can’t hide from them for ever, you know.’

  He kissed her temple. ‘I’m glad I’m here with you. There’s no place in the world I’d rather be.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear it.’

  ‘It’s just the sound of waves lapping onto the beach and the stretch of ocean.’

  ‘It reminds you of Frognal Point.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not still worrying about Rita, are you?’

  ‘Thinking about her, yes. But not worrying about her. I’m sure I did the right thing.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I feel nostalgic, though. Not so much the people but the place.’

  ‘You’ll have to take me there one day,’ she said, nuzzling against him. ‘I’d like to meet your family and see the farm where you grew up. It sounds wonderfully quaint and English.’

  He chuckled. ‘Oh, I know you’d love it. Its landscape is a rolling patchwork of small green fields. Narrow, winding lanes lined with cow parsley and over-grown hedges. In the wood above Elvestree . . .’

  ‘Where the witch lives,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Yes, where the witch lives, the bluebells form an incredible carpet of blue, like a lake. The smell is intoxicating. The trees are full of birds because Hannah, Rita’s mother, and her mother the witch, put out food for them all winter. Sometimes the wind is so strong you walk along the cliff top fearful that you might be blown off. Down below the sand is thick and grainy. We used to build sandcastles as children, it was like cement until the sea rushed in to wash it away. There are rock pools full of crabs and sea urchins; we used to collect the shells and show them off at school. The village itself is charming with a little shop, a school and an ancient church. You have to go into town to buy fresh meat and fish. Of course, as a child we took it all for granted, but after seeing a bit of the world I realize how lucky I was to grow up amidst such simplicity.’

  ‘It sounds lovely, George,’ said Susan truthfully. ‘I look forward to seeing it.’

  ‘We’ll go one day. We’ll take our children and I’ll teach them to do all the things I did as a child.’ Susan smiled with tenderness, imagining the children they might have. ‘We’ll picnic on cold beaches with sand in our sandwiches.’

  ‘Is that why they’re called sandwiches, do you think?’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘I don’t know, but however hard you try it still gets in there somehow. Adds extra crunch.’

  ‘In spite of your claustrophobia, George, you love Frognal Point.’

  ‘I know. I just need to be away for a while. It will still be there when I want to go back, unchanged probably. I’ll be ready for it then.’

  At the end of the fortnight they returned to Las Dos Vizcachas and settled into the white house with the green-tiled roof and shady veranda. Susan set about planting flowers to creep up the walls and flutter about the windows while George returned to his work on the farm. Agatha lent her the services of the docile Gonzalo who knew all there was to know about nature, and Agustina’s young cousin, Marcela, came to help clean the house. Jose Antonio was able to spare a couple of gauchos to paint the exterior and mend the leaking roof. Susan decorated the interior simply and tastefully, using craftsmen from Jesús Maria to furnish it, grateful for the generosity of the wedding guests who had all brought them presents, pretty crockery and fine bed linen. She was immensely happy with her new home. It was cool yet cosy, elegant but not extravagant, with the most magnificent views of the hazy blue sierras in the distance. Most importantly it was hers. A proper family home with enough rooms for children. She couldn’t think of a better place to raise a family. The air was clean, the plains were safe, and the farm big enough for them to play in. There were ponies to ride, dogs to chase and prairie hares to watch leaping through the long grasses. It was a veritable paradise for a child. She hoped that it wouldn’t be too long before they were blessed with a baby. Once again she felt the familiar quickening in her chest, that anxious humming-bird fluttering its small wings in an effort to break free.

  Fifteen months rolled rapidly away. The winter was cold and bleak. Gales swept over the plains, flattening the long grasses and chasing the prairie hares into their warrens. Susan kept the fires lit, even in their bedroom, and wrapped herself in heavy coats and jumpers. Every month she hoped for signs of a pregnancy and every month she shed secret tears of disappointment. George made love to her often. She was irresistible to him and the flickering flames in the grate in their bedroom enhanced the romance of that small house in the middle of the plain. The winds roared, the windows rattled and George loved her in the tranquil warmth of their marital bed.

  Sometimes during the day, when George was out, she would wander into the little bedrooms and imagine how she would decorate them for children. She envisaged the wooden cot, the mobile she would make of all the animals in the zoo, and the thick curtains to keep out the early morning light in the summertime. She yearned for a baby to love and nurture and her yearning began to choke her. Tonito and Pia, once so good for the terrible longing in her soul, now reminded her all the time of what she lacked. She watched them play and felt their warm bodies embrace her like little bears, and she had to make a monumental effort to hide the unhappiness that sometimes made it hard for her to breathe.

  Then one night at the beginning of the summer, while she lay in George’s arms listening to his stories of Frognal Point, she was struck with an idea. It was a devious one and probably unwise considering the circumstances, but Susan was desperate. ‘Darling, tell me about the Elvestree witch.’ George chuckled and Susan felt his laughter vibrate deep within his chest against her ear.

  ‘The famous Mrs Megalith.’

  ‘Does she really have magic powers?’

  ‘I don’t know. Strange things happen at Elvestree. I’d be a fool to dismiss her as a fraud.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ Susan felt the sweat gather around her nose, fearful that he might guess the reason for her curiosity.

  ‘She
’s a healer.’ He frowned in an effort to recall one or two of the many stories that circulated in the village. ‘She’s supposed to have cured Reverend Hammond’s brother of stomach cancer with nothing more than a photograph. He lives in Bristol, you see, and was too ill to visit her. So she asked him for a photograph. I don’t know whether it was just luck or coincidence but he’s alive and kicking to this day, I believe. Reverend Hammond refused to accept that she had cured him but has been terrified of her ever since. I think she contradicts his views of Christianity although Christ himself was a healer, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A photograph?’ Susan was eager not to go off the subject.

  ‘That’s all she required. She does that a lot. Rita said that she has a room full of photographs and candles for what she calls “absent healing”. She picked up some strange habits in India. This bizarre ritual is probably one of them. She says that everyone has an energy field around them which is captured in a photograph. She can work with that. Rita told me of numerous successes. Her mother’s back pain, too much crouching in the garden watching the birds, I suspect. My own mother once had a problem with her hand and my father is asthmatic. His asthma gets particularly bad during the harvest with all the dust. He sings her praises, but then she is the only person in the entire village to take an interest in his precious walnut trees.’

  ‘I love the sound of your father. Are you close?’ Now she endeavoured to divert attention from her curiosity by asking about other characters of Frognal Point.

  ‘As close as one can be to a man who’s in a world of his own. I only scrape at the surface. He says little but, judging by the lines on his face that resemble his own beloved walnuts, he thinks and feels a great deal. I love him deeply.’ Susan listened with half an ear and George suspected nothing.