The Swallow and the Hummingbird

by Santa Montefiore

  The following morning she wrote to Mrs Megalith enclosing the best photograph of herself that she could find, and an impassioned plea for help in starting a family.

  Chapter 24

  Mrs Megalith read Susan’s letter with interest. The communication itself didn’t surprise her. The content of it, however, did. Susan must be desperate to contact the grandmother of George’s jilted fiancée. Naturally, Susan had requested that it remain a secret between them at which Mrs Megalith took mild offence for she respected the privacy of all her clients whether they asked for it or not. Alone in the room full of small candles, crystals and wind charms, Mrs Megalith sat in a leather armchair, closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the photograph. In her mind’s eye she saw George’s new wife as clearly as if she were standing in front of her. Unlike in the photograph, her long hair was loose and curling about her neck and shoulders; her eyes were cool and distant yet beneath them was a warm soul whose longing for a child was beginning to cripple her. Mrs Megalith felt her anguish and sensed the blockage of energy that such negativity caused. If Susan could only let go of those unhelpful emotions she would have no trouble conceiving.

  The Elvestree witch saw the dreadful scar that marred a once celebrated beauty and, like a reel of film being played before her eyes, she watched the cause of it and the miscarriage that followed. Mrs Megalith was about to put down the photograph when she saw a vision of the future. George and Susan would return to live in Frognal Point driven by circumstances beyond their control.

  She made a space for the photograph on the table beside the window and placed a few carefully chosen crystal discs upon it: amethyst above the head, hematite between the feet and rose quartz on the area of the stomach. Then she lit a candle, closed her eyes again and called upon her spirit helpers. ‘I dedicate this time to the healing of Susan Bolton. May she be cleared of all negative energy and conceive the baby she longs for,’ she said in a clear, steady voice.

  Then she sat back in her chair and reflected on the woman whom George had married. Their lives were very much intertwined with Rita’s, although they didn’t know it yet. They would never quite be free of each other. She remembered the little story she had told her granddaughter of the two winged birds. If Susan was a winged bird, with the terrible scar on her face that bore testament to an anguished past, then, with the conception of her child, she would learn to fly again.

  And so it was. With the New Year came the good news of Susan’s pregnancy. She had sent her letter to the Elvestree witch in absolute faith and her instincts had been right. Once or twice she had awoken in the middle of the night with a burning sensation in her belly, as if it were filled with hot treacle. It wasn’t unpleasant, just extraordinary, and she had wondered whether it was the workings of Rita’s gifted grandmother.

  Susan kept her pregnancy quiet until she was absolutely sure. George had noticed that she wasn’t quite herself but said nothing, pretending he hadn’t noticed when she had hurried into the bathroom to throw up and seemed to go off her food. Finally, after a couple of months she greeted his return from work, her face aflame with excitement, with the news that they had been praying for.

  ‘We’re going to have a baby,’ she declared joyfully, holding her arms out to him. George was ecstatic. Now hope shone in her eyes where before they had been dull with disappointment. He lifted her off the ground and began to dance her vigorously up and down the terrace. The hot evening sun continued to scorch the plains and they swept across the long shadows and slashes of gold into the happy ever after.

  ‘I did notice you were a bit off colour,’ he said finally, putting her down. They were both out of breath.

  ‘I know, but I didn’t want to jinx it by telling you too soon. I had to be sure.’ She placed a hand on her belly and tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m so happy, George.’ He gathered her into his arms and embraced her.

  ‘Now you must take it easy,’ he warned. ‘No more scrubbing the floors on your hands and knees. We’ll hire Marcela full time. I won’t tolerate you overdoing it. You have a baby to think about now.’

  ‘A baby!’ she sighed contentedly. ‘Just think, George, you’re going to be a father.’ Now it was his turn to flush. His face creased into soft lines. ‘I’ll decorate the baby’s room nearer the time,’ Susan continued. ‘That nice man in Jesús Maria, the one who made our beds, can build a cot. Oh, I’m so excited, I don’t know what to do with myself!’

  ‘I know what you can do with yourself, rest!’ he said firmly, leading her to the bench. She sat down and once again she felt the trembling wings of the small caged humming-bird in her breast.

  ‘Pregnancy isn’t an illness,’ she said, but she knew he was right to treat her with care. Nothing in the world was as important as the baby growing inside her.

  Charles Henry Bolton came into the world with the same enthusiasm with which he would bound through the rest of his life, on the 24th October 1949. He was a boisterous baby with his mother’s ice-blue eyes and his father’s lopsided grin. By the time he was one year old his thick blond hair had sprung into ringlets and if it hadn’t been for his sturdy little figure he would have often been mistaken for a girl. Susan had painted trains and aeroplanes all over his bedroom walls and made him the mobile of zoo animals that she had dreamed of long before he was conceived. She had recovered quickly from the trauma of giving birth, and settled happily into breast-feeding as if she had done it many times before. Charlie, as they nicknamed him, loved his mother with an intensity that melted the genetic frost in his eyes. As soon as he could, he put his little arms out to her and clung on like a milky white bear. He squealed when she left the room and crawled after her at such a speed that his father said he’d never have to bother learning to walk.

  George was struck a surprising blow to the heart when his son was born. Speechless with awe, he looked upon the tiny creature who was a part of him and Susan and yet a stranger to them both whom they would have to get to know. The baby blinked up at him with his unfocused eyes and George knew that this being had simply passed through Susan from an unknown realm of heaven in order to live his life. He was unique, much of him unlike either of them. One day he would grow up and no longer need them. They would die and he would live on, perhaps fathering another generation, quite independent of them. Never before had George been so aware of the passing of time and the continuous river of life. In Charlie he sensed his own immortality. Even if he hadn’t believed in life after death, he knew he would live on in his son. Then he thought of those friends who had lost their lives in the war and lamented that they hadn’t lived long enough to experience such joy and wonder as this.

  By the age of two, Charlie could ride a pony. Susan, pregnant with their second child, led him up and down the farm while he complained that he wanted to do it by himself. It wasn’t long before the gauchos took turns taking him out across the plains on their own horses, one hand holding the reins, the other holding the small child tightly against their stomachs. This he adored and he yelped in delight, imploring them to go faster. The youngest of them, a dark-skinned youth with narrow, northern eyes that had earned him the name El Chino, would come for him in the evenings after his tea and canter with him slowly, scattering the hares and sending the birds into the air. Sometimes at night Jose Antonio would take him to the puesto to listen to the gauchos singing to the accompaniment of El Flaco’s guitar. Jose Antonio, who wasn’t allowed to sing at home, sang in his unsteady but enthusiastic voice, while Charlie danced around the fire like a Red Indian. George would watch his son with pride. He made him paper aeroplanes which they flew on the wind, and climbed the sinewy ombu tree. He taught him about the animals of the plains and those of the mountain ranges, and Susan bought him a box of paints so that he could draw them. Faye, delighted at the news of another grandchild, sent a parcel of storybooks and Trees planted a walnut tree in Charlie’s honour, taking trouble to engrave a plaque with his name and the date of his birth so that when they visited he would know which
one was his. But neither of them breathed a word to Hannah and Humphrey about their new grandchild; they had learned from past mistakes.

  Neither Faye nor Trees suspected that anyone else in Frognal Point knew about George’s son, especially not Mrs Megalith. Shortly after Charles was born Susan sent her a letter of thanks. Mrs Megalith was delighted to have been able to help. After all her years as a healer she still took immense pleasure when someone’s pain was lifted. She could tell from Susan’s photograph that she was now free of that dreadful longing. The bird had learned to fly higher and faster than ever before. She congratulated herself. If only Rita could do the same, but she still wallowed in self-pity as if she were determined not to move on. Mrs Megalith was growing tired of the girl moping around, retreating deeper and deeper into herself, as stubborn as the donkey Maddie and Harry had bought for their little boy. What man would want her like that? If there was one thing that Mrs Megalith despised it was inertia. Life was what one made of it, it was to be taken by the horns and wrestled with. ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ she mumbled to herself in exasperation, ‘and so do I.’

  It was not long after Ava Faye was born that a Texan friend of Jose Antonio, who lived in Buenos Aires, flew up to Las Dos Vizcachas in a small, private plane. To Charlie’s great excitement the plane circled the farm while he waved along with his parents, Great Aunt Agatha and Great Uncle Jose Antonio and his cousins Pia and Tonito. Dolores crept out of the kitchen and stood like a little black carancho on the grass shielding her eyes from the sun. Gonzalo and Carlos, Agustina and Marcela rushed into the park to get a better look, ignoring the irritated shouts from Dolores complaining that they didn’t have time to hang around gawping. They pretended they hadn’t heard her, silently wishing that the groping priest hadn’t caused her to relapse back into her black moods, as if she were determined to punish not only herself, but the rest of them as well, for allowing her virtue to be so wretchedly compromised.

  The plane circled many times and Bobby Chadwin could be seen in miniature, waving through the small window. George hadn’t been this close to a plane since he had left the RAF. He felt the palms of his hands grow sweaty and wasn’t sure whether it was due to fear or excitement. Part of him yearned to take to the skies, to feel the slipstream through his hair again, to hear nothing but the roar of the wind, the vibration of the engine and his own silence. The other part of him remembered the battles, the black smoke of a plane spiralling uncontrollably into the sea, the smell of cordite, the rush of adrenaline and the sweat that stung in his eyes. He was reminded of the killing machine he had been reduced to in those moments when he had thought nothing of taking life. That part of him feared the skies for the man he had become still dwelt there, in the shadows between life and death, where dark clouds gathered to eclipse the sun. He didn’t want to go back.

  Bobby Chadwin landed and taxied up to the waiting crowd. He opened the door and climbed down triumphantly. ‘What views!’ he exclaimed. ‘I took time to survey the farm. It’s looking good, Jose Antonio.’ Susan smiled as Bobby pronounced Jose as Josie with a strong Texan accent. Jose Antonio slapped him on the back and embraced him and she thought how much they resembled two rough bears, coarse and hairy yet charming and genial. Bobby kissed Agatha’s hand and ruffled the children’s hair. Then he saw little Charlie, as fair and pretty as one of Raphael’s putti. ‘Would you like to fly in my plane?’ he asked. Pia and Tonito both cried that they would and clung onto his trousers while Charlie was too busy being thrown around to answer. Susan recoiled at the thought of her precious son in a small aeroplane and hoped the Texan would forget his offer.

  They lunched on the veranda at Jose Antonio’s house while Ava slept in a pram in the shade. After lunch Pia and Tonito pressed Bobby for a ride in his plane and Susan tried to distract Charlie with promises of dulce de leche pancakes for tea. Her efforts were to no avail for Charlie looked up to his cousins. Whatever they wanted to do, he followed blindly.

  ‘Mama, I want to fly too,’ he said. ‘Papa, can I, please?’ Susan looked at George and at once detected the fear behind his eyes, mistaking it for a reflection of her own.

  ‘I really think he’s too little,’ she said, stroking his curly hair.

  ‘Oh, go on, he’ll love it,’ Agatha encouraged. So charmed was she by the handsome Texan that she didn’t sense Susan’s reservations.

  ‘Please, Mummy!’ he begged. ‘I’m nearly five.’

  ‘I’m quite safe, I assure you,’ said Bobby with a wink at Charlie.

  ‘No one knows more about flying than George,’ Agatha declared with pride. ‘He was a fighter pilot in the war and thanks to his bravery we won.’ George shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Why don’t you go too?’ Jose Antonio suggested, wiping his face with a napkin where he had eaten his steak with too much enthusiasm. ‘You can take all three children with you.’ He chuckled and picked his teeth. ‘Nothing would get me up there. I’m a man of the earth.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure to show you around my lady,’ said Bobby, referring to his plane. ‘I’d be mighty honoured to pilot a man with your experience.’ There was no way out. George had to fly or lose face.

  They drank their coffee while the children played around the table, pestering Bobby every five minutes to take them for a ride in his plane. ‘I want to go in your lady,’ said Tonito to much laughter from the grown-ups. Finally the Texan drained his coffee cup and lifted Charlie onto his shoulders as he strode out into the park in the direction of the field where he had landed. Susan threaded her fingers through George’s and whispered to him to look after himself and their son. ‘I need you both,’ she said nervously. George squeezed her hand to reassure her but inside his stomach had turned to liquid.

  Bobby took time to show George around his plane, proudly showing off the latest gadgets. He patted it, the same way that George remembered patting his Spitfire. He felt a wave of nostalgia and had to steady himself with one hand on the wing. Bobby strapped the children tightly into the back seat then waved at George to climb into the front. George breathed heavily, nodded with confidence he didn’t feel, and jumped into the cockpit. The sight of the dials, the stick and rudder bar reminded him of his first solo flight in a Tiger Moth. Most people had trouble landing the plane, but for George everything had gone wrong. He blinked away the memory but the nasty feeling in his stomach remained.

  George felt naked without his oxygen mask, goggles and helmet, and light without the heavy parachute and Mae West life jacket. There he was in his shirt and slacks with nothing more than a pair of canvas shoes on his feet. The children were quiet in the back, their little faces peering excitedly out of the window. George quickly wiped away a trickle of sweat before Bobby noticed it. He passed a dry tongue over his lips and felt his throat constrict with panic. The aircraft shuddered a little then, as it picked up speed, it began to rattle like a toolbox. The smell of oil fumes reached his nostrils and his mouth suddenly began to salivate as the bile rose in his stomach. He tried to concentrate on his breathing so as not to embarrass himself by throwing up. Then, just when he was about to retch, the plane stopped rattling and soared smoothly into the air. The ground fell away and the sky filled the windows, much bluer than the sky above the coast of England, even on a midsummer’s day. George gazed about him, at the miniature trees and dwellings and the vast, flat plain that erupted into the high sierras like a stormy sea on the horizon. He felt his anxiety slip away as once more he was close to heaven in a tranquil sky with only the low rumble of the engine and his own thumping heart to remind him of his mortality. There were no shadows, no death, and the man who had once lusted for blood had vanished.

  Bobby looked across at him and smiled. ‘Sure feels good, doesn’t it?’ he said into his speaker.

  ‘Better than anything else in the world.’

  PART TWO

  Chapter 25

  Frognal Point 1963

  Faye sat listening to Thadeus play the violin. Outside, the afternoon sun wa
s obscured behind black clouds that rolled angrily across the sky. The autumn wind clawed at the windowpanes as if struggling to get in to where the fire blazed in the grate, filling the small sitting room with warmth. She shivered, not from cold, but because she was afraid of returning home in such a storm.

  She watched Thadeus, now seventy-eight years old, his long grey beard and deep-set eyes unchanged by the years, and knew that she loved him more than ever. They had grown together and fused like the branches of a tree, the past decade having only strengthened their affair and cloaked it in secrecy. He closed his eyes for he knew the music by heart and played it often. A sad tune that reminded him of his Polish past and all that he had loved and lost there at the outbreak of the war.

  She, too, closed her eyes, felt the heat of the fire on her face and saw the shadows of dancing flames on the backs of her eyelids. The music made her melancholy. George had been away for so long and she doubted, in rare moments when self-delusion didn’t convince her otherwise, that he would ever come home. She focused her thoughts on her son and the life he had chosen at the other side of the world. She and Trees had travelled to see him twice, the last trip being over five years before. They had met their two grandchildren, Charlie and Ava, and spent three weeks staying with Agatha and Jose Antonio. But the years had fallen away like leaves in autumn, so many and so fast that now, at sixty-four years of age, Faye worried that the last leaf might fall and she would never see them again. And even if she did, her grandchildren would be strangers.

  Hannah had grown distant. Faye didn’t see much of her and Humphrey these days, except in church and sometimes in the village shop. They never asked about George. Perhaps if Rita had married they would have been able to put the past behind them and forgive. But Rita was now thirty-six, still single and leading an increasingly eccentric life in a rented cottage the other side of Bray Cove. Like her mother, she put out grain to attract the birds and spent hours taming them. Faye had heard that she had cultivated a beautiful wild garden, inviting all sorts of animals, from hedgehogs to hares, to play among the foxgloves and lilac bushes. When she wasn’t in her garden or down on the beach she ran the library in town where she had worked for over ten years. She channelled all her energy into organizing reader evenings with authors with whom Max put her in touch and poetry classes with a retired Oxford professor who had recently moved to Frognal Point. She never dated and took little interest in her appearance, her hair wild and unkempt and her clothes long and flowing. In spite of her chaotic life style she retained a natural beauty; her skin was pale and youthful and her eyes an unusual shade of brown. She retained the naïvety of her youth and seemed not to mature as others did. There was something timeless about Rita. She had never resumed their sculpting evenings, but Faye knew that she still sculpted for, not only was there a rather dark and dramatic statue of a heron in flight in the library, but the lady who ran the crafts shop in town had told her that Rita came often to buy supplies.