‘My father is dead,’ he said, his chest growing tight with sorrow. Susan put her arms around him and felt his sadness penetrate her own heart. They would leave Argentina and build a new home in England. She had always accepted the idea of living in Frognal Point but now, faced with the reality, she was suddenly filled with dread. The children would see it as a great adventure. They would love the sea and the sand, the rock pools and caves, but she would be confronted with George’s past as well as her own, and the demons she had left there.
George sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘I never said goodbye,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘I haven’t seen him for five years. Now I’ll never see him again.’ He rubbed his face in disbelief, suddenly bereft. It was unimaginable. His father had always seemed as sturdy and enduring as a walnut tree. ‘He wasn’t even old. Mother must be devastated. We have to go back.’
Susan felt her stomach churn. ‘Of course we’ll go,’ she said reassuringly, surprised how confident her voice sounded.
‘You don’t mind?’
She looked into his dejected eyes and felt her anxieties dissolve in the pity that his pain aroused. She kissed his temple. ‘My darling, of course I don’t mind. Home is where you are. We’ll adapt. You’ll show the children how to catch crabs and eat sandy sandwiches and we’ll make a new life for ourselves. Life is an adventure and as long as we’re all together we’ll be happy.’
‘You’re an incredible woman, Susan. You have no idea how much I admire you.’
She ran a hand through his dusty hair. ‘Oh, yes I do,’ she replied.
The children were excited about going to England. George made it all sound so enchanting and Susan encouraged them with her own enthusiasm. Charlie could think of little else than the promise of hours and hours of flying in an aeroplane, but for Susan and George the journey ahead held nothing but dread. Jose Antonio and Agatha were saddened that they were leaving. In the last decade George had become a son to them and his children as cherished as grandchildren. The farm would be quieter and less bright without their laughter and vigour and the evenings long and empty. Agatha consoled herself that George had only intended staying a year and had lasted more than ten, but Jose Antonio couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just go for a while to console Faye and then come back. ‘Their lives are here with us. They belong at Las Dos Vizcachas like we do,’ he growled angrily. When Jose Antonio was hurt he lashed out in fury.
Not even Jose Antonio’s rage, however, could persuade them to stay. Sorrowfully they packed up the house and the memories that would always remain tender and strong. Susan went for a last, solitary walk across the fields. She took a final look around at the place she had grown to love with such intensity. Now the outside world awaited her with challenges she’d thought she might never have to face. She hoped that Frognal Point would embrace her and forgive George for having left.
The night before their departure they dined with Jose Antonio and Agatha and then sat beneath the veranda on the swing chair as they had done over a decade before when Susan had just arrived. The air was sweet and balmy. They breathed in the smells of the countryside, the eucalyptus and jasmine, cut grass and honeysuckle, determined not to forget those things that they had taken for granted. Moths fluttered about the hurricane lamps and crickets cried out across the sleepy park.
‘We’ve been very happy here, haven’t we?’ George mused wistfully. ‘It’s an idyll. I should be pleased to be going back to Frognal Point, but I’m not. My home is here.’
Susan took his hand and stroked his skin with her thumb. ‘You’ll probably find that nothing has changed there either.’
‘Only Father’s gone.’ He dragged on his cigarette, contemplating Lower Farm without Trees. ‘It just doesn’t seem possible. He was home. It’ll be halved now, diminished in every way. He was a quiet man but he filled that house with his presence. I’ll always remember him in his boots and cap, striding around the farm with Mildred the sheepdog at his side. He loved the countryside, nature, trees and birds. He infected me with his passion. I grew up a countryman. He was wise too. He never said much. I think that frustrated Mother, she’s a warm, lively woman. But she loved him. We all did.’
‘He was a unique man. I’m so pleased I knew him. He was one of life’s wonderful eccentrics.’
George smiled. ‘He hated to spend money. Mother said that during the war he bartered with everyone. Eggs for clothes coupons, chickens for fish, pigs for fruit from Mrs Megalith’s magical greenhouses. He dug up half a field for a vegetable garden. They wanted for nothing. While the rest of the country suffered terrible rations Pa produced his own bread and butter, milk and cheese, cream and eggs. I tell you, when I returned from France they looked better and healthier than I had ever seen them. He drove everywhere in that truck of his because petrol for farm vehicles wasn’t rationed. He was a man of initiative and energy. He exasperated Mother with the buckets he put under leaks in the roof and the amateur way he mended everything himself. He was loath to pay for someone else to do it if he could do it on his own. Mother will cry over those buckets now, no doubt, because they’ll remind her of him. She’ll realize how much she loved all his funny quirks. She might even nurture his trees for him now that he’s not around to do it.’
‘If she doesn’t, you will,’ said Susan, leaning her head on his shoulder.
‘I always knew in the back of my mind that I’d take over the farm when Father died, but I never thought it would be this soon. Part of me dreads going back, Susan. I’ll be honest with you.’
‘I know,’ she replied softly, not wanting to enhance his fear with her own. ‘But you’re with me now. You have children, a family. Focus on all the things that you loved about the place. Like the sea and the beach, the farm where you grew up. You’re going to be running it now. You couldn’t really go on here, working for Jose Antonio, however much you enjoyed it. A man like you should be running his own business, calling the shots. It’s the right time for you to leave, trust me.’
‘Still, it will be hard parting, won’t it?’
‘We can always come back,’ she said. But she knew that once they were gone, they would be gone for ever.
The following morning Dolores burnt the bread, overboiled Jose Antonio’s eggs and spoiled the coffee. Pia and Tonito complained that the croissants tasted of charcoal and even Agatha had to agree that the milk was off. Then the disgruntled cook appeared on the terrace, wringing her hands and dabbing her tearstained face with the skirt of her apron. ‘I cannot work today,’ she declared melodramatically. ‘I am not well.’ And she left Agustina and Carlos to clear up what was without doubt the most unsatisfactory breakfast anyone had ever had at Las Dos Vizcachas. Agatha and Jose Antonio looked at each other in disbelief. Dolores had never shown the slightest affection for George, but it was obvious that his departure had upset her.
George, Susan and the children arrived at the house to say goodbye. They had little luggage, having sent most of their things ahead by boat. Agatha embraced them, drawing on her humour to see her through without tears. Pia cried uncontrollably, especially when she hugged Susan, whom she loved almost as much as her mother. Tonito’s bottom lip quivered, but it didn’t do for a young man to weep so he held his shoulders back and chin up as his father did. But Jose Antonio was devastated. He knew the seasons would come and go and that the cycle of life would continue to revolve as it always had done, but his world would never be the same once George and his family were no longer in it. He patted their backs too fiercely and made too many bad jokes and then, when their car had disappeared, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the silence of his anguish, he saddled his horse and rode out across the plains until nightfall.
It was well known that Mrs Megalith didn’t like church – no one in Frognal Point could forget the occasion she had attended with all those cats – but for Trees’ funeral she made an exception. She didn’t arrive late and stagger self-importantly down the aisle. She was careful not to make too much n
oise with her walking stick and she wore black from top to toe for the first time in her life. Accompanied by Max, handsome in a hand-tailored suit from Savile Row, and Ruth, she sat behind Hannah, Humphrey and Rita without uttering a word. Only her moonstone pendant glinted in the light as if warming up for sorcery.
The church was filled with berries and fruit and branches of crisp autumn leaves. On the top of his coffin, long and thin as he had been, sat a small basket of walnuts from the first tree he had planted. Reverend Hammond stood in front of the altar, his bulbous eyes discreetly scanning the area for cats. He had noticed Mrs Megalith and had shuddered for, although she was unusually subdued, she looked even more like a witch, dressed in black, her moonstone pendant winking at him menacingly. But Mrs Megalith was in no mood for trouble. She had loved Trees and had come to say goodbye although, at her advanced age, she was sure it wouldn’t be too long before she joined him.
Faye wished that George had got back in time for the funeral. She took her place at the front with Alice, Geoffrey and her grandchildren. She settled her eyes on the coffin and imagined Trees inside it, dressed in his brown trousers, blue shirt and cap. She had resisted placing his boots on his feet; somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to meet the Lord in muddy boots. She had picked the walnuts herself from the Romanian walnut tree he had planted just after they had married. Now it was at least fifty feet tall with purple leaves, and had been his favourite. After his death she had been tempted to fell the lot of them, but there was no point holding a grudge against the tree that had killed him for, out of all the possible ways to go, he would have chosen that one himself.
She knelt on the hassock and buried her face in prayer. Contrary to Mrs Megalith’s philosophy, Faye felt closer to God in His house. She had said countless prayers at home but she had more confidence He’d hear her in the quiet serenity of church. She thanked Him for Trees’ life and for his love but she asked with more fervour that He forgive her for her adultery, crying tears that only Rita, Hannah and Maddie suspected were shed out of guilt.
Max could smell violets. No one but Rita smelled so sweet. He watched her from the pew behind, took in the small black hat and uncombed hair that tumbled down her back. She still wore George’s engagement ring, but on the third finger of her right hand. He couldn’t believe that a woman could hold onto the memory of a man for so long. She was as stubborn as she was misguided. He knew George was moving back to Lower Farm with his wife and children. Surely when she saw him she would realize that her pining was for nothing. She would have to let him go. Didn’t she realize how much he loved her?
Max was not only producing radio shows but television programmes as well. He had an acute talent for predicting what would be successful and a sharp eye for judging people. He was rising faster than one of Hannah’s walnut cakes and making more money than he could possibly spend. None of it, however, was for him. It was all for Ruth and Rita, the two most important women in his life. One day Rita would love him. One day he would take her to Vienna and show her the Imperial Theatre his father had built for his mother. They would go backstage and he would bring to life the stories he had told her down on the beach, of the one-legged whore who had seduced the Shah of Persia and the chorus girls who took turns to embrace him against their scantily clad breasts.
While Max ached with longing, Rita thought of George. She watched Faye and couldn’t help but feel personally deceived by her adultery. Trees lay innocent and unaware in a wooden box while his wife shed crocodile tears like a dutiful widow. But her anger was overshadowed by apprehension, for George was on his way back from Argentina, with his wife and children, the family he should have had with her. She felt the hate simmering at the bottom of her heart and was ashamed that she could give in to such ill feeling in God’s house, on the occasion of a funeral. She glanced down at the diamond solitaire ring that twinkled on her finger, oblivious of its own lack of purpose, and saw in its unfailing sparkle a small ray of hope. ‘Every time you look at it I want you to remember how much I love you.’
During the address Mrs Megalith closed her eyes and sensed the discreet presence of Trees. He was standing by the altar with his arms crossed, talking to his father. Mrs Megalith didn’t blame him. Reverend Hammond was painfully self-regarding and sanctimonious. What amused her most, however, was the speed and eloquence with which Trees spoke. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, she just knew he was chatting, and in her mind’s eye she saw the animation in his expression. In life he had never been so articulate, not even when he talked about his walnut trees. Making up for lost time, I suspect, she said to herself, then wiped away a tear. When Max slipped his hand around hers she flinched, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of weakness, but she opened her eyes and gazed on him with tenderness and gratitude. He smiled back discreetly and felt, as he had done that first night when she had bent down and kissed him, the unconditional love of a mother.
Maddie had always been selfish. She watched the glassy-eyed congregation with detachment. She had been fond enough of Trees but he hadn’t been a man to whom one could get close. Rita had more reason to be sad for she had worked with him and had almost become his daughter-in-law but, for Maddie, he had been something of an unremarkable presence. A man who had once been best friends with her father, until George had ruined it all. Not that she got involved in family feuds. She had her own family to think about now. As much as she had sympathized with her sister, seventeen years had gone by. Maddie had lost patience. If her sister wanted to wallow in self-pity so be it, but she wasn’t going to let it dominate her life like it dominated her mother’s. Men had come and gone, disappointed that their advances had been so swiftly rejected. Only Max had remained a loyal friend. He called Rita often, visited when he could and shared her past and, Maddie was sure, all her secrets too. Why she didn’t marry him, Maddie couldn’t understand. He was rich and successful and more handsome now than he had ever been. Time had beaten him about a little at the edges and rugged lines had appeared as if from nowhere, etched into his youthful skin by the hand of experience. His eyes seemed more intense, darker, less ingenuous, and his hair had begun to recede. If Rita didn’t grab the opportunity he would fall in love and marry someone else. She wished she’d get rid of that dismal engagement ring George had given her. It was tragic to hold onto something that was so obviously over. She hoped that when George returned Rita would see the impossibility of her fantasies and throw that pathetically small diamond into the sea.
Faye sat sculpting in her studio to the sound of Thadeus’ favourite Alpine Symphony and felt very alone. Without Trees the house echoed with an unbearable silence. Even when they hadn’t been in the same room she had felt his presence. His company had been warm and thick like a blanket. Now he was gone she realized how much she had loved him. Not the passionate love she felt for Thadeus, but he had been kind and dependable. She wished she had tried a little harder to understand him. In the end, she had let him drift further and further into his trees; perhaps if she had made more of an effort he might not have drifted so far.
It would be harder to see Thadeus now. She was a widow, and mourning seemed a more essential duty after death than fidelity had been before. She couldn’t risk being seen with another man while her own husband was still warm in his grave. She wished she could turn the clock back to the summer before George went to Argentina, when he was happy with Rita and when Trees and Mildred were as much part of Lower Farm as the walnut trees.
Chapter 27
When Susan, George and the children arrived at the quaint Devon station they could see little more than thick, grey fog. Having left the Argentine in springtime they now arrived in England in the middle of autumn. A bitter wind swept in from the coast and only the most intrepid gulls ventured out to glide upon it. Charlie and Ava pulled their coats around them and looked on their new world with disappointment. Soggy leaves lay in drifts all over the train tracks and swirled around a lamppost whose light glowed feebly through the mist. They were tired fro
m their journey and disenchanted by the cold reality of their situation. It was only four in the afternoon and yet it was already getting dark. The rain penetrated their bones and dampened any optimism.
Faye and Alice were there to meet them. George’s heart stumbled when he saw how much his mother had aged. She looked smaller and more fragile, like a sapling suddenly exposed to the light when the tree that had protected her was gone. Her eyes brimmed with happiness as she embraced him and he was reminded of the day he had returned from the war. She smelt the same and the skin on her face was soft and familiar against his. They didn’t need to speak. Leaving her son’s embrace, Faye greeted Susan and the children warmly, marvelling at how much Charlie and Ava had grown up, then George introduced them to his sister. They all squeezed into the estate car that Trees had bought not long before he died and drove the short distance to Lower Farm.
‘What a shame to arrive on a day like this. It’s been foggy all week,’ said Faye, sensing the children’s gloom. ‘You’ll warm up once we get you home.’
‘I wanted them to see the countryside from the train but all we could see was cloud,’ said George, who sat in the front with his mother. He glanced back and smiled at Ava who sat on Susan’s lap. Fortunately the child was small for her ten years otherwise they would never have all fitted into the back seat.
‘They’re just weary,’ said Susan, kissing her daughter’s head. ‘It’s been a long journey.’
‘I think the novelty of the plane has worn off for Charlie,’ George added, hoping to bring a grin to his son’s face, but Charlie just stared in front of him with unfocused eyes. ‘How are Johnnie and Jane?’ he asked, changing the subject.
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 32
