The Swallow and the Hummingbird (14 page)

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Do you have a sweetheart?’

‘No,’ he replied without hesitation. What harm would it do to lie to a woman he was sure never to see again? He threw his cigarette butt into the ocean.

‘So why are you so sad?’

‘I lost many friends in the war. Good friends. People I’d grown attached to. They died but I survived. Why me?’ He shrugged.

‘I see,’ she said gently. ‘Where were you in all this fighting?’

‘In the air.’

‘Oh, a pilot. That’s very glamorous, you know.’

‘Not when you’re in the middle of a bloody battle it isn’t.’

‘No, I suppose not. You must be a very good pilot to have survived.’

‘Perhaps just lucky.’

‘So you’re leaving all those memories behind. The funny thing is that memories are like my scar, you can’t run away from them.’

‘But one can try.’

‘I suppose we both will and then, one day, we’ll wake up and find that we can only be happy by confronting our demons. The thing is, I’m not quite ready for that yet.’

‘Neither am I.’

‘Who would have thought that you and I had so much in common?’

‘I don’t even know your name,’ he lied. He didn’t want her to know that he had been discussing her with the unpleasant Mrs Bullingdon.

‘Susan Robertson.’

‘George Bolton.’

‘Mind if I steal one of your cigarettes?’

‘Not at all. Please.’ He pulled the packet out of his breast pocket.

‘Oh, Lucky Strike. There’s an old familiar friend,’ she said, taking one.

She had slender white hands with long nails painted red. She placed the cigarette between her lips and fixed George with pale shiny eyes, probably blue but he couldn’t see well enough in the darkness. He flicked his lighter but the wind blew it out at once. She cupped her hands around it, lightly brushing his with her fingers and he tried again. This time it worked and she inhaled deeply.

‘Where in America are you from?’ George asked, intent on drawing more information out of her.

‘You don’t give up, do you?’

He laughed. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘Like a child who is denied a toy.’

‘Or like a man in the presence of a strikingly beautiful woman. Isn’t it natural that he should want to know everything about her?’

‘Are you flirting with me, George Bolton?’

‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,’ he retorted and grinned crookedly as was his way.

‘Very well. I’m from all over. My father was a diplomat. I was brought up in Washington. Then we lived for a while in Buenos Aires. My fondest memories are of that time. After that we moved to Europe. Paris, London, Rome. I consider myself a child of the world. I don’t really belong anywhere.’

‘But you consider yourself American?’

‘But of course. That’s different. That’s in my blood. Have I satisfied your curiosity?’

‘Marginally.’

‘That’s better than nothing.’

‘But we have three more days before we arrive in Buenos Aires.’

‘And you think you’ll wheedle it all out of me in three days? I’m not a pushover, George, and I’m not in the mood to be romanced. You’ve had your opportunity.’ She smiled at him indulgently and added in a soft voice. ‘You’ve been good company, though, and I don’t feel sad any more.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Good night, George.’ She patted him on the hand before walking away.

George remained for some time on the deck. It irritated him that she considered him little more than a boy. The idea of being romanced by him was obviously preposterous to her, like being courted by a child. He wanted her to look on him as a man. After all, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight or nine. Hardly in a position to patronize him.

He returned to his berth and decided to write to Rita. He recalled the letters he had written her during the war. He had never recounted his experiences in the air. They had seemed somehow too harsh for Rita’s gentle sensibility. Besides, he hadn’t wanted her to know the dangers he was in. So he had dwelt on their past. On the cliffs and the beach, in their cave and on the farm. He had written long, nostalgic paragraphs recalling their games and their innocence, without really realizing that when he returned it would all be gone for ever. This time he simply told her that he missed her.

Before he slept he thought of Susan. He tried to think of Rita and felt guilty when Susan’s face eclipsed hers. He recalled their conversation from beginning to end. The brittleness of her expression and the way it had softened. She was abrasive and sharp, quick-witted and dry. A woman in control of herself but one who shut out people as a form of self-defence. She was distrustful and cynical and yet he sensed she was capable of great tenderness. He wondered whether they would see each other again once they arrived in Argentina. He would disappear up to Córdoba on the Rayo del Sol train, miles and miles from the city, and she would be lost amongst the millions of faceless inhabitants of Buenos Aires.

Chapter 9

The following morning George awoke feeling light spirited, unlike the previous mornings when it had been a trial just to drag himself out of bed. He realized, too, that it was the first night in many that he hadn’t relieved the war in his dreams. He lay in bed for a while staring up at the ceiling, delighting in the novelty of such cheerfulness. Now he awoke to the promise of a new beginning in a new country and he was tickled with excitement.

He splashed his face with water and brushed his teeth. His thoughts were far from Frognal Point and the letter to Rita lay discarded on his bedside table. Written out of guilt and a sense of duty. He took a while deciding which shirt to wear and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t shave. Felt he looked more like a man with a shadow of stubble on his chin. Satisfied with his appearance, he stepped out into the corridor.

To his dismay, Susan wasn’t in the breakfast room but the brigadier and his wife were. When she saw him, Mrs Bullingdon waved furiously before leaning into the table to whisper to her friends. He approached and greeted her politely. ‘George, dear, let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Linton-Harleigh and their daughter Miranda,’ Mrs Bullingdon exclaimed in her reedy voice. ‘Flight Lieutenant George Bolton. One of our young heroes. Do join us, George.’

George swept his eyes over the eager red faces who beamed enthusiastically up at him. He shook their hands graciously, reluctantly, accepted Mrs Bullingdon’s invitation, and noticed at once the sexual hunger in the eyes of their daughter. Like a predator who hadn’t fed for weeks.

‘Miranda’s going to set Buenos Aires alight,’ twittered Mrs Linton-Harleigh, nervously playing with her teaspoon. ‘We’re going to be staying with cousins in Hurlingham. You must come and visit. So many parties. We’ll have to go shopping the minute we get there, no pretty dresses in London with all that ghastly coupon business. Such nice people the Anglo-Argentines.’

‘You will come, Mr Bolton?’ Miranda asked, and George shuddered at the steely resonance in her voice.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to be up country.’

‘Oh dear, how frightfully dreary.’ Miranda sniffed her contempt. ‘You know, Buenos Aires is the centre of all things. If you’re not there, you’re nowhere.’

‘Then I shall be content to be nowhere,’ he stated impassively. Miranda stared at him in disbelief, not knowing what to make of him.

‘The Ambassador is giving a party next week. A charming man, the Ambassador. Do you know him?’ Mrs Linton-Harleigh asked, raising her plucked eyebrows.

‘This is my first visit to the Argentine,’ George explained, wondering why the hell he was spending time with these obnoxious people. Miranda’s shoulders relaxed for she was now able to forgive him his ignorance.

‘If I were you I would spend some time in the city. It’s a delightful place. Proper people,’ she said with emphasis on ‘proper’.

‘When one’s fought in the war one thinks very little of the social ambitions of the likes of you, my dear,’ said the brigadier to Miranda, in a patronizing tone. ‘Ambassadors and princes, who gives a damn? We’re all flesh and blood, aren’t we?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Linton-Harleigh. ‘But in order to get on in the world one has to know the right people. It’s all very well pretending you’re above it all, but it’s not about what you know, it’s about
who
you know.’

‘It’s most unfair, but it’s life,’ his wife added breezily. ‘In that respect the war has changed nothing.’

George watched her pick at a piece of toast and thought they were the worst kind of English people to represent his country abroad. He shuddered to think what the Argentines thought of the British if they were epitomized by the Linton-Harleighs and Bullingdons.

‘Look, Mama, there’s that poor American lady again.’ Miranda looked over George’s shoulder to Susan who was taking a small table on her own. Mrs Linton-Harleigh’s face twisted into mock sympathy.

‘Poor thing. What a shame,’ she simpered. ‘She must have been quite a beauty once.’

‘She’s called Susan Robertson,’ said Mrs Bullingdon with an air of authority. ‘I spoke to her on arrival.’

‘What’s she like?’ Miranda asked, licking her lips. George was sickened.

‘With such an unfortunate face she was in no position to be arrogant,’ sniffed Mrs Bullingdon. ‘She was most unpleasant with a tongue that could slice through marble.’

‘Oh dear. What sort of life must she lead, poor woman? Fate has been so unkind.’ Miranda’s words were disingenuous. George could tell from the cold glint in her eye that she took great pleasure from Susan’s disfigurement.

‘You see, looks, like class, will never diminish in importance,’ Mr Linton-Harleigh stated heavily. ‘Anyone who says they don’t matter doesn’t know what they’re talking about.’ His wife nodded enthusiastically.

‘Isn’t it lucky our Miranda’s so pretty and charming?’ she said, pulling a saccharine smile.

When George felt pressure on his ankle he assumed there must be a dog under the table. When it persisted he realized to his horror that it was Miranda’s foot nudging his. He looked at her to find her discussing Susan with Mrs Bullingdon, relishing all the details that the elder lady was expressing with delight. For a moment he thought he must be mistaken, she appeared too engrossed in her conversation. But it couldn’t be Mrs Linton-Harleigh’s foot, for she was sitting next to him, and surely not that of the brigadier’s wife. The foot crept up his leg and rubbed against his shin. Pretending to drop his napkin, he bent down and poked his head beneath the tablecloth. To his relief the foot belonged to the girl. He was vaguely amused to think that her parents no doubt considered her a paragon of virtue. Hastily he tied the napkin around her ankle and attached it to the leg of the table. Then he pushed out his chair and got up.

‘Surely you’re not leaving us, George,’ Mrs Bullingdon exclaimed, put out. ‘You haven’t had any breakfast.’

‘I’m afraid I am.’

‘Lady friend?’ the brigadier asked, one bushy eyebrow shuffling off into his hairline.

George smiled bashfully. ‘How right you are, Brigadier. A very beautiful and classy one at that.’

Mr Linton-Harleigh sniggered. ‘Now, here’s a lad who knows what’s good for him.’

Miranda pouted.

‘Bring her with you to dinner?’ Mrs Bullingdon suggested. Then she turned to her friends. ‘He was a bit of a loner before I found him.’

George turned on his heel and stopped at Susan’s table. She looked up and smiled at him. ‘Do you need rescuing?’ she asked.

He shook his head in exasperation. ‘May I join you?’

‘Please do.’ George pulled out the chair and sat with his back to Mrs Bullingdon’s table. ‘You seem to have caused a bit of a commotion by leaving them to breakfast with me.’

‘Good. They’re possibly the most unpleasant bunch of people I’ve ever met.’

‘You were better off on your own.’

‘I was. But they jumped on me in the bar.’

‘I know the sort. Leeches. Once they’ve met you they want to suck you dry.’

‘Well, I’m backing out before I’m totally depleted. How are you this morning?’

She took a sip of her coffee. She was beautifully dressed in an ivory-coloured skirt and blouse, a simple pearl necklace around her neck. Her nails were perfectly manicured and her makeup carefully applied. Her hair shone with health and vitality. Only her eyes betrayed a certain weariness of spirit.

‘I enjoyed last night,’ she said, much to George’s surprise. ‘Oh, close your mouth before something flies in. It was nice to talk to someone.’

‘It was nice for me too. Shame we didn’t meet earlier.’

She lowered her eyes. For a fleeting moment she looked like a young girl and George suddenly felt protective of her. He poured himself a cup of coffee and ordered some more toast from the waiter.

‘Two breakfasts! Isn’t that a little greedy even for a growing boy?’ she teased.

‘They put me off my food,’ he replied, buttering a piece of toast. ‘I’m suddenly very hungry.’

‘I think you’ve upset that rather sour-looking child,’ she said, referring to Miranda. ‘She hasn’t taken her eyes off you once.’

‘She’s far more curious about you.’

‘You think?’

‘Just a hunch.’

‘I imagine she’s wondering how a good-looking young man could possibly prefer the company of a disfigured old maid to hers.’

‘Beauty is skin deep.’

‘So the saying goes.’

‘But it’s true, and you’re no old maid.’

‘You’re very sweet.’ She was clearly delighted by his flattery for her cheeks flushed. She struggled to compose herself. ‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked, folding her napkin.

‘Spend it with you. You don’t think I’m going to leave you on your own, do you?’

‘You obviously think I’m incapable of defending myself.’

‘On the contrary. However, I’m incapable of defending myself against the likes of Mrs Bullingdon and Mrs Linton-Harleigh. If you leave me on my own, I’m bound to be set upon again.’

‘Well then, I have no choice but to give you my protection. But I better warn you, I’ve brought out a pile of classics to read. I won’t be good company.’

‘I love the classics. My mother introduced me to the likes of Dickens, Austen and Thackeray at a very young age.’ She raised her eyebrows, impressed.