The Swallow and the Hummingbird (15 page)

‘I was weaned on
Winnie-The-Pooh
and
The Wind in the Willows
. You know something, they’re far more delightful to read as an adult.’

‘Like
Alice in Wonderland
and
The Wizard of Oz
.’

‘Exactly. Very clever to write on two levels like that.’

Suddenly, there was a shriek from the table behind as Miranda tried to stand up but was held down by the napkin George had tied around her foot. Her parents looked at her in bewilderment while Mrs Bullingdon’s face flushed with embarrassment as the girl’s loud cries drew attention to their small party.

‘Good God child, what is the matter?’ Mr Linton-Harleigh exclaimed irritably. Miranda pursed her lips and dived under the table. She wrenched her foot free and emerged red-faced and scowling.

‘Nothing,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Mama. And I’m not a child!’ As she passed George she stuck her nose in the air and glowered at him.

‘What was that all about?’ Susan asked him as the party left the room.

‘An offending foot that strayed where it shouldn’t,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Fortunately, it’s a big boat. I’d better keep well clear of her or I’m likely to find myself thrown overboard.’

George spent the day with Susan. They walked up and down the decks in the sunshine, lay on deckchairs sipping lemonade, and quietly read their books, commenting every now and then on something that amused them. They lunched together and gossiped about the brigadier and his wife and their ghastly friends who now considered him traitorous. In the evening they swam in the pool and drank cocktails on the deck watching the sun slip towards the sea as it sank beneath the surface to alight upon another continent the other side of the world.

A couple of days later, when the ship anchored just off the coast of Uruguay, they took a small boat into the port to wander among the shops and up and down the beach. It was soft and fine, quite unlike the sand in Devon.

‘Isn’t it beautiful here? Gone are the grey clouds and drizzle of England,’ said George, enjoying the sapphire-blue sky and bright sunshine.

‘The smell is what delights me,’ said Susan. ‘It’s thick and sweet like honey.’

‘I grew up by the sea. I’ve always loved it.’

‘It pulls at you, doesn’t it? Right here.’ She placed a hand on her chest. ‘It makes me feel my own immortality and question what there is beyond. I suppose death is like the sea. The horizon is only the limit of our sight. You have to have faith. I like to think heaven is there, beyond our senses.’

‘Will I see you again?’ George asked suddenly.

She laughed. The same laugh that a mother might give a child in order to indulge him. ‘Oh, George,’ she said and sighed.

‘Tomorrow we arrive in Buenos Aires.’

‘Let’s live that long first, shall we?’

‘Oh, we’ll live that long, I assure you,’ he replied tightly.

‘I know, you survived the war.’ She took his hand in hers. He held it reluctantly.

‘Don’t patronize me, Susan.’ His voice was angry but she still smiled which infuriated him all the more.

‘I’m not patronizing you, George. You’re asking me something I don’t know the answer to. It’s easier not to think about these things. To avoid them.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Are you meeting a lover?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you want to see me again?’ He stopped walking and withdrew his hand, putting it into his pocket defensively. She put her head on one side and looked at him gravely.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps we are just destined to meet and part on this boat.’ Her fingers traced the scar absentmindedly, running up and down her cheek.

George swallowed hard. ‘Is it because you think I’m a boy?’

‘You’re certainly much younger than I am.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Age is like beauty, George, irrelevant.’

‘Then what is the problem?’

‘I’m not ready for you,’ she said, and her eyes dimmed once again with sadness. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

Instead of sulking, which is what a boy would have done, he made a conscious effort to behave like a man. He shrugged off her rejection, knowing that he had the rest of his life to brood on it if he so wanted, and tried to behave as before. At dinner they discussed the history of Uruguay and Argentina, of which she knew a great deal, and afterwards they stood where they had met, leaning on the railings looking out into the darkness. George felt suffocated, as if the air was too thick to breathe. He was suddenly afraid of being without her.

‘What are you thinking, George?’ she asked.

‘I’m staring into the void,’ he replied, feeling that familiar sense of loss engulf him. ‘I can’t accept that I won’t see you again.’

‘Who knows what destiny holds for us?’

Overcome by desire and desperation, he swung her around and kissed her. Her body went rigid and she pushed him away in terror. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her cheeks aflame. Then her voice wavered. ‘You don’t understand.’ But her eyes betrayed her longing. Ignoring her protests he kissed her again. She felt frail in his arms, vulnerable even. For the first time since they had met, she let down her guard. Slowly the tension in her body subsided and she sank into his embrace. He held her tightly, knowing she would be lost to him in the morning, and kissed her deeply. She smelt of the sea and lily of the valley and of something sweet, entirely her own, that he would never forget.

Finally, she pulled away and looked at him with eyes brimming with regret. ‘That wasn’t the kiss of a boy,’ she quipped. ‘I must go.’

‘Spend the night with me?’ he groaned, the world falling away from him.

‘No, George. I’m going to my own bed.’

‘So this is it?’

‘Don’t be sad. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. You’re only just beginning.’

‘Don’t say that, Susan. I feel as if it’s the end.’

‘Good night.’ She pressed her lips to his and kissed him tenderly. Then she was gone.

George wanted to run after her but he knew it was useless to beg, not to mention undignified. Besides, she would think less of him for it. He lit a cigarette and inhaled through a constricted throat. He wanted to cry. What the hell was wrong with him? He had been on the brink of tears waving farewell to Rita only three weeks before. He put his head in his hands and listened to his breathing and the clashing of his thoughts.

When he finally sank into a troubled sleep his nightmares resurfaced to torment him again.

The blackness dissolves like mist and there he is, flying high in a clear blue sky. The vibration of the plane rattles his bones. The thunder of the engine is an urgent battle cry. The oxygen mask is hot and he’s finding it hard to breathe, but his eyes are focused on the cloud of German Messerschmitt 109s moving ominously towards him. He’s not alone. Lorrie’s on his right, and Tony? He turns. Yes, Tony’s there on his left. Just knowing they’re there boosts his confidence.
We’ll show you buggers
. The MEs loom large and menacing and suddenly he’s in the thick of it. So many planes he doesn’t know where to start. Fear takes hold. An icy fear that once again forces his concentration and steadies the turbulence in his mind. Sometimes fear is a good thing. This battle’s going to be a bloody one.
Focus, George, keep your wits about you
. The voice on the R/T articulates with urgency:
109s at 4 o’clock, 3,000 feet above, eight at 6 o’clock. Watch out. They’re swooping down. For God’s sake, break!
Gun button to fire, press emergency boost override, straps tight, focused. Very focused. Calm as never before. He looks about for a target. Dorniers below. One of those will do. He casts a glance about him. It’s chaos out there. Planes everywhere. Spitfires lost in the swarm of German gnats. He swoops down to the Dornier, never takes his eyes off him. The sound of a tracer whizzes by, then gunfire behind. But nothing deters him from his target.
I’ll get you, you bastard. You’ll be sorry
. He presses the gun button and fires.
Got you
. The Dornier takes a dive. Black smoke coming out of her tail. Loads of it. Too busy to watch her crash into the sea. Too busy to wonder who will mourn him back at home. He’s quick to spot a Heinkel III, he fires in short bursts but the enemy turns away and breaks for the sea. George is hot on his tail. He’s aware that they’ve left the battle. It’s just the two of them and one will surely die. Sweat trickles down his forehead and into his eyes. He’s hot and uncomfortable. The sea lies shimmering in the early evening light. It looks hypnotic, alluring even. The final resting place of so many brave men. The Heinkel is below him so he has the advantage and swoops down, gaining on him fast. Goes for the quarter attack. Eases back the throttle and settles just off his port side. Short bursts of fire. Black smoke. He’s hit.
God, I’m good at this
, he thinks triumphantly. Too slow to avoid the counterattack. Sound of bullets on metal.
Damn, he’s got me
! Uneasy relief when he realizes that it’s only the wing. But it was close. He pulls up on his starboard side and fires in long bursts this time. Determination and controlled fury. Never takes his eyes off his target. He’s sure he can see the fear on the face of the enemy. The German rolls away. He’s like a slippery eel. How he avoided those bullets George will never know. Suddenly he’s out of eyeshot. George looks around, a strange feeling of anticipation strains his nerves.
A bloody 109 on my tail. How did he get there?
George flies for his life. Flies all over the sky. This way, that way, anything but straight. He knows he’s a hard target. Then a streak of red passes his cockpit. More gunfire, an explosion, the smell of cordite and his own terror. Then it dawns on him. He’s been hit. He blinks to get the sweat out of his eyes. They’re sore and his head hurts.
Pull yourself together, George, for God’s sake. You’re not ready to meet your maker
. The 109 pulls away, leaving him for dead, no doubt. But to George’s amazement he’s still flying. Must be the fuel tank. He turns on his back and now he’s above the enemy. The pursued is now the pursuer.
Bloody arrogant sod
! Gaining speed as he swoops down after him he fixes his target and fires. Long bursts. The last of the ammo.
I don’t care if you take me with you, but you’re going down
, he shouts, firing like a crazed man. Grey smoke puffs out of the fuselage. The propeller slows down and the nose dives. More black smoke and, like a winged bird, the 109 falls away, trailing oil and despair behind him. George watches as the plane crashes into the sea, swallowed up at once in a thick froth of white foam. Then all is still and quiet. He looks about him. He’s entirely alone. With his heartbeat slowing down he throws open the hood and loosens his mask. With his head in the slipstream he begins to calm down. He’s wounded, but he’ll make it home. That was a close shave. Nearly copped it. Then he’s overcome with a sudden feeling of loneliness. Where’s everyone got to? He sees the coastline. Scans the sky for planes. But there are none. Where’s Lorrie and Tony? He knows they didn’t make it. He can feel it. He’s alone. Quite alone.

Chapter 10

George awoke in a sweat. His heartbeat raced and his body trembled with fear. It took him a while to shake off his dream and remember that he was aboard the
Fortuna
, bound for Argentina. Then he thought of Susan and he was suddenly thrown back into his dream, feeling lonelier than ever.

As he dressed he could feel the vibrations of the ship as it docked in Buenos Aires. He raced up the corridors and out onto the deck, hoping that by some small miracle he would catch a final glimpse of her as she disembarked. It was hopeless. He stood against the railing watching the passengers walk down the ramp onto the dockside, his eyes scanning them for that familiar blonde hair, neatly combed into an elegant chignon. The port was teeming with uniformed officials but, unlike England where they exuded efficiency, here the atmosphere was languid. Although still early morning, the heat of the sun was intense. The flow of passengers dwindled and he resigned himself to the fact that she had long gone. One more face in the millions of unfamiliar faces of Buenos Aires.

He returned to his cabin and threw his things into a bag. He hesitated when he came across the letter he had written to Rita and the dove pendant he had bought her. He fingered it thoughtfully before placing it at the top and clipping shut his bag. Then he left the ship and its sweet memories. He had nothing to remember Susan by: no photograph, no letter, no small token to mark their meeting and their parting. Nothing. Once he left the ship it would be as though they had never met.

Buenos Aires was a fragrant, romantic city. He imagined Susan in the small cafés and beneath the violet jacaranda trees that had burst into blossom with the unexpected flowering of his own fragile heart. He envisaged her walking down the wide, tree-lined avenues, perhaps residing in one of those pretty Parisian buildings, with their high roofs and ornate façades. He had time to kill before his train to Córdoba so he wandered into a plaza that was ablaze with flowers and trees in bloom, the air thick with the heady scent of gardenia and the happy twittering of birds. It was peaceful there beside a fountain.

The delicate trickle of water soothed his spirit and he was able to appreciate the change of scenery and the promise of something new that this country offered him. He lunched alone in La Recoleta, at a table that looked out from under sinewy rubber trees onto the wall of the cemetery. A flower stall was set up at the entrance and the smell of spring mingled with the aroma of cooking meat and diesel. He ate Argentine beef, a steak that spilled over the sides of the plate, juicy such as he had never tasted. He drank wine and allowed it to numb the sense of rejection that still gnawed at his heart, and watched the scenes play out around him through lazy eyes.

This was a country untouched by war. People sat in the sunshine, sipping cocktails, chatting happily and eating luxuries that were a rarity in Britain. It felt good to be a part of this carefree world. It made it easier to forget. He shook off the winter and let in the spring. But as much as he tried to think of Rita, Susan’s face still invaded and lingered in his mind. He was too drowsy with wine to fight it. So he looked upon her with wistfulness and longing, his eyes staring ahead but focusing on nothing. He realized with a shudder that if he had really loved Rita he would have married her there and then and brought her with him. But she was tied to Frognal Point, to his past, to the ghosts from which he was running. He was running from her too.