The Swallow and the Hummingbird (2 page)

‘Throw them into the bushes, dear boy.’ She waved a hand and her crystal rings glinted in the sunshine like boiled sweets. ‘I’m going outside to enjoy the early worm.’

Mrs Megalith’s house was a large white building, fine-looking in both proportion and symmetry. One half was covered in a delicate pink clematis, its petals fluttering in the wind like confetti, the other half in climbing roses and wisteria. The open windows revealed floral curtains and potted geraniums and the odd cat asleep in the sunshine. Mrs Megalith also kept two cows for milk, chickens for meat and eggs, and five white Aylesbury ducks for the sheer pleasure of watching them swim prettily on her pond. Foxes especially loved Aylesburies because they couldn’t fly so she kept a hurricane lamp alight all night long to scare them away. She was an avid gardener and planted without design, sowing wherever there was a space. With the help of Nestor, the ancient gardener, she had dug up half her lawn to scatter poppies, cornflowers and wild grasses, and under-planted the rose beds with forget-me-nots. These seeded themselves throughout the borders where she grew love-in-the-mist, campanulas and euphorbia. Hollyhocks were carried on the wind and by birds and thrived among the cracks in the York stone terrace and between the bricks in the wall that surrounded the garden. The air was filled with the sweet scent of cut grass and balsam poplar, and the rich smell of bluebells from the wood above the house drifted down on the breeze.

Elvestree House also had the advantage of overlooking the estuary, which was filled with every type of sea bird, from the soft grey herring gull to the black cormorant. Their clamour now resounded across the wide expanse of sand where the receding tide left sandworms and small crustaceans exposed in an enviable banquet. Mrs Megalith gazed into the mouth of the sea and to the horizon beyond and pondered on the dead cats and the omen that clouded an otherwise clear blue day. She knew that Rita was out on the beach, staring at the same view, willing George’s safe return from France and reflecting on her future and the realization of all her dreams.

Rita hadn’t slept. The anticipation was too much. In her hand she held the letter George had sent from France specifying the date and time of his arrival. It was transparent, the words nearly worn away by the gentle corrosion of love. She sat on the cliff top, gazing out over the sea that swelled below the circling of gulls – the same sea that had divided them for so long and was now bringing him home.

Today even the sunrise seemed lovelier. The sky paler, more translucent, and the sunlight like the gentle brush of a kiss. She loved more than anything to watch the sea, for the sea had moods like a person, one moment calm and serene, the next displaying the full force of its fury. But those waters were far deeper than a person could ever be. In spite of its mercurial nature the sea was constant and dependable and capable of filling Rita with a lightness of spirit unmatched by anything else in her life. The sight of that vast expanse of ocean touched her at the very core of her being. Sometimes at dusk, when the sky reflected the golds and reds of the dying sun and the sea lay flat and almost still, as if awed by the heavenly scene being played out above it, Rita felt sure there was a God. Not the remote God she learned about at school and in church, but her grandmother’s God: a God that was an integral part of the sea, the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the animals and the fish, and an integral part of her too. Sometimes Rita would close her eyes and imagine she was a bird soaring high above the earth, with the wind on her face and blowing through her hair.

Rita loved nature. As a child she had enjoyed only nature classes; all the others she had found difficult and pointless. While the rest of the children played rowdy games in the playground, Rita had lain on the grass watching ladybirds or a ball of dew on a leaf or taming a titmouse with a walnut from George’s father’s garden. She would sit and sketch insects, observing every minute detail with great curiosity. She had few close friends. No one else had the patience or the interest to sit for so long. But she was well liked, if considered a little eccentric, for she was a gentle child with a great deal of charm.

But today there was more on her mind than the fluid circling of gulls or the beetles that scurried about the grass in search of food, for George was coming home. She prayed for his safe journey, whispering her words into the wind as she had done throughout the war and especially during those painful moments when Reverend and Mrs Hammond’s son had been killed and Elsa Shelby’s fiancé lost in action. But her George had been spared. She was ashamed to speak of her gratitude in case it was somehow jinxed. So she thanked God in whispers that were lost in the roar of the sea and in the cry of birds that flew with their wings outspread on the back of the breeze. She extended her arms and ran along the sand in imitation, her heart inflated with joy and hope, and no one could hear her laughter and frown upon her childish exuberance.

Rita had known George for as long as she could remember. Their parents were friends and they had gone to the same village school although George hadn’t been in her class for he was three years older. He would wait for her at the end of the day and walk her home before continuing his journey by bicycle, for his father was a farmer and lived a few miles outside the village. He taught her how to play conkers and Pooh sticks, how to find shrimps and sea urchins in the rock pools on the beach, and in summertime he demonstrated how to start a fire with nothing but a pair of glasses. On her thirteenth birthday he had been the first to kiss her, because, he claimed, he hadn’t wanted anyone else to. It was his responsibility to see that she was initiated with care because a nasty first experience could put her off for life. He had held her in the dark cave that had become their special place and pressed his lips to hers as the tide crept in to witness their secret then wash it away. Thus they had discovered a new dimension to their friendship and, with the enthusiasm of two children with a new toy, they had visited the cave as often as possible to indulge in hours of kissing interrupted only by the odd tern or sea gull that wandered unexpectedly into their cavern.

George had always longed to fly. He, too, loved to sit on the cliff tops watching the birds circling above the sea. He observed them closely, the way they glided on the air then swooped down to the water. He studied their take-offs and their landings and vowed to Rita that one day he’d fly like them in an aeroplane. When war came he grabbed the opportunity to make his dream happen regardless of the danger to his life. He was young then and sure of his immortality. He had set out on his big adventure and Rita had been proud and full of admiration for him. She had watched the sea birds in flight and thought of him. Then she had watched the pheasants and partridges his father shot down and feared for him.

She sat on a rock in their cave and remembered those kisses. She recalled the spicy scent of his skin, of his hair, of his clothes, all so familiar and unchanged over the years. She could picture him there, his presence so overwhelming that he dwarfed the small cavern. She imagined him lighting a cigarette, running his fingers through his curly brown hair, fixing her with those speckled grey eyes, grinning at her with only half his mouth as was his way – an ironic, mischievous grin. She recalled his wide jaw, the squareness of his chin, the lines that fanned out from his eyes when he laughed. She pondered the bond that held them together, excited at the prospect of a future that was so reassuringly a continuation of the past. They would grow old together here on this beach, in this cave, in this small Devon village imprinted with the indelible footsteps of their childhood.

When she returned home her mother was making porridge, her dyed auburn hair drawn into rollers and her strong matronly figure wrapped in a dusty pink dressing gown. ‘My dear, Friday’s arrived, I can’t believe it. I never thought today would dawn. After all these years. I’m quite overcome.’ She put down her wooden spoon and embraced her child with fervour. ‘God has blessed you, Rita,’ she added seriously, pulling away and fixing her daughter with eyes that were moist with emotion. ‘You must go to church this Sunday with gratitude in your heart. There are many who have not been so lucky. Trees and Faye must be beside themselves with excitement. To think their boy is finally coming home. It brings a lump to my throat.’ She turned back to the porridge, wiped her eyes and sniffed.

Hannah Fairweather was a deeply sentimental woman. She had a wide, generous face, eyes that wept easily, especially where her children were concerned, and a large, spongey bosom that had nursed each of her three daughters for well beyond their first year. She was one of nature’s earth mothers whose sole purpose in life is to raise and love children, which she did with enormous pride. Like a magpie she kept everything: Rita’s first pair of shoes, Maddie’s first drawing, a lock of Eddie’s hair. The mantelpieces and walls were cluttered with memories that would mean nothing to a visitor but which meant everything to Hannah; a veritable museum of her past.

The Fairweathers’ rambling cottage was situated in the small seaside village of Frognal Point, hidden behind tall yew hedges and lime trees, surrounded by a manicured garden filled with birds. Hannah’s youngest child was now fourteen and spent all day at school, so the birds that she tamed and cared for were like children to her. The nightingale who made her home in the tangled hedgerow, the dainty titmice who arrived in the autumn and ate crusts out of her hand, and the swallows, her favourite, who returned each spring to build their nests in the top corner of the porch. As mild and modest as the little hedge sparrows, Hannah had a good heart and a soft one – as is often the case with children raised by overbearing mothers.

‘I wonder why our Rita is glowing this morning?’ said Humphrey as he entered the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of porridge and toast. Short and stocky in grey trousers with scarlet braces over a neatly pressed white shirt, he was almost bald except for the thick white curls about his ears. He bent down, planted a kiss on his daughter’s temple and patted her back with a warm hand.

‘She’s been down on the beach,’ Hannah replied. Humphrey took his seat at the head of the table and poured himself a cup of tea.

‘Nothing to do with the fact that George is coming home then?’ He chuckled and opened the paper, the
Southern Gazette
, which he edited. He grunted his approval of the front page, emblazoned with a large picture of a young woman kissing a soldier on his return from the war. If George had any remarkable stories of bravery and adventure Humphrey would be only too pleased to put them in his paper. That’s what people wanted now, tales of heroism and victory.

‘I’m so excited, Daddy, and yet I’m frightened too.’

Humphrey peered at his daughter over the paper. ‘There’s no reason to be frightened, Rita. He’ll be delivered home safely.’

‘No, that’s not why.’ She paused and nibbled at a piece of toast. ‘You don’t think he will have changed, do you?’

Hannah spooned porridge into a bowl for her husband. ‘Of course he will have changed,’ she said. ‘He’ll be a man now.’

Rita smiled and blushed. ‘I hope he won’t be disappointed in me.’

‘Who could be disappointed in you, my dear?’ Humphrey laughed and disappeared behind the paper again. ‘You’re home to George, like your mother was home to me. Don’t underestimate that.’

‘I remember when your father came back from the Dardanelles. He was so brown I barely recognized him, and thin too. I had to feed him up like one of Mother’s chickens. But we soon got to know each other again. George will take a while to adjust, but he’ll be home and reunited with his beloved. War teaches you that nothing matters but the people you love. You’ve been his lifeline for all these years, Rita.’ Hannah’s voice faltered and she coughed to disguise it, recalling the horrors of the Great War and the broken spirits who lived to return. ‘Where’s Eddie? She’ll be late for school.’ She bustled out of the room to wake her youngest daughter.

When Eddie wandered into the kitchen, clearly still half asleep, she mumbled a brief ‘good morning’ before remembering that today was the day of George’s return. ‘You must be excited, Rita,’ she said, waking up. ‘Are you going to let him make love to you now?’

Humphrey’s startled face popped up over the paper and Hannah swivelled around and stared in horror at her fourteen-year-old daughter.

‘Eddie!’ she gasped. ‘Humphrey, say something!’

Humphrey pulled an exaggerated frown. ‘What do
you
know about making love, Eddie?’ he asked, wondering who had polluted her mind.

‘Elsa Shelby’s fiancé got back a week ago and they made love that very day. I know because Amy told me.’ Elsa Shelby’s little sister was as indiscreet as Eddie.

‘What does little Amy know?’ said Hannah, hands on hips, nearly shaking the curlers out of her hair.

‘Elsa told her. She said it was like bathing in a tub of warm honey.’ Eddie grinned mischievously as she watched her father’s face extend into a wry smile.

‘My dear child,’ said Hannah severely, ignoring her husband’s obvious amusement, ‘physical love is for the procreation of children within the union of marriage.’

‘They
are
engaged,’ Eddie protested, beaming at her sister who had suddenly grown hot and fidgety. ‘After all, she thought he was dead!’

‘They still should have waited. What are a few months?’ Hannah argued.

‘George and Rita will be engaged soon.’ Eddie turned to Rita. ‘You will tell me what it’s like when you do it, won’t you?’ Rita let her long, brown hair fall over her face in thick curls and wriggled in her chair in embarrassment.

‘Edwina, eat your breakfast. You’ll be late for school,’ said Hannah, changing the subject. She was used to Eddie’s tendency to say exactly what she thought, without reflecting on whether it was appropriate.
That
she had inherited from her grandmother. Eddie watched her mother spoon large dollops of porridge into a bowl then caught eyes with her father. His expression was indulgent.

‘Eddie, dear, do you have to bring Harvey to the table?’ said her mother, noticing the little black bat that clung to the sleeve of Eddie’s woollen cardigan.