The Swallow and the Hummingbird (25 page)

‘Give yourself time, George. Time has a way of ironing these things out.’

He looked at her intently and his expression lightened as if the sun had defied the force of nature and risen above the towers of the church.

‘You really understand, don’t you, Susan?’

She reached over and placed her hand upon his. ‘A little, and the little I don’t, I try to.’

He shuffled across the rug so that he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her. With Susan he could muffle the insistent scream of war, the nagging of his conscience and the small, plaintive voice somewhere deep inside his heart that was Rita’s.

Chapter 16

Max was unable to concentrate. He lit the small candle and began slowly to ignite the eight flames of the menorah, the symbol of Hanukkah. From the moment he and his sister Ruth had arrived at Elvestree, Primrose had resolved to practise their Jewish festivals and customs as they had done in Austria, before Hitler had set out to extinguish the very soul of their people. Ruth’s face was solemn. She never spoke of the family they had lost but it was impossible not to think of them at such a time. Some memories never fade. Mrs Megalith’s glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose and she dug her chin into the folds of flesh on her neck. Her face was serious too, in spite of the cats that circled her ankles and rubbed their backs against her calves. Max’s thoughts were far from Vienna and the small dining room where his mother had nodded at him across the table to indicate the moment to light the candles and say the accompanying prayers. They were with Rita. Since the day he had kissed her in his bedroom they had spent evenings together playing chess, reciting poetry or writing their own prose to read out to each other beside the fire in Primrose’s drawing room. She had finally noticed him.

Ruth watched her brother’s hand tremble as he lit the candles. She wondered whether he was remembering, as she was, the dimly-lit dining room in Vienna where their father presided over the family gathering of uncles and aunts and cousins to celebrate the festival of Hanukkah. She could almost smell the smoke from his cigar and taste the wine in the air. She shook away the invading sense of nostalgia with a toss of her head and focused her now glittering eyes on the flame in her brother’s hand. Mrs Megalith felt the contradicting vibrations in the room, Ruth’s heavy sadness and Max’s light excitement, and sent one of the cats scurrying out from under the table with a firm kick of her foot.

‘That’ll teach the little rotter!’ she exclaimed as Max lit the eighth candle. Then she raised her glass. ‘To absent friends, that we may always remember them.’ Max thought of Rita, Ruth of her mother, and Mrs Megalith cast her mind momentarily to Denzil. He wouldn’t have put up with all these cats and they wouldn’t have dared intrude if he were still alive. She felt a cold nose against her knee and sent a fat ginger cat flying out from under the table to join the other. Ruth felt tearful and sunk her eyes into the steaming soup, silently fending off the memories that now threatened to swamp her. Mrs Megalith launched into a story about her late husband’s disastrous tiger hunt in India and Max began spooning the soup into his mouth with relish. Neither seemed to notice her anguish.

Then, just when Ruth’s tears threatened to spill, Max’s spoon hesitated before his lips. Mrs Megalith was laughing raucously at the thought of Denzil being chased by a tiger when he had been told very firmly to remain still. Max was no longer listening. He looked down to see a small white cat sitting quietly at his feet staring up at him with large, unblinking eyes the colour of the peridots on Mrs Megalith’s earrings. Max shifted his eyes to his sister and felt his heart, a moment ago as light as a soufflé, now slump with compassion. Without further thought he swept the cat into his arms, stood up and walked around to the other side of the table where Ruth sat hunched over her cooling soup. Mrs Megalith’s laughter faded into a chuckle as she watched him place the cat onto his sister’s knee where it proceeded to nuzzle her face affectionately. The old woman understood the boy’s gesture and gazed at him with admiration. When she turned back to Ruth, the cat was licking up her soup with her neat pink tongue and Ruth was giggling, her tears settling into her eyelashes, her misery forgotten.

Maddie was unable to think of anything but Harry Weaver. She had been struck by love, slapped around the face, kicked in the gut and, to her shock, it really hurt. Now she knew what Rita went through.

‘I so admire you!’ she wailed to her sister. ‘Love is the most painful thing in the world. I feel as if my heart is being pulled and torn. I long for him with every nerve in my body!’

‘What about Bertie?’ Rita asked, unable to take Maddie’s dramatics too seriously.

‘Bertie?’ Maddie spat the name as if the very sound of it was detestable to her. ‘I never loved Bertie. He made the time pass. Now I’ve met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with and if Megagran is right, the many lives I have to live after this one.’

‘I thought you were going to marry a movie star. Cary Grant at the very least.’ Rita found it hard to contain her amusement.

‘Love strikes when you least expect it. I don’t care that he’s old, forty at least, don’t you think?’ She screwed up her nose. Forty was definitely the beginning of old age.

‘Mummy and Daddy would die if they knew. He’s divorced.’

‘Don’t remind me. Not only is he divorced and old but he’s a poor, unsuccessful writer. What am I going to do?’ Rita sat on the edge of her sister’s bed and stroked her hair.

‘That’s not your only problem. You’ve got serious competition.’

Maddie gasped in horror as yet another obstacle raised its ugly head. ‘Who?’

‘Eddie’s lost her heart to him too. He’s the only person other than Mother and Megagran who has taken an interest in Harvey.’

‘Thank God for Eddie!’ she burst with relief. ‘You really scared me, Rita.’

‘At least you can see him as much as you like. Mummy’s always at Bray Cove bird-watching. I suggest you begin to take a keen interest in birds and books.’

Maddie sat up and looked at her sister with eyes that sparkled. ‘You’re right. I’ll go with her, then a romance will surely blossom. I’ll win him in the end, you’ll see.’

Suddenly Maddie’s life had a purpose. She rose early to sit in the garden, hunched in her father’s sheepskin coat, with a sketchpad and pencil of Eddie’s, drawing the birds which fed from her mother’s many bird trays. She braved the snow and the cold and didn’t mind that her breath froze in the air and her fingers lost their mobility, so determined was she to convince her mother that her interest was genuine. She asked her about their habits, about migrating birds and domestic birds, birds of the sea and birds of the mountains. Hannah was only too happy to discuss her feathered friends, surprised and delighted that her most difficult daughter was at last showing signs of growing up. Her knowledge was vast and, to Maddie’s delight, she discovered a colourful new world that coexisted with hers but which she had never noticed before. By Christmas she had not only persuaded Hannah but had managed to cultivate a real hobby for herself.

‘I’ve asked Harry to join us for Christmas at Elvestree,’ said Hannah over dinner one evening in mid-December. ‘He’s all alone and there’s nothing more miserable than spending Christmas on one’s own.’ Maddie’s face throbbed with excitement but so overwhelmed was she that she temporarily lost her voice.

‘That’s good of you, my dear,’ said Humphrey who was only too keen to dilute Antoinette and Megagran.

‘Mother’s happy. More the merrier is her motto. He loves animals so he won’t mind all those ghastly cats. I would like to embrace him into our family. He’s such a nice man,’ she continued. ‘He’s made a very warm home in Bray Cove and, do you know, the birds there are fabulous. So many different breeds. It’s a veritable paradise, even in wintertime.’ She settled her eyes on Maddie and smiled. ‘Maddie, you must come with me one of these days with your sketchpad.’ Maddie nodded and nearly choked on her stew.

‘Me too!’ Eddie’s voice rose. ‘Harry says that he has bats in his attic. Harvey could do with a few friends.’

‘I’m sure Harry won’t mind if we all descend on him. He’ll probably be grateful for the company,’ said Hannah.

‘I doubt he’s ever inspired such devotion,’ mused Humphrey with a smile. ‘Will you go too, Rita?’

‘No,’ she replied.

‘Not still pining for a letter from George?’ he commented tactlessly. ‘It seems like only yesterday that you received the pendant.’

Rita lowered her eyes to hide the sadness in them. ‘I know. I shouldn’t complain. Besides, I’m sure he’s written. It’s just that the post from overseas is so unreliable.’

‘Quite. The Royal Mail is most efficient these days, but I wouldn’t say the same for the post in Argentina.’

‘I write to him weekly,’ she said in a small voice. ‘At least he knows I’m thinking of him.’

‘Of course he does,’ her mother exclaimed encouragingly. ‘And you have that lovely pendant.’ Rita fingered it fondly. ‘I’m sure a letter will arrive soon. It will be worth the wait. Every good thing in life is worth the wait.’ Rita hid her apprehension behind a smile.

Maddie could scarcely wait for Christmas. She decided she would paint a picture of a bar-tailed godwit for Harry’s present. The godwit was a superior wader by virtue of its large size and slender, slightly upcurved bill. In summer its plumage was chestnut-red like her hair and it had long, elegant legs. There was a framer in town who could frame it for her and perhaps Harry would hang it above the desk where she presumed he wrote, so that it would remind him of her whenever he looked at it. Eddie, in turn, set about crafting him a little house for the bats in his attic with the help of Nestor, her grandmother’s ancient gardener.

Rita sat in her bedroom reading, watching the robin who had nested in her bookshelf, going over George’s old letters dating back from the outbreak of the war or pacing the cliffs, gazing anxiously out to sea. She continued her sculpting lessons with Faye, cycling over after work even in bad weather. She felt closer to George when she was with his family and their affection for her did much to relieve her doubts. Her sculpture was improving. There was nothing like the aching of the heart to enhance one’s creativity. Faye was impressed. She understood love and longing and how they fine-tuned the soul. Since Thadeus, her work had moved into another dimension and taken on an almost unearthly quality. The birds really seemed to fly, the animals to breathe, and the bust of Thadeus that she kept locked in a cupboard looked at her with such tenderness her heart stumbled every time she gazed upon it.

Christmas morning dawned with a heavy snowfall. Maddie and Hannah rushed out into the garden to break the ice on the water in the birdbath and scatter the ground and bird trays with breadcrumbs. Rita slept in for there was nothing to get up for, no post on Christmas Day. Eddie, for whom Father Christmas’ visit was an exclusive occurrence, awoke to the heavy weight of the bulging stocking on the end of her bed. Her excitement, however, was suddenly dashed when she discovered the lifeless body of Harvey, like a small toy, inert in the middle of the floor. Cradling him in her hands she rushed downstairs to where her father was in his usual place at the end of the kitchen table. ‘He’s dead!’ she wailed. At the sight of his daughter’s devastated face Humphrey first thought Harry Weaver had died, but then his eyes settled on the little black bundle she held in trembling hands.

‘Oh, my dear Eddie!’ he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Gathering the snivelling child into his arms he carried her to the rocking chair and sat down with her. She was inconsolable.

‘What am I going to do?’ she cried. All Humphrey could do was hold her tight and stroke her forehead. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. When Hannah came in with Maddie, clad in her dressing gown and a pair of boots, she was horrified.

‘Harvey has gone to the great bat attic in the sky,’ he said gravely. Hannah’s shoulders dropped.

‘Oh, Eddie. I am sorry,’ she said, swapping at once with her husband and dragging a by now very soggy Eddie onto her knee. Eddie stroked the dead bat, which looked even more revolting than when it had lived.

‘What will I do without him, Mummy? How will I go on?’

‘You will, my dear. Because life does go on. You’re going to have to be very strong. For Harvey’s sake. He won’t want you crying your little heart out over him, will he? That would make him very sad and heaven is meant to be a happy place.’

On hearing the commotion downstairs, Rita appeared with her hair in knots, her face pale and her eyes cast in shadows. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Harvey’s died,’ said Maddie. Then added in a whisper. ‘You’d have thought it was Daddy the way she’s carrying on!’

‘We must give him a proper funeral,’ said Hannah, kissing Eddie’s forehead. ‘Where would you like to bury him?’

‘In the garden,’ she sniffed. ‘In a box.’

‘I’ll make a little headstone for him if you like,’ said Rita. ‘You can choose what you want it to say.’

‘Why don’t we find a nice box to put him in now, then we can all have breakfast. We mustn’t be late for church,’ said Hannah, patting Eddie dismissively and getting up. Eddie followed her into the larder where she emerged a moment later with a small box. With much ceremony, she placed Harvey inside.

‘I want to bury him with my blue cardigan,’ she said gravely. Hannah put her hands on her hips, uncertain of whether to indulge such an extravagant whim just for a bat.

‘Eddie, I really don’t think that’s necessary,’ she began lamely. Eddie sensed the weakness in her mother’s voice and immediately seized upon it.

‘Oh, there’s no question, Mummy. I have to or he won’t rest in peace. In fact, he won’t rest at all.’

‘But you don’t have many cardigans and that one will fit you for years.’

‘I am willing to sacrifice it for him. After all, it’s only a piece of clothing. Harvey was a life!’ Her eyes bulged as she said ‘life’.

Hannah was silenced by her daughter’s logic and mumbled, ‘We’ll see,’ before turning around to make the porridge.