The Swallow and the Hummingbird (36 page)

‘Praise the Lord!’ he exclaimed, reeling backwards then lunging forward, still on the deck of that imaginary galleon. Agatha had a brainwave.

‘Dolores, Agustina and the girls can do lunch, would you do me the very great favour of looking after Father O’Bridie? I think the sun is too much for him. Take him into the floral spare room and give him lots of water. He must be dehydrated.’ Dolores, recognizing the lascivious glint in the old priest’s eye, was only too happy to do as requested. She handed Agatha the tray of
empanadas
and took Father O’Bridie by the arm, leading him gently into the house. Agatha sighed. ‘That kills two birds with one stone,’ she said to herself. Then she picked up an
empanada
and took a bite, silently thanking God that the old woman was still able to cook.

Jose Antonio’s laughter rose above the light chatter like a bellowing bull. He threw his head back and roared boisterously. Naturally, he was enjoying his own coarse jokes, but his charm was such that everyone laughed with him. The guests complimented the beauty of the bride, then asked each other in whispers how come she was so cruelly disfigured. When Tonito or Pia overheard their conversations they trilled in loud voices the story Susan had told them about the lion in Africa. ‘She was nearly eaten, you know! She said she wasn’t frightened until afterwards because while she was in the lion’s mouth she was too surprised to feel fear. If it hadn’t been for a man with a gun she would have ended up as dinner.’ The guests were so shocked by the story that they accepted it without question. Instead of regarding Susan with pity they looked on her with admiration. Her scar was heroic.

Suddenly the barking of Bertie and Wooster rang through the house. Agatha and Jose Antonio raised their eyes expectantly for the dogs rarely barked, except at the arrival of a very unwelcome visitor. George frowned and took Susan’s hand while the rest of the guests continued to drink and eat
empanadas
, oblivious of the unexpected disturbance. Gonzalo, the gardener, hurried around the side of the house, hat in hand, bowing deferentially as he approached his mistress.

‘Who is it, Gonzalo?’ she asked, feeling the north wind rattle through her bones.

‘Señora Velasco,’ he replied, looking at her with fear. Agatha stiffened and turned to her husband who was wading through the crowd with a thunderous face.

‘Your mother has turned up,’ Agatha told him furiously. ‘We haven’t seen her in years and she goes and turns up uninvited on George’s wedding day. It’s unforgivable.’ Gonzalo hovered anxiously, hoping to be released from any further task. He didn’t like the idea of having to return to the prickly old woman in the car. Agatha, for once considerate of her employee, dismissed him with an uncharacteristic ‘thank you’ and stood her ground. ‘I’m not dealing with her. She’s your mother, after all.’

Jose Antonio didn’t protest but took a deep breath, like a dragon working up a fierce fire, and marched purposefully around the house.

Señora Velasco sat in the back of the car fanning herself with an elaborately embroidered Spanish fan. She wore black, as she had done since the divorce from Jose Antonio’s father, not because she mourned him, but to spite him: he had always hated women wearing black. She was very tall and bony with pigeon-grey hair, cut into a severe bob with a sharp fringe that rested just above reptilian eyes, and a large, hawkish nose. Her lips were thin and drawn into a tight grimace, scarlet lipstick bleeding into her skin, which was as white as death. She began to fan with more agitation and the chauffeur, a long-suffering man with the physique of a toad from spending most of his life in the front seat of a car, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Stop that tapping!’ she snapped irritably. His fingers froze and didn’t move again until Jose Antonio appeared at the window, Agatha in his wake.

‘Mother, this is quite unexpected,’ said Jose Antonio, barely able to restrain his fury.

‘Oh, grow up! If I can’t come and visit my own son for God’s sake . . .’

‘We’re in the middle of a wedding,’ he explained.

‘Oh, good. Haven’t you got rid of Agatha yet?’ Agatha clenched her fists.

‘If you’re going to be rude I’ll send you right back to Buenos Aires!’

‘Have you lost your sense of humour, son? In spite of the hard life I have suffered I have managed to retain mine. It was a joke. Hello, Agatha, how nice to see you.’ Agatha didn’t smile. ‘Who’s getting married?’

‘George Bolton, Agatha’s nephew from England.’

‘Well, don’t just sit there, Blanco, I’m cooking in here.’ The chauffeur struggled out of the car and came round to open the back door. Señora Velasco climbed out with some difficulty. Her bones were old and brittle and her muscles shrivelled. She ached all over.

‘I’ve come to die,’ she stated impassively, taking her walking stick from the melting Blanco.

‘Oh good!’ her son retorted. She smiled, and her lips disappeared completely, leaving only the red stains like rivers on a map.

‘So you haven’t lost your sense of humour, after all. But I don’t joke. I have come to say goodbye.’ Jose Antonio frowned at her and his eyes shifted, not knowing how to react. ‘I won’t be melodramatic about it, that is not my way.’ Agatha rolled her eyes. ‘I shall go quietly and you can bury me in the garden under that eucalyptus tree where I used to sit and cry when your father disappeared into Jesús Maria to lie with other women.’

‘Will you come and enjoy Dolores’s lunch before you pass away?’ Agatha asked, knowing that the irritating old woman would now be with them for months.

‘I never thought Dolores would outlive me,’ she sighed.

‘She hasn’t yet,’ Jose Antonio reminded her.

‘But she will. At least I will enjoy her famous
empanadas
before I go.’

‘There are plenty of those,’ said Agatha, anxious to get back to her guests.

‘I want to meet the bride and groom. They are just beginning their lives while I am ending mine. It seems significant somehow. Is the priest still here? Tell him not to go home. You might as well let the funeral run on while everyone is still in the mood for an event.’

They walked slowly around the house, Señora Velasco grimacing and groaning with each step, refusing to be helped when her son attempted to hold her arm with his large, calloused hands. ‘You can hold me when I’m dead,’ she barked. ‘Until then I will walk unaided. I’m not crippled, you know.’ The guests parted for her instantly for they could smell death on her breath. She staggered through without a smile for anyone. Finally Jose Antonio stopped in front of George and Susan who stood with Pia and Tonito. The children shrank back at the sight of the hideous old woman who resembled the witch in their fairy tales. Hidden behind the skirt of Susan’s white dress they peered around fearfully. Señora Velasco raised her hooded eyes and settled them on George. ‘What a fine-looking young man,’ she said in perfect English. ‘Who is the lucky bride?’ She turned to Susan and her eyes flickered with surprise.

‘Good God, girl. Whatever happened to your face?’ she shrieked rudely. A gasp hissed through the crowd of guests. Susan straightened but retained her smile with icy calm. She could feel the children behind her bristling to tell the story for her.

‘I was attacked by a lion in Africa,’ she replied nonchalantly.

‘A lion?’

‘A very large lion. If it hadn’t been for the guide who carried a gun, I would have been dinner.’ Susan caught George’s eye and she smiled triumphantly. Señora Velasco turned to her son.

‘Take me to my room. I am weary after the drive. Bring me a plate of
empanadas
.’ She took one last look at Susan before she stumbled away. ‘Wear it as a badge of honour, my girl. A badge of honour!’

Another hurdle had been kicked down and how easy it had been. Suddenly Susan realized that her scar no longer hurt her so much. She watched the old woman retreat into the house and ran a hand over her wound. Señora Velasco was right, she would make a feature of it and wear it as a badge of honour. She bent down and embraced the children. They didn’t realize she was silently thanking them for the lion story; if it hadn’t been for their innocent questions she would never have thought of it.

Chapter 23

Much later, when the last of the guests had drifted away and the little nightlights that Agatha had lit around the garden twinkled through the darkness, George and Susan retired to bed. They were exhausted with so much happiness. Tomorrow they would leave for Mar del Plata where a friend of Jose Antonio was lending them his house, overlooking the sea. They would spend a few weeks alone together before returning to
Las Dos Vizcachas
and the rest of their lives.

Upstairs Jose Antonio knocked on the door of his mother’s room. She made no answer, which was strange; he expected a bellowed command to leave her alone or to enter. The stale odour of death seeped out from under the door and clung to his nostrils. He grimaced at the smell of decay and the suspicion that his mother had, for once, been true to her word and passed away. When he entered, the little lamp on the bedside table illuminated her waxy features as she lay on her back with her mouth gaping in a silent scream. He approached the bed with reluctance. He felt nothing. No sadness, not even relief. He hadn’t been fond of her, even as a child. Then he noticed the half-eaten
empanada
she still clutched in her hand and the foam that stuck to the corners of her mouth. She must have died from choking on one of Dolores’s famous delicacies. He wondered whether she might have lived for years had it not been for her greed.

Agatha strode into the bedroom and covered the corpse with a sheet. She should have taped her mother-in-law’s jaw together so that it didn’t gape so grotesquely, but she couldn’t bear to. It had been bad enough laying eyes on that dead flesh. She opened the window and lit a candle, less out of respect than to get rid of the stench. Then she left the room as quickly as possible in case Señora Velasco’s ghost still remained there.

Jose Antonio and Agatha undressed and climbed into bed. Suddenly Agatha remembered Dolores and Father O’Bridie who hadn’t been seen since she sent them inside at midday.

‘Jose Antonio,’ she whispered, as if death might hear her.

‘What, Gorda? I’m trying to go to sleep,’ he growled gently.

‘I sent Father O’Bridie into the floral spare room with Dolores to sober up. I haven’t seen them since. Have you?’

Jose Antonio chuckled throatily. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Nothing. Leave them. When Father O’Bridie wakes up in the morning he’ll get one hell of a shock if Dolores is still with him.’

‘Perhaps she left him asleep and retired to her own quarters,’ she said hopefully.

‘Perhaps. Though it is strange that she didn’t help the girls tidy up.’

‘Oh God!’ she groaned. ‘You know, she’s not of sound mind, Jose Antonio. Don’t you think you should let her go?’

‘Not while she makes such delicious
empanadas!
’ he laughed.

‘One of which killed your mother,’ she reminded him in a serious voice.

‘Exactly!’ he replied and rolled over. ‘The woman stays!’

The following morning George and Susan appeared flushed and smiling on the terrace under the vine. Agatha and Jose Antonio were already having breakfast with the children, who squealed in delight when they saw the bride and groom. Agatha, who firmly believed that their children should not be raised to fear death, had told them of their grandmother’s passing and had been surprised when they had yelped with joy and relief and burst into commentary about how old and ugly she had been. George and Susan showed more respect, though neither could think of anything nice to say about her. ‘She’s here in this very house,’ said Tonito, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Her body’s upstairs,’ added Pia through a mouthful of croissant. ‘She’s going to be buried in the garden so the worms can eat her all up!’ Agatha was about to intercede when Father O’Bridie’s pale face appeared at the door.

‘Top of the mornin’ to you,’ said Tonito in a perfect Irish accent, then giggled. Father O’Bridie walked unsteadily, his eyes as shiny as two oysters in brine.

‘What a beautiful day,’ he said, taking a seat at the table. His voice wasn’t quite as robust as it had been the day before.

‘Are you all right, Father O’Bridie?’ Agatha asked, searching his face for clues. ‘You had a nasty turn yesterday. It must have been the heat.’

‘Oh, yes. We Irish aren’t too good in such strong sunlight,’ he explained, pouring himself a cup of strong coffee. He shovelled three large spoonfuls of sugar into it and took a gulp, after which he seemed to calm down a little.

‘I trust Dolores looked after you well?’ Agatha persevered.

‘Oh, she did. Thank you. She certainly did.’

‘We haven’t seen her all morning. Poor Agustina has had to make breakfast all on her own,’ Agatha added, filling his cup. ‘When you’ve had breakfast I have another job for you.’ Father O’Bridie raised his eyes apprehensively.

‘I’m afraid Jose Antonio’s mother is dead upstairs. She died in the night, choking on an
empanada
.’

‘An
empanada?
’ he repeated, crossing himself.

‘One of Dolores’s famous
empanadas
.’

‘We’ve called the doctor, but as it’s Sunday he’s enjoying his breakfast,’ said Jose Antonio. ‘I told him not to hurry, after all, she’s not going anywhere, is she?’

‘Her spirit is already with God,’ said Father O’Bridie, thankful of the digression.

‘If God can put up with her,’ added Agatha drily.

‘God is loving of all his creatures,’ said Father O’Bridie piously. Agatha sniffed. ‘How are Mr and Mrs George Bolton this good morning?’ he said, turning to George and Susan who sat listening, amazed at the events that had taken place on their wedding day without their knowledge.

At that moment Dolores appeared on the terrace with a large oval plate of freshly baked pastries. She was once more dressed in black with her hair pulled back into its characteristic bun. She didn’t smile and she didn’t look at the priest. She said a tight good morning, put the plate in the centre of the table and straightened up self-importantly. The whole table gazed at her in astonishment.