The Swallow and the Hummingbird (54 page)

‘That sounds like Megagran.’ She laughed affectionately. ‘I hope she forgave me before she left. We didn’t really get on in the last few years.’

‘She told me you’re selling your work in London now,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Yes, this wonderful old man called Mr Bradley buys about thirty sculptures a year to sell in his shop. I can barely keep up with his orders. I can’t imagine who buys them.’

‘You’re very talented. Don’t put yourself down.’

‘At least it pays the bills. I never thought I’d make it. Thought I’d have to go back to the library.’

‘I’d hate to think of you still toiling away in that stuffy old place. I’m glad you’re creating. It’s good for the soul.’ He cocked his head and swept his eyes over her face with an intensity that made her stomach swim. ‘You look well. You look happy.’

‘I am well and I am happy,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Now you’re here.’ It was his turn to blush. ‘I was lonely without you. The old cliché is true: you don’t appreciate people until they’re gone.’

‘I won’t leave you again, I promise.’

‘What are you going to do now? I’m pleased that Megagran has left Elvestree to you. You love it more than anyone else. I love it too, but now we’re friends again I can come and visit as often as I like.’

‘I don’t know. I have to sort things out with Delfine. She hates it here.’ The name Delfine grated and Rita felt herself bristle like an animal suffering a threat to her territory. She had completely forgotten about his fiancée. She withdrew her hand. ‘One thing is for certain, I’ll spend far more time down here. Elvestree is a house that needs to be lived in. Who’s going to feed all those cats for a start?’

Rita recovered her composure, grateful that Delfine would never belong in her grandmother’s house, and screwed up her nose. ‘Let’s pretend Megagran left them all to Antoinette!’ she said with a mischievous smile.

When Max returned to Elvestree all the cats had gone. Ruth had been busy telephoning and organizing the cremation. Mrs Megalith’s body had been taken away and the house suddenly felt empty as if its spirit had gone too. Ruth was as bewildered as Max. ‘Where could they all have gone?’ she exclaimed, raising her hands to the sky.

Not far away in the rectory the telephone rang. Reverend Hammond picked it up to hear Miss Hogmier’s screeching voice. ‘Calm down, Miss Hogmier, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘They’re everywhere! Everywhere! Making a mess of my shop!’ she wailed.

‘Who are? Shall I call the police?’ he replied in alarm.

‘Cats. The witch’s cats.’

‘Mrs Megalith’s cats? Are you sure?’

‘You have to come down with a shotgun. They’re destroying my business as well as my sanity. I, who have no husband to protect me. I’m alone in the world. No one cares for an old spinster like me.’ Her voice resonated with a heavy vibrato.

‘I’ll be over at once, after I’ve called the RSPCA.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Elwyn, shoot the buggers!’

But when he looked out of his own window, he was shocked to see at least twenty cats playing among the borders of his own garden and rolling around on the grass. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mrs Megalith must have finally passed away.

Delfine was not happy that Max had gone to Devon without her. Although she hated the place she didn’t trust him there on his own. She paced the drawing room deliberating what to do. She thought of the invisible presence and the locked door and knew that all the answers lay behind it. Resentful that he didn’t trust her with his innermost secrets, she set about searching for the key. She would take a quick look and he would be none the wiser. As she was rummaging through the drawers in his study the doorbell rang. The housekeeper had left for the day due to a bad cold so she had to answer it herself. She huffed with frustration and strode across the hall, her high heels clicking briskly on the marble chessboard floor.

‘Yes?’ she enquired impatiently when she saw an old man in a three-piece suit standing on the steps in the cold. He was tall even with his shoulders bent. In his hands he held a large package.

‘My name is Benjamin Bradley. Are you the lady of the house?’

‘Yes. Is that for me?’ she enquired crisply.

‘It’s for Mr de Guinzberg.’

‘What is it?’

Mr Bradley masked his hesitation behind a kindly smile. ‘Is Mr de Guinzberg at home?’

‘No.’ Her voice betrayed her annoyance.

‘Then I’ll come back another time.’

Delfine narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘There’s no need, I’ll make sure he gets it,’ she said, taking the package from him.

Mr Bradley frowned, but there was nothing he could do. He watched helplessly as she closed the door in his face, then turned and walked down the steps to the pavement. He knew he had made an error. He usually gave his packages to the housekeeper. He hoped Mr de Guinzberg wouldn’t chastise him for it. He paid him well and he certainly needed the money. Who else would employ a retired butler of his age?

Delfine tore open the package to find a sculpture of a sleeping child. It was rough but charming. She ran her hands over the gentle curve of its body as it slept like a cat, with its little fingers holding a cloth of some sort. Her fury dissolved into compassion. There was something about the piece that made her eyes fill with tears; it was so innocent, so vulnerable and so beyond her reach. She suddenly felt guilty. Perhaps Max had bought it for her as a surprise. Hastily she did her best to wrap it up again.

She placed it on the table in the hall and resumed her search for the key. When she couldn’t find it she decided to try her hand at picking the lock. She used various implements without success. Her curiosity mounted with her frustration. She’d get into that room if it was the last thing she did. Finally, to her delight, the lock turned. She stood up and hesitated, her hand on the knob, ready to turn it. Suddenly, now that she was able to get in, she wondered what horror lay inside. What if he was a murderer and stored the bodies of his victims there? What if he found out? Would he kill her too? Shaking but determined, she opened it a crack and peered inside. The room was darkened by shutters. She felt for the light switch and turned it on. What she saw within made her jaw fall open in a silent gasp. Shelf upon shelf of sculptures. They ranged from rather crude to quite impressive and they were all obviously by the same sculptor who had fashioned the sleeping child.

The room was dusty and neglected, but Delfine could smell the scent of love as a sommelier identifies the very best of wines. She swept her eyes over each piece. There were many birds. Birds in flight, with their wings outstretched, birds on the ground, pecking at sand. She was astute enough to work out that they were all coastal scenes, for there were seagulls and fish and children with small nets. She suspected the sculptor came from Devon. She recognized the female touch and she knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that the sculptress was the invisible presence in their life, the presence that was constantly between them. Why he collected her sculptures, she didn’t know. The room behind the locked door answered many questions yet raised many new ones.

When Max returned a few days later he found the package in the hall and the door to his secret room locked as before, but Delfine was sitting on the stairs waiting for him. He could tell by the look on her face that she was weary with anger. His eyes darted to the package where he noticed the evidence of her tampering.

‘You’ve been into my room, haven’t you?’ he said quietly, putting down his bag and taking off his coat.

‘Who is she?’ she demanded, standing up. ‘Don’t lie to me Max. The woman who sculpts those dreadful pieces is the woman who you love. You always have. Why are you with me if you don’t love me? They’re not even very good, you know. In fact, they’re appalling!’ She stood up and slapped him hard across the face. He recoiled, but when he looked back at her, his eyes misted with sorrow. ‘I despise you for taking advantage of me,’ she continued, her voice rising into a scream. ‘Who is she? I demand to know. It is my right to know.’ When she was angry her French accent was exaggerated. Max sighed in resignation and pulled a key ring out of his breast pocket. He walked down the hall and opened the door to his secret room. She followed him inside.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Delfine,’ he said quietly, switching on the light. ‘She is called Rita and I grew up with her in Frognal Point. She is the granddaughter of Mrs Megalith, the woman who adopted me when I fled Austria at the beginning of the war. I love her. I always have, but she doesn’t love me.’

‘So you buy all her sculptures. That’s pathetic!’ she snapped scornfully.

‘I buy her sculptures because she was in financial trouble. I knew she wouldn’t accept my money so I sent a man down to pose as the proprietor of a gift shop interested in her work. It is my way of supporting her.’

‘You expect me to believe you?’

‘I have no reason to lie.’

‘How long have you been buying these pitiful things?’

‘About three years, I think. I’ve lost count. It doesn’t matter. I will buy them all until I have no more room to store them.’

‘I’ve suspected you loved another woman for ages. Tell me, why are you with me?’

‘Because I’m fond of you. You make me laugh. I enjoy you. Weren’t we happy in the beginning?’

‘It is all ruined now. You never loved me. If we were happy at the beginning I wouldn’t remember now because you’ve tainted my memory.’ She began to cry. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Delfine!’

‘No, you listen to me for a change. I want a man who loves me. I’ve never been second best to anybody and I’m not going to start now.’

Max watched her pack up her belongings and climb into a taxi. His overwhelming emotion was one of relief.

So Max returned to Elvestree. He moved into Mrs Megalith’s magical house, wondering whether it would ever be the same now that she was gone. He knew a happy relationship and the laughter of children would put back the magic, but he was denied both, in spite of all his efforts. He thought of Lydia and sobbed into his pillow that first night, when darkness hid his despair from all but the ghosts who inhabited the place. He wished he could remember her face, but he had barely any memory of her at all. He wanted to telephone Rita but it was the middle of the night. But then, as he felt the hollowness in his spirit engulf him completely, he experienced a strong feeling of warmth and love like that first night all those years ago. Then he felt someone pull up the blanket and kiss him tenderly on the forehead. He dared not open his eyes in case he woke up from what must surely be a dream, but he was certain he wasn’t asleep. Then he breathed in the familiar scent of mothballs and cinnamon and knew that he wasn’t alone.

Chapter 36

In the months that followed, Max controlled his business from Elvestree, making occasional visits to London for meetings. He also pursued his other cultural interests, inviting foreign politicans, famous writers, artists and composers from all over the world to Mrs Megalith’s once magical home. He sponsored exhibitions, bought a publishing house which he renamed Guinzberg & Megalith, and continued to work tirelessly for the charity he had set up in support of Jewish causes. He kept himself busy in order not to focus on his sterile private life. However, there was one ambition which smouldered continuously in his restless soul: to buy back the Imperial Theatre in Vienna, if only to smell again the musty, perfumed scents of his childhood and listen to the echo of voices reverberate across the years to fill the gaping hole that decades of silence had carved upon his soul.

Without Primrose’s indomitable presence Elvestree wasn’t the same. Not only had the cats gone but so had the magic. The exotic fruit withered and died, the vegetables ceased to grow in such large proportions, spring blossomed unexceptionally, as it did everywhere else. Strange birds no longer diverted off course to summer in the gardens. Only the swallows still nested in the far corner of the drawing room as they had always done. Max changed nothing in the house. He gave Primrose’s box of crystals and other mystical things to Elsbeth and Hannah to share with Eddie, as promised, but he moved nothing. Still, the feeling of the place had altered.

‘How can one woman make such an imprint on a house?’ he said to Rita one day in mid-summer. ‘Elvestree is still lovely, but it’s no longer special in that magical way. Nothing tastes as good as it did when Primrose was alive. Nothing grows like it did. Even the birds are the same as anywhere else. Typical Devonshire birds.’

‘That’s nothing to complain about. Most people would be enchanted with a beautiful place like Elvestree,’ she said, sipping elderflower cordial that didn’t have quite the same flavour as when Mrs Megalith had made it. She looked around at the manicured borders and clipped lawns and beyond to the estuary, which would always remind her of their argument that day in the snow, and marvelled at the memories she had built there.

‘I know they would, but we know what it was like before,’ he argued.

‘Megagran was a witch, Max, you’re not,’ she laughed, shaking her head.

‘Can a house really reflect the personality of the person who lives in it?’ he asked, perplexed.

‘I’m sure it can. You’ll make your imprint on it the same as she did in time. It’ll be just as special, only a different type of special.’

Max longed to ask Rita about George, but he knew he could not. It was a sensitive subject. He was certain that she still loved him and that the chances of her affection diminishing were slim. Their friendship was the same as before except she no longer shared that part of her life with him. It was a question that never came up although it was at the very forefront of both their minds. Rita seemed contented with her life, but Max had physical needs that had to be met. He knew he couldn’t have the woman he wanted so he took lovers whenever he spent time in London. These were meaningless encounters but they served their purpose and saved his sanity. He tried to come to terms with his platonic relationship with Rita, but his yearning for a family often drove him to despair. He wanted to ask her again to marry him, to persuade her that they could be happy. He was even prepared to accept that she didn’t love him. She could continue to love George if she so wished, if only she’d settle for a marriage based on affection, friendship and trust. They could raise a family at Elvestree, after all; she loved it as much as he did. It was where she belonged. However, he didn’t dare risk asking her again; he had made that mistake once before. As long as she wore George’s ring she belonged to him.