The Swallow and the Hummingbird (57 page)

‘Will you join me for lunch?’ she asked.

‘What’s up?’ He was baffled by the sudden change in her expression. She looked younger somehow, as if she had shed an old skin like a snake. He felt his stomach turn over. After all these years she still had the power to turn his insides to jelly.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I want to go and give this bible back to Reverend Hammond. He’s in the Yew Tree Nursing Home. It’s not far. We can find a pub and eat outside. I haven’t done that in years.’

Max was too curious not to accept her offer. ‘I’ll just go and tell Rebecca.’

With Max at the wheel they drove down the coast. ‘So why are you giving it back now?’ he asked.

‘He lent it to me a long time ago. It’s a rather beautiful old book. I thought it would be right to give it back.’

‘Why did he give it to you in the first place?’

‘He thought I was one of God’s lost sheep because I stopped going to church.’

‘Did it work?’

‘You mean, did I start going to church again? Yes, I did. But I never read it.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t come and try to convert me and Ruth.’

‘No, you were far too lost for him. He didn’t like to fail. Only liked semi-lost sheep like me, then he could feel he’d done God’s work when we returned to the flock. He didn’t try to convert Megagran either. Knew it was a losing battle.’

‘He had some sense then.’ Max smiled as he looked out at the road in front of him. He began to feel nervous too, as if they were both teenagers again. He gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on driving.

They drove through the smart white gates of the nursing home and up the driveway lined with shady yew trees. A magnificent Victorian building loomed up ahead, once the private mansion of a millionaire. Max accompanied her into the hall where the receptionist sat behind a dark wooden desk. He could see the sea through the open French doors in the sitting room and told Rita that he would wait for her out there on the terrace.

‘I won’t be long,’ she said, then turned to the young girl in a nurse’s uniform.

‘I’ve come to see Reverend Hammond. My name is Rita Fairweather.’

The nurse nodded and smiled toothily. ‘Of course, first floor, room fourteen. If you turn right here and walk up the corridor, the staircase is straight ahead.’

The corridor smelt of polish. The original wooden floor shone brilliantly and the walls were hung with brightly coloured paintings of landscapes and boats on the sea. The staircase squeaked as she walked up it, reminding her of Lower Farm, except here it was wider and grander with a vast window letting in an abundance of light. When she got to his room she discovered to her disappointment that he wasn’t there. She waited a while then decided to write him a note instead, leaving it on the bed with the Bible where he was sure to find it.

‘I’m sorry to have missed you, Reverend Hammond,’ she wrote. ‘As you said, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’m now ready to lay the first stone. My thanks, Rita.’ She looked down at the small solitaire ring that seemed to shine with less brilliance and wondered why she had continued to wear it so long after it had lost its significance. There was only one thing left to be done.

With a light step she began to walk back down the corridor, too preoccupied to see the solemn young woman walking towards her carrying a cardboard box. She bumped straight into her, sending the box crashing to the floor. The younger woman fell to her knees. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rita cried in horror. ‘I was miles away.’ Then she recognized Ava. Ava blinked up at her, knew she had seen her before but couldn’t place her. ‘I’m Rita Fairweather, you must be Ava Bolton. What are you doing here?’

‘My father died yesterday. I’m clearing out his room.’

‘George died?’ Rita repeated incredulously, slowly shaking her head. ‘But he was so young.’

‘Another stroke.’

There was a lengthy pause as Rita digested the news.
George is dead? George is gone?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, bending down to help pick up his things.

‘Thank you,’ Ava replied. ‘It was very sudden, but he’s in a better place. I really believe that.’

‘So do I,’ said Rita, gathering up his books and a pen. To her surprise, although she felt sad, she also felt oddly detached, and realized that the George she had once loved had died years before and that she had already mourned him.

At that moment she noticed the little faded Polyphoto she had given him, carefully protected within a transparent envelope. She sat down and studied it wistfully for a moment, amazed that it was there.

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. Someone special, I expect,’ Ava replied, putting the lid back on the box. ‘I found it in his breast pocket. He must have always kept it there.’

Rita smiled and handed it back. Ava nodded and thanked her again, and Rita watched her walk down the stairs, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. So he had never stopped loving her after all. As he had promised, he had carried her photograph until his death. But it no longer mattered. It would have meant everything a decade ago but she was no longer that girl, she had finally outgrown her. She toyed with her ring a moment then strode purposefully down the stairs.

She found Max outside smoking on the terrace. Without a word she took his hand and led him down the path to the beach. He followed, wondering why her face was flushed and her eyes shone with a light he had never seen before. With her shoes almost in the waves, she turned and looked at him steadily, then pulled off the ring. ‘I should have done this years ago,’ she said and threw it into the sea. They both watched in silence as it fell with a small plop into the water, then disappeared for ever. Max didn’t know what to say. He felt the habitual churning in his stomach, but dared not hope too much. ‘You once asked me to marry you,’ she began and then her voice trailed off. Perhaps she had missed the moment. Perhaps he no longer wanted her. She wasn’t young and pretty like she had been then and, besides, he had Rebecca and Mitzi now. But Max needed no further encouragement. He took her face in his hands and kissed her as he had longed to for almost thirty years. She closed her eyes to withhold the tears and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him back.

Finally he pulled away and traced her cheek with his fingers. There was so much he wanted to tell her but he couldn’t find the words with which to unburden his heart. He simply gazed down at her lovingly. She pressed her lips to his hand.

‘I want to grow old with you, Max. I want to walk down on the estuary, in the fog and the snow and tell you how much I love you as I should have done that Christmas when I almost lost you for ever. I want to share everything with you, your future, your past.’ Her eyes began to glisten. ‘Take me to Vienna, Max. Show me the Imperial Theatre where your mother performed for your father. Perhaps one day soon it will be yours and all the memories that lie within it.’

Max looked at her for a long moment, awaiting those familiar scents of his childhood to reach him once again from the far corners of his heart, but they did not come.

‘No,’ he said at last and his gaze was so intense that she almost had to look away. ‘The Vienna of my childhood is gone. They destroyed that long ago. Even my ghosts don’t walk those streets any more.’ Then he slipped one arm around her waist and took her hand in his. To the formal steps of a waltz he thought he’d forgotten, he held her. ‘Let’s go home Rita. We’ll build Vienna together.’

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to the following people who helped make this book possible: Captain Denis Robinson, who shared with me his experiences of the Battle of Britain and answered endless questions with patience and humour; Eileen Brittle and Joan Laprell, whose recollections of the war were both fascinating and often hilarious; Hugh Kavanagh, an avid bird-watcher, who provided a vital service when reference books failed to deliver; Ian Bond, who initiated me into the wonderful world of walnut trees and even inspired me to join the Walnut Club!; Lia Rueda, who invited me to her beautiful farm in the north of Argentina and enlightened me on the agriculture there; Annabel Elliot and my uncle, Jeremy Palmer-Tomkinson, who remembered, somewhat hazily, life in the 1960s; and my father, who has taught me throughout my life about farming, flora and fauna.

My mother deserves high praise for editing the first manuscript with such dedication and for all the colourful stories she has woven over the years of her life in South America, which I have remembered in detail and ruthlessly poached. I am enormously grateful to my aunt, Naomi Dawson, for coming to my rescue in the weeks following the birth of our son when I was unable to get to my computer.

Thank you to Suzanne Baboneau and her brilliant team at Simon & Schuster for republishing this book with a beautiful new cover, and to my agent, Sheila Crowley, for her wise counsel.

Finally, I thank my husband, Sebag, who devised the idea driving down the M3 at six o’clock in the morning after a sleepless night with our daughter. He is the engine behind my writing.

FIND OUT MORE ABOUT SANTA MONTEFIORE

Santa Montefiore is the author of eleven sweeping novels. To find out more about her and her writing, visit her website at

www.santamontefiore.co.uk

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