The Swallow and the Hummingbird (9 page)

As the service progressed Reverend Hammond began to relax. He avoided looking at Mrs Megalith’s tight face and reasserted his authority. Then just when everything seemed to be back to normal a large black cat, the size of a dog, appeared from nowhere and jumped onto the altar. Reverend Hammond was the only person who didn’t see it for he was facing his congregation. Johnnie and Jane pointed at it excitedly.

One cat might not have caused a commotion, two might have been allowed to roam the nave in peace, but five, six, seven, eight cats could not be ignored. One by one the cats appeared at the altar, slid up against the white cloth with their backs rigid and their tails high in the air, then sprang up to pad across the top, carefully avoiding the candlesticks and silver. Reverend Hammond noticed that the eyes of his congregation were not on him as he delivered what he felt to be a brilliant sermon. When he allowed his gaze to succumb to the magnetic force of Mrs Megalith’s awesome personality, he found that she was looking as surprised as everyone else. No longer able to contain his curiosity he turned to see what had diverted their attention.

Cats of every colour and size played about the altar. He was in no doubt that the Elvestree Witch had something to do with it for she was well known for keeping a house full of cats. Wearily he turned back to his congregation. ‘As I said, we are all welcome in God’s house,’ he quipped lamely. Then he focused his attention on Mrs Megalith. ‘Legend has it that cats are good luck. God has blessed this house today. Let us pray.’

Mrs Megalith leaned over to Maddie and hissed loudly in her ear. ‘It is also legend that if you keep a black cat you will never be short of lovers. I bet he doesn’t know that.’ Maddie wanted to retort that if such a legend were true her grandmother would have more lovers than time, but she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

When the service finally drew to a close the entire congregation waited for Mrs Megalith to hobble back down the aisle with Maddie and Rita followed by Hannah, Eddie, Humphrey and the eight cats. They watched her pass, more sure than ever that she was indeed a witch. Out in the sunshine Hannah turned on her mother. ‘Why did you come?’ she demanded.

Mrs Megalith smiled smugly. ‘Didn’t the good vicar say that we are all welcome in God’s house?’

‘But you don’t like church,’ she argued.

‘It’s important to ruffle the old goose’s feathers every once in a while, otherwise he gets too big for his boots.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘No, I came because I felt it was appropriate. George and all that.’

‘Really?’ Hannah was astounded.

‘Elwyn says that the way to Heaven is through suffering. Well, after today’s débâcle I’m one step closer.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘Got him going, though, didn’t I? The fool!’

Reverend Hammond was barely able to conceal the trembling in his hands as he conversed politely with all the congregants. ‘It is also legend, Reverend,’ said Miss Hogmier darkly, ‘that after seven years cats become witches. Imagine the number of witches we’ll all have to deal with in the future if that is true.’

‘Really, Miss Hogmier, you don’t believe in all that nonsense, do you?’

‘I most certainly do, Reverend Hammond. Trust me, Mrs Megalith is an evil woman!’

That afternoon George and Rita sat on a blanket on the cliff top watching the birds as they had done since childhood. The storm had passed, leaving a perfect blue sky without a cloud in sight. It was still windy, especially up there on the cliffs, but it was a warm and pleasant wind. Rita had packed Marmite sandwiches and hot cocoa for tea. Her mother had made biscuits for them and added slices of cold ham for George.

‘Everyone’s talking about your homecoming,’ said Rita happily.

‘They can’t have much else to talk about if that’s the case,’ he replied, gazing out across the sea to where the horizon quivered enticingly with the promise of adventure.

‘They say you’re a hero.’

‘Do they,’ he replied flatly. ‘No, Rita, the heroes are the boys who gave their lives. I’m not a hero.’

‘And I don’t want to fly any more.’ His comment was unexpected. She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing. ‘I don’t want to remember the war. I want to forget it ever happened and lose myself in you.’

But George wasn’t able to forget the war. He could suppress the memories during his waking moments but at night, when his resistance lay dormant, images penetrated his psyche and plagued his dreams. So real, he could smell the petrol and cordite, feel the sweat forming on his forehead and nose, dripping into his eyes, misting up his oxygen mask. Back in his Spitfire he relived that sensation of immediacy, of living intensely, of cold, nerve-shattering fear . . .

The sky is dark with German bombers, Heinkels mostly, like a swarm of black wasps, moving towards him at great speed. Suddenly he’s in the thick of it. Planes coming out of nowhere, one hundred and fifty at least, not to mention the ME 109s covering them.
Bloody Krauts!
The sound of gunfire like tearing calico, the raw hiss of passing tracers, then a flash and a loud explosion. More gunfire. Spraying the sky with bullets.
Black smoke, not me, not my Spitty? Not this time. Near miss. Some other poor sod
. A Heinkel dives out of control. A man bales out but his parachute gets caught in the propellers, taking him down with it. What a horrific way to die. Then, gripped with an icy calm, his training takes over, fear freezes into concentration,
it’s either them or me and I’ve got too much to live for
. He presses the boost override, opens the throttle and narrows his eyes as he picks up speed.
Take control for God’s sake. Don’t lose it, George, you fool. Blast the buggers out of the sky
. Once again he’s fighting for his life. Again and again. How much longer can he go on like this? Oh, to sit up on those cliffs and watch the birds. Now he’s flying higher than any bird and into the ugly face of death. No one told him it would be like this.

To keep those images at bay George helped his father on the farm, slipping off to kiss Rita at every opportunity. Love was a sure way to forget. It burned away the guilt and the pain. If he didn’t keep busy he was apt to remember his dead friends: Jamie Cordell, shot down during a sweep over Northern France; Rat Bridges, killed in a sortie over Dunkirk; Lorrie Hampton, dead at the bottom of the sea and many many more. He had to block them out or he’d go mad.

Rita was patient. She indulged him and loved him and never pressurized him to marry her. She was sure he would when he settled down again. She instinctively understood that he had been through a great deal and needed to acclimatize. Faye discussed the future with her while they sculpted. The two women took it for granted that they’d be one big, happy family. They talked about doing up one of the farm cottages and the fun Johnnie and Jane would have with small cousins to play with. Faye recalled the old haunts that Alice and George had so enjoyed as children, chasing rabbits out of the stooks and feeding the livestock, and imagined the next generation in the same places, doing the same things. But at the back of her mind there were gnawing doubts that she tried to ignore. She watched her son. She watched him closely. When he wasn’t occupied his face looked much older; the face of a disillusioned old man.

The summer passed. A new Labour government came in. The war in Japan ended. Rations continued as Britain struggled to get back on her feet again. George lost himself in Rita, in the farm, in the White Hart with his friends. But he couldn’t ignore his restless soul for ever.

Faye awoke with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She turned over and lay staring into the darkness for a while, thinking about George and his future, worrying about Rita and hers. She sighed heavily and tried to go back to sleep but she could not. Something was chewing on her gut, telling her to get up and go down to the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time that she had awoken with this feeling. When her children were young she’d sense when one had suffered a nightmare, or felt unwell, unhappy or simply couldn’t sleep. She was used to padding along the creaking corridors, feeling her way in the dark.

She crept downstairs and turned on the light in the kitchen. She opened the ice chest and helped herself to a glass of cold milk and a slice of bread. She nibbled at it in silence, wondering what to do next. Then something drew her attention outside. She walked onto the terrace to find George sitting alone, smoking. He looked forlorn there in the dark and she could feel his unhappiness reach out to her with leaden arms and pull her down too.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked in a soft voice, hovering in the doorframe. He looked up, not at all surprised to see her.

‘I’d like you to,’ he replied, exhaling the smoke into the fresh autumnal air. She wrapped her dressing gown about her and sat down beside him on the bench.

‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘Just couldn’t sleep,’ he replied, recalling his nightmare with a shiver.

‘Me neither. Perhaps it’s the cheese. They say cheese gives you nightmares.’

He chuckled cynically. ‘I don’t think so. My mind doesn’t give me any peace.’

‘Darling, don’t be disappointed.’

He took a hard look at her for a moment and the corners of his mouth twitched with misery. ‘But I am,’ he said finally and his voice was little more than a deep groan.

She put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘You were a boy when you left, George. You can’t get him back, or his life. You have to try to adapt to your changed circumstances.’

‘But it’s too quick. I come home and everything seems the same. Rita’s the same, you and Pa, even the old vicar. Nothing has changed. The sea is the same, the beach, the birds, the sky. Only rations, coupons and empty shops are different – and me.’ He dropped his head and stared at the flagstones. Then he continued in a very quiet voice. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to lose so many friends. The best, the brightest. Like brothers they were. I miss them. You don’t know what it’s like to see the whites of your enemy’s eyes, knowing that he’s just doing his job like you, he’s not much more than a boy, with a mother and a girl at home, to shoot him down and watch his plane spiral to the ground. Black smoke, knowing he’s suffering like hell. You can’t feel pity because if it’s not him, it’s you.

‘Every time that telephone rang, ordering us to scramble, I wondered whether I’d ever hear it again. But somehow I survived to do it again – and again and again and again. You see, Ma, when I close my eyes at night that is what I see. That is what I dream of: fighting for my life and feeling fear. That terrible fear. And feeling afraid of feeling fear. You see, I’m a coward really.’

‘You’re not a coward, darling. You’re human,’ said Faye, blinking through her tears. Not wanting him to see. He shook his head and took another drag of his cigarette.

‘In a funny way I miss it. I miss the camaraderie, the sense of purpose. I feel like a drifting kite. My string’s been cut.’

‘Why don’t you become a flight instructor or something? Surely there’s a place for you in the Air Force?’

He chuckled cynically. ‘Of course. But I can’t . . .’ His voice trailed off. She stroked his hand. ‘I want to settle down, work the land like Pa, marry Rita and raise my children. But I just can’t. Not yet. I feel my life has peaked and I’m only twenty-three. There’s got to be more for me out there.’ He wanted to tell her how he hated what the war had done to him, the level of depravity to which he had sunk. How could he feel comfortable in his own skin when it was stained with the blood of German youth?

‘What is it you want to do?’ Faye asked, wanting so desperately to chase away his shadows.

‘I don’t know,’ he groaned.

‘You’re not worrying that you’ll disappoint your father and me, are you? Because whatever you do we will support you. We’re proud of you, but we’re not your keepers.’

George dragged on his cigarette. ‘I want to go away for a while,’ he stated finally.

‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know. America, the Argentine.’

‘With Rita?’

He shook his head. ‘Possibly. I don’t know. This place is stifling me. Too many memories, too much nostalgia. I don’t fit in any more.’

‘Why don’t you go and visit my sister and Jose Antonio in the Argentine? You could work on their farm in Córdoba, gain some experience and then, when you’re ready, come home and work with your father. It will do you good to get away for a while. How does that sound?’ His unhappiness lifted like autumn mist when the sun burns through.

‘Good,’ he said, his voice full of relief. He rested his head on his mother’s shoulder. She hugged him to her, this great big son who so easily dwarfed her. ‘You’re the only person who really understands me.’

‘What about Rita?’ Faye asked after a while.

‘I love Rita,’ he said, sitting up. ‘She’s part of all that is home to me. I’m just not ready for home yet. I’ll ask her to wait for me. Then, when I return, we’ll marry. Rita is the only thing I’m sure of.’

Chapter 6

‘Eddie, where have you been?’ Maddie asked as Eddie ran into the house, flushed and giggling. Eddie skidded to a halt and grinned guiltily. She couldn’t tell her sister that she had spent the whole summer holidays spying on Rita and George kissing in the cave. Love fascinated her. Or rather the physical aspect of it did. She had confessed to her best school friend, Amy, that she had seen Maddie making love to her American in the back of his jeep. They had created such heat the windows had steamed up. She couldn’t tell Maddie that, either.

‘Nothing. Just playing with Harvey,’ she replied innocently.

‘Well, where is he then?’

‘Hunting now. A bat’s got to eat, you know.’

Maddie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been down on the beach.’

‘Haven’t.’

‘Have, I can tell.’

‘So what if I have?’

‘You’ve been spying again. They’ll catch you one of these days.’

Eddie laughed. ‘They’re much too busy for that.’

‘Really?’ Maddie tried not to look too interested.

‘They do it all the time.’

Maddie thought of George making love to Rita. She knew he’d be a good lover. Passionate, masterful but sensitive. She envied Rita. She had it all.