The Swallow and the Hummingbird(153)

‘I see.’ She watched him eat for a moment in silence then she added, ‘Funny how one can live only a few miles away from someone and never see them.’

As much as George had tried to put Rita behind him he was unable to stifle the yearning that was slowly choking him. As long as he lived in Frognal Point, amidst all the memories of their growing up together, he would never be free of her. Her ghostly figure would continue to haunt him on the rocks, in the cave and on the beach. He would look out for her on the cliff tops, afraid yet longing for her at the same time. She was as much part of the place as the birds that flew there – and so was he. He couldn’t bear it any more. Dizzy with excitement he didn’t consider his wife; all he could think of was Rita. He had to talk to her.

With his heart in his mouth he drove up the coast. The roads were strewn with autumn leaves that danced about in his wake, the sunlight catching their golden edges and causing them to sparkle. He rolled down the window and enjoyed the cold wind on his face. He was nervous. His stomach was tight. He felt as if he were in the cockpit of his Spitfire, looking out for German bombers. The prospect of seeing Rita again was almost as frightening. When he arrived at her cottage he sat in the car a little way from the entrance, wondering what he was going to say, anticipating her reaction.

He bit the skin around his thumbnail, which was now raw and bleeding. His hands were rough from farming. Not the hands of the pilot he had once been. He caught himself in the mirror and noticed suddenly the lines around his eyes, the broader face, the tougher, redder skin, the thinning hair. He wasn’t the man Rita had fallen in love with all those years ago and she probably wouldn’t be the girl, either. He braced himself and climbed out of the car, leaving it parked in the lane. He felt as guilty as if he had already been unfaithful.

He walked up the short driveway, beneath tall chestnut trees that shed their conkers onto the ground to rot with the leaves and fallen twigs, and approached the cottage. He was aware, as he stood in the doorway, that the next few moments could either stamp a seal on the past or rip it open again, leaving him more disoriented than before. It was a gamble. He hoped to find a paper tiger in Rita. Taking a deep breath and pulling back his shoulders he rang the bell. There was no sound from within, only the desperate beating of his own heart. He rang it again. Remembering she had a dog, he listened for a bark or the patter of paws. Nothing. Nothing at all. His nervousness turned to frustration. She wasn’t here. He doubted he’d have the courage to come again, and fought his disappointment. After hovering a while in the doorway he reluctantly decided to leave.

He was about to walk out of the driveway when curiosity motivated him to turn back and take a quick look around her property. What sort of woman was she now? After all, a place reflects the person who lives in it, he thought, as he walked back towards the little gate in the hedge that led into the garden. He was surprised at the size of the garden; it was much bigger than he had expected because the cottage was small. The lawn sloped down to the beach and the sea swelled below the wheeling gulls. He put his hands in his pockets and swept his eyes across the bay where the waves gently rose and fell in the soft autumn light. Following his instincts he wandered down the well-trodden path to the beach. The sand was damp for the tide was slowly edging its way out, leaving small crabs and crustaceans exposed to the birds. A salty breeze ran through his hair like the familiar caress of a lover’s hand and his head felt light with nostalgia. He thought of Rita. He thought of Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges and Lorrie Hampton, and their faces merged with hers as pictures arose in his mind from the misty corners of his past. To the hypnotic music of the surf he spread out his arms like a mighty eagle and ran up the beach. The farther he ran the higher his spirits soared until he laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. But suddenly, in that brief moment of ecstasy, he rediscovered the boy who had grown up in Frognal Point. He found him deep inside himself, in his carefree, laughing spirit, and he searched the cove for the girl who had lived there with him.

He strode back up the path into the garden. He could smell Rita in the flowers that grew there and in the grass that now glistened with dew. He would wait for her to return and then he would tell her that he still loved her and that he should never have let her go.

To the left there was an old, crumbling wall. The rickety gate was open. He sauntered over, taking pleasure from this wild house that seemed to reflect Rita’s nature to perfection, and peered through it. There, lying on the grass beside a sleeping dog, was Rita. She was some distance away and could not see him, for she was partially obscured behind the netting that had protected the raspberry bushes from birds in the summer. Her hands were outstretched and she was taming titmice with pieces of walnut. She lay quite still as the dainty little birds hopped about her hands, debating whether or not to trust her. The dog looked old, her face grey around the mouth and eyes, and did not sense his presence at the gate. George shrank back in horror, suddenly afraid that she might see him.