The Swallow and the Hummingbird(164)

‘I think so,’ she replied slowly.

‘It doesn’t matter. Eat your breakfast because my sister Ruth is coming over to meet you this morning, then I think we should go shopping. Poor Mitzi doesn’t even have a cot!’

When Ruth arrived she embraced her brother and then spontaneously wrapped her arms around Rebecca. She gazed at her niece with glassy eyes not knowing what to say. In her features she recognized her mother and Max, even herself. She no longer needed explanations. She knew that Rebecca was family. She sensed it in her heart for she had shed light into the dark corner that had contained the same shadows as Max’s. Finally, she was able to speak about the past. The three of them walked around the garden in the snow, sharing stories, igniting memories, asking questions that only Rebecca could answer. They took turns carrying Mitzi, showing their niece her new home, staring into the face of the future, the horrors of the past lost in her innocence. They drank coffee and cried over the photographs. Rebecca remembered her mother, and Ruth and Max were at last able to remember theirs.

When Rita arrived for lunch she noticed at once something magical had taken place. ‘Do you know the house feels different?’ she said to Max. ‘It smells different.’

‘Yes, I smell it too,’ he agreed with a smile.

‘Smoky, woody, cosy, like it used to.’

‘Did you see the snow geese?’

‘There are snow geese?’ she exclaimed excitedly.

‘Two of them. I opened my curtains this morning and there they were.’

‘You know they come from Canada. They migrate to Mexico.’

‘Well, they’re right here at Elvestree.’

‘That’s miraculous,’ she gasped.

‘Not nearly as miraculous as Rebecca.’

‘That is true.’ She touched his arm fondly and said a little sadly, ‘I’m so happy for you, Max.’

Rita wished she could turn her life around, too. She was now in her forties and the hope of having children had gone. George was no more than a memory, a transparent puff of smoke with no substance. She toyed with her ring absent-mindedly and wondered what her future held, now that Max had a family. Once he had loved her. The irony was that now she loved him. It hadn’t come in a flash of lightning but grown slowly upon her so that she had barely been aware of the changing nature of her heart. For a long time she hadn’t dared acknowledge it. But now Max’s life was taking a different course she realized that he was leaving her behind and she minded.

As Rebecca and Mitzi settled into Elvestree the magic returned with the spring. The blossom was far more spectacular than anywhere else, the rare vegetables and fruit grew in abundance, baffling the gardeners, and birds from all over the world settled to build their nests in the leafy trees that had observed this mysterious corner of England for centuries. Wagtails and puffins, waxbills, even an albatross was seen on the estuary. The house once more resonated with laughter as Rebecca and Ruth watched their children play on the lawn. Rebecca made friends easily and Max enjoyed the sounds of clattering in the kitchen as she invited other young mothers for tea with their toddlers. They grew as close as a father and daughter could ever be. Rita watched them with mounting envy. Although she too had grown to love Rebecca and Mitzi she was saddened that his attention was now diverted. He no longer gazed upon her with longing. She remembered the snowy day on the estuary and wondered whether he had forgotten how to love her.

Then in the midst of all this joy, George suffered a stroke. Hannah heard it from Faye and told Rita, who was devastated. She longed to go and visit him, but she knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Certainly in his fragile state it would be unwise. She badgered her mother for more news, any news at all, but it wasn’t good.

The years had caught up with him. The trauma of the war perhaps, or the pressure of living. Or maybe the strain of loving, for George had loved intensely and he had loved too much.





Chapter 37





Susan sat on the beach and cried. She rarely cried. At least no one could see her there in the dusk, watching her happiness disappear into the mists on the horizon where the sea flowed into eternity, the gateway of death. She stared into it as if George had already gone. He had been so physical and vital, like a solid oak tree. He had been her strength and her support. Now he could barely speak or move, like a decrepit old man. He was only forty-seven.

It had all happened without any warning. George had been on the farm, working as usual, when a pain in the head had seized him like a hand of iron squeezing his brain. One of the farm boys had run to the farmhouse for help. Susan had been in the garden with Charlie, now a strapping twenty-year-old, in love with Daisy Weaver. They had called an ambulance and he had been taken to Exeter hospital. Like his father, Charlie had been dependable and levelheaded, but Susan had been too worried to indulge in feelings of pride. Now George was in the Yew Tree Nursing Home down the coast, being cared for by professionals who knew how to nurse him better than she did. She could barely look at him in that state because she knew how wretched he must feel, like a bear without claws or a lion without teeth. A part of George had died and a part of her had gone with it.