The Swallow and the Hummingbird(36)

He smoked into the fog, taking comfort from the one thing that had been consistent throughout the war. Smoking relaxed him, made him feel better as it had done in the mess after an offensive sweep or an escort over northern France. With his squadron around him he had enjoyed that sense of belonging, of achievement and purpose. A peace of sorts came later when he was reconciled with his fear of dying, but he would never get over the deaths of his friends: Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges, Lorrie Hampton – he’d never forget. Having conquered his own fear of death he now battled against his fear of living. He had no purpose, no drive, no sense of belonging. He felt adrift.

The boat shuddered and slowly began to move away from the dockside. He cast his eyes to the sea and the foam that now frothed on the surface, then took a final look at the bleak coastline. Goodbye England, goodbye war. When I return I’ll be a different man.

George kept himself to himself for the first couple of weeks. He barely noticed the people around him, and discouraged conversations with strangers he had no desire to know. He sat on the deck, smoking into the wind, lost in the past. He didn’t think too much about the future. Having never been to South America he had no idea what to expect. There were plenty of passengers on the boat who would have been only too happy to share with him their experiences of Argentina, but he deliberately kept away. They busied themselves with deck quoits, chess and bridge. Put on plays with the children, danced the nights away, made friends in the bar. They were too occupied to notice him, or perhaps they had seen his scowl and told their children not to approach.

The boat stopped along the way, in Lisbon, Madeira, Rio and Santos. He was able to spend those days stretching his legs and seeing the sights. It was good to step onto solid ground for a few hours and smell the scents of the earth and nature. Small boats drew up alongside the Fortuna and tradesmen clambered aboard to lay out their wares. George thought of Rita when he saw the silver bracelets and cheap Brazilian gold. He wanted to buy her something to show that he was missing her. Something special. He searched through all the jewellery, some of it fine, some badly made and sure to fall apart in the post by the time it got to England. Then his eyes alighted on a pendant. It was of a bird with its wings outstretched, crafted in silver with eyes of turquoise. The moment he saw it he knew he had to have it. The skinny salesman with black hair and a long, brown face smiled crookedly when George said he would buy it. He thought of a price and doubled it, delighted when George paid without hesitation. The man wrapped it in brown paper and handed it to him. ‘Bird, good luck,’ he said in broken English, pointing to the packet. ‘Good luck.’

‘He means,’ interjected a fellow passenger who was also browsing through the jewellery, ‘that birds symbolize good luck. In fact, in ancient times they were considered magical because they could fly. Each breed has a different meaning. What is your bird?’ George unwrapped the paper and showed the old scholar his purchase. He studied it carefully, much to the bewilderment of the salesman who thought they were scrutinizing it for faults. ‘It appears to be a dove. The dove symbolizes love, happiness and wedded bliss. It features in the flood stories of the Babylonians, Hebrews and Greeks as a symbol of peace and reconciliation. The dove carrying the olive branch in his beak to Noah in his ark has become an international symbol.’ George thanked him. It must have been Fate that he should find such an appropriate gift for his sweetheart.

It was not until the beginning of the third week, just off the coast of Brazil, that his curiosity was roused by one of his fellow passengers. It was early evening. He was sitting alone watching the sun set and remembering how he and Rita used to sit on the cliffs as children and watch the sun sink into the sea. A very different sea from this tropical ocean. His eyes were drawn to a woman who stood leaning on the railings, gazing out towards the horizon. She was quite still. Only the skirt of her pale dress billowed about in the wind, revealing with each gust slender ankles and fine, shapely legs. She had blonde hair, almost white, that was scraped back into a chignon at the nape of an elegant long neck. The angles of her profile were thus accentuated to her best advantage. Straight nose, high cheekbones and a well-defined chin and jaw. She looked haughty, confident, a little disdainful. George wondered who she was with, whether she was married and, if so, to what sort of man. She had great beauty and poise. A real handful, no doubt, he thought with a chuckle. She didn’t seem to sense his eyes on her for she continued to stare out without flinching. As he scrutinized her, he realized that there was something wistful and sad about the way she stood. Perhaps because she didn’t move. A happy person would surely move every now and then, look around, smile. But she just stared as if she wasn’t concentrating on the sunset after all, but on pictures in her own mind.