‘Oh, pooh to that.’
‘I’m too young to settle down.’
‘Jose Antonio was your age when we married. I’m a little older than him. He’s always liked the older woman.’
George began to take interest. ‘How much older are you?’
‘Five years, I think. He still looks like a boy, whereas I look like an old hag. That’s what the Argentine sun does to a woman’s skin. No good at all. Not that I’m bothered. Faye was always the pretty one. I’m strong on personality.’ He looked across at her forceful profile and silently agreed with her. She might have been small in stature but she was built like a Panzer tank, with thick wrists and ankles and a generous girth. ‘So you’ve left that poor girl in England pining after you. You brute!’ She gave a deep, throaty laugh.
‘I asked her to come. She didn’t want to. She loves Frognal Point. I can’t imagine her ever leaving it. I’ll return in a year or so and marry her.’
Agatha snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, George. You won’t marry Rita. It’s all about timing, you see. Perhaps if you were a little older I’d say it had a chance. But you’re young. You’ll fall in love out here. The Argentine girls are famous for their beauty and femininity. Don’t know why Jose Antonio chose me when he could have had any of them. Don’t think we’re out in the sticks here,’ she continued. ‘I travel down to BA every now and then, and friends visit us up here. Some stay for months. Jesús Maria is very sociable. Nice people. You have to learn Spanish, you know. I’ll get someone in the town to come and give you lessons. You simply won’t survive without it. Jose Antonio will take you around the farm this evening, show you how things work. You ride, I presume?’ He nodded. ‘Good. We go everywhere on horseback. Tracks not good enough for cars. It’s the rain, you see. Rains a lot here in summertime, that’s why it’s so green. They say the climate is like Spain. I’ve never been to Spain so I wouldn’t know. The children will love you. You’ll be a hero to them, flying planes in the war. Told them all about it.’
George listened with half an ear to her ramblings. She told him about her children, the education in Jesús Maria, how they were contemplating sending them to school in Buenos Aires. His mind wandered to Rita, out of guilt; he felt duty-bound to remember her. He would post his letter and gift to her as soon as possible, and felt a stab of pain when he envisaged her pining for him on those cliff tops, the wind whipping through her wild curls.
Finally the car left the highway and rattled along a dirt track for what seemed miles and miles. It was bumpy and dusty and the sun burned through the glass windows causing him to sweat. Unlike the pampa, Córdoba was thick with trees and vegetation and undulating with hills. He felt his stomach rumble in protest for he hadn’t eaten breakfast. At last they turned into a driveway lined with leafy trees.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Agatha. ‘Welcome to Las Dos Vizcachas, The Two Hares.’
George sat up and paid attention. Agatha drove slowly down the shady drive in order to give her nephew a good look at her beautiful home. She was immensely proud of Las Dos Vizcachas and ran it with military efficiency. Of course George would never appreciate the work she had done for he hadn’t seen it when she arrived.
At the end of the drive the house stood as squat and sturdy as its mistress. Built around a courtyard, it was painted white with a roof of green tiles, rising into two towers at either end. The windows peeped out from behind green iron bars to deter intruders, and the shutters were closed from within to keep it cool. At the back a wide veranda shaded a tiled terrace that faced an ornamental lake and then beyond, across those seemingly interminable plains. Borders spilled over with flowers and large bushes of gardenia and bougainvillea dazzled in the sunshine. Eucalyptus trees rustled in the breeze and filled the air with the smell of camphor, reminding George of Malta. Carlos carried his bag inside, receiving a scolding on the way from a woman with a shrieking voice. She ejected her words like bullets, raising her hands in the air and waving them madly.
‘That’s Dolores,’ said Agatha. ‘As you can see, she is quite unable to control her temper. She was here when I arrived and there was no way I could get rid of her. One tolerates her as one tolerates an aged relative.’
‘What does she do?’ he asked, following his aunt into the house.
‘She’s the maid. She cooks, but she’s far too superior to clean. Agustina sees to that. She’s a younger woman, more agile and, thank the Lord, as docile as a cow.’