The Swallow and the Hummingbird(47)
The house, although very colonial, betrayed Agatha’s English upbringing by the paintings that hung on the walls and most notably the two large dogs who lay on the cool tiles in the hall. They barely lifted their eyes when George walked over them, so he gathered they were not there to guard. ‘They’re meant to be Great Danes, but didn’t quite make it. They answer to Bertie and Wooster,’ said Agatha. At the sound of their names their long tails thumped happily. He followed his aunt down a dark corridor and into a bedroom at the end. ‘I thought you’d like this room, it looks over the park,’ she said. ‘It’s also the other end of the house from us, so you’ll have some privacy.’
George was delighted with his room. It was large and cool with dark wooden floorboards, white walls and a queen-size iron bed imported from England. The light fell in through a tall open window, its shutters ajar and the linen curtains pulled back. George stood in front of it admiring the view and feeling rejuvenated by the fresh, sugar-scented air and the peaceful song of birds.
‘When you’re ready I’ll be outside on the terrace. You’ll need a drink I should imagine.’ Before she left the room, George unzipped his bag.
‘I have a letter to post,’ he said, pulling out the small package in brown paper and the letter. ‘It’s for Rita.’ Agatha raised a knowing eyebrow.
‘I’ll see to that for you,’ she said with an air of efficiency. Nothing was ever too much for Agatha. ‘Any washing put in the basket. Agustina will do it and return it to you in the morning.’
George unpacked, bathed, shaved, and dressed in light trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. He splashed his face and neck with cologne then walked through the house to the terrace. Agatha was standing beneath the veranda talking to one of the gardeners. She had her hands on her hips and her feet akimbo, like those old portraits of Henry VIII. George was sure she could be just as terrifying if she so wanted. The gardener held his hat deferentially and listened to everything she said with a bowed head. When she saw George she dismissed the man without so much as a thank you and turned her back on him. He shuffled away, wiping the sweat from his brow with a filthy handkerchief.
‘That’s Gonzalo. As strong as an ox and just as stupid,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the round table. ‘Lemonade?’ She poured him a glass, which he drank gratefully, then continued boisterously, articulating her words in that old-fashioned aristocratic way, barely opening her mouth as she did so. George thought she would have made a very formidable colonel in the army. ‘When I arrived here I barely spoke a word of Spanish and this place was a wreck. Jose Antonio grew up here. His grandfather built it and at one time he lived here with his parents, grandparents and two sisters. The grandparents died, then the father, and his two sisters buggered off. One married a Mexican, the other lives down south.’
‘What happened to his mother?’ George asked, though he wasn’t really very interested in Jose Antonio’s family history.
‘She lives in Buenos Aires. Mad as a hatter, though. Never comes up, the journey’s too much for her. I can’t say I’m sorry. She always was rather hard work.’
‘You’ve made this into a paradise,’ he said. Agatha was pleased.
‘It wasn’t easy. Coming here, not speaking the language. It wasn’t Jose Antonio’s money, either. They lost it all, the fools. I had a bit, enough to get the place up and running. Didn’t know much about farming. Had to learn all that as I went along. We’re comfortable and labour is cheap. We live off the land. You’ll see. There’s plenty of meat and vegetables. We’re self-sufficient. Come, I’ll show you around. Bring your glass with you.’
They walked to the lake, where birds nested in the reeds and wild duck swam on the water. Beyond, across a park of carefully planted trees, was the puesto. Here the gauchos looked after the horses. A couple of brown ponies rested in the shade of an ombu. A dark-skinned youth sat shirtless, scrubbing down a saddle and bridle, and another, much older man, leaned back against the fence, sipping mate, the traditional herb tea, out of a gourd through an ornate silver straw. A number of skeletal dogs sniffed the ground beside the logs where a barbecue had been the night before. They looked wild and mangy and no one took any notice of them. When the gauchos saw their mistress approach they stood to attention and bowed their heads. George wondered what Jose Antonio was like and whether Aunt Agatha was the one wearing the trousers in the marriage. She certainly took all the credit for everything at Las Dos Vizcachas.