The Swallow and the Hummingbird(56)

‘I will,’ she said in order to humour him. He scratched his grey beard and watched her with his pale, watery eyes. ‘Do you play the violin?’ she asked, noticing the instrument languishing on top of the piano.

‘Yes, I play to soothe my soul. Music is a wonderful healer.’

‘The piano as well?’

‘It is old and not well tuned, but I suffer it, yes.’

‘I sculpt,’ she said. ‘Badly. Faye, you know, Faye Bolton, she’s giving me lessons. She’s incredibly talented.’ Thadeus’ face softened as if the light in the room had suddenly changed from white to amber.

‘With practice I’m sure you will be as good as she is,’ he said in a quiet voice.

‘Oh no, I won’t be. But I don’t expect to be that good. Like you said, music soothes the soul, sculpting is the same. I’m able to lose myself in it.’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Like the sea. I lose myself in that too.’

‘As well as George’s letters.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘Yes. Silly, really.’

After about an hour she thanked him for the tea and for his company. She felt much better having talked to him and promised that next time she was on the cliff she would listen to her pendant. Before leaving she asked if she could use his lavatory, and hurried upstairs, aware that she was due at Megagran’s for lunch. As she opened the door she turned to cast a quick glance into his bedroom. She was struck immediately by a large sculpture of a bear, which sat on the mantelpiece, all on its own. This was strange, for every other surface was scattered with objects and curiosities. There was no doubt that it was one of Faye’s, her style was so distinctive. She wondered what had possessed her to part with such a masterpiece, but knew instinctively not to ask.

Thadeus helped her into her coat and watched as she pulled the hat over her head; her hair fell out of it like seaweed washed up on the beach. ‘I hope you will come and have tea with me again sometime,’ he said.

‘I would like that very much. Perhaps then you can play the violin for me.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

Thadeus watched as she disappeared through the garden gate. Faye had spoken so highly of her and she was right. She was a sweet-natured child and if he hadn’t bumped into her, literally, he would never have met her. Sometimes it wasn’t good to walk around with one’s head bent, avoiding people’s eyes, hiding from the world. He closed the door and picked up his violin.

When Rita arrived home she crept in through the garden and tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom to write out what she remembered of George’s letter. The little robin had made a fine nest out of moss and grass in the pot that Eddie had made her at school. Rita loved her new friend, the way it watched her from the bookshelf without fear, its small black eyes unblinking. It flew in and out as it pleased, for Rita always left the window open. Hannah often came in to observe it and to offer it food out of her own hand but the robin would accept nothing from anyone but Rita. Hannah found this hard to accept for she had always had a special relationship with the feathered creatures that made their homes in her garden.

Rita decided to keep the fact of the lost letter to herself. She was ashamed that she had been so clumsy. Instead, she would show off her pendant. A symbol of love, happiness and wedded bliss.

They all piled into Humphrey’s car at twelve and drove to Elvestree for lunch. Eddie was fascinated by the silver dove but Maddie sniffed rather dismissively.

‘Sweet,’ she stated flatly. If the eye had been studded with something worthwhile, like a diamond, she would have been more impressed. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked.

‘I want to keep the letter to myself. Besides, the dove speaks if you listen to it,’ Rita replied.

Maddie screwed up her nose. ‘Love is turning your mind to sawdust, Rita. If that dove speaks I’m the Queen of England.’

‘Thank goodness you’re not, Maddie. You’d be a frightfully bossy queen,’ said Eddie. ‘I want to hear the dove speak.’

‘It speaks of love, happiness and wedded bliss,’ Rita said. ‘George has sent me a symbol, much more original than a letter.’

‘My dear, I think the pendant is charming,’ said Hannah. ‘What a thoughtful young man he is.’

Humphrey snorted and shook his head, but only Hannah was aware of his scepticism.

When they arrived at Elvestree the drizzle had turned to hail. Tiny balls of ice were blown about on the wind, and the trees, so lush and green in the summer, now stood twisted and tortured and bare. They hurried into the hall, which was warmed by a large log fire and adorned with cats. There were cats on every surface. Five curled up together on the sofa, three on the old oak chest where Denzil’s tennis rackets rotted away in the dark, and another six or seven beneath the table, stretched out on the shabby Persian rug. There were ginger ones, sleek black ones and petulant white ones. Hannah was used to her mother’s house being full of these creatures but every time she visited there seemed to be more.