The Swallow and the Hummingbird(63)

The afternoon seemed interminable. He was too distracted to be of any use on the farm. The gauchos teased him, certain that a woman was to blame for scrambling his brain. They gesticulated to him with their hands, suggesting all sorts of unspeakable sexual acts then laughed raucously, nudging each other in amusement. He was a handsome man; it was unthinkable that he wasn’t taking advantage of the whores in Jesús Maria. Finally Jose Antonio dismissed him.

‘Go and entertain the women,’ he said, grinning at his nephew. ‘The sun has obviously penetrated your skull.’

George protested. He didn’t want the gauchos to think him faint-hearted.

‘I’m a little tired,’ he explained. ‘But nothing I can’t handle.’ If they only knew what he had been up against in the skies over Britain! His uncle slapped him on the back and winked at him affectionately.

‘There’s nothing more for you to do today, gringo. La Gorda will be happy to see you. Have tea, a swim, a rest. Take the afternoon off. You deserve it.’

George knew he didn’t deserve it at all, but did as he was told. He knew better than to argue with Jose Antonio.

He turned his horse around and galloped back to the puesto. He hastily removed the tack and brushed his horse down before tying him up in the shade with a bucket of water. His legs felt weak as if he had borrowed them from someone else and was having trouble getting used to them. As he walked unsteadily through the trees to the house he prayed that it was Susan and not some other woman with a scarred face who had come to stay at Las Dos Vizcachas.

As the house came into view he was able to make out two women sitting on the veranda taking tea. He squinted to see them better. The woman facing him was without doubt his aunt. Her large form was unmistakable. She sat holding a teacup with her arms on the table, her solid bosom resting heavily on the tablecloth. The other was at an angle, talking to her. Her hair, tied into a neat chignon at the nape of a long and elegant neck, was pale yellow, almost white, and shone with health. With graceful fingers she curled a stray wisp around her ear then stroked the skin of her neck absent-mindedly. He felt his heart stumble. It was Susan. It couldn’t be anyone else. As he got nearer he saw that she was wearing a white dress imprinted with blue flowers and he was sure he could smell lily of the valley, carried above the scents of the park on a warm breeze. He wondered whether he should go and change first – he imagined he looked grubby with dust and smelt of sweat and horses – but, before he could decide, his aunt spotted him and began to wave at him vigorously. He had no choice but to walk over.

Susan turned around and smiled at him. She extended her hand and greeted him formally. ‘Hello,’ she said in a polite voice. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your aunt has told me so much about you.’ George understood at once that she was pretending they had never met. He took her hand and held it for a little longer than was necessary. He gazed into her pale eyes, silently questioning her. But she looked away and said to Agatha, ‘He’s obviously settled in well, one could almost mistake him for a gaucho.’

‘My husband is delighted with him. A quick learner with a good sense of humour. Jose Antonio is very hard to please.’ George was irritated that they were discussing him as if he wasn’t there. He felt gauche standing like that while they appraised him. His excitement drained away, leaving an aching disappointment.

‘How was your trip, Aunt Agatha?’ he asked, trying his best to act casually, as if Susan meant nothing to him.

‘You won’t believe the difference in Dolores. She’s been transformed into a placid human being. She even smiles. In all the time I’ve lived here I have not once seen her smile.’

‘She sounds like she’s making up for lost time,’ said Susan.

‘Well, she’s got a lot of making up to do!’ Agatha laughed. ‘I found Susan languishing in the heat in Buenos Aires. Thought she would enjoy spending Christmas with us. More the merrier and all that.’

‘It really is stifling in the city in December,’ Susan agreed. ‘It’s lovely up here.’ George noticed that Susan didn’t really look at him. Her eyes might settle on him every now and again as they conversed but they seemed not to see him.

‘George has learned Spanish,’ said Agatha. ‘He learned much faster than I imagined he would.’

‘Enthusiasm is the best incentive,’ said Susan. ‘Does he ride like a gaucho too?’

‘I think he even castrates like a gaucho!’ Agatha replied with a snort.

George felt the irritation rise in his chest and clenched his fists. Defeated he put his hat back on.