The Swallow and the Hummingbird(71)

‘You must have been very frightened,’ she whispered and ran her fingers softly down his cheek. He took her hand in his and held it there.

‘I had terrible dreams. I was afraid to sleep,’ he said, shaking his head and frowning solemnly as the faces of Jamie Cordell, Rat Bridges and Lorrie Hampton surfaced in his mind. ‘But since I met you, they’ve gone.’ She smiled and withdrew her hand.

‘I’m glad I’m frightening those demons away,’ she said.

‘I wish I could frighten yours away,’ he ventured. She shook her head.

‘Only I can do that,’ she replied. ‘But with your help, I will.’

They walked out into the light to find a group of brown-faced children playing on the steps of the church. They were jumping up and down, laughing and shouting, their voices ringing out across the silent grounds. When they saw the two strangers they stopped what they were doing and stared. George took Susan’s hand as they walked down the steps. One by one the children gazed at Susan. Their mouths dropped open and one or two pointed. Then, like a pack of animals who all understand each other without having to speak, they ran around her, holding their hands up to her, asking to touch. George was seized with fury. In a bid to protect her he waved at them and shouted in Spanish as he would to the stray dogs that roamed the farm. ‘Get away! Get away!’ But to his astonishment, Susan simply smiled, let go of his hand and crouched down. As she did so the children recoiled and fell silent as if suddenly afraid.

‘She’s an angel,’ said the smallest.

‘Is it real?’ asked another.

‘I’m not an angel,’ said Susan with a laugh. ‘Go on, touch it.’ And George watched as one by one their grubby brown hands touched her hair. Susan looked up at him and grinned.

‘Children are a law unto themselves,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, feeling foolish.

‘You don’t need to apologize. To these children my face is not nearly as exciting as my hair.’

Susan clearly loved children. She talked to them, stroked their hair, their dusty faces, she did up the buttons on the shirt of one, brushed down the shorts of another, commented on a grazed knee and a bruised forehead. Once she had kissed the knee and the forehead they all rushed at her, inventing ailments for her to kiss away and she laughed as she tried to satisfy them all, a laugh so natural and so happy that George stood transfixed by her joy. He realized then that part of her sadness must come from her longing for children.

It took her a long time to break away. They hung onto her like little monkeys, giggling in their efforts to keep her, determined to have their way. Finally she retreated into the shade where they had left the picnic in the care of the doves and the children returned to their games, though their eyes wandered over to the trees every now and then, hoping she’d come back.

George opened the bottle of wine and poured her a glass. Agustina had packed beef sandwiches and potato salad.

‘You have a magical way with children,’ he said, before biting into a sandwich. She suddenly looked sad.

‘I love children so much,’ she replied, taking a sip of wine. She looked over to the steps where they played, and smiled because she recognized that their voices were louder and their games more exaggerated for her benefit.

‘You will be a wonderful mother,’ he said, then wished he hadn’t as her cheeks flushed and she sighed heavily.

‘Let’s drink to that,’ she replied, raising her glass. And George was more aware than ever of the secrets of her past that lay hidden from him, and bit his tongue to restrain his impatience.

They remained under the trees until the sun had descended behind the church, casting them in shadow. The air was sugar-scented and balmy and crickets had replaced the chatter of children. Susan’s eyes were sleepy with wine and pleasure and shone from her laughter. Yet, as the shadows of evening crept across the grass into nightfall, her thoughts turned to the shadow of war that was the weight on George’s soul.

‘You think about them all the time, don’t you?’ she said, watching him carefully. He understood her at once.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘All the time.’

‘You feel guilty that you survived when they died.’ He returned her gaze with dark and troubled eyes. He shook his head slowly and sighed.

‘My brain tells me that some gamblers win and others lose. It’s logical and inevitable. I just can’t help but feel I don’t deserve to have been a winner. I wasn’t the bravest pilot or the best.’

‘It wasn’t your time.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’