The Swallow and the Hummingbird(8)

He leapt from the bus into his mother’s arms. He was much taller than she, so had to bend down in order to bury his face in her neck and smell the familiar scent of his childhood. His father patted him on his back, a little too hard, and his eyes glistened with joy. Alice lifted her two-year-old daughter into her arms and George embraced them both, then crouched down to kiss the little boy he had met only once. Awed by the unfamiliar man in a starched blue RAF uniform the child wrapped himself around his mother’s legs.

George stood up and cast his eyes over the heads of the crowd. It was then that he saw the pale face of his sweetheart. He felt his throat constrict. She stood quite still. Only her long hair blew in the wind, catching in her mouth and around her neck. He gazed on her intently and waded through his family to reach her. Then with great tenderness, as if he were picking up a wild bird, he took her in his arms and held her against him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his face against her hair, murmuring ‘my Rita’ over and over again. Rita’s tears cascaded down her cheeks, but she felt no shame, just an overwhelming sense of relief.

George pulled away and took her chin in his hands, then kissed her fervently on the lips. Rita was stunned. It felt different, more ardent, more passionate. His face was rough with bristles and his hands dry and calloused, even the smell of his skin had changed into something more animal. She knew then that her mother was right, he had left a boy and returned a man. With that thought the blood grew hot in her veins and caused her skin to prickle with something basic and primitive.

Trees had driven into town in his truck, so he, Faye and Alice sat in the front with the children, and Rita and George were left alone in the back with the wind racing through their hair and across their faces. George leaned against the cabin with his arms around her, his chin resting against her head. ‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for years,’ he murmured.

‘Pinch me, George,’ she laughed. ‘Show me it’s real.’

He squeezed her hard and kissed her neck. ‘I carried your photograph with me and looked at it whenever I felt sad. I missed you all the time. Your letters kept me going.’ He squeezed her again and sighed. ‘It’s like paradise here. England looks more beautiful than I remember it.’ He paused a moment, then added quietly, ‘And so do you.’ They were both aware they were separated from his family only by a pane of glass, so they contented themselves with chaste kisses and soft whispers.

‘You smell of violets,’ he said, sniffing her. ‘I want to kiss you all over.’

She laughed nervously, not recognizing the strange shadows in his eyes. He ran a hand down her naked arm to hold her hand, then over the thin fabric of her dress, which billowed about in the wind revealing slender calves and ankles. She had grown plumper, he noticed, her breasts had swelled, but her open face and sherry eyes were still full of childish brightness. She hadn’t changed, but he had and suddenly he recoiled in the presence of such purity and innocence.

What had he become? To what levels of depravity had he sunk? How many lives had he taken? He felt soiled right down to his very soul as if he had handed it over to the devil and was now asking for it back. It wasn’t possible. The devil didn’t work that way. He could never erase the unspeakable things that he’d done. The war had changed him irreversibly and he longed for the boy he had once been.

Not only had he taken life, but he had witnessed the brutal killing of those who had become brothers to him. He had dwelt in his own private hell, mourning the loss of his friends, fearing his own destruction and the inevitable void of death. His values had changed too. Love and life were all that mattered and to forget . . . but how could he expect Rita to understand? He gazed into her trusting eyes and resolved to marry her and secure his own immortality with a large number of children. He had risked his life to save his country from Nazi Germany. In the process he had lost his boyhood and the innocent expectations of his youth.

As they drove into the farm the sweet smell of cows mingled with the fertile scent of awakening fields. George leapt out to embrace Mildred who barked behind the gate. Trees parked the truck beside a pink hawthorn and helped his wife and grandchildren down. Rita watched as Cyril, the farm manager, appeared with the other farmhands to welcome home the man they had known since he had been a small boy. Mildred jumped up at George as he opened the gate to let her through, panting and crying with excitement. He ruffled her fur and kissed her wet nose, then turned to shake hands with Cyril who patted him firmly on the back. Rita watched from the truck. She was so full of admiration and pride. George was so handsome in his uniform. She found herself thinking of Elsa Shelby and wondered whether it really did feel like bathing in warm honey.