Free The Swallow and the Hummingbird by Santa Montefiore

Maddie in the midst of a group of young men at the other end of the barn. She was sitting in a very unladylike fashion on the knee of one of George’s friends. She had her arms around his neck and her legs slightly apart, roaring with laughter with her mouth wide open. Hannah was too busy talking to Reverend Hammond’s wife, Vera, to notice, and Humphrey was discussing the continuing war in Japan with Mike Purdie, his neighbour. Eddie had found Ruth and a few other young people to entertain and was running through the barn like the pied piper of Hamelin, making a frightful din. She looked back at Maddie. Suddenly in her mind’s eye she had the vision of her granddaughter in the arms of a GI in the back of a jeep. She blinked the image away; it was most distasteful, not to mention intrusive, but it certainly made sense of Maddie’s lack of motivation. ‘She has discovered the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, God bless her,’ thought Mrs Megalith to herself, remembering her own first taste of it many moons ago. She hoped the girl’s desire wouldn’t get the better of her.
    The party was jolly, a veritable celebration of George’s homecoming and victory. The atmosphere was carefree and vibrating with excitement. Years of conflict had united everyone in fear and purpose and now liberation united them again in festivity. Yet they didn’t forget those who had given their lives in service and held a moment of silence to honour them. During that moment Max thought of his parents and suppressed the dull ache that came on the occasions that he allowed himself to remember them. Reverend Hammond took his wife’s hand and silently prayed for the soul of their son Rupert, killed at Dunkirk. Then Trees toasted George, too overcome to say more. Rita looked up and noticed that Max was staring at her, his eyes glazed and sad. She smiled at him but he seemed not to see her. Then the dancing began and the sound of feet tapping caused the whole barn to shudder and the record on Faye’s gramophone to skip.
    Faye watched her son as he swung Rita off the dance floor and out into the night.
    It was raining now, a light drizzle on a strong wind. The air was fresh and smelt heavily of damp earth and foliage. George took her by the hand and they ran through the farm to an old shed that stood low and squat beside a large chestnut tree. He pulled the bolt and opened the door. They crept inside to where it was pleasantly warm and dry and full of newborn calves. When George closed the door behind him, the soft shuffling of hooves on straw and low mooing rose out of the silence as the animals strained their senses to observe them. The place was illuminated by a dim light and Rita was enchanted by the shiny-eyed calves who pushed their faces through the bars of their pens to look at her. Without saying a word she crouched down and stroked their silky faces and wet noses. The mooing grew louder as they all demanded to be petted. George took her hand and raised her to her feet. She followed him up a ladder to the hayloft, where it was cosy and sweet smelling.
    They could hear the wind whistling over the roof of the shed but the hay was soft and warm to lie on. The rustling from the pens diminished as the calves settled down again and only the odd moo disrupted their peaceful breathing.
    George kissed her. It wasn’t the fevered kissing of their cave but slow and tender and full of significance. ‘I can’t cope with the crowd. I just want to be alone with you,’ he said, burying his face in her neck and running his lips over her damp skin.
    Her dress was wet from the rain and clinging to her body like seaweed. She smelt of violets and her own brand of innocence and George was reminded, by the contrast, of the loose women he had bedded during the war in order to feel human again and to forget the carnage of combat. But it felt strange. Familiar, comforting, but strange, as if he had come home expecting to fit into his old mould, surprised that he