The Swallow and the Hummingbird by Santa Montefiore

something to do with it for she was well known for keeping a house full of cats. Wearily he turned back to his congregation. ‘As I said, we are all welcome in God’s house,’ he quipped lamely. Then he focused his attention on Mrs Megalith. ‘Legend has it that cats are good luck. God has blessed this house today. Let us pray.’
    Mrs Megalith leaned over to Maddie and hissed loudly in her ear. ‘It is also legend that if you keep a black cat you will never be short of lovers. I bet he doesn’t know that.’ Maddie wanted to retort that if such a legend were true her grandmother would have more lovers than time, but she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
    When the service finally drew to a close the entire congregation waited for Mrs Megalith to hobble back down the aisle with Maddie and Rita followed by Hannah, Eddie, Humphrey and the eight cats. They watched her pass, more sure than ever that she was indeed a witch. Out in the sunshine Hannah turned on her mother. ‘Why did you come?’ she demanded.
    Mrs Megalith smiled smugly. ‘Didn’t the good vicar say that we are all welcome in God’s house?’
    ‘But you don’t like church,’ she argued.
    ‘It’s important to ruffle the old goose’s feathers every once in a while, otherwise he gets too big for his boots.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘No, I came because I felt it was appropriate. George and all that.’
    ‘Really?’ Hannah was astounded.
    ‘Elwyn says that the way to Heaven is through suffering. Well, after today’s débâcle I’m one step closer.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘Got him going, though, didn’t I? The fool!’
    Reverend Hammond was barely able to conceal the trembling in his hands as he conversed politely with all the congregants. ‘It is also legend, Reverend,’ said Miss Hogmier darkly, ‘that after seven years cats become witches. Imagine the number of witches we’ll all have to deal with in the future if that is true.’
    ‘Really, Miss Hogmier, you don’t believe in all that nonsense, do you?’
    ‘I most certainly do, Reverend Hammond. Trust me, Mrs Megalith is an evil woman!’
    That afternoon George and Rita sat on a blanket on the cliff top watching the birds as they had done since childhood. The storm had passed, leaving a perfect blue sky without a cloud in sight. It was still windy, especially up there on the cliffs, but it was a warm and pleasant wind. Rita had packed Marmite sandwiches and hot cocoa for tea. Her mother had made biscuits for them and added slices of cold ham for George.
    ‘Everyone’s talking about your homecoming,’ said Rita happily.
    ‘They can’t have much else to talk about if that’s the case,’ he replied, gazing out across the sea to where the horizon quivered enticingly with the promise of adventure.
    ‘They say you’re a hero.’
    ‘Do they,’ he replied flatly. ‘No, Rita, the heroes are the boys who gave their lives. I’m not a hero.’
    ‘And I don’t want to fly any more.’ His comment was unexpected. She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing. ‘I don’t want to remember the war. I want to forget it ever happened and lose myself in you.’
    But George wasn’t able to forget the war. He could suppress the memories during his waking moments but at night, when his resistance lay dormant, images penetrated his psyche and plagued his dreams. So real, he could smell the petrol and cordite, feel the sweat forming on his forehead and nose, dripping into his eyes, misting up his oxygen mask. Back in his Spitfire he relived that sensation of immediacy, of living intensely, of cold, nerve-shattering fear . . .
    The sky is dark with German bombers, Heinkels mostly, like a swarm of black wasps, moving towards him at great speed. Suddenly he’s in the thick of it. Planes coming out of nowhere, one hundred and fifty at least, not to mention the ME 109s covering them. Bloody Krauts! The sound of gunfire like tearing calico, the raw hiss of passing tracers, then