The Summer of the Mourning Cloak
Kathleen Nelson
Copyright © 2014 Kathleen Nelson
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or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
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For Lesley and David
Contents
Cover
Endorsement
Quote
Prologue
Quote
Five Years Later…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Quote
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Quote
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Quote
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Quote
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Acknowledgements
Join Butterfly Conservation Today!
ENDORSEMENT
We at Butterfly Conservation are delighted to be associated with this unusual book. Quite apart from its thought-provoking and intriguing story about growing up, it gives a great deal of accurate information about the wonderful range of British butterflies and their lives. It is suitable for teenagers and adults of all ages.
Butterfly Conservation, through its dedicated staff and volunteers, works hard to protect our endangered species of butterflies and moths, which are under threat on many different fronts. This book is a very welcome step in bringing increased awareness of their fragile beauty to a wider public."
Dr. Martin Warren, Chief Executive, Butterfly Conservation
Quote
“The butterfly never meets its mother. It must survive independently and remains a stranger to affection… A child who grows up in a cold and detached home environment is similar to the butterfly, in that kindness is sparing. Once an adult, it will be very difficult for that person to show compassion.”
HH The Dalai Lama
Prologue
A Funeral, a Beetle and a Pair of Red Shoes
It is always best to find shelter when a house turns spiteful.
Under the dining room table seemed a safe place, and there was already a companion there waiting for her, a fellow mourner: a shiny black beetle.
He was a large, solid sort of beetle, all in black as she was. He kept her from thinking of the terrifying spectacle of her grandmother lying in her open coffin in the room next door, and distracted her from the wailing of some of the mourners. Her grandmother, who had been everything to her for all of her six and a half years, was there in the next room. At least they told her it was her grandmother, but for Hyslop this was not true. What was laid out in the coffin was a body, and a body is not a person. That pale face, cold as one of the marble Madonnas in the hall, was not the familiar smiley face of her grandmother any more. Whether she was in purgatory or in heaven with the Virgin Mary, what was certain was that she was no longer there in her old body. She was not there to make the world all right again. She was not there, but the beetle was.
They were together, and they were staying together. Hyslop found his presence comforting. Beyond the long folds of the tablecloth that shrouded them in a white cocoon was the scary world of the black shoes.
The house was full of old women, all dressed in black. They had been wandering around the house since her grandmother had died three days previously, sitting and walking, endlessly talking, crying, laughing, opening and closing doors, drinking coffee, never silent for a moment. All Hyslop could see of them now was their black shoes: thick ankles, encased in black stockings, ending in those flat matt black shoes.
Some of the old ladies were familiar to her as her grandmother’s friends from church, who had called round for cake and sweet white wine, but some of them were strangers. How had her grandmother known so many people, she wondered. They were all speaking at once, voicing their emotions loudly in a way that only old Italian women can. Signora Crolla, a particular friend who always called round on Sunday afternoons, had even begun tearing at her hair and wailing loudly. Signora Crolla was not behaving as she normally did and Hyslop did not like it. She listened as she heard some of the other old ladies clucking and hissing their disapproval.
One or two of them urged Signora Crolla to mourn in a more dignified manner, which led her to wail even more loudly about how she missed poor Violetta. The noise level, as the black shoes drew nearer, made Hyslop put her hands over her ears.
They all talked at once, and no one seemed to be listening to anyone else until one of them approached the table and suggested cutting the pine nut tart. The black shoes were all around the table now. They were closing in, and the beetle moved to her side, twitching its antennae.
In later years Hyslop was to learn of a beetle called The Death Watch Beetle, which would surely have been a suitable name for a fellow mourner. This particular beetle, however, with his large head, bulging green eyes, intelligent expression, and shiny black shell, was a species that she never found again. In later years she also learned that new species of beetle are constantly being discovered all over the world. Her companion may have been one of those rarities, or he may have been a special one-off. He was unique, her personal Funeral Companion Beetle.
“It’s not safe for you out there,” she whispered to him. “You’ll get crushed by those horrible shoes.”
The beetle waved his antennae in
her direction, and remained still. He was clearly in agreement.
“No one knows we’re here,” she said. She knew he could understand her.
It was not only the people who seemed scary and different. The house was different too: it was full of spite and malevolence. The house and all the furniture in it would shortly belong to her Uncle Carlo. He was not a kind man, her Uncle Carlo. He had hardly ever visited his aged mother, and when he did, he always ended up shouting at her. He would ignore Hyslop, even when she had tried to speak to him in the early days. It was as if she did not exist for him, though she had no idea what she had done to annoy him. Hyslop had always thought of the house as her home, the only home she had ever known, but now that her beloved grandmother was gone, she realised that “home” is not a place: “home” is a person. All the rooms in the house, the furniture and the paintings, the little corners and secret places where she had played, the dusty piano, the air itself, were different now that her grandmother was gone. The house had lost its kindness. Even Hyslop’s favourite chair, with its carved wooden legs and its faded tapestry picture on the seat, no longer seemed to talk to her in a friendly way. It no longer said: “Come and sit down, Hyslop!” It had grown cold, and become a stranger. It was as if the house and all its furniture were hissing at her: “We once belonged to you, but now we are waiting for Uncle Carlo. You are not welcome here any more.”
Occasionally one of the old ladies would mention her name. There would be exclamations of: “Oh, Eesloppa, the poor child!” “How she will miss her grandmother!” “What a tragedy for both of them!” but no one sought her out, and she and the beetle kept a quiet vigil under the table. Together they watched all those pairs of shoes approaching the table and then walking away again, to the sound of glasses clinking and plates clattering. “Oh, it’s so sad, but at least dear Violetta will be with her husband now, and her dear Sandro. He was always her favourite son.” “Yes, it’s a shame he’s gone, and that other one isn’t.” This resulted in more wailings of: “Oh, the poor child!” Then there was a chorus of admiration for the pine nut tart: “Violetta taught her well, didn’t she?” “Oh yes, Rosa can cook, that’s for sure!” “Will she stay on do you think, now that Violetta’s gone?” “Oh, I don’t think she’ll work for Carlo.” They were all talking at once, not listening to each other, and Hyslop felt cross at them for being able to enjoy eating and drinking. She felt so sick inside that she had hardly eaten since her grandmother had died. Rosa had made her huge bowls of her favourite pasta with pesto, but she had only picked at it. For Hyslop the world as she knew it had ended with her grandmother’s death, but for those others, although they shed tears and lamented loudly, it was different. Yes, they were sad, but drinking coffee and eating pine nut tart was still as important as it ever was.
She put a finger out and touched the beetle very gently on his back. She half expected him to run off, but he did not move. He wiggled his antennae in her direction and Hyslop felt soothed.
“Where is the child?” a male voice cut through the old women’s chatter. It was Uncle Carlo. Hyslop shivered.
All the old ladies began talking at once and the din started up again. Each one claimed to have seen her somewhere, either in the kitchen or in the sitting room. Someone said that she had gone upstairs. Several exclaimed again at what a poor child she was, all alone now without her grandmother. Hyslop could see Uncle Carlo’s expensive shiny black shoes: he was tapping his left foot up and down impatiently.
“Well, she must be somewhere,” she heard him say. “Rosa! Rosa! Where is Rosa? Surely she must know where the child is hiding.”
“Rosa is in the kitchen.” “Yes, she’s making more coffee.” “I don’t think the child is with her.”
“Well, she’s in charge of her!” snapped Uncle Carlo. “She had better know where she is. The girl’s mother has come for her.”
This brought shrieks and exclamations from all sides. “Oh Madonna!” cried Signora Crolla above the rest. “La madre!” This was echoed by cries of: “Madre de Dio! La Madre!” It wasn’t the mother of God, however, who had come for her. Even more astonishingly, it seemed that Hyslop’s own mother had come.
Hyslop gasped. Uncle Carlo had definitely said “the girl’s mother.” Rosa had told her when her grandmother died, that her mother would come for her, but Hyslop had not dared believe it. She had grown used to not having a mother or a father. Her grandmother had talked often enough of her younger son, Sandro, who was Hyslop’s father, but never mentioned her mother. Her mother’s name was Vanessa and she was from England: that was all that Hyslop knew of her. She had apparently disappeared when Papa had died, when Hyslop was a baby. “Disappeared” was the word always used. Hyslop had often wondered how someone could just disappear. “Disappeared” was the same as “dead” as far as she was concerned, and she had assumed that her mother was with the angels and the Virgin Mary, the same as her father, and now her grandmother. What an amazing thing to disappear and then to just appear again. How was it possible?
Breathless with excitement, she crawled towards the edge of the table. The beetle made a move at the same time, and scuttled in front of her, as if to head her off.
“It’s all right,” she whispered to him. “My mother has come.”
She peeped out from her hiding place, and saw the most extraordinary pair of shoes she had ever seen. They were bright red with holes for the toes to pop out of, and very high heels. Hyslop had never seen such high heels. The toenails were painted the same colour of red. Surely such shoes and such toenails had never been seen in the house before!
“There she is, la bambina!” cried one of the old ladies. Several others joined in, pointing her out excitedly to Uncle Carlo and the lady with the red shoes. One of them lifted the table cloth up and Hyslop found herself the centre of everyone’s attention.
“Come out of there at once!” said Uncle Carlo crossly. “Your mother has come for you.”
The word “mother”, even said by Uncle Carlo, was so thrilling it made Hyslop shiver deep inside. She looked up at the lady with the red shiny shoes, and opened her mouth wide in amazement. The lady was wearing a red coat with black buttons, and elegant black leather gloves. Her lips were painted bright red too. All the dowdy old women dressed in black only served to make her stand out all the more. Not even in films or magazines had Hyslop ever seen anyone like this, anyone who was so different, so glamorous, so unbelievably beautiful. This amazing creature was her mother!
She stood up and the lady looked down at her. Her eyes did not smile. They were colder than Uncle Carlo’s, and Hyslop suddenly felt afraid. She wanted to go back under the table with her beetle. She wanted to run away.
“Hello, Hyslop,” said the lady in English.
Quote
“It is easy to imagine that an adult butterfly is a purposeless creature that lives out its short life by flitting aimlessly between flowers. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
(from The Butterflies of Britain and Ireland by Jeremy Thomas and Richard Lewington)
Five Years Later…
Chapter One
Hyslop learns that she has a Godmother
It all began and ended with a letter.
The first letter, a flimsy fluttering thing that crossed the continent and heralded the summer in England, the summer that was to change so many lives, consisted of a series of lies…
It began with Hyslop deciding that it was best not to swim when an Uncle is watching. Well, maybe if you had normal Uncles you could, but none of hers had ever been normal. They weren’t even proper Uncles, though she had to call them that. She peered through the leaves at the swimming pool shimmering in the heat. A cooling plunge in the water would have been wonderful but today that was out of the question.
Uncle Massimo was sunbathing on a lounger between the pool and the tennis court, and Hyslop hunkered down inside the bush at the far end of the garden, as far away from him as she could. He was smoking one of his horrible cigar
ettes and he had his very dark glasses on. Hyslop did not like those dark glasses: she could never tell when he was looking at her. The gardener was busy watering hanging baskets with a hose. The trouble was that although it was a huge garden there was nowhere that felt safe. The only good hiding place was here, under the shiny leaved bush at the end of the garden farthest from the house. The bush was uninteresting with no blossoms, just dark green leaves, and the gardeners were not likely to water it or pay it any attention. Hyslop, despite her cupboard experiences, liked being enclosed by the dense branches of the bush, liked being shut off from the world around her with only Nonna for company, and most of all she liked the ants who lived there.
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