The Summer of the Mourning Cloak

by Kathleen Nelson

  They reached the edge of the woods and Zak watched her as she approached a bramble patch and stood staring intently. She seemed to have found something there that held her attention.

  She had a core of stillness about her that Zak recognised. She was in no hurry to get somewhere or do something; she was just standing there staring. It reminded him of how he could sit and stare at the vegetable garden for long periods of time, just looking and looking. It was a gift that few people seemed to have. Everyone was so busy rushing that they didn’t see the plants and the insects. After a while she opened her book and began flicking through the pages of it. It seemed as if she was comparing a picture in it with what she was looking at. Maybe it was a book of butterfly pictures. Zak didn’t know the names of any of the butterflies but he was familiar with those brown ones with creamy spots that she was watching. They always flew above the bramble patch, though he didn’t find them particularly interesting. There were brighter coloured ones in the nettle patch and in the main garden, and lots of different black and white chequered ones in the fields. He wondered if she knew about those.

  Slowly she put her hand out and pointed an index finger. What could she be pointing at? Zak peered round the tree and tried to see what she was doing. After some time a brown butterfly swooped and hovered around her finger and landed on it briefly before dancing off again. He had never seen the old man doing that.

  “Zak Judd.”

  The two syllables of his name floated towards him on the breeze.

  Zak felt startled. He wondered where the voice had come from. The girl Hyslop had not turned around. Zak felt the back of his neck tingling. It was as if he had been addressed by a supernatural being. He pressed himself flat against the trunk of the beech tree, his heart beating in his chest so that he could feel it.

  A long time passed and he began to think he must have imagined the voice.

  “I know you’re there, Zak Judd,” said the voice again. It was, unmistakeably now, the voice of the girl Hyslop.

  Zak peered round the tree and found that she had turned to face him. She stared at him with her dark, dark eyes and he felt scared, more frightened than he was of his grandmother in a temper, though Hyslop was smaller than him and not particularly violent looking. He wanted to run away yet at the same time, longed to stay where he was, just looking at her. Spooky, that’s what she was, spooky rather than scary.

  “Why are you watching me?” she asked at last.

  Zak did not know what to say. It was true that he had been watching her, but he did not know how to answer her question.

  “You sit watching me at school too, don’t you?”

  Zak mumbled something inarticulate.

  “You’re the boy who likes vegetables.” If any of the other girls in the class had said this, it would have been said with either a giggle or a sneer but the girl Hyslop did not seem to be passing judgment on him. Then again, she was in no position to sneer at him, he decided, when she stood watching insects herself.

  She stared at him for a moment longer then turned away. Zak felt a pang of loss when those intense dark eyes were no longer directed at him. He knew he had to follow her.

  She walked slowly through the woods and did not look back at him. He knew that she knew he was following, however, so he did not try to slink behind trees or walk quietly over twigs this time.

  Hyslop came to a stop near a nettle patch, where there were a couple of orange butterflies with raggedy wings.

  He stopped some way behind her, and for the first time in his life felt an urge to make conversation. What an odd feeling it was. He wanted, more than anything, to make her look at him again.

  “I know where there are more butterflies,” he said at last. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

  She did not say anything, and continued looking at the butterflies in front of her.

  “I know where the big colourful ones are,” he said, made brave by her silence. “I know where the old man goes to look at them.”

  This last statement made her turn round and look at him again. He felt the same trembling inside him, and he wanted, more than anything, for her to keep looking at him.

  “Which big colourful ones do you mean?” she asked.

  “I… I don’t know their names,” said Zak. “But I know where there are lots of them.”

  She had opened her book again, and was consulting it about the orange butterflies in front of her.

  “These are definitely Commas,” she said. Zak thought that was a funny name for a butterfly. It was a teacher’s sort of word, not a butterfly sort of word. “Come and show me the pictures of the ones you are talking about.”

  She held the book out to him and he stepped forward towards her awkwardly. She was looking at him again with those eyes. He held out his hand, realising as he did so how dirty his nails were, and took the book.

  He hoped it wouldn’t be full of big words and small writing as his reading skills were not up to much and although he had grown used to being laughed at by the girls in his class he did not want this Hyslop girl to laugh at him. To his relief the book was full of pictures of butterflies. As he flicked through it, he realised that he had seen many of them before in the woods and in the garden. After a while he found the ones he wanted.

  “I’ve seen them,” he pointed at a butterfly in the book, and the girl Hyslop came over to stand beside him. He turned over a page: “And I’ve seen lots of them too, them with the eyes on their wings. I can show you where they are.”

  “Red Admirals and Peacocks,” she said.

  “And… and there’s lots of them about too,” he said, turning to the next page.

  “Painted Ladies,” said Hyslop. “Yes, I’ve seen quite a few of those this morning. It’s a good year for them. Take me to the place where Sir Northcote goes then. Show me.”

  Zak bounded ahead, eager as a gun dog, to show her the way. They stayed on the main path for a bit, then he took her through some rough briars, and held low branches out of the way for her. They came to the patches of marjoram and nettles and other plants that Zak didn’t know the names of. He felt his heart beating inside him again, and he hoped that some of the brightly coloured butterflies would be here.

  “Wait!” cried the Hyslop girl behind him.

  He turned round and found her staring at a butterfly on a tall nettle that was sitting with its wings closed.

  “That’s a Red Admiral,” she said. He recognised the butterfly and its name. It sounded a better name than a Comma, that was for sure.

  For a long time they stood together and looked. Hyslop looked at the butterfly and Zak looked at Hyslop. He’d never really wanted to look at a person before. Usually he avoided looking at people. She was somehow very lookable-at.

  The butterfly opened its wings and flew up in the air. It was red and black, and Hyslop was obviously delighted with it.

  “Where are the others?” she said.

  Once again Zak took the lead and they came to the edge of the wood, beside a barbed wire fence where nettles and clumps of wild plants grew in profusion. This was the place the old man spent most of his time peering at butterflies, sometimes through his funny binoculars.

  “This is a good place!” said Hyslop, her eyes shining with excitement.

  The air was full of butterflies, and as far as Zak could see there were many different sorts. He knew he would never remember their names, but the girl seemed happy. Her pleasure in the butterflies made him feel funny: he had heard of the phrase “butterflies in my tummy” but had never understood it before. How strange that real butterflies could make him feel their fluttering wings deep within him. Of course he knew that it wasn’t the butterflies which were making him feel like this : it was the girl Hyslop. It was good and scary and spooky all at the same time.

  “Painted Ladies and Peacocks!” she cried.

  She turned round to look at him again and this time she smiled. She smiled right at him.

  Zak shuddered.


  Once, when he had spent a morning weeding the lettuces without being too distracted and had got most of the chickweed out, and had even gathered fourteen small slugs which he had picked off the leaves of the lettuces, Mrs Braithwaite had come along and smiled down at him, and said: “Well done, Zak! What would we do without you!” It had been a great moment in his life. His father had been nearby, and had witnessed the scene. It was a memory that consoled Zak through many an unhappy evening. He could conjure it up and see Mrs Braithwaite’s smile and his father’s quiet pride, and it consoled him for so much that was bad in his life.

  Good as it was, it was nothing compared to this moment.

  It was nothing compared to the girl Hyslop’s smile.

  He felt his heart beating violently, as if it were full of a thousand fluttering butterflies, and he knew that Mrs Braithwaite and her vegetables were no longer the most important things in his life. When the girl Hyslop smiled right at him with those dark eyes he knew he had found what he needed to do in his life: he needed to find butterflies for her and make her smile.

  Quote

  “The Painted Lady is one of the world’s most successful butterflies… ”

  (from The Butterflies of Britain and Ireland, by Jeremy Thomas and Richard Lewington)

  Chapter Ten

  A Drinks Party

  Hyslop had spent another wonderful day identifying butterflies. The book the old man had given her, with pictures of all the British butterflies, was now her most treasured possession. The old man’s name was Sir Northcote Hemmings and he was Penny’s father and Sandy’s Godfather, which made him – in an indirect sort of way – a relation of hers, since she was Sandy’s Goddaughter. Did that make him a God-grand-father? Was there such a thing?

  Now, as she opened the cottage door her happy feelings shrivelled. She had been so free outdoors, but now she remembered that she was supposed to accompany her mother to a drinks party at the big house.

  Vanessa’s bedroom door was open and Hyslop could see her sitting at a little dressing table putting on her make-up. Make-up always took a long time. Her mother was studying her face in the mirror with no expression in her eyes, examining first one side, then the other. She was like an artist painting a beautiful mask, adding a daub here and there, smoothing, blending, colouring, with an air of detachment. Her features only became animated in the company of others. It was as if, on her own, her face was not in use; it was waiting for someone to switch it on. Hyslop sometimes felt she was the only one who saw her mother’s real face. Vanessa did not flatter and flirt, or throw her head back in laughter with her daughter. She only seemed to really “see” Hyslop when something irritated her or if she wanted something done.

  Her mother’s eyes met hers in the mirror.

  “Why are you standing around gawping?” she asked, lifting her head up to blend her face make-up into her neck. “I told you to be back an hour ago. Are you ready to go out? Your hair looks revolting.”

  “Yes,” said Hyslop. She smoothed down her hair to make it look tidier.

  “Take that T-shirt off and put a different colour on,” said Vanessa.

  “Why?” asked Hyslop.

  “Don’t answer me back,” said Vanessa. “I said to take it off and put a different one on. Hurry up. I don’t want you wearing the same colour as me, so any colour but that particular shade of blue will do.”

  Hyslop turned and went upstairs to her little room. She tore off her T-shirt and threw it on the bed. Roughly, she opened the drawer where she kept her clean tops, and took out the first one she came to. It was a dull beige colour. Surely that wouldn’t be offensive to her mother. Hyslop preferred her blue one, but there was no point in arguing. She muttered a swear word defiantly in Italian, and allowed herself a hug from Nonna. It didn’t feel quite the same as in Italy. It was hard to conjure Nonna up in England: she belonged in Italy somehow. To Hyslop’s dismay, she was finding it harder and harder to remember Nonna’s face at all. She would be able to recall the brown eyes, those dark Italian eyes, but then the shape of the nose would go, or she would finally be able to recreate her grandmother’s smile in her head, then it would shimmer and vanish like a summer heat haze. The memories kept shifting and changing, and sometimes she would see the cold dead face in the coffin, and she would push that image away. She knew it would have been easier if she had a photograph of Nonna. Her mother did not approve of photographs of the past. In fact, she did not seem to approve of the past at all. If she referred to past events, dates would be changed randomly, and the events themselves were not solid but fluid and subject to constant alteration. And so Hyslop had no pictures of either Papa or Nonna, or even her English grandparents. So many dead people in her life, precious dead people, and she was not allowed to mention them. Hyslop kicked the wall in anger.

  A honeybee had got into her room and was buzzing furiously against the window. Hyslop opened the window wider and ushered it out into the fresh air. She hoped it wasn’t too exhausted from beating against the glass window, and that it would find its nest before it got dark. Bees weren’t like wasps: if they had to sting, they died afterwards.

  “Right, I’m ready to go!” called her mother from the foot of the stairs. “Hurry up, Hyslop.”

  Vanessa barely glanced at Hyslop as she emerged. Obviously the colour was not displeasing to her or she would have said something.

  They were invited to the big house to have drinks, and to meet Hugo and Malcolm. Hyslop loathed such occasions. It always seemed so pointless meeting to have a drink when everyone surely had plenty to drink at home. She had no desire to meet either Hugo or Malcolm or to witness their inevitable fawning over her mother. There would no doubt be the endless chatter of rich people talking about their possessions and their holidays and the silly forced laughter that got louder the more wine they drank. Hyslop guessed that there would be rich people in such a large house. Her mother needed to be with rich people, and so far it didn’t seem as if Sandy was rich. It had to be Penny and Hugo. They had to be her mother’s target. She dreaded her mother finding another Uncle to latch onto. That’s when things always changed for the worse.

  She had met Penny in the pottery, and she had seemed friendly enough, even if she was both posh and rich. She wasn’t so keen on the Ilga woman. Hyslop wondered if old Sir Northcote would be there. She brightened a little at the thought. Maybe she could tell him about the butterflies she had identified from his book.

  Vanessa was wearing very high heels so their progress was slow. The lights of the big house twinkled, and just as they were approaching the front door along a crunchy gravel drive Sandy arrived breathlessly behind them.

  “Blimey, Vanessa!” she exclaimed. “We don’t do dressing up for drinks round these parts. Oh dear, you will put us all to shame.”

  “Sandy!” Kisses were exchanged. “You look wonderful yourself. Do forgive me, darling, if I’ve got the dress code wrong. It’s so long since I’ve lived in England.”

  “Oh, you’ll bring a touch of glamour to the evening,” smiled Sandy, her laughing eyes including Hyslop. “I’m still in my jeans. And I’ve probably still got clay-dust all over me. Has young Hyslop been telling you about our pottery session?”

  “What… oh… um, yes, it sounded great fun!” said Vanessa, and at that moment Penny opened the door.

  There were more pointless exclamations about what people were or were not wearing, more air kisses and they were all ushered inside.

  Hyslop gazed around her. This house was big and old and solid. It seemed more substantial than the luxurious Tuscan villa which had been their last home. There was a great deal of dark wood everywhere, and pictures in gold frames with dark landscapes. There was only one other couple there.

  “These are our dear neighbours, Ilga and Malcolm,” said Penny. “I know you’ve met Ilga. And this is Malcolm, who made that wonderful ebony table to your right. He’s a bit of a genius with wood. Unfortunately, Hugo is working late. He did say he would try and be back early,
but he’s not always very reliable in that department.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he has some frightfully important job in the city!” said Vanessa. “Now, Ilga, we met briefly in Sandy’s pottery. I have heard that you are from the Black Forest area. One of my favourite parts of Germany!”

  “Do you know the area?” beamed Ilga. She was clearly destined to become one of her mother’s hangers-on.

  Vanessa replied in German and she and Ilga laughed loudly at something she said. No one else could understand them, and Sandy and Penny chatted to each other in low voices over their drinks. Hyslop felt a surge of panic as she saw a tall reddish haired man approaching her.

  “I’m Malcolm,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  He was holding out his hand and after a brief hesitation, Hyslop darted her hand into his, then pulled it away quickly. She stepped back and looked away, to show him that she did not want to talk to him.

  “It’s Hyslop, isn’t it? I hear you’ve been doing some pottery with Sandy.” He offered her some salted peanuts from a bowl he was holding. “What were you making?”

  Hyslop looked at Malcolm suspiciously. Why would he take such an interest in her?

  “I’m making a coil pot,” she said in a tone which was as surly as she dared to be in company. She wanted him to go away.

  “Useful things, coil pots,” said Malcolm. “I could do with one to put my pencils in.”

  Hyslop scowled, but could not resist taking another peanut when offered the bowl again. She was hungry as usual.

  “Have you glazed it yet?” he asked. He wasn’t taking the hint that she did not want to talk, and her scowl deepened. If he thought he could become a potential Uncle by chatting to her like this, he was wrong.