“You know what happened then, Eezlop?” She knew only too well, but waited for him to tell her. He did not seem to be enjoying the story as much as he usually did. “Well, this little girl was such a nuisance that they all found they were much happier without her. Specially her poor mother!” This was said with particular triumph but still she did not react. “They forgot all about her. That’s what happened!” He hissed this right in her face. “It was six months before someone had to go into the cupboard, and guess what they found?”
This was Oncle Xavier’s favourite part and she was spoiling it for him by neither screaming nor struggling. She stared right back at him and found that for once she was unafraid. She felt proud of her dream character.
“They found her skeleton, her staring eyesockets. She had tried to scratch the door down. It was all covered in scratch marks and blood, and her hands were scratched to bleeding stumps. And now, you stupid little girl, you are going in beside her.” Dream-Hyslop did not react in the slightest. Oncle Xavier was growing desperate to make her afraid. He shook her and shouted right in her face: “She had been eaten by insects!”
It was when he said this that Hyslop changed the order of things completely and she burst out laughing.
Oncle Xavier raised his hand to strike her. “This time I am going to shut you in forever!” He shouted and cursed as she dodged his blow, and he reached for the cupboard door.
“It’s only a dream and it doesn’t scare me any more.” Dream-Hyslop pushed him away, realising that she could make herself super-strong if she wanted to. It was her dream.
She was in control.
“I could lock you in the cupboard if I wanted to,” she said grabbing him by the hair so that he yelped in pain. He tried to kick her but failed, and she pulled his hair even harder.
“I can do what I like with you,” she said, “It’s my dream! But the cupboard is much too good for you! I have a better idea. A much better idea ! Listen! Who do you think is at the door?”
As she said this, there was a thunderous knocking at the hall door far below, a knocking so loud it echoed right up the stairs and into every corner of the chateau. The portraits of the hideous ancestors trembled in their frames.
“Open this door!” called a voice from outside. Oncle Xavier went pale with fear.
She wondered whether to give Papa a gun in his hand, a machine gun to destroy all her enemies, but decided that a sword was better. She smiled at the trembling Uncle.
“I have come for my daughter!” What a deep, thrilling voice her dream-father had! The door was knocked down completely, and he rode into the great hall of the chateau on a dappled grey horse. Yes, dappled grey was even better than black. “I have been searching for her all over Europe and now I have found her!” At this point Hyslop decided that her mother would be screaming.
Papa dismounted and grabbed her mother by the hair, dragging her upstairs with him. Oncle Xavier struggled to escape from Hyslop’s grasp, but she held him tightly.
“Papa is going to chop your head off!”
As she said this, real Hyslop woke up, sooner than she would have liked. It was the first time she had ever felt sad that the dream was over. She was disappointed not to have witnessed Oncle Xavier’s execution.
She was even more disappointed not to have seen her Papa’s face.
The ending was good, however. She had taken control of her dream, and it was good to wake up in England. England was a land without Uncles or ghostly girls or horrible cupboards. England was a land of butterflies.
Chapter Thirteen
Zak Makes a Mistake
Zak knew as soon as he clambered down the steps from the high stone wall onto the road, without checking, that he had made a mistake.
Normally he was vigilant. Normally he saw people long before they saw him. He had to watch out for nasty kids at his school, for teachers, for his grandmother or his father in a bad mood (which was most of the time), or for Mr or Mrs Braithwaite, or for the old man, who was liable to shout and swear at him. Now, however, he had concentrated all his watchfulness into looking out for the girl Hyslop. Nothing was quite the same as it had been before.
Today he was sure he had glimpsed her entering the wildflower meadows, but somehow she had disappeared again. The grasses and flowers were waist high and dancing with bees and butterflies. He wandered around but could not see her anywhere. Perhaps she was lying down somewhere, with her precious book in front of her, watching a butterfly that interested her. His eyes had scanned the meadow in every direction, but there was no sign of movement, no sign of anything that would betray her whereabouts. The meadow was still and the summer air was heavy. Irritating little midges swarmed around him in clouds, and he found he had to continually scratch his face and arms, and swat them away. He kept an eye out for horse flies too, as they had a particularly nasty bite, and the itch lasted for a long time. It was best to keep moving in the meadow.
The thought then occurred to him that she may have gone for a walk along the road. Even she, who loved insects so much, might have got a little tired of swatting flies away. She may have headed into the village to buy an ice lolly at the shop. He knew that if he had any money he would make a bee-line for some delicious cold ice cream.
He found himself at the edge of the Hemmingswood land, at the point in the high wall where there were stone steps up and down each side. Without thinking or checking, he climbed up the steps and jumped down onto the other side. It was only once he had landed down on the grass verge beside the road that he was aware of voices.
“Way-hay! It’s Judd!”
Tristan Pringle and his gang of cronies were only yards away, gathered round something by the other side of the road.
“Judders!”
Zak turned at once to climb back up the stone steps, but the boys were too fast for him. He was only half way up when he felt himself grabbed from below.
“What’s your hurry, Judd?”
Zak said nothing, and made himself go limp so that they would loosen their hold on him. He was waiting for his moment to make a run for it.
“You’re not saying much, are you?” One of the boys poked him in the ribs. “Speak when you’re spoken to!”
“What shall we do with him, Triss?”
As he felt a slight loosening of the grip around his arms, Zak wriggled and tried to escape. It was no use. They caught him at once. There was an air of excitement about them all. They were a gang, a pack of animals, surrounding their prey.
“Trying to run away, Judders, are you? That’s not very polite, is it?”
“Judd doesn’t know anything about manners, do you, Judd?”
“Hey, he might be interested in our little find, guys!”
Zak was aware of a foul stench coming from something nearby, and he struggled as hard as he could to escape, sensing something horrible was about to happen to him.
“Something wrong with our company is there?” This was Tristan Pringle now, who thrust his face right into Zak’s. “God, your breath stinks, Judd.”
Zak longed to tell Tristan Pringle that his own breath was pretty smelly too, but he said nothing.
As the boys gathered round to hold him fast, Zak became aware of the rotting carcass of a dead badger on the other side of the road. He wriggled as best he could to get away, as he recalled how once before they had caught him and rubbed his face into cow dung in the fields. He had had to wash himself in the stream before he went home. The memory of the humiliation – and of the smell – remained vividly in his mind, and he felt a surge of panic. He finally succeeded in freeing one of his hands, and he lashed out at one of the boys nearest him, catching him on the side of his head.
There was a string of curses and he was held fast again. The boy who had been hit took aim and punched Zak full in his face.
“That’s it, Grant. Give him another, the little swine!”
There were more curses, more punches and several hard kicks which Zak tried to dodge as best he could.
It was not easy when five boys, all bigger than him, were holding his arms.
“OK, that’s enough,” Tristan Pringle asserted his authority and smiled at Zak. It was not a kindly smile.
“Come on, guys, let’s not be too rough on Judd. Let’s give him a little treat, a special treat he won’t forget.”
The others ceased their violence and looked to Tristan, as if awaiting orders.
“His breath stinks. I don’t think he ever brushes your teeth, do you, Juddy boy?”
Zak said nothing, but felt sick with foreboding. His knees were buckling under him.
“You seem to have a hygiene problem, Judd, as well as a problem with manners. I reckon you like things that stink! I think we should let you get a taste of the dead badger there!”
There were enthusiastic whoops from the other boys, and Zak felt himself being dragged towards the stinking carcass. He was close enough now to see that it was moving with maggots and flies, and half eaten away. The stench was enough to make him want to vomit, and he struggled as he had never struggled before.
It was no use. He felt his head being forced down towards it and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes tightly and whimpered in fear.
“It’s all right, Mrs Braithwaite, I’ve found him!” A high clear voice pierced his consciousness, and his captors jumped to the side and released him.
Everyone looked up to the top of the high wall, at the head and shoulders of the girl Hyslop. She must have been standing on the stone steps on the other side.
“Zak!” She said crossly. “What are you doing playing in the road when you know Mrs Braithwaite here has been looking for you this last half hour? You are behind with your weeding and you’re in big trouble!”
Never had Zak rejoiced so much to be in big trouble. He staggered away from the boys and the dead badger, his legs trembling.
“Are any of you boys here to help with the weeding? If not, please leave Zak alone!” Hyslop looked at them all in turn, her dark eyes flashing. The boys shuffled around, looking uneasy. “There are quite a few lads here, Mrs Braithwaite. I am sure they would all love to help with the gardening.”
“No way!” said Tristan Pringle at last. “I’m off. Come on, guys!”
They all walked off in the direction of the village. One of them stopped to pick up a stone and throw it at the dead badger, and there were a couple of half-hearted curses. Zak crawled towards the stone steps and climbed up to the top of the wall, and down the other side, before he collapsed onto the long grass. His whole body was shaking so badly he couldn’t speak. He still felt as if he might be sick.
“You’re going to have a black eye tomorrow,” said Hyslop, surveying his face. “And probably a few bruises on your legs.”
Zak was unable to say anything.
“Otherwise you should be fine.”
She picked up her butterfly book, and dusted it down. After another close scrutiny of his face she set off across the meadow.
“By the way,” she turned round once. “I made that up about Mrs Braithwaite wanting you for weeding. As you can see, she isn’t here at all. But if I were you I’d keep out of the way of those village boys. They’re not exactly friendly, are they?”
Zak sat in the long grass, not even bothering to swat at the flies. He was still trembling, and his head was buzzing with so many different thoughts and emotions that he felt he might explode.
Chapter Fourteen
Butterflies are not Dunderheids!
Hyslop found the old man leaning over his walking stick staring down at something in the flower border. She walked up behind him, and found that, as she had suspected, it was a butterfly he was looking at.
“A Painted Lady,” she said.
“Mmmm,” he said, not turning round. “It’s a good year for them.”
“Amazing how fresh they are,” said Hyslop,” considering their long flight over the sea from North Africa.”
Sir Northcote whirled round to face her, his eyes narrowed. He could look quite wild and angry at times, but Hyslop was not afraid of him. She found him the least scary adult she had ever met.
“Been reading the book I gave you?” he said, taking a hand off his stick to slap himself on the head.
“Oh yes,” said Hyslop. “I know the Latin name too : Cynthia cardui.”
The old man gave a peculiar snort.
“Well, actually, it’s Vanessa Cynthia cardui,”
His head beating became more intense.
“Come this way,” he commanded and set off towards the end of the garden. He stopped abruptly after a few steps and pointed with his stick at a butterfly spreading out its wings on the path in front of them. “There. What’s that one then, Missy?”
“It’s a Small Tortoiseshell,” said Hyslop. “Aglais urticae.”
“Mmmm,” he said, leaning over his stick to survey the insect in front of him. “Been learning their Latin names, have we?” He seemed pleased, though, and Hyslop thought he was trying to hide a smile. “When I was young we had Large Tortoiseshells round here too, not just Small.” His half smile turned to a scowl and his voice rose. “You don’t see them now. Been gone for years. They’ve gone extinct in Britain. Extinct! D’you know what that means, hmm?”
He pointed an admonishing finger at her, and seemed to be trying not to say his usual word. She said nothing. He surely couldn’t be blaming her for the sad demise of the Large Tortoiseshell. All of a sudden, he shouted at the top of his voice: “They’ll ALL be extinct shortly, but NO ONE cares!”
“I care,” said Hyslop calmly.
“Yes,” he said, pointing at her with his stick. “It’s all very well learning the Latin names, and reading the book. Oh, yes.” Again, he seemed to be about to say his word but stopped himself. Sometimes he seemed able to do that. “But there’s work to be done, Miss Smarty Boots. Work to be done to save what’s left.”
Hyslop took a step back as his walking stick was now waving perilously near her face.
“What work?” she asked.
“Habitat!” he shouted, putting his stick back down and leaning over it again. “It’s all about habitat.”
Hyslop waited while he made some more peculiar snorting and clicking noises.
“If they keep destroying habitat there’ll be no butterflies left,” he said, his voice softening slightly, then rising to a crescendo again: “We don’t need sentimental tree-huggers! We need practical work. Funding. Butterfly conservation! We need people to care about butterflies, d’you hear!”
It would have been difficult not to hear as he was shouting so loudly.
“This garden is a good habitat,” she said, partly hoping to pacify his anger and partly because she wanted to know more. “I mean the estate in general, with all the nettles and wild flowers and stuff. It’s not like other people’s gardens, is it?”
“Well, it’s the work of years of research, and it’s a project that is ongoing.” He nodded. “It didn’t happen overnight, you know. My grandfather and I created an environment that would contain plants for the caterpillars, and a variety of wildflowers where adults can nectar. Different butterflies have different preferences, as you will know if you have been reading your book.”
The stick came up again and Hyslop eyed it warily.
“But it’s not enough,” he said. “Never enough. The butterflies need corridors of habitat. We need to look at what they like to call nowadays the big picture. The whole of the UK.” He gave a snort. “It’s a hard enough struggle here in the small picture. I have opposition in my own garden, you know!”
He muttered swear words under his breath and Hyslop turned her attention to the Small Tortoiseshell. She knelt down to examine it more closely.
“Yes,” he continued, flecks of spittle flying in her direction. “Oh, yes. It’s not easy conserving habitat here with my wretched son-in-law around! He wants to turn this whole estate into silly manicured lawns and a pheasant shoot for his overpaid city lawyer friends. Can you imag
ine?”
Hyslop frowned as she forced herself to imagine.
“Well, as long as there’s breath in my body, I’m not having it,” he said. He became agitated again. “I’m not having it.”
“Can’t you stop him?” asked Hyslop, standing up. “Surely it’s your land, not his.”
“My great-grandfather bought this estate,” he said. “Back in Victoria’s reign.”
Hyslop recalled seeing a picture of Queen Victoria on the classroom wall at the local school. Rather a stern looking old lady, dressed in mourning black.
“Trouble is,” he gave a wheezing sort of noise that sounded like a strange laugh. “Trouble is, there’s no money in butterflies. Never has been. Son-in-law’s money has bailed us out.” It was definitely sounding like a laugh now, a rather bitter laugh. “I’d have had to sell long ago, if he hadn’t stepped in with his big city money. He owns it all, lock, stock and barrel. What he wants now is to shove me in a nursing home and invite all his fancy lawyer friends here to shoot birds.”
Hyslop looked at him in alarm. She did not like the sound of this Hugo person. He sounded violent and dangerous.
“He can’t do that against your will,” she said.
“Well, if they think I’ve lost my marbles, they can,” he said, slapping his head. “And, apart from Penny and Sandy, they do all think I’ve lost my marbles”
He gave another wheezy laugh: “I think even Penny and Sandy have their doubts sometimes!”
Hyslop decided that losing your marbles was another way of saying going mad. She could not help thinking that the old man did not help his case by his odd mannerisms and outbursts of swearing and shouting. The continual slapping of his head couldn’t help either. Most people would think he was slightly mad.
“Do people want a world without butterflies?” he cried, and the stick came up again. “Do they? Hmmmm?” He said a swear word loudly. “Butterflies going extinct, hmmm? Butterflies which are… ” He seemed to be making a huge effort not to say another swear word and his funny word came tumbling out in all its Scottishness: “Dunderheids!”
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 9