Miss McKenzie and Miss Hilda McKenzie were two beautiful tabby cats. They were called after two of Malcolm’s aged aunts from his Scottish childhood. Malcolm said they were Missy and Hilds for short, but Hyslop rather liked the long versions of their names. A cat’s contented purring was the most relaxing noise in the world she decided, and these two were purring so loudly it was as if they had little engines inside them. Miss McKenzie stretched out her claws to show them off, extending and retracting them repeatedly. Miss Hilda pushed her way past her sister onto Hyslop’s lap and settled down without a break in her purr. They both had large green eyes and a general air of knowing how wonderful they were in every way. Hyslop knew her mother would never consent to a dog as a pet as they were apparently too dirty and too demanding, but she wondered if she could perhaps sneak a cat into her room. A cat could purr loudly through the night and keep all the bad dreams away.
She switched the computer on and began looking up butterflies on the internet. What a joyous activity. She felt like purring herself as she looked up image after image of butterflies from all around the world. There were so many species that a lifetime would not be enough to see them all. The cats tried to get between her and the screen, jealous of her paying so much attention to the flickering pictures.
The noise and laughter from the dinner party across the hall was a familiar sound to Hyslop. Adults took such a long time to eat a meal. Surely they were all full by now if they had eaten as much as Hyslop had eaten. They just sat round the table for hours and talked about boring things. Usually they drank far too much alcohol and got even sillier as the night went on. Voices rose and fell, and the loudest sound was always Hugo’s deep guffawing laugh. Hyslop decided that he was a show-off. She could also hear Ilga’s loud, rather strident voice. It sounded as if she and Hugo were vying with each other to make Vanessa laugh. Everyone always wanted to amuse her mother in order to be rewarded with her wonderful smile and her tinkling laugh. There were no smiles and laughs when mother and daughter were on their own, but in public the smile was used to great effect, enslaving and ensnaring everyone around. There was not much to be heard from Penny, Malcolm or Sandy, just a low background murmur. Hyslop sat and thought about Sandy. She did not say unkind things and she was always warm and welcoming. They had had three sessions in the pottery together now, and Sandy had told her to pop in any time and glaze her little coil pot. Malcolm was also being kind to her, but although there didn’t seem to be any sinister motive for his behaviour, you could never be sure with men: just when you thought they were safe, they turned into Uncles. Then there was Sir Northcote who had promised to show her his butterfly collection. He was definitely not going to become an admirer of her mother. She felt a buzzing of excitement at the thought of drawers and drawers full of Victorian butterflies. Sir Northcote, she decided, was a sort of God-Grandfather and the thought made her smile to herself. In theory her mother should not object to her visiting the old man, but it was impossible to tell in advance what would make Vanessa angry and what would please her. Hyslop had learned never to show too much enthusiasm for anything or anyone in her mother’s presence, as no sooner did she become attached to people than she would be taken away from them.
Hyslop narrowed her search on the internet to British butterflies. There was so much information about each one. It was incredible. None of the photographs matched the beauty of the illustrations in her wonderful book, but she was able to find up-to-the-minute information about sightings of particular butterflies. She wondered if Sir Northcote ever used the internet, and idly she typed in his name. To her astonishment there was a website all about the Hemmings collection of butterflies. It was described as an “important national treasure.” As Hyslop read about the unique collection of butterfly aberrations that were the special feature of the Hemmings Collection, Miss Hilda placed herself between Hyslop and the screen in a very determined manner.
“You want more attention, do you!” Hyslop stroked the cat’s arched back and tickled her behind her ears. The purring grew louder.
Suddenly a scream rang out and Hyslop jumped.
It was unmistakeably her mother who had screamed. Hyslop stood up at once and ran for the door. Miss Hilda gave an indignant meow, as she was pushed aside. Hyslop was fearful. This was not a normal dinner party sort of noise. Something had happened. She rushed across the corridor and peeped in at the dinner party through the slightly open door.
“I tell you, it was a face!” Vanessa was saying, her voice full of genuine alarm rather than fake-dinner-party-emotion. “An old man’s face pressed to the window pane, watching us! He was staring right at me!”
“There’s no one there now,” said Ilga, getting up and going over to the window.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid it was probably my father,” said Penny.
“I think I told you about Penny’s father, Sir Northcote.” This was Sandy now. “My Godfather. He is an old sweetie, but sometimes he gives us all a bit of a shock by appearing at windows. He’s what you might call an eccentric.”
“Well, he did give me a fright I must say,” Vanessa’s voice returned to dinner-party-amusement. She was once more in control. “Sorry if I startled you all. What’s he doing out and about anyway? Isn’t it past his bed-time?”
“Oh, he’s often out much later than this,” said Hugo. “Silly old codger goes mothing. Sets moth-traps and goes around checking them at odd hours of night and morning.”
“Mothing!” exclaimed Vanessa. “What on earth does he want moths for?”
“A very good question, Vanessa!” laughed Hugo. “I often ask myself that.”
“Not creatures I’d want around, thank you. I can do without holes in my clothes!”
“Daddy’s a bit of a naturalist, a lepidopterist in fact,” said Penny. “Butterflies are his speciality. His grandfather, my great-grandfather, was a renowned Victorian collector and Daddy has a whole room full of drawers of butterflies and moths from all over the world. It’s rather famous in fact.”
“Hasn’t Hyslop mentioned him?” asked Sandy. “She bumped into him in the garden and he’s got her interested in butterflies. He gave her a book I think.”
“How sweet,” said Vanessa. “Yes, Hyslop was showing me that book earlier. It looked really interesting.”
Hyslop repressed a snort.
“I believe he’s going to show her his collection of butterflies,” said Penny. “It’s a great honour, I can tell you.”
“Oh, please,” Hugo put his hands up. “No more talk about butterflies. I had to feign an interest in the wretched things when I first came to the house as Penny’s boyfriend. I even sat through drawer after drawer of those dusty old Victorian specimens. And as for moths, don’t get me started!”
“Well, it’s good that the old boy still feels passionate about it all,” said Malcolm. “More wine, anyone?”
“Passionate? What rubbish!” said Hugo loudly. “The old duffer’s going senile. Like my poor Mamma. I suppose it comes to us all in the end.”
“Daddy’s not senile,” said Penny. “Just a bit eccentric I suppose. His mind’s still razor sharp and you know it, Hugo.”
“Eccentric! Just a bit eccentric you suppose!” Hugo mocked Penny in a tone that made Hyslop want to go in and slap him. “A bit more than eccentric I think. If you haven’t met him, Vanessa, you ought to be prepared.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
“He insists on keeping the estate here full of nettles and thistles and ghastly weeds. I give the gardener instructions to tidy up, and the old boy makes a scene and gives the man different orders behind my back. He won’t allow us to keep the place decent. Madness I tell you. Then he wanders around looking for butterflies by day and moths by night, muttering nonsense to himself, smacking himself on the head and shouting curses in a silly Scottish accent at anyone and everyone he happens to meet. Now that’s more than eccentric by my reckoning!”
“Nothing silly about a Scottish accent.” This was said quietly by M
alcolm to no one in particular.
“Well, he certainly does sound odd,” said Vanessa. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Oh come on, Hugo. You are being harsh. Now, please don’t worry about Uncle Northy spending time with Hyslop, Nessie,” said Sandy. “He is quite harmless. He doesn’t actually swear at people. He just mutters to himself and shouts randomly. It’s sort of an involuntary reflex. It’s true he sometimes shouts out in a Scottish accent as a sort of tribute to his beloved old Scottish nanny. She helped bring him up. But he really is an expert on butterflies – quite eminent in his field – and will be delighted if he has found someone to share his interest. I’m afraid Penny and I were a bit of a disappointment there, weren’t we, Pen?”
Hyslop was grateful for Sandy’s defence of the old man. Her cheeks were flushed with anger at Hugo’s insulting words.
“Is Hyslop all right next door, Malcolm?” asked Penny suddenly. Hyslop tensed at this mention of her name, her body poised for flight, but she relaxed when she heard Ilga’s voice calling from the kitchen to say that coffee was ready.
“Now, Vanessa, would you like me to make decaffeinated? This lot will drink strong coffee until the sheep come home!” Ilga had such a loud voice. “But I was just checking that you were OK with real coffee. It won’t keep you awake, will it?”
“Oh, real coffee for me, please, Ilga!” laughed Vanessa. “Count me in until those sheep come home too!”
“Ilga is well aware that the expression is ‘till the cows come home’,” said Sandy. “She enjoys the odd Malapropism to keep us on our toes. Don’t be fooled into thinking she’s made a mistake in her English.”
“Oh, I’d already noted that Ilga speaks English better than most English people,” said Vanessa, smiling at Ilga.
Ilga made a clucking noise of pleasure, and Hyslop could see she was thrilled at this compliment. “I am trying to improve the English language!” she said. “I sometimes like to change expressions round. It’s my German logic.”
“A classic is the bee’s bottom,” said Malcolm.
“The bee’s bottom?” asked Vanessa. “What, instead of the bee’s knees do you mean!”
“Well,” said Ilga, “a bee does not have particularly interesting knees – rather boring, spindly little things, whereas it has a wonderful black and yellow bottom! So if something is particularly exciting I would call it the bee’s bottom. I feel I sometimes have to improve English idiom.”
“I for one approve!” cried Vanessa. “From now on I shall never refer to a bee’s knees again. Only to its wonderful bottom!” She raised her glass with a giggle: “Bees’ bottoms up!”
How stupid they were, thought Hyslop. Didn’t they know that a bee carried its pollen in its knees, which was its greatest treasure. As usual, adults were ignorant about insects.
“And as for knee high to a grasshopper,” continued Ilga. “Well, that’s just silly. I prefer to say knee high to something more logical, like knee high to a buffalo.”
That did make more sense, thought Hyslop, so maybe Ilga wasn’t entirely stupid.
“German logic indeed,” said Malcolm, passing a large glass decanter to Hugo. “Port, Hugues?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Hugo, though he was getting louder and louder and it seemed that he had already had more than enough alcohol to drink. Although he had not spoken to her directly, Hyslop decided that she did not like Hugo at all. He had been rude about Sir Northcote and the butterflies, and he was showing a dangerous amount of interest in her mother. She sighed. He was a rich man after all, but how could he be a new potential Uncle when he was married to Penny? These people were close friends of Sandy’s and all so kind. They had created a happy, harmonious environment, and it was unbearable to think of her mother disturbing it all.
“These delicious looking Italian chocolates are from Vanessa,” said Ilga. “Now, I have rather naughtily just sampled one in the kitchen, and I can assure you, darlinks, they literally are the bee’s bottom!”
Hyslop watched Hugo reach over and take a chocolate. His face was flushed and he looked radiantly happy. It was the kind of happiness men displayed when her mother was giving them her special attention. Oh, how stupid they were.
“Well, I know which part of a bee’s anatomy they remind me of,” he announced, launching into a series of crude words which he seemed to find amusing. “I must have another!”
Vanessa threw her head back and laughed.
Hyslop felt indignant again on Sir Northcote’s behalf. Why did Hugo feel that he could criticise the old man for swearing and shouting, especially when he knew Sir Northcote couldn’t help it, when he himself thought it was entertaining to shout rude words so loudly? She knew that if she said the words Hugo had used her mother would probably have smacked her, yet there she was laughing merrily at Hugo as if he had just said something unbelievably funny and witty.
“No coffee for me, Ilga, I’m just going to check that Hyslop’s OK.”
Sandy was getting up, pushing her chair back, so Hyslop fled back into the little sitting room. She threw herself down on the sofa and pulled Miss Hilda onto her lap. The cat gave an aggrieved yowl, then began to purr again.
“Hi Hyslop,” said Sandy, putting her head round the door. “Are you OK in here?”
“I’m fine thank you, Sandy,” said Hyslop.
“Are you watching television?”
“Um, no, I was on the internet,” said Hyslop. “And I’m enjoying being with the cats.”
“I confess I’m not normally a cat-person,” said Sandy, coming in and perching on an arm of the little sofa. “Dogs are my thing. But I do make an exception for these two. They are the dearest creatures!”
She began to stroke Miss McKenzie gently on the top of her head.
“I love it when they purr,” she said.
There was a long silence, then Sandy said: “Do you mind if I sit in here with you for a bit? The others are having coffee and liqueurs, and the men will be lighting up cigars shortly. I think I’ve had enough of it all.”
“I don’t mind,” said Hyslop, and to her surprise she found that she didn’t.
Chapter Eighteen
You Don’t Lie about Butterflies
The girl Hyslop was sitting, with a book on her lap, staring at a dandelion. It looked like a dandelion anyway. From where Zak was sitting, it was hard to tell. She had been sitting there quietly for at least ten minutes, just looking and looking. Well, it felt like a ten-minutes-ish sort of period of time. Ten was a good round number, and it didn’t seem to offend people. Zak wasn’t actually sure what ten minutes felt like. He had never owned a watch and was not good at telling the time, though he tried to disguise the fact. Time spent staring at things was in any case hard to measure. Sometimes, when he had been surveying Mrs Braithwaite’s plants and watching the bees buzzing around them, an hour would go by, and he would only know that because his father would be cross and shout at him for not doing anything for a whole hour. A whole hour was a dangerous amount of time to be caught staring it seemed. His father never shouted about a whole ten minutes, so that must be a safer amount of time.
Zak wondered if she was studying a butterfly. Would a butterfly stay still for that long? He edged round the large ferns he was hiding behind to try and see what she was looking at. He had good eyesight, but it was hard to make out if there was something there or not. She wouldn’t be sitting looking at a dandelion for this long. There must be an insect of some sort, and he decided it was most probably a butterfly.
The sun was shining on her hair, and it brought out all sorts of different colours he had never seen in anyone’s hair. He had thought she had dark hair, so dark he might even have called it black, but now he realised that her hair was more complicated: he could see dark brown, light brown, copper, various shades of red that he couldn’t name, some of it almost golden. Maybe each hair on her head was a different colour, so that it only looked dark when you saw it from a distance, or when the light wasn’t brig
ht. Was everyone’s hair that complicated? He had never really looked at anyone else’s hair properly.
He longed, yet feared, to make those spooky eyes look round at him again. Maybe he should pluck up courage and tell her that those Peacock butterflies she liked so much were back round the nettle patch at the edge of the wood.
“It’s a female Common Blue,” said Hyslop suddenly.
Zak started. Was she talking to him, or to herself?
“At least I think it is,” she continued. “It’s hard to tell. Come and see what you think.”
Zak stood up. There seemed to be no point in hiding from this girl. His grandmother sometimes told him she had eyes in the back of her head and that if he did something wrong she would see it. He had never believed his grandmother, but the girl Hyslop really did seem to be able to see things that were at the back of her head.
Once he got closer he could see that there was a butterfly with its wings closed on the dandelion. It didn’t look very blue to him.
“It’s hard to tell it apart from the Brown Argus,” she said. “You have to look at the spots really closely.”
As she turned round to show him the picture in the butterfly book, the butterfly she had been looking at suddenly opened its wings and flew off. There still didn’t seem to be much blue about it.
“The Common Blue males are blue, but the females are brown,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s good when they let you stare at them for ages.”
Zak nodded. That was one of the reasons he liked the vegetables. They didn’t mind being stared at. He realised, however, that since the arrival of the girl Hyslop he had hardly visited the kitchen garden. He had forgotten to take his grandmother one of the large courgettes she had asked for, and he had done no weeding at all.
“It’s called sexual dimorphism,” she said, “when the males and females of the same species are different from each other.”
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 11