She sat in the back of the car with Zak and allowed him to stare at her for the duration of the journey. Sir Northcote’s hearing was not good enough to allow for conversation from the front of the car, so, apart from his random mutterings and swear words, there was no real communication between any of them until they got to the Forest of the Emperor.
Chapter Thirty
The Perfect Day
For three out of the party of four, the day of the Emperor was a perfect day.
The exception was Judd, who announced that he would stay and look after the car, which meant of course that he fell asleep in the sun with his mouth open, shedding his hangover with every snore. No one consulted his opinion, but he surely would not have counted this day as particularly interesting or eventful if he had been asked. In later life, he would not be able to remember it at all.
In later life, Hyslop would see more amazing and more numerous butterfly species, and Sir Northcote had, in the course of his long life, seen more amazing and more numerous butterfly species on many occasions. The butterflies on this day, however, were unspoiled by the tragedy that was to come. Locked forever in a memory of high summer sunshine and birdsong, they were pure and brave and beautiful. Meadow species, nymphalids and blues danced in the sun above the grassy clearings in their hundreds. Even Sir Northcote was astonished at their numbers. Red Admirals and Painted Ladies bustled about everywhere, and high in the treetops Hyslop was treated for the first time to a spectacular display of aerial acrobatics by White Admirals. She picked them out with her new binoculars, and gasped with joy at their soaring and swooping. They were the most graceful gliders of the butterfly world. There were Silver-washed Fritillaries too, their underwings water-colour-washed with green and silver, zig zagging amongst the brambles.
Bernwood Forest itself, one of the loveliest butterfly woods in the country, was majestic and ancient, a forest fit for an Emperor. One would not have been surprised to see an eccentric Victorian collector with net and killing jar emerge from the forest. One would scarcely have been startled, indeed, to have encountered a prehistoric caveman. The trees were tall, many of them twisted and gnarled with age, and they exhaled dignity and history with every rustle of their leaves. This was not a forest where man was in charge, chopping and felling and pruning: this was a forest where nature ruled.
“What a beautiful, beautiful place!” exclaimed Hyslop. “Oh, look at the trees, Northy!”
Sir Northcote, moved by Hyslop’s joy, was strangely quiet. He barely muttered or cursed or slapped himself the whole day long. His voice was gentler than normal too, as if someone had turned his volume down. Occasionally he would point out a path they might take, or a tree that might be good for Purple Emperors, but sometimes Hyslop took the lead. When she stopped to stare, they all stopped. Some little way behind Zak followed, still carrying his smelly burden.
“The White Admirals are amazing fliers, aren’t they?” Hyslop was peering through her new binoculars at a pair high up in the trees. “They just seem to belong here somehow. It’s hard to imagine them as caterpillars, crawling around, when they were clearly designed to be such stars up in the air.”
“Oh yes,” agreed the old man. “Beautiful flyers. Nothing like them for gliding. We’re getting quite an air display today. Never seen so many out and about. Now the Silver-washed Fritillaries can glide too, but they’re more bouncy.” He seemed about to shout a swear word but stopped. “Bouncy like Tigger I always think.”
Hyslop frowned and put her head on one side to consider this.
“I never think of tigers as particularly bouncy creatures,” she said.
“Not tigers!” Northy raised his voice slightly. “I said Tigger!”
“What do you mean ‘Tigger’?”
“Goodness me. Surely you know who Tigger is! Don’t you read, Hyslop!”
“I like reading very much,” said Hyslop, “but I don’t know who this Tigger character is.”
“Didn’t your mother ever read to you?” he said. Then he stopped and shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose she did. I just thought all English children would know Winnie the Pooh!”
“Well, I’m half Italian and I’ve never heard of her,” said Hyslop.
“No, it’s not a her,” said Sir Northcote. “Winnie the Pooh is a bear. A bear of little brain. I shall find my old books for you when we get back. You have to read them. I bet even you, boy, have heard of Winnie the Pooh!”
He glared back at Zak. The boy looked startled at being addressed, but shook his head in a puzzled way.
“Never heard of Winnie the Pooh!” the old man shouted again. “Neither of you! What is the world coming to nowadays!”
Zak had no idea what was expected of him. Clearly there was a bear, a stupid bear if he had understood correctly, that he was meant to have known about. He knew what poo was now, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought of what was in his plastic bag, but thought it rather an odd name for a bear, even a stupid one. Zak sighed. The world was full of unfathomable mysteries.
He trailed behind them, enjoying the effects of the sunlight on Hyslop’s wonderful hair. She was so preoccupied with butterflies, and with gazing through her new binoculars, that she was unaware of anything else. He could look and look for as long as he wanted.
“You’re still with us, boy, are you?” the old man said, after a while. “Get the dog dirt out of the bag, would you and put it on the ground over there.”
Zak humbly did as he was told. Hyslop could see that he was baffled by the task, and, taking pity on him, she explained to him that the Purple Emperors they were seeking were attracted to dog and fox droppings.
“They love a rotting carcass too,” said Sir Northcote. “and some people bring banana skins and Stilton cheese but I’ve never found them much use. I do have some fish paste in my pocket, though. Here, boy, spread some of that over there on the grass too. It’s all a matter of luck and patience I’m afraid.”
“For such beautiful creatures they do have an odd taste in food,” laughed Hyslop.
Zak said nothing at all. His unpleasant task was lightened by the sound of the girl Hyslop laughing. It was better than all the birdsong of the forest.
They waited by the dog droppings for some time, and Hyslop scanned the treetops constantly with her binoculars. There was no sign of the elusive Emperors anywhere. The sun was beating down on them now almost as strongly as an Italian sun, but there were no visitors to the revolting feast apart from some flies.
“Shall we break for some lunch,” said Hyslop at last. She said it as a brisk command, not as a question. “I’m pretty hungry.”
“May as well,” said the old man. “Though I’m never hungry these days. Old age takes the appetite away. Penny has packed a fair old picnic as usual. You young ‘uns can eat up. Far too skinny, the pair of you.”
“Zak, here, I have some hand-wipes for us to wash our hands before we eat.” Hyslop handed some to Zak and took charge of the hamper.
Zak was thrilled at being included in the picnic, and he ate wonderful sandwiches and home-made cakes and biscuits that were better than anything he had ever eaten before. It wasn’t stuff that had been bought in packets at the supermarket. It wasn’t like anything his grandmother ever produced. The best part of it all, of course, was sharing with the girl Hyslop. She would hand him a sandwich or a cake and treat him as if he were her equal, her friend: “Try this, Zak, it’s pastrami and cucumber on rye bread I think.” He wanted it all to go on forever. He wanted to make time, whole hours of time, stand still. He was speechless with happiness.
“Oh well, it’s been a lovely day, Northy,” sighed Hyslop, when she was too full to eat another morsel. “Even if we haven’t seen any Purple Emperors, we have seen so many other species. Such huge numbers and such fresh specimens. And those White Admirals! It’s really been the best day of my life. I feel like a proper lepidopterist.”
Sir Northcote made a happy snorting noise that turned into a wheeze.
&nbs
p; On the way back to the car he pointed out a Marbled White with more black than usual in its wings, and they all stopped to admire three basking Small Tortoiseshells on the path in front of them. At least Hyslop and Sir Northcote did, and Zak, as usual, stopped to admire Hyslop.
As they approached the car, where Judd lay snoring on the driver’s seat, with the door open, Sir Northcote suddenly hissed at them all to stop.
“There!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. He pointed his stick at the car in a state of agitation.
Hyslop was puzzled. Surely they could all see the car. It was exactly where they had left it.
“There!” he shouted, pointing at the wing mirror on the passenger side of their car. “It’s an Emperor!”
“It’s just my Dad,” said Zak.
“Oh!” Hyslop suddenly realised what Northy was pointing at. There, settled on the car mirror, was a large butterfly with the unmistakeable underwings she had memorised. It was a Purple Emperor. She got her binoculars out and gazed with greedy joy at its beautiful markings.
“Can we go closer?” she said, after many minutes of looking and looking.
“Yes, it won’t mind,” said Sir Northcote, with a tenderness in his voice that astonished Zak so much he forgot to stare at Hyslop, and stared at the old man instead. “They are attracted to shiny silver things sometimes. I’ve seen this happen once before.”
This was the joy of butterfly watching, unlike bird-watching. You didn’t have to be quiet, or observe from a hide. Unless you let your shadow fall on the butterfly, most of them would stay where they were and allow themselves to be looked at. In this case, scarcely daring to breathe, Hyslop was able to stand a few feet from the glorious insect and study its markings for a full ten minutes. Then, very slowly, the butterfly opened his wings and the sun caught the beautiful purple sheen on first one side, then the other as he moved around the wing mirror. Even Zak stood staring at the lovely creature, as if hypnotised. It was like the picture in Hyslop’s book: one wing was black and white and the other purple and white. It was a trick of the light, and it kept changing.
“Hey, look at his wings!” he said, pointing at the butterfly. “He’s a fine one!”
Sir Northcote and Hyslop turned to look at him. The old man nodded at him approvingly.
“Yes, Zak,” said Hyslop, smiling at him. “Yes, he’s very fine.”
Zak knew that even if he had nothing to look forward to on his path of life ever again, he would have this moment, this shared joy in the Emperor, the acknowledgement from the posh old man, this smile from Hyslop, the way she used his name, this incredible moment, to look back on. Looking forward was a difficult business as people could take things away that were lying on the path ahead, but no one, not his grandmother at her angriest, his father at his drunkest, or Tristan Pringle at his nastiest, no one could ever take this moment away from him.
The Purple Emperor stretched his wings and flew away.
Chapter Thirty One
A Discovery on the Internet
Hyslop had given up expecting breakfast in the cottage. She had given up expecting anything much from her mother, and it was always easier in life when you expected nothing. It was easier to take your hunger elsewhere, and she found she was always hungry. She had an excuse to go and see Sandy because there was a new firing from the pottery kiln this morning and the coil pot Hyslop had made for Malcolm was ready to pick up. She was hopeful of getting something to eat there as well as a smiling welcome. There had been no supper the night before. Her mother, dressed up and with the shiny high heels that meant she was going out, had left, saying she was off to London, and had not returned home all night.
When Sandy saw her approaching out of her window she opened the door and let the dogs out.
“Brace yourself, Hyslop!” she called as the dogs bounded towards her and enveloped her in a boisterous excited welcome. “I was just about to feed them, but you can do that if you like. You’re a bit earlier than I’d expected, so why don’t we have some breakfast here first?”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure that’s OK,” said Hyslop. She knew it was polite to look hesitant and surprised when you were offered food, so she tried to do so.
Hyslop fed the two dogs. They seemed to be as hungry as she was, and she watched them wolf down their food as if they were having a race to finish. She turned round to see Sandy putting two croissants on a plate for her, then adding a third.
“D’you want some butter or jam or both?”
“Both please,” said Hyslop, sitting down.
“I’m guessing that Vanessa isn’t much of a one for breakfast,” said Sandy, bringing a pot of homemade raspberry jam and a butter-dish over to the table. “Is she up yet?”
Hyslop wondered what to say, and also wondered if it was polite to reach for her first croissant immediately or to wait for a moment until Sandy began eating too.
“She seems to live off black coffee and cigarettes,” said Sandy. “It keeps her nice and slim, but you’re a growing girl, sweetie, so you need your fuel.” There was a long pause before Sandy said: “I saw Hugo take her out somewhere last night. Just happened to be driving back and met them pulling out onto the main road in his car. Probably taking her to the station I guess.” Sandy stirred her coffee continuously with her spoon, and looked down into the mug, inhaling the steam and the smell. She nodded gravely at Hyslop: “Look, don’t feel that you’re all on your own if your mother goes out. You know you’re always welcome here, Hyslop. Any time. For a meal, to do some pottery, to see the dogs, or just… well… just for a break.”
There was a pause, as the word “break” hung in the air between them. For why should Hyslop be in need of a break? Surely it was not normal for a child to need a break from her mother.
“Well, anyway, once you’ve finished eating we’ll go and see my kiln,” said Sandy. “It’s still exciting for me after all these years to see how the night’s firing has gone. As you know, not everything turns out fine.”
The coil pot, however, turned out not just fine, but even better than Hyslop’s first one. The glaze was a deep blue, the colour of an Italian sky, and she hoped Malcolm would like it.
She left Sandy’s with an invitation to return for lunch, which was to be spaghetti with meatballs, followed by maple syrup ice cream, and set off for Malcolm’s workshop.
She had visited before to use Malcolm’s computer, and she knocked on his door more confidently than she had the first few times. She was starting to get used to calling in on people who were pleased to see her and it was a good feeling. It was a feeling of freedom.
“Come in!” called Malcolm, in a slightly irritated tone.
Hyslop opened his door and stood there, unsure whether to go in. She had learned to identify shades of crossness in adults and although his did not sound like nasty crossness, she wanted to make sure.
“It’s me,” she said.
“I can see that,” said Malcolm. He seemed to be planing a piece of wood. “Hello, Me.”
“Are you busy?” said Hyslop.
“It would be a poor show if I wasn’t busy, Hyslop,” he said. “I’m always busy.”
Hyslop still hesitated by the door.
“And I hate being interrupted while I’m busy,” he put down his tools and stared at her over his glasses. “Except by certain people.”
“Who are those certain people?”
“Well, my list of certain people is pretty short. Today, in fact, there’s just the one name on it,” he said. “And that’s Hyslop d’Agostino. So, if you answer to that name, come in, and if you don’t, then close the door behind you on your way out.”
Hyslop skipped into his workshop, breathing in the smell of wood and polish and sawdust.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said. “Something for you to put your pencils in.”
She handed Malcolm the coil pot and he took it wordlessly, pushing his glasses up his nose to look at it properly. He spent a long time examining it, tur
ning it over and taking in every detail. He held it up to the light and turned it round and round with his rough workman’s hands.
“I made it,” said Hyslop.
“Well, I liked it a lot before you said that,” said Malcolm. He nodded his head at the coil pot, as if addressing it directly. “But now I like it even more.”
He gathered up two stubby pencils that were lying on his workbench and put them in the coil pot.
“Perfect fit. Thank you very much, Hyslop,” he said. “Well-made, very useful, and much appreciated.”
He picked up his plane and began working again. Hyslop watched him in silence.
“I’m guessing you might be wanting to use the computer upstairs,” he said after a while. “Miss Hilds and Miss McKenzie are up there sunning themselves. They find me a bit boring when I’m working. Do me a favour and give them some attention when you’re up there.”
“All right,” said Hyslop and went upstairs, up the thin wooden staircase to Malcolm’s office above his workshop. That was another good thing round here: adults kept suggesting that she should do things and they were always things she really wanted to do anyway, not things that were hateful or scary, like with the Uncles.
There were the two cats, lying stretched out on a rug below the skylight window, where the sun streamed in. Miss Hilda stood up and arched her back and Miss McKenzie stretched out her paws in front of her in a feline greeting. Hyslop spent a long time stroking them, rubbing them behind their ears, enjoying their gentle purrs as much as she had enjoyed the rough affection of Sasha and Skye.
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 18