Downstairs she heard the doorknocker and the exchanged “Darling!” and “God, I’ve missed you, Vanessa!”
She went to the top of the stairs to listen. For once she would not shut it all out, but would find out what was happening. There was a silence and she imagined them kissing. Then Hugo was asking her mother what was wrong as she seemed upset, not herself at all. Hyslop wondered if Hugo would like it if he knew what Vanessa was like if she was being herself. For a while Vanessa fobbed him off, saying it was nothing in a little-girl-being-brave voice, and that she really would rather not tell him. Hyslop listened intently; not much in life upset Vanessa and she wondered what it could be. How unlike her mother’s normal tone this silly voice was; anyone with a brain could surely tell that it was false, and also that Vanessa had every intention of telling Hugo what was troubling her. It was the whole point of the exercise. Men were so stupid.
“Tell me, darling,” Hugo sounded so tender and loving that Hyslop wanted to be sick. She forced herself to listen and heard her own name mentioned.
“It’s Hyslop,” she heard her mother say with a stifled sob.
“What has happened?” There was another silence and Hyslop imagined Hugo putting his arms round her mother in a consoling sort of way. “Here, let me pour you a drink, darling. What has Hyslop done to upset you?”
“I don’t like to be disloyal to my own daughter,” Vanessa said. Hyslop almost laughed aloud at this. “Hugo, please don’t tell anyone what I’m going through. I know I can trust you, and I just don’t know where else to turn.”
There followed protestations of love and sympathy from Hugo that were both tedious and nauseating. Hyslop kept thinking of poor Penny and Sir Northcote.
Finally Vanessa said: “I just don’t think I’m a good mother to Hyslop.”
Hyslop nodded her head. For once her mother had said something truthful, though unfortunately Hugo did not agree.
“Darling, no one could do more than you do. You’re a wonderful mother!”
“Tonight,” Vanessa actually appeared to be crying. “Tonight Hyslop shouted at me and defied me openly. I can do nothing with her, Hugo. Nothing. I mean, I don’t expect her to understand how tough things have been for me. She’s too young to appreciate that.” There was a particularly realistic sob here. “I just can’t go on like this, a single mother, struggling to keep things afloat, with no money, no home of my own, nothing. And now not even the respect of my daughter!”
“Of course you can’t,” there was another long silence and Hyslop tried to block out thoughts of the cuddling and kissing.
After what seemed a long time, she heard Hugo murmuring things to Vanessa that she could not make out. There were snatches of sentences, like: “… I’ll do what I can, darling… ” “… it won’t be easy, but I’ll do anything so we can be together… ” and “… it’s an enormous risk for me professionally but that doesn’t matter if it makes things all right for you at last… ”
There was a clinking of glasses and then they moved into the kitchen. What they hoped to get there was a mystery as there was only another bowl of salted peanuts, some jam and a packet of Italian coffee. It was frustrating for Hyslop as she was unsure what her mother’s intentions were, and what Hugo meant by “an enormous risk.” They were plotting something and it sounded serious. For the first time in her life she was fearful not just for herself, but for the others she had grown to care for.
She did not need an imaginary Nonna hug, however, and she did not feel that she had to hide under her bed-clothes humming to herself.
She was going to get her butterfly book out in a minute and read more about Large Blues, but in the meantime she went to her window and stared out into the night. Darkness was falling, though it always looked darker when you were looking out from a room with the light on. Probably it would be quite easy to see if you were outside and your eyes were accustomed to the twilight. Her bedroom light was on, and the curtains wide open. She stood right by the window, aware of how visible she would be, a dark figure in the square of bright light. It was not long before two moths appeared, beating their heads against the glass, trying to get in.
Hyslop put her fingers out to them as if to touch them through the glass. She wondered if Northy was outside somewhere setting his moth traps, and if Zak was still up and about. He would surely be able to see her, silhouetted against the light.
Hyslop ran her fingers through her long dark hair, then stretched her arms above her head. She was not going to stay in the shadows any more. She had had enough of blending in with the background, hiding in corners, trying to be invisible. If she was being watched she didn’t care. She had always had Nonna and Papa in heaven to watch over her, though up until now they had not been able to help her a great deal. She gazed at the moths on the other side of the glass, and thought of Sir Northcote and Sandy and Penny and Malcolm and Zak. She now had more substantial guardian angels to watch over her.
Chapter Thirty Four
Storm Flies gather
As was her custom now, Hyslop hurried out of the cottage early, long before her mother would be awake, and headed for Sandy’s barn. She was never sure these days whether her mother was in the cottage or in London with Hugo.
She and Sandy had gone beyond the polite “Would you like something to eat?” stage where Hyslop had to look faintly surprised and reluctant before accepting a brioche or a biscuit. Even the dogs greeted her less with the excited barking they reserved for strangers, and more with familiar high pitched yelps. They looked expectantly at her as if they suspected that she would be the one giving them breakfast. While she went for their bowls amidst whines and nudges, Sandy called out from the kitchen: “I fancy a fry up this morning, Hyslop. I was just waiting for you. Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?”
Hyslop made Sasha and Skye sit and stay before she let them have their breakfast, as Sandy had taught her to do, then she wandered into the kitchen. Bacon was sizzling and the smell made her realise how ravenous she was.
“Can I have two fried eggs, please,” she said.
“Sweetie, I assumed you’d want two eggs, so don’t worry. I’ve come to realise that there’s hungry and then there’s hungry-caterpillar-Hyslop-hungry! I’ve got some really thick butcher’s bacon,” said Sandy, “and some big mushrooms. Get the cutlery out, could you?”
Hyslop had eaten expensive meals with her mother’s friends in restaurants throughout France and Italy. She had eaten breakfasts on villa patios and on board yachts with the Mediterranean sparkling in the background. Servants had waited on her and called her “Madam” or “Signorina” or “Mademoiselle”, and, as long as her mother had staff to deal with the cooking, she had eaten tasty and delicious food. Nothing could compare with this bacon, egg and toast, however. She recalled her mother saying when someone handed her a glass of champagne: “Oh darling, this just hits the spot!” She had never really understood what “the spot” was before, but she suspected that whatever it was, Sandy’s fried eggs had just hit it.
“This is an amazing breakfast!” she announced, breaking open her second fried egg and dipping her buttery toast in it. “It has hit my spot.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s done that, but it’s hardly a gourmet feast. I’m not renowned for my cookery skills. I think it’s a case of the old saying ‘Hunger is the best sauce’ and you do always seem to be a hungry little thing.”
Hyslop looked up at Sandy and put her knife and fork down.
“I wish I could live here always,” she said. “With Sasha and Skye and you.”
“Glad you’ve got us in the right order,” Sandy tried to laugh, but Hyslop continued staring at her fiercely, and instead of finishing with a joke about the dogs coming first as she had intended, Sandy merely said: “Oh, sweetie,” in a choked voice.
“I’ve never really liked adults before,” said Hyslop. “Apart from Nonna of course.”
There was a silence where Hyslop could, or should, have mentioned her mother.
>
“You’ve been unhappy for a long time,” Sandy said at last. It wasn’t a question, just a statement, and Hyslop knew she did not need to reply.
After another silence, Sandy said: “Nothing would make me happier, Hyslop, than to have you live here with me. You say you’ve never liked adults before, and, to be perfectly frank, I’ve never had much to do with children before I met you!”
Hyslop continued to stare with her huge dark eyes.
“I don’t like you because you’re a child, or my Goddaughter, or whatever. I like you because I like you. And that’s that. As for living here, I don’t see how it’s possible, much as I’d like it too,” said Sandy. “Vanessa wouldn’t give you up. I’m sure she loves you in her own way, Hyslop. She’s just not a person who lives by the normal rules of life, and that probably includes being a mother. She never was one to abide by rules even when she was at school. I can see that things are tough for you. In the meantime, my humble café is always open for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And of course, if you need to stay here there’s always a bed made up.” Sandy put a hand out and placed it on top of Hyslop’s hand, and Hyslop gazed down at the stubby fingernails, so different from her mother’s manicured talons.
“Have you hated all the travelling around Europe?” Sandy asked.
Hyslop found herself plunging into her familiar tunnel of misery, but this time coming out the other end in a blaze of light. She felt something on fire inside her, churning around, swirling, changing: she thought of her life with Vanessa over the years, and she knew she didn’t want things to go on as they had before. She knew she had done with all the travelling around, moving from Uncle to Uncle. She had changed into a different person, and she was no longer going to stand for it.
“I was happy with my Nonna until I was five,” she said. “I was safe.”
“Safe?” queried Sandy, puzzled. “In what way safe?”
“Yes, safe like I am with you,” said Hyslop. The word was good in English: it was a short comforting sound, which began with a gentle hiss and then ended at the front of her mouth, like breathing out. “I like being safe.”
“Were you… were you in danger when you lived in Italy then?” Sandy was looking worried and concerned and Hyslop wondered if she had gone too far. She was way beyond her mother’s rules already.
Sandy had assumed that the opposite of being safe was being in danger and Hyslop considered this. Vanessa had always made sure that she tagged along in her wake; she had been violent, sneering, angry and neglectful; she had let the Uncles be vile and horrid, but she had never actually abandoned Hyslop to them. Thoughts of the past buzzed around in Hyslop’s head: there were so many emotions to deal with, sometimes she felt her head would burst with the pressure of them all.
The knowledge that her mother was not going to leave her behind had been a strange sort of security. Even with French Oncle Xavier whom Hyslop remembered only with a shudder, and with the two bad-tempered Italian Uncles, Paolo and Massimo, she had known that her mother would take her with her when she left them. And she always did leave them in the end.
Had she felt in danger all those times locked in dark cupboards as a punishment for talking back, or for not doing as she was told immediately? Insects had been her dear companions, her comfort. With Uncle Massimo, in particular, who always wanted to come into her room to give her a goodnight cuddle, stinking of cigarettes and red wine, insects had been her allies. He had a terror of being stung and she had gathered dead bees and wasps and spread them around her bed so that he wouldn’t come near. Hyslop gave a half smile as she recalled him jumping back with a shout when he first encountered all the dead insects. She knew he wouldn’t complain about it, though, and she also knew that he wouldn’t be back.
People might have let her down, but insects never had.
“It’s getting dark all of a sudden,” she said.
“Gosh, yes, it looks as if a storm is brewing,” said Sandy.
Hyslop got up and went over to the window.
The sky, which had been gloriously blue and cloud free when she got up, was darkening. The trees shook their leafy coats like dogs coming out of the water, and strange little black whirlwinds swirled around the garden in front of her. Hyslop narrowed her eyes and gazed at them.
“What on earth are those?” Sandy said, appearing beside her. “They look like mini tornadoes.”
“They’re thunder-flies,” said Hyslop. “Storm flies.”
“Storm flies! I’ve never seen them do that before. How very odd!”
A swirling swarm of flies broke off from their tornado formation and flew at the window, as if someone had thrown handfuls of soil at the windowpane. Sandy leaped back. Hyslop put her hands onto the glass as if to touch the tiny black flies crawling up the outside of the pane.
Behind her Sasha and Skye began to bark.
“Oh my goodness, I’ve never seen so many flies,” said Sandy. “They look as if they’re trying to come in.”
“It’s all right,” said Hyslop. “They are just announcing the storm.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Zak Hears some Scary News
Zak tried gazing intensely at the courgette plants in Mrs Braithwaite’s vegetable garden, but it was no use. They could flaunt their pretty yellow flowers, and display their fruits, both green and golden, of all shapes and sizes, but they could no longer hold his interest. They were like friends from a distant past when he was young and shallow and did not understand the world. They were friends that had served their purpose and could be snubbed without a backward glance. They were merely vegetables.
As he kicked stones and wandered along the path towards the dahlia beds, he recalled a dog which his father had owned when Zak was very young. It was a working dog, a spaniel called Rex, which lived outside in a half broken kennel, and Zak had endeavoured to make it his special friend. He had asked to feed the dog and spent time grooming it and brushing its coat, but whatever he did to please it, the spaniel was indifferent to him. However much affection he lavished on it, the dog loved only his father. Despite the fact, or perhaps because of the fact, that his father spoke roughly to the dog and never showed it any affection, the spaniel lived in a state of quivering excitement, always half listening for its master’s voice. It would push Zak out of the way in an instant if it heard his father’s whistle, and if he tried to hold it back, the dog would scratch and whine and struggle until he let it go.
Despite his father’s rough ways, the dog was happy. If Mrs Braithwaite stooped to stroke it and say “Good boy” in her gentlest tone, Rex was not interested. The faithful creature would wag its tail but kept its eyes, shining and alert, on its master at all times. It would not have swapped the cold kennel and meagre scraps for a room in the big house with chicken and steak and constant petting from the posh folk.
Zak felt that he understood Rex now. His own dogged devotion to the girl Hyslop was all that mattered to him. He thought of all the things that mattered to other kids: a place on the football team, being invited to birthday parties, coming top of the class, winning at sports day, getting new computer games or smart new clothes, and it all seemed so unimportant. No one had used the word “love” to Zak, though he had heard it often enough on television. Soppy parents in American films were always telling their kids: “I love you, honey,” and children at his school would say things to their parents at the school gate like; “Bye, Mummy! Love you!” Zak sometimes paused to consider what it would be like if his mother were alive. Perhaps she would be the one to say: “Bye, Zak! I love you!” at the school gate. Somehow he could not imagine it, though. It was such a silly word. If you felt that way about someone, then surely you didn’t need to go around saying it in public all the time. His mother and he would have an understanding between them, he decided, and she wouldn’t need to go around saying soppy things. If old Rex had been able to speak, Zak was quite sure the dog wouldn’t have said: “I love you” to his father. True attachment did not need to be always flau
nting itself with words. Silly words like “love.” Zak scowled at the thought.
He felt that the girl Hyslop understood his feelings towards her, his solid devotion, without anything needing to be said between them. They had a connection. She was not one of those silly girls in the class, always giggling and whispering to each other. Those girls laughed at him behind his back, but they knew nothing about him. Oh no, Hyslop was different from them. She had a stillness at her centre, a wisdom born of suffering. She knew him, the real him that no one else knew: she understood him. The others were like plump domestic fowl, clucking around the henhouse. Hyslop was savage and free, a beautiful wild creature. She knew that he watched her and followed her around, and sometimes she was cold or cruel to him, but sometimes she spoke up for him to the old man, and seemed to want him to tag along. Sometimes, most thrillingly of all, she smiled at him. It was enough.
Today some sixth sense guided him, not to the woods near the old man’s house, but to the meadow beside the main garden. The day before had been marred by a sudden storm, but today the sun was hot and the meadow was bound to be full of butterflies. He strode impatiently along the paths and jumped over the style into the field. It did not take him long to spot Hyslop hunkered down, watching something in the grass. He did not feel the need to hide or even to approach timidly now. She always seemed to know if he was there so hiding was pointless. If she didn’t want him to stay she would tell him.
She flicked a sidelong glance at him as he walked up to her, and tossed her shimmering hair. He was careful not to let his shadow fall on the butterfly she was watching. He knew that would annoy her. He knew that he should keep a respectful distance and wait until she spoke to him first.
“Just looking at this Marbled White,” she said after a while. Zak said nothing in reply. He was happy that she had accepted his presence. “Not many of them left now.”
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 20