The Summer of the Mourning Cloak

by Kathleen Nelson

  When the butterfly flew off the girl Hyslop turned to face him, looking directly at him with her fierce dark eyes.

  “So what did you do, Zak, before I arrived?” she asked. “Before you started following me around?”

  Her voice had a note of mockery in it. Although he did not like her tone it was still better than being ignored. He said nothing, but looked down at his feet. A silence ensued but neither of them minded long silences.

  “I like it round here,” Hyslop said after a while, knocking some grass seeds off a tall stalk of grass and flicking them at Zak. “This is the best place I have ever stayed since my Nonna died.”

  Zak wasn’t sure who or what her Nonna was but he didn’t ask.

  “I feel I could really make a home here,” she continued. Zak felt all fluttery with happiness when she said this. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say, so closed it again and returned to examining his feet.

  “There are good people here,” Hyslop said. “And you don’t get good people everywhere, I can tell you.”

  Zak knew that only too well. In fact he could have told Hyslop that some of the people round here weren’t really that good either. It was best not to say this, however, so he simply made a vague “Hmmm” sort of noise and cleared his throat a few times.

  Hyslop paused to study another of those chequered black and white butterflies that were flying around the meadow. It had landed on a grass stalk right beside her, and she peered at it closely. When she was looking at butterflies, the rest of the world did not seem to exist for her. The good thing about that was that while she was looking at the insect, he could raise his eyes to look at her. Her hair was catching the sunlight again and he began counting the colours in it.

  “Everything I need is right here,” said Hyslop after the butterfly had flown off. “Everything.” She gave a sigh, and looked right at him again: “I shall be sorry to leave it all behind.”

  “What d’you mean?” He felt cold with fear.

  “I mean that my mother and I never stay long in one place, Zak.”

  “But surely if you’re happy here, like, and you’ve got everything you need,” he began, then stopped, not sure how to continue.

  “My happiness has never been part of the equation,” said Hyslop. Zak frowned, not quite understanding. He always felt lost when she used teachers’ words.

  As if realising this, Hyslop explained: “My happiness is not important to my mother. We always move on when she’s ready to go. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  Zak felt so many strange emotions buzzing around inside him that he did not know what to say or do.

  “Do your family take your happiness into account, Zak, when they make decisions?”

  The mere notion was so ridiculous that Zak made a face and shook his head. She certainly had a point there.

  “But your mother… ” he began, then stopped.

  “My mother?” Hyslop pounced on him. “What about her?”

  “Well, she seems happy enough round here, doesn’t she?” he said. “With all her… you know… her friends.”

  “Really, Zak,” Hyslop’s voice was smooth and low. “Why would you think that? Have you been watching her too? Mmm? Following her around?”

  “No!” he cried. “I haven’t. But I’ve seen her with… with… Mr… ”

  He paused, not knowing whether to continue or not.

  “What were you going to say, Zak?” said Hyslop. “Tell me.”

  “Well, I’ve seen her with Mr… Mr Braithwaite.” Zak hung his head and waited for her reaction. He did not care what it was as long as she did not send him away.

  For a long time there was no reaction, and he dared raise his eyes to look at Hyslop.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I once asked you to tell me the truth, Zak,” she said. “And you just did. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  It was impossible for him to tell if she was angry with him or pleased that he had told the truth.

  “My mother is not like other people,” said Hyslop, her voice distant and cold, as if it were coming from a faraway place. “You mustn’t think she’s like other people.”

  Zak wanted to say that he didn’t care a bit about Hyslop’s mother, only about her, but he didn’t know how to express himself. Words could get you into trouble, so it was best to use them sparingly.

  “I know she’s planning something,” said Hyslop. “I always know when she’s planning something. And when she plans something,” the dark eyes bored right inside him, “it means that we move on. You won’t want that, will you, Zak?”

  He hung his head in sorrow.

  “You won’t want my mother to take us away from here, will you?” she asked again.

  This time, as she seemed to want an answer, he raised his head and said : “No. No, I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Sometimes, Zak, when we don’t want things to happen, we have to do something about it.”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Mother and Daughter Have a Conversation

  “I bought some brioches for tea, Hyslop,” said Vanessa, opening a paper bag that looked as if it had come from the baker’s shop in the village. She placed a little butter-dish on the table and a pot of jam beside it. “There’s butter and jam too. Raspberry I think. No, maybe it’s damson.”

  Hyslop raised her head from her butterfly book and narrowed her eyes. She wondered if she had misheard her mother.

  “Sandy said you were fond of these,” Vanessa had brought out a china dish and put the brioches on it in the middle of the table. “She said you could eat three or four at one sitting. Now, would you like some orange or apple juice?”

  Vanessa was addressing Hyslop in a strange formal tone, and Hyslop found herself looking around the room to see if anyone else had slipped in without her noticing.

  “For me?” she said, suspiciously. There had to be a catch. There had to be someone about to arrive any minute for Vanessa to be putting on this loving-mother act. She hoped it wasn’t Hugo, and scowled at the thought.

  “Well, you could look pleased, Hyslop,” snapped Vanessa. This was more like her normal tone, but still, her behaviour was inexplicable.

  “I’d like apple juice please,” said Hyslop, going over to the table to examine the brioches. She half wondered if the trick was that they would be made of plastic and when she tried to bite into one, her mother would laugh at her.

  They smelt delicious, however, and despite herself she took one and bit into it.

  “You could wait until you are sitting down with a plate,” said Vanessa, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of apple juice, a plate and a knife. “It’s what we tend to do in civilised society. It’s called good manners.”

  Certainly the sarcasm was more what she was used to, but Hyslop did not know what to make of the mummy-serving-tea act that seemed to be put on with no audience around to witness it.

  “Thank you,” she said, as she sat down at the table.

  Her mother made no move to leave the room, but stood watching Hyslop. This was so bizarre that Hyslop was almost put off eating her brioches. She felt a deep sense of unease. Something was odd, not quite right.

  “Don’t you have any conversation, Hyslop?” asked Vanessa after a while. “How are the insects today? Tell me all about them!”

  Hyslop almost choked on a particularly large chunk of brioche. She found herself looking around the room again for some invisible visitor who may have sneaked in whilst she was not looking.

  “The insects?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Hyslop, creepy crawlies, bugs, insects,” said Vanessa, still watching her daughter strangely. “You know, those six legged beasties that you like so much. Butterflies for instance. Have you seen any good ones recently?”

  “Oh,” said Hyslop. She was still not sure what to say. She spread the second brioche with butter and reached for the jam.

  There was an exp
ectant silence from her mother. It seemed as if she actually wanted an answer.

  “Well, yes, there are butterflies around at the moment,” said Hyslop. She paused. Her mother was still looking intensely at her, and her expression was impossible to fathom. “A new generation of Painted Ladies.”

  Her mother nodded her head as if she had been awaiting just such a report; as if she knew exactly what Painted Ladies were and was pleased to hear about this new generation. As if she cared.

  Hyslop, still puzzled, spread the thick damson jam onto the brioche and began munching. The combination was delicious. Vanessa wandered over to the window.

  “I don’t see your little guardian angel,” she said, scorn beginning to creep back into her tone. “The village idiot boy. But no doubt he’s somewhere around outside waiting for you.”

  Hyslop felt cross at hearing Zak described in such a way, but she was also amazed that her mother had been perceptive enough to notice him.

  “You’re happy here, Hyslop, aren’t you?” Vanessa turned back to stare at her daughter in that strange way again.

  Hyslop stopped chewing, and nodded her head. This was not something she could ever recall her mother asking her before.

  “Yes, you’ve found some admirers I must say.” Hyslop listened keenly for scorn and resentment in her mother’s voice but was unable to detect any.

  “Quite a little fan base, in fact,” continued Vanessa. Her tone was expressionless, without any obvious nasty undertone.

  “Yes, I am happy here,” said Hyslop, preparing her third brioche. “I like the people round here more than I’ve liked anyone in all the places we’ve stayed before.”

  “Well, that’s good then,” said Vanessa in a peculiar tone that Hyslop could not categorise.

  There was another long silence between them, and Hyslop, suddenly self-conscious, tried to chew as quietly as she could.

  “I’ve done a bit of food shopping,” said Vanessa after a while. “There’s lots of cereal and milk and bread for you, Hyslop. There’s a pizza to heat up. Some fruit. And a few other bits and pieces. I’m going away for a few days.”

  Hyslop looked up. “Where are you going?” she asked sharply.

  “None of your business!” snapped her mother. They were getting back to normal now. “Well, if you must know,” her tone softened slightly, “I’m going to London. I have some business to sort out there with Hugo.”

  Hyslop no longer felt like eating the last brioche. She felt vaguely sick. Her mother was planning something and Hugo was involved. This could not be good news.

  “You’ll be all right here on your own,” said Vanessa. “You can always go to Sandy’s for meals, can’t you?” She twisted her mouth into a strange expression. “She’s happy to have you. Or you could try the dour Scotsman? He’s quite smitten too. Or the shouty old man? Mmmmm? Or you could give orders to the village idiot boy, couldn’t you?”

  Hyslop said nothing. Her mother disappeared into her bedroom and came out with her cream high heeled shoes on, pulling a small suitcase on wheels. She was on her mobile telephone, telling Hugo she was ready to be picked up.

  The thought of being alone in the cottage did not worry Hyslop. After long sessions in dark cupboards, the dear little cottage held no fears for her. She was more afraid of what her mother was planning in London with Hugo.

  “Bye then, Hyslop,” said Vanessa at the door.

  “Bye,” said Hyslop. She waited for the door to slam behind her mother, but this did not happen immediately.

  For a long time Vanessa stood there, poised to leave with the door open, staring back at her daughter.

  “Well, I’ll be off then,” she said, picking up her case. “And I’m glad about the… um… new generation of Painted Ladies, Hyslop.”

  The door closed gently behind her and Hyslop sat at the table for a long time. She gazed down at the fourth brioche but found she had no appetite for it.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Hyslop Stays with Sandy

  Hyslop sat for a long time at the table, staring at the last brioche on the plate.

  She wanted to go round to Sandy’s house but was afraid that Penny might be there. How could she face either of them, knowing that her mother was off in London for a few days and would be staying with Hugo. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter and Penny would be bound to resent her too. They must all feel, with justification indeed, that their warmth and hospitality had been ill repaid. They must surely feel that the guests they had nurtured so kindly, had been imposters, cruel destroyers.

  “We’ve spoilt everything here,” she addressed the brioche. She had no desire to eat it now.

  After a while she wandered over to the window and looked out. There was no sign of Zak but she knew he must be nearby, hiding somewhere in the bushes. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, and she decided that she could indeed give him an order to carry out.

  She opened the window as wide as it would go and leaned out.

  “ZA-AK!” she called. “Zak Judd! Where are you!”

  At first she could see nothing, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a tiny movement in the brambles behind the wooden fence. If he was there he must surely be uncomfortable amongst the thorns.

  “Zak!” she called again. “Could you come here please!”

  Zak emerged from the brambles and nettles, shaking himself down, brushing off thorns and twigs from his dirty old T-shirt. He looked rather sheepish, but was obviously pleased that she had called him.

  “I have something I want you to do for me,” she said. Zak said nothing but looked eagerly at her, like a dog waiting for a stick to be thrown.

  “I want you to go to Sandy’s house and see if she’s on her own,” said Hyslop. “Look in the windows, do whatever it is that you do when you spy on people. Then come back and tell me.”

  He stood, uncertain.

  “Can you do it now, please,” said Hyslop. “Then come straight back and tell me if there is anyone with her. I specially want to know if Mrs Braithwaite is there.”

  Without a word Zak turned and ran off in the direction of Sandy’s house. Whilst he was gone Hyslop went upstairs to her chest of drawers and found some clean clothes. She brought them downstairs together with her toothbrush, and popped them in a plastic bag. She stood by the window waiting for Zak.

  He had barely been gone ten minutes when he returned, out of breath from running.

  “I looked,” he said. “I looked in her house, in all the windows, and in at the window of her pottery place. She never seen me, like.”

  “Yes?” Hyslop waited whilst he got his breath back.

  “I looked and saw Mrs… Sandy,” Zak looked slightly uncomfortable calling Sandy by her first name, but probably did not know her surname and had never had cause to use it before. “There was no one in the house. I saw her… Mrs Sandy… in the pottery place, and she was alone in there. All by herself like. No one else there. Just her.”

  Hyslop nodded.

  “Good,” she said. “Well, thanks for that, Zak. You can go now. I don’t want you following me any more today.”

  The boy looked crestfallen but turned away obediently.

  “Actually, wait a minute,” Hyslop called him back. She held out the plate with the brioche on it and Zak returned, and looked down at it.

  “You can have this as a reward,” said Hyslop. “It’s a brioche.”

  Zak put out a tentative hand and took the brioche. He examined it as if he had never seen such a thing before.

  “Bye then, Zak,” said Hyslop and she closed the window. Zak was dismissed.

  She watched him walk off, gazing down at the brioche. He held it in his hands as if it were a wild bird he had captured, and he was trying to stop it from flying away, yet without wanting to hurt it. He looked back once at Hyslop, then continued slowly on his way.

  Hyslop waited until he was out of sight before setting off for Sandy’s pottery. She did not bother to knock, but opened the door and st
ood there, with her bag of clothes, toothbrush and butterfly book.

  “I’ve come to stay for a few days,” she announced.

  “Hyslop!” cried Sandy, looking up from her work. “Well, how lovely!”

  “I’ve brought a few things with me.”

  “Sweetie, don’t stand there cluttering up the doorway,” said Sandy. “Leave your stuff there and come and see what I’ve been making.”

  Hyslop walked over.

  “Well, I’m thrilled to have you,” said Sandy, peering at Hyslop over her glasses. “Is it OK with your mother?”

  “She’s away,” said Hyslop, aware that her words were dropping into Sandy’s consciousness like stones chucked into a pond. She could almost see the ripples. “Away. In London. For a few days.”

  “London!” exclaimed Sandy. “Oh, I see.”

  She did not explain what it was that she saw or didn’t see about London, but began to show Hyslop a newly glazed teapot that she had made.

  “I like this dark green glaze,” said Hyslop. “Green’s my favourite colour.” She took the lid off and replaced it carefully. “And the lid’s a perfect fit. That’s really clever.”

  Sandy beamed at her.

  “Would you like to make something else?” she asked.

  “Mmmmm, yes,” said Hyslop. “I should like to make a mug for drinking hot chocolate. I should like it to be green, maybe a different green from this though. I should like a mug the colour of a Green Hairstreak.”

  “Well, I presume that is a butterfly,” said Sandy. “I think I said that I would make you a butterfly mug.”

  Hyslop nodded: “I can show you a picture if you like of the Green Hairstreak.”

  “First things first, Hyslop,” said Sandy. “Making a mug means a lesson in throwing. Are you ready for a shot on the wheel?”

  “Yes,” said Hyslop. “Yes, I think I am.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Zak Feels Thunder in the Air

  August continued to be hot, oppressively hot. No one had ever endured such a stifling August. His grandmother, who seemed to have lived forever, said it was the hottest summer she could remember, and she grumbled about how “close” it was. Zak did not understand what she meant by this, but knew to keep out of her way as much as possible as the heat made her specially grumpy. She sometimes had to go and lie down after lunch, which was not something he had witnessed before. “My bones are getting old,” she said, and that was certainly true. Her bones were growing old like the rest of her. “There’s thunder in the air,” was another of her phrases, and this one he did understand. He could feel it too. The air felt heavy, as if it was struggling to hold back a storm. Maybe the air had to become thick and heavy to hold those heavy rain-filled storm-clouds up in the air. Otherwise they would burst through with lightning and thunder and all the animals would have to run for shelter. It seemed to Zak that the air was holding back more than a thunderstorm, though. There was something else it was holding back, something big that was trying to break through. Everyone seemed to be in a cross mood. Little storm flies were everywhere: they stuck to the butter, died in their hundreds on window ledges, and even got into the milk somehow. Great swirling swarms of them appeared from nowhere, and made his father swipe at them and curse.