“Horrible flies, I’m sick of them,” Mr Braithwaite snapped at Zak and his father as they were weeding the borders. “Could do with some rain, Judd,” he added accusingly, almost as if it were Zak’s father’s fault that the garden was dry and parched. “Keep on top of the watering, will you? I’m going to be away in London for a few days.”
His father made a respectful, if inarticulate, monosyllable of assent.
“And strim the nettles near Keeper’s Cottage,” continued Mr Braithwaite. “Seems to be a breeding ground for flies and moths there. I want it all cut back. Be as savage as you like with it.”
This time Zak thought first of all about the girl Hyslop rather than about the old man. She wouldn’t be happy to have all the nettles cut down. They were probably full of caterpillars and butterfly eggs and insect life. He hoped she wouldn’t blame him.
“I promise you, Judd, the day is coming soon when I’ll turn this whole place into a civilised place to live,” Mr Braithwaite swatted at a swarm of flies that were circling his head. “I’m going to wage war on weeds and insects and vermin and tidy the place up once and for all. Get rid of all the brambles and nettles near the houses. Yes, one of these days we’ll put some pheasants down and manage it all properly.”
Zak’s father made another vague noise of assent.
“In the meantime, I could do with a lift to the station,” Mr Braithwaite was looking at his watch. “Get the Jaguar out, could you, and I’ll be ready in about five minutes.”
With that he walked off, followed by a halo of black flies.
“You get on with the weeding,” his father said to Zak, and headed for the garage area behind the big house. His father liked driving Mr Braithwaite’s Jaguar better than the old man’s ancient Mercedes. It would put him in a good mood for a few hours. Zak knew that after he had dropped Mr Braithwaite off at the station in it, he would drive around for a bit on the dual carriageway, going as fast as he could, enjoying the power of the engine. He would be gone for some time, which was always a good thing for Zak.
Zak hated being stuck in one place as it meant he couldn’t follow the girl Hyslop around. He knew that she had stayed with the woman Sandy overnight, and when she was there she spent more time indoors than she did when she was at Keeper’s Cottage. She sometimes walked the dogs and he could only follow at a distance, or else the dogs soon sniffed him out. Sometimes she did pottery work with the woman Sandy and made coloured pots out of clay. It was strange, Zak mused. He had lived here all his life but none of the adults had invited him to do stuff. Hyslop did pottery with the Sandy woman, she looked at butterflies with the old man, and she even wandered into the Scottish man’s furniture workshop. He didn’t think she made furniture, but it was impossible to tell what she did as she sometimes stayed there for quite a long time. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she suddenly appeared with a chair she had made: she seemed capable of anything and everything.
Zak picked an enormous weed that almost filled his plastic bucket, then covered it up with some chickweed. It was a trick he had learned. It looked as if he had done quite a bit of weeding already. He decided that he might have a wander around whilst his father was safely occupied with driving Mr Braithwaite to the station. He set off towards the big house, careful to keep behind the fence out of sight. His father would have gone to get the car out of the garage so there was no chance of being spotted by him. Suddenly Mr Braithwaite came out of a side door of the big house and Zak ducked behind the wall just in time. This was unusual. He normally came out the front door, with Mrs Braithwaite giving him a kiss on the cheek, saying: “Goodbye, darling.”
He was pulling a large suitcase with one hand and holding his mobile with the other. There was a lot of “darling” on the telephone but it was a different sort of “darling”, nothing like the voice he used with Mrs Braithwaite. Zak knew he was talking to the girl Hyslop’s mother. He was arranging to meet her and stay with her somewhere. Probably London. Everyone seemed to go to London. It was such a huge place that Zak wondered that they didn’t all get lost there. How would you ever find someone in such a vast area of pavements and roads and houses and shops and buildings? You could be stuck there forever.
“So glad you love the flat, darling,” Mr Braithwaite was saying. “Mmm, yes it was the view that sold it to me.” He gave a silly laugh. Zak didn’t like Mr Braithwaite or his silly laugh. “I shall be with you in just over an hour. Then we can have three whole days together. God, I can’t wait… ”
Zak stared miserably at the wall in front of him. Mr Braithwaite was going in to London to meet Hyslop’s mother. It was sad news for poor Mrs Braithwaite, who was a kind, good person and whose husband had found another “darling.” It was sad news for Hyslop, as surely she wouldn’t want to go and live in London with her mother and Mr Braithwaite where there were no butterflies. Most of all, it was sad news for Zak. He would never be able to find the girl Hyslop if she went to London with her mother and Mr Braithwaite.
Zak realised that it was not just a storm that the air was holding back: it was change. Everything was going to change. Somehow he had to stop them from taking Hyslop away from the butterflies and the beautiful garden. He had to stop Mr Braithwaite from destroying all the insects in order to shoot poor pheasants. He had to stop Hyslop from leaving him forever, as the thought of life without her was unbearable to contemplate.
He had stop things from changing, but he had no idea how to go about doing it.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Painted Ladies Emerge
“Look, the first one is emerging!” cried Sir Northcote. “Come quickly!”
Penny, Sandy and Hyslop left the ceramic pieces they were working on and all hurried over to the table by the windowsill in Sandy’s pottery.
“I must admit, it’s something that even I find exciting,” said Sandy, bending down to survey the pale brown chrysalises. “It takes me back to my childhood when we came to visit, and Uncle Northy, you always seemed to have some chrysalises ready to turn into butterflies. We seemed always to be releasing Painted Ladies when I think back to my visits here! Such happy memories!”
“Yes, I like them too,” said Penny. She looked fondly at her father. “And I’ve seen quite a few in my time, haven’t I, Daddy?”
“None of you were properly interested,” snorted the old man, with a vigorous head slap. “I have much higher hopes of young Hyslop.”
“Oh, well,” said Sandy. “We won’t even try to compete. She is streets ahead of us on that score. A proper lepidopterist in the making, I’d say.”
Sir Northcote had purchased five Painted Lady caterpillars in a small clear plastic container, and had placed it in Sandy’s pottery so that Hyslop could visit it every day. She had been watching them double in size, as they munched and munched without ceasing. They were very hungry little caterpillars. The stage where they all decided to become chrysalises had been incredible. Somehow, after three weeks of constant eating, the soft wiggly caterpillars had shed their skins and even their heads and transformed into hard pale brown chrysalises before her eyes. It was strange to contemplate that one’s head was a sheddable part of one’s body. Hyslop had never seen anything so extraordinary in her life, and now the next miracle was about to take place, an even more spectacular and beautiful miracle: the chrysalises were rocking and shaking, and unmistakeable butterfly wings were pushing out.
“I’ve set up this lens so that you can look closely at what’s going on,” said the old man, fiddling with an ancient looking brass lens which he angled towards the first chrysalis. “Here, look through this. It belonged to my grandfather,” his voice rose to a shout, “so be careful with it!”
Hyslop hardly dared breathe as she watched the first butterfly emerge in glorious detail through the magnifying lens. The wings were crumpled and feeble looking.
“It won’t be able to fly for some time,” said Sir Northcote, with only a tiny head slap. “It has to pump fluid into the wings to harden them. You’l
l have plenty of time to watch it before it’s ready to take off. A few hours probably.”
“The butterflies must be very vulnerable to predators at this stage,” said Hyslop. “It looks so helpless.”
“Oh yes,” said Sir Northcote. “Very vulnerable indeed. But if they’re females they will already be exuding a pheromone, a scent to attract male butterflies. Life is short and there’s no time to waste.”
“Well, there are no predators in here,” said Sandy. “My pottery is a safe place!”
“It’s thirsty work all this pottery and butterfly watching,” said Penny. “I’m going to put the kettle on. Daddy, do you want some tea?”
“No, I’m fine,” Sir Northcote shooed his daughter away with a wild gesture that ended in a head slap. “You two have your tea. Hyslop and I shall be fine here on our own. We’re busy.”
“We’d better not disturb such important work,” said Sandy. “I’ll join you, Pen. I’m in dire need of a cup of Earl Grey. ”
Hyslop watched the newly emerged Painted Lady through the microscope. It was a moment almost as close to perfection as the finding of the Purple Emperor in the forest. Here was a new life, a beautiful new butterfly about to spread its wings and discover the world. Painted Ladies travelled for miles across seas and hills and valleys and forests, and there was no telling where this fragile little one would end up. At least these five were getting a good start in life: no predators could get at them whilst they were hardening off their wings. She smiled as she thought of how wonderful it would be to see them flutter into the air and discover the joys of flight. Sir Northcote shuffled and head-slapped and muttered “Dunderheids!” a few times beside her, and Sandy and Penny chatted quietly over their tea-making.
Just as the third butterfly was beginning to emerge, and Sandy and Penny were finishing their second mugs of Earl Grey, the door of the pottery opened.
“Hi, everyone!” said Vanessa brightly, stepping into the room. The peace and tranquillity in the room felt threatened, as if the sky had just grown dark.
“I thought I’d find Hyslop here with you, Sandy.” Vanessa gave her familiar throaty laugh, but no one responded. She was greeted by silence. “I told you, Ilga, didn’t I?”
Ilga walked in behind her.
“Quite a beehive of industry here, darlinks,” she said. “I have been neglecting my pottery recently.”
“I had noticed that, Ilga,” said Sandy.
“SO kind of you to keep an eye on Hyslop,” gushed Vanessa. “I had to go away for a few days, Sandy, darling. I knew she’d be in good hands.”
Hyslop returned to staring down the lens. The pottery suddenly did not seem such a safe place any more. Sir Northcote began slapping his head so violently he left red weals on his forehead.
“I must be going, Sands,” said Penny. “I didn’t realise what time it was.”
She took off her apron and made for the door, pointedly ignoring both Vanessa and Ilga.
“Hey, Penny!” said Ilga. “I thought we could all have a nice cup of Earl Grey together!”
“No,” Penny was trying to force a smile, but failing. “No, Ilga, I really must be off. Lots to do.”
“You’ve just missed tea-break,” said Sandy. “I’m afraid I must get back to work. I’m right in the middle of something here.”
This was so unlike Sandy’s normal kind hospitality that Ilga looked startled.
“Sandy!” she exclaimed. “I’ve not offended you, have I? Darlink, I’ve never been turned down for a cup of your funny old Earl Grey before.”
“Not turning you down at all, Ilga,” said Sandy, returning to her work. “Help yourself. I must just get down to some work, though.”
“I’m so sorry we disturbed you, Sandy,” said Vanessa gently, her voice full of concern. “And you’ve been so kind with Hyslop too. Well, we’ll leave you in peace and let you get on. Come on, Ilga, it’s either second-rate coffee at my place or proper coffee from that wonderful espresso machine at yours.”
Vanessa looked over at Hyslop.
“Hyslop!” she said sharply. “Can you come too, please. Sandy has work to get on with. You’ve outstayed your welcome here.”
“No!” said Sandy sharply. “No,” she said again, this time in a more controlled voice. “There’s no need for Hyslop to go. Of course she hasn’t outstayed her welcome.”
Hyslop looked up and waited.
“Well, in any case, she must come back home,” said Vanessa. “I want to hear all about what she’s been up to in my absence.”
This was so unlikely that there was a long silence as each person present mentally chewed over the statement, found it indigestible and spat it out.
“We’re watching Painted Ladies emerging,” said Sir Northcote suddenly, his eyes glaring and angry. “Hyslop is needed here.”
Hyslop returned to peering down the lens and did not even look at her mother.
“Oh, I see,” said Vanessa in an unnaturally high cheerful voice. “Butterflies, is it? Well, I shan’t compete with them.”
She waited a moment more as if for something to happen, and then turned to Ilga and said: “It’s just you and I then, Ilga. Let’s have some espresso at your place. I’m gagging for some caffeine.”
She added something in German and Ilga laughed.
As they went out of the door, chattering in German, Sir Northcote stopped slapping his head, and stared after them.
“Dunderheids!” he called out loudly.
No one else said a word.
Chapter Forty
Tomatoes and Pistachio Macaroons
Vanessa had ignored Hyslop since her return from London, and had been permanently on her mobile telephone. There was a lot of laughter and chatting in English littered with “darlings” to Hugo; there was sharp business talk in Italian to what sounded like bank managers; occasionally there were conversations in German to Ilga; and several times, rather unusually, she seemed to be laughing and flirting in Spanish which was much too quick for Hyslop to understand, and “Buenos Aires” was mentioned several times, a city that Hyslop knew to be the capital of Argentina. Something was being planned. Hyslop could feel it in the air, but she knew there was no point in asking any questions. She was being punished with especially cold treatment for not coming with her mother and leaving Sandy’s pottery when asked. She had not rushed to obey, and had made her mother look foolish in public. Sir Northcote, Penny and Sandy had supported her against Vanessa, and it would never be forgotten or forgiven. There may not be a suitable dark cupboard in Keeper’s Cottage, but her mother was definitely plotting something and Hyslop knew the punishment would be a bad one. There was an urgency about Vanessa’s phone calls that was new, and there were ominous cold glances in Hyslop’s direction.
The morning was particularly hot and heavy. The thunder in the air that everyone kept talking about was so heavy that surely it had to break through soon. It felt hotter than Italy. The little storm flies were still around and appeared randomly and irritatingly in the oddest of places. Vanessa had found several, unaccountably, in her morning espresso and Hyslop had sneaked out of the house, to the sound of her mother spitting out coffee and cursing in a singularly nasty manner.
She went into the greenhouse to find some tomatoes for breakfast and found Zak there before her. He wiped his mouth and looked sheepish at being caught.
“Are you eating the Braithwaites’ tomatoes, Zak?” she asked.
“Well, I did just taste the one,” he said. He paused. Hyslop watched him struggle with the desire to lie that came naturally to him as a survival technique, and the desire to please her by telling her the truth. She could read his facial expressions as easily as an infant’s reading book, and, as she had predicted, his desire to please her was strongest. “Well, I think I tasted a couple,” he added. “Actually, four. I ate four.”
Hyslop looked along the rows that were becoming more depleted of tomatoes every day. She wondered if Penny knew that she and Zak were eating them at quite suc
h a rate.
“I might just try one myself,” she said casually. She picked one and ate it. Its ripe-to-bursting sweetness exploded in her mouth. “They’re quite good,” she said, taking another one, and popping it in her mouth. She nodded her head in an interested manner, as if savouring one for the first time. “Although,” she took a third tomato, “not as good as in Italy of course.”
“I helped Mrs Braithwaite plant the seeds,” said Zak. “And then we planted them on in the special tomato compost. From the grow-bags, like.”
“I see,” said Hyslop. She eyed up a fourth tomato that looked exquisitely ripe.
“Have another one,” said Zak. “Mrs Braithwaite don’t use them all. She never misses them.”
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 22