Hyslop raised her head in a haughty manner at the implication that Zak was giving her permission to take one, and she decided to leave it. Silence descended, and neither of them moved or spoke for a while, though the greenhouse, even this early in the morning, was stiflingly hot.
“There’s never much breakfast in my house,” Zak blurted out finally. “Don’t s’pose that mother of yours cooks much either, does she?”
Hyslop said nothing to this but her dark eyes flashed at Zak and he looked down and kicked an empty fertilizer bottle. She didn’t seem to like it when he mentioned her mother.
“I am going to visit Malcolm,” she said abruptly. “I don’t need you around me today, Zak.”
Zak continued to stare at the ground, and she could feel the hurt emanating from him.
“Didn’t mean nothing ‘gainst your mother,” he muttered.
“It’s nothing to do with that,” said Hyslop. “I have things to do this morning and I don’t need you following me around.” She paused, watching how crushed he looked. “But I do want you to go all around the estate for me.”
Zak looked up, pleased at being given a task.
“You haven’t forgotten about the Camberwell Beauty I hope, Zak.”
“No!” he cried vehemently. “No! I look for that Beauty every day. I go round and round the fields and the woods. Everywhere.”
“Well, you need to keep looking,” said Hyslop. “I read on the internet that one was sighted twelve miles away, and we have a very attractive garden here.” It felt strangely right for Hyslop to say “we” when describing the estate garden, “so it’s not impossible that one might turn up.”
“I’ll keep looking,” he said. “But what if I see one?” Hyslop was amused to see a look of cunning flash across his face. “I’ll need to know where you are so I can come and tell you.”
“I shall be at Malcolm’s,” she said. She smiled at Zak and saw how her smile affected him. “For an hour or so anyway.”
“The furniture man?”
“Yes, Malcolm is a friend of mine, and he lets me go upstairs to his study and use his computer,” Hyslop turned and left the greenhouse, with Zak following eagerly. “I shall check on the internet which butterflies have been sighted in our area.”
“Does that internet tell you where to find a Beauty?” asked Zak.
“There was a possible sighting not that far away from here,” said Hyslop. “But nothing definite. It’s not a butterfly that you can just go out and find. It may come and find you. That’s all you can hope for.”
Zak was right behind her and Hyslop turned round abruptly and frowned.
“You don’t need to follow me,” she said. “I don’t have time to make conversation with you. You have work to do, Zak. Buzz off.”
Zak ran off at once and Hyslop made her way to Malcolm’s workshop.
“Hullo, wee one,” was Malcolm’s greeting. “Just sorting out some veneers.”
He had long strips of veneer all around him and seemed to be pondering over them. Hyslop knew how valuable they were so she did not approach too closely for fear of stepping on one.
“Come to look for butterflies on the computer, have you?” he asked. “Or have you time for a quick tea break with me.”
When Hyslop said nothing, he added, by way of incentive: “Got some pistachio macaroons that Ilga made last night. Have you ever tasted those?”
“No,” said Hyslop, stepping forward.
“I tell you, it’s a close run thing between my late mother’s shortbread and Ilga’s macaroons,” said Malcolm. “Now, I know you don’t like tea, so I’ve got some apple juice for you in the fridge.”
He bustled about, making himself a mug of tea and brought out a glass of juice and a little plate of greenish looking biscuits.
“That’s one of Sandy’s mugs you’re drinking out of,” remarked Hyslop.
“Oh yes,” said Malcolm. “And see here,” he pointed at the blue ceramic coil pot full of pencils, “I’m using your pencil pot too. I never lose my pencils these days. Very handy.”
Hyslop took the green macaroon and examined it. She had eaten pistachio ice cream in Italy, but had never seen a biscuit like this, sandwiched with some greenish icing together with another biscuit.
“What d’you think then?” said Malcolm, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “Good, eh?”
Hyslop had her eyes closed. She did not particularly like Ilga, but she had to admit that these biscuits were delicious.
“More than good,” she said, her mouth full. “What is the icing stuff?”
“Lime curd,” said Malcolm. “Go on, you have to have another. Next time you can try an almond one filled with peanut butter. They’re pretty special too.”
Hyslop did not need to be asked again.
“Do you know what I like round here?” she said, between mouthfuls.
“What, apart from what wonderful people we all are?”
“I like,” pronounced Hyslop, “how everyone creates stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“You know, like making furniture and pottery,” said Hyslop. “And you grow your own vegetables and eat food you make from scratch. It’s not all bought from shops. And everyone’s always doing interesting things.”
“I think you’re right. We do pretty well round here.” Malcolm nodded in agreement. “But most interesting of all for you I think are the old man and his butterflies. Go on then, up you go. The computer’s switched on and Miss Hilda’s up there. Miss McKenzie is out hunting I think.”
Hyslop ran up the little staircase, taking the stairs two at a time.
Chapter Forty One
Paradise under Threat
Although Hyslop preferred her precious butterfly book with its exquisite illustrations to photographs on the internet, she found that an hour could slip by quite easily just looking at local websites, which listed all recent lepidopteral sightings.
There were some good stories: someone had seen fourteen Red Admirals feasting on rotting fruit in their garden; a butterfly enthusiast had been so intent in chasing what he thought was a Clouded Yellow that he had ended up falling into a stream; a young boy had photographed the grey-blue Valezina form of Silver-washed Fritillary which he happened to see whilst out riding his bike; someone else had photographed a very fuzzy, indistinct Fritillary of some sort and was asking for identification. Most exciting of all, there were rumours of an unidentified dark butterfly which two people claimed might be a Camberwell Beauty.
Hyslop felt akin to these people. The world contained those who appreciated butterflies, and those who didn’t. Most people would of course profess an interest: butterflies are, after all, attractive and summery. People wore them as motifs on dresses and hairslides and jewellery in much the same way as hearts or flowers. Her own passion went far beyond this. She scorned those who thought butterflies should be pink and glittery and who never bothered to learn their names. Those people probably wouldn’t notice real butterflies if they were flying all around them. They preferred fake versions. For Hyslop, butterflies were embedded deep within her, and she knew she was obsessed, pinned to her passion as surely as those specimens in Sir Northcote’s collection. Every waking moment was filled with them, and sometimes even her dreams too. Butterflies flocked in their thousands and filled all the vast spaces inside her which had been empty for such a long time. They chased away all the ugly dark dreams of the past. It had been a rough journey, but she had found her habitat, her home: a garden of Eden which she never wanted to leave.
She looked on-line at various sites all over Britain where she and Northy could view different species. There could be a glorious Somerset trip with Sandy and Penny to see the Large Blues. There could be a trip to Norfolk to see its unique Swallowtails; perhaps a crossing to the Isle of Wight to see Glanville Fritillaries, and of course trips to Scotland and the Lake District to see Chequered Skippers, Scotch Argus and Mountain Ringlets. Hyslop shivered with delight as she anticipated her future, discovering
all the British butterflies with Northy and Sandy. She stroked a delighted Miss Hilda who was purring on her lap.
“Hugo! Didn’t expect to see you around at this time of day!” she heard Malcolm exclaim suddenly from downstairs. “Oy! Mind my veneers, would you. Don’t stand on them!”
Hyslop froze, one hand poised over the keyboard, and the other over Miss Hilda’s head.
“Sorry, Malc. How are you, old chap?” Hugo didn’t sound at all sorry, Hyslop decided. He had come for some reason of his own, and although he was asking Malcolm how he was, she knew he wasn’t really interested at all. She pushed Miss Hilda off her lap gently and crept to the top of the stairs to see what was happening. The cat shook itself indignantly and stretched.
“Don’t pace around like that,” said Malcolm. “Look, sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. I’m going to carry on working, mind you. I’m just trying to… ”
“What? Oh sorry, yes I’ll sit down here, shall I?”
“Tea? Coffee?”
“Um, tea please, Malc, thanks.”
There was a silence broken only by Hugo clearing his throat several times. Hyslop lay at the top of the stairs, silent and alert.
“Thanks, old chap.” She presumed he had been given a mug of tea.
“You… um… seem busy. What are you working on?”
If one asks a question like this it is polite to wait for an answer, but Hugo was like her mother’s rich friends in Italy. He was not interested in other people’s answers. He had come to talk about himself.
Malcolm began to say something: “I’m making a cabinet at the moment, English oak with… ”
“I had to come, Malc.” This was Hugo’s interruption.
Again there was a silence. Both Malcolm and Hyslop waited for Hugo to get to the point of his visit.
“I’m in pretty deep,” was what she thought she heard Hugo say in a low voice.
“Pretty deep in what way?”
“You know, Malc. It must be obvious. With Vanessa.”
Malcolm said nothing.
“I know you won’t approve,” said Hugo. “I know you will think I’m a swine.” Hyslop nodded to herself at this point. “It’s not some casual affair, though. God, no. Casual is the last word for it, believe me. Malc, I’ve found the right person for me. The right person in every way.” There was another long silence, whilst Hugo perhaps waited for some comment from Malcolm. When none was forthcoming, he carried on. “My marriage to Penny has been a sham for years. A complete farce. You must have seen that. I have a chance of real happiness now with Vanessa. She is just the most incredible woman I have ever met. If I don’t take the chance now, I will lose her. I couldn’t bear that, Malc.” It almost sounded as if the man was on the point of bursting into tears. Hyslop narrowed her eyes and waited for more.
Again, there was a pause but Malcolm said nothing.
“The thing is,” Hugo said, and then for a long time he did not say what the thing was. After a while he repeated: “The thing is,” but still did not elucidate.
“The thing is?” said Malcolm.
“Yes, the thing is, Malc, I may have got myself in a bit of trouble.”
“In what way?” Malcolm’s voice was sharp.
“Professionally.”
“Professionally!” repeated Malcolm. “What has your profession got to do with that woman?”
“Don’t call her ‘that woman’ Malc,” pleaded Hugo. “Please try and get to know her. For my sake. If you give her a chance, I know you will come to see what a wonderful person she is. Sandy has known her since school-days. Ilga has got to know her too and likes her a lot, and you know she’s an astute judge of character. Give her a chance for Ilga’s sake, if not just for mine.”
“What about for Penny’s sake?”
“Malc, you’re my friend,” said Hugo. “Please try and understand. I will see that Penny is all right. You know I would never just leave her without the means to fend for herself. She will be left well off, unlike poor Vanessa all these years.”
“Poor Vanessa seems to do all right if you ask me.”
“Malc, her Italian husband died and left every penny of his estate to his mother, then in trust for Hyslop when she comes of age. This man was seriously wealthy, I mean loaded, but he left nothing for Vanessa. Nothing at all to help her bring up their daughter. Somehow that was allowed in Italian law. Can you imagine the selfishness?” Hyslop dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as she heard this. She wished her nails were longer and sharper: she wanted to draw blood. “Every penny is in trust, Malc. Vanessa can’t touch it. She’s had to bring the kid up on her own, in a foreign country with absolutely no income. Not easy for her I can tell you.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Be sarcastic if you want, but just try and imagine how hard it would be,” said Hugo. “Penny’s never wanted for anything materially in her life, but Vanessa has had it tough. Really tough.”
“And what did she get you to do professionally?” asked Malcolm.
There was a lengthy silence. Miss Hilda McKenzie rubbed her head against Hyslop, demanding attention.
“You mustn’t tell anyone, Malc.” Hugo sounded anguished. “I know I can trust you.”
Malcolm said nothing, but Hugo continued: “Vanessa needed help. Legal help to overturn the terms of the Italian will. I have assisted her in getting the trust fund into her own name.”
“I see.”
“It’s only right, Malc. It’s the way it should have been left in the first place but for some vindictive old cow of a mother-in-law.”
If Hyslop had been a cat she would have arched her back and hissed at this point, as she realised that Hugo was referring to her Nonna. She felt her lips curling back in a snarl. Miss Hilda sprang back from her in alarm.
“Well, if as you say it’s only right, then there shouldn’t be a problem professionally,” said Malcolm. “I assume everything was done legally and above board?”
This time Hugo was silent.
“What the devil have you done, Hugo!” Malcolm sounded harsh, angrier than Hyslop had ever heard him. “Have you compromised yourself professionally for this woman?”
“Malcolm, you have to understand… ”
“Well, I don’t, Hugo, I don’t understand at all.”
Upstairs, lying trembling in a shaft of sunlight, Hyslop understood only too well.
Chapter Forty Two
Flight
Hyslop had no idea how long she lay there, or how the conversation between the two men continued.
Hugo’s words had pierced deep within her immediately like arrows into armour. How fragile and thin had her armour been all this time. Who would have guessed? She had thought she was hardened. Now, she lay as if wounded and tried to extricate them one by one from her flesh. She tried to make sense of what she had heard, to regain control. All she could hear was her own panicky breathing, a rush of air in her ears, her heart beating: thump, thump, thump.
Her father, who had died shortly after she was born, had not been the villain that her mother had described. He was the wonderful Papa that her Nonna had told her about. He had left money, a great deal of money by the sound of it, for Hyslop.
Beat. Beat. Beat. Blood seemed to be pumping violently all around her body.
Her mother, who had mysteriously appeared after Nonna died, had only come on the scene because of the money.
Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.
Only because of the money.
Boom-boom-boom-boom. Her heart was pounding so loudly it was almost deafening her.
Hyslop’s one consolation over the years was that somehow she had known that however awful the Uncles were, however unhappy she was, her mother was not going to abandon her. Her mother had come for her when Nonna died. Her mother always took Hyslop with her wherever she went.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Hyslop found it hard to think over the noise of her beating heart.
The truth was that her mother had only dragge
d Hyslop around because of the money, the trust fund that she was waiting to get her hands on. Hyslop felt exposed and wounded. The greatest wound of all was the final truth: her mother had never loved her.
Boomboomboomboomboom… Hyslop could not breathe properly.
She stood up. Dimly she was aware of Miss Hilda retreating to a corner of the room.
She needed fresh air, she felt constrained in the room. She had to get out, yet going downstairs past Hugo and Malcolm was out of the question.
Gasping for breath, she opened the skylight window and looked out. She simply had to get out of the stuffy attic room. Nothing could hold her there. As if in a dream, she pulled a chair over to the wall beneath the window and stood on it. With her heart still pounding, she climbed up and out onto Malcolm’s roof.
There, stretched before her, was the estate garden in all its late summer beauty. The trees looked fresher and greener than she had ever seen them, the air was full of the buzz and hum of a thousand different insects, the sky was a strange shade of dark blue. It was a stormy blue, menacing yet beautiful, but not as oppressive as the storm gathering inside her head. She had to be out there. She had to be free.
There was a tall tree some distance from Malcolm’s workshop and Hyslop slid down to the edge of the roof and surveyed it. She stood up and stretched out her arms.
Somewhere, in a tiny part of her consciousness, she was aware of an inarticulate cry from Zak. He was watching her of course.
Hyslop jumped.
She flew through the air. It was a marvellous sensation. Nothing else mattered in the world. And somehow, there in front of her, was the foliage of the tree. Although some of the outer twigs were too feeble to hold her, she managed to grasp at the stronger branches beyond them and haul herself into the tree. In later years, when she contemplated what she had done, it was a mystery how she had made such a leap. Zak Judd would describe it to her as the most amazing thing he had ever seen.
She was scratched and both her arms were bleeding, but she did not care. She clung to the trunk of the tree, and remained there, in its green centre for some time. She waited until she could no longer hear her heart beating, the air rushing in her ears, then decided to get away. She did not want to be found by Malcolm, or – she shuddered at the thought – by Hugo.
The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 23