Sound of Butterflies, The

by King, Rachael

  Peter Crawley

  Thomas doesn’t resist when she tells him of her plan, and she is heartened. He is not exactly eager, but he lays down his tools like an obedient child and allows her to help him with his coat and hat.

  They wander down the hill to the station and catch the penny tram to Kew. It has been some time since they took a tram together, and the smell of the brakes and stale air remind her of their courting days. She reaches over and takes Thomas’s hand, but it is a limp jellyfish in hers. She does not pull away; instead her fingertips trace the shiny calluses, the bumps of his scars, as she looks out the window at the world moving by, everything so normal: passengers alighting from omnibuses; young women shopping with their mothers; men in straw boaters and candy-striped jackets.

  Peter Crawley looks nothing like she imagined — he doesn’t resemble a beetle at all. His shoulders are narrow and his arms and legs like sticks, and yet a soft belly protrudes through the buttons of his jacket, reminding Sophie of photographs she has seen of native people in far-off lands, where malnutrition has distended their stomachs in an almost comical disproportion to the rest of their bodies. His receding hair falls in thin brown curls but his face is sharp; both his nose and chin point exaggeratedly towards the ground. Small black eyes flash behind small wire-rimmed spectacles. Mr Crawley has his teeth clamped together and his lips drawn apart in a parody of a smile, and he stares at Thomas with worry.

  He manages to tear his gaze away from her husband to greet her.

  ‘Mrs Edgar.’ He nods, but does not take her hand. Instead he reaches for Thomas’s, grasping it with one hand while resting the other on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘My good friend,’ he says. ‘What’s become of you, hn? What have they done to you?’

  Sophie is taken aback by his forthrightness, but she is also glad. For too long people have tiptoed around Thomas, Sophie included, and not addressed the problem directly, as if they could ignore it and it would cease to be an issue. But she shouldn’t be surprised. Peter is a good friend of Thomas’s. Even though she has never met him before, Thomas has always spoken of him with great warmth and admiration.

  Thomas will not meet his friend’s eyes.

  ‘Can he hear me?’ Mr Crawley asks Sophie.

  ‘Yes, he can hear you. You just won’t get much of a response. You can try though, please, by all means.’

  ‘Right.’ Mr Crawley rubs his hands together. ‘Come in.’ He leads them through the gates. ‘I’ve got just the place for us to go today.’

  The sky appears huge and white above them. The Palm House looms like the upturned hull of a luxury liner. Men and women promenade up the sweeping pathways, the women spinning coloured parasols and the men brandishing unnecessary but fashionable walking sticks.

  Silence hangs between them as they walk and Sophie feels an urge to smash it with a hammer. Instead she turns to Mr Crawley to break it gently.

  ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you,’ she says. ‘Thomas has told me so much about you. How kind you have been to him, and encouraging. He couldn’t have made the trip to Brazil without you, I understand.’ She realises as she says this that her voice is harder than she intends. It’s not that she blames Mr Crawley, but the tightness in her belly, the stress of the meeting, forced the words out like hard kernels of grain.

  ‘Mrs Edgar,’ says Mr Crawley, ‘if I’d had any idea he would return like this, I promise you I never would have put him forward for the expedition.’

  Sophie tries to stop him, to reassure him, but he goes on.

  ‘I seriously believe Thomas has great scientific aptitude. He had expressed to me his regret he was only ever able to collect a few beetles and butterflies from the park. I really thought this was the opportunity of a lifetime for him. I’m only sorry it didn’t appear to work out that way for him.’

  We’re talking about him as if he’s not here, Sophie thinks. She steals a glance at her husband. Though he keeps pace with them, his head hangs as if in shame, and his feet scrape on the ground as he walks. They are talking about him as if he is a failure.

  ‘On the contrary. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, there is no denying it. I don’t know if you have seen the specimens he brought back but they are magnificent. He has been paid a tidy sum for them. Please don’t think that this has ruined him for life …’ She takes Thomas’s arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. ‘This condition is only temporary, isn’t it, my dear?’

  Mr Crawley seems startled at her addressing him directly, as if Thomas is a photograph she carries in her pocket. It seems to bring him to his senses and he stops talking altogether.

  Even as she makes such a bold statement, Sophie knows it is for her benefit as much as Thomas’s. In reality, she can see his condition stretching far into their future, a bleak and dusty future where the two of them become strangers and she depends wholly on her father for support. At least her anger has retreated, for now.

  The Palm House’s curved glass walls stretch above them. Sophie has been here before, both as a child and with Thomas, but the architecture has lost none of its magic. Inside, the warmth hits them like warm meat. Thomas gulps air beside her. She can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, enduring this wet heat for months on end. Here, the warmth is produced by boilers under the floor and she wonders how accurate a representation of the tropics it is.

  Thomas’s eyes dart about and his face is lifted to the ceiling, where palms soar and seem to touch the sky through the glass. About them is the murmur of guests, talking in whispers as if inside a museum, but otherwise it is still and quiet. She remembers the letters he sent her, about the overpowering sounds of the jungle, with screeches of birds and monkeys and frogs and insects. It must seem quite dead to him in here.

  ‘Thomas,’ says Mr Crawley. He lays a hand on his arm. ‘Talk to me, friend. How does this place compare with the real thing, hn?’

  Thomas shakes his head slowly.

  ‘Not quite the same, hn? I expect it’s a bit devoid of insect life.’

  Thomas’s eyes follow an imaginary butterfly from the canopy down to the ground, his head moving back and forth as the insect zigzags through the air. A sheen of sweat is forming on his forehead, but he doesn’t wipe it away.

  ‘Well, what about this?’ Peter leads them along the path, beneath the spiral staircase where a woman has lifted her skirts to ascend. She holds tightly to the railing and giggles nervously while her husband stands behind her and supports her, pushes her, even. The smell of damp earth rises from the pots and beds, and a sweet perfume crosses their path. Above them fruit that Sophie has never tasted drips from a vine. She imagines reaching up and plucking one, sinking her teeth into it and feeling the juice run down her chin and through her hands.

  Mr Crawley stands proudly in front of a tall young plant with finger-like leaves. ‘Hevea brasiliensis,’ he says.

  Thomas nods again, staring at the plant. He reaches out a hand and touches its smooth trunk.

  At Sophie’s blank look, Mr Crawley smiles. ‘It’s a rubber tree, Mrs Edgar. Thomas will be very familiar with this, I expect, seeing as how it was rubber that paid for his expedition.’

  Thomas grabs his hand back and puts it in his pocket, as if to control it.

  ‘You’ll be used to seeing the trees scarred by machete cuts, I expect. These ones are not bound for rubber production. They’ll have a nice quite life in captivity.’

  They fall silent and Sophie thinks she can hear water dripping somewhere. The heat prickles on the back of her neck and under her arms. Her thighs are ready to stick together. She opens her mouth to suggest they move back outside.

  ‘Of course,’ says Mr Crawley suddenly, stopping Sophie’s thoughts, ‘you went at the right time, Thomas. As we speak, plantations are being cultivated in the East Indies. These rubber trees are from seeds from Brazil, which were, I’m ashamed to say, smuggled out some years ago by a chap called Wickham. We’ve managed to grow them successfully here, and we shipped off a ton of seedlings to
Asia. They’ll be planted in nice ordered rows, not like in Brazil where the trees are miles apart. Must make tapping them somewhat difficult, I’d say. This is going to revolutionise the rubber industry. I’m afraid the bottom’s about to fall out of the market for poor old Brazil. Your man — what was his name?’ He looks at Thomas, forgetting perhaps that he will get no answer from him, so Sophie steps in to provide it.

  ‘Mr Santos.’

  ‘Santos, yes. I’m afraid his fortunes might very well take a dive. Sorry if that’s bad news, my friend. I say, did you ever find that butterfly you were going to look for? Please say yes. What a breakthrough it would be!’

  Sophie is so interested in Mr Crawley’s speech she has taken her eyes off Thomas, who stands to her left and slightly behind her. There is silence after Mr Crawley’s question, and she sees his face change from joviality to worry again.

  ‘Are you all right, Thomas?’

  Sophie turns to look at her husband. His fist is in his mouth and he bites on it, hard. Tears well in his eyes.

  ‘Wrong question, I think,’ says Mr Crawley. ‘I am sorry.’

  Thomas closes his eyes and nods. Then he flicks at his arms and spins around to look at the floor, as if tormented by insects. A grunt escapes him.

  ‘Do you want to wait for us outside, Thomas?’

  It is all the encouragement he needs. Scratching his hands, he turns and marches away from them and outside.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset him like that,’ says Mr Crawley. ‘A sore point?’

  She sighs. ‘I really don’t know any more.’

  ‘Perhaps the news of his friend’s imminent failure came as a shock. I should have been more tactful.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘I do wish he had written to me while he was away. I heard from one of his companions, Mr Gitchens.’

  Sophie leans forward. ‘Really? Which one was he?’

  ‘He was a plant-hunter for us. He has provided us with many seeds and specimens for study. A fine man, in my opinion. His letters are always brief, though. A man of few words.’

  Sophie feels deflated. ‘Oh. So he offered no insight into Thomas’s circumstances.’

  ‘Well, I could write to him, you know. I have an address in Manaus, in the care of Mr Santos. I haven’t heard from him for some time, but as far as I know he is still there.’

  ‘Could you? Oh, Mr Crawley, you don’t know how much this means to me.’

  ‘Well, you mustn’t get too excited. It takes six weeks for letters to travel, and even then I have no idea when it will reach him. You are looking at many months before we hear anything.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be better by then, and can tell us himself. But just in case …’

  Mr Crawley closes his eyes and cocks his head, a shy gesture. ‘I understand, madam. Shall we …’ He indicates the door.

  Outside, couples and groups stroll or stand about chatting; there are no lone figures skulking in corners or sitting on any of the benches. Thomas is nowhere to be seen.

  It starts to rain as Sophie arrives home alone. While Mary serves her tea in the drawing room she stares out at the street. She tries not to worry. He probably went for a walk, took the route home through the park. It’s a walk they have done together on occasion and he knows the way well. But he will be getting so wet. She imagines him huddled under an oak tree somewhere while the rain crashes onto the branches.

  An hour later the rain stops, but a heavy grey blanket lies over the earth. The front door opens and Thomas stands dripping on the tiles. Mud creeps up his legs and his hands are dirty, but he seems perfectly calm. Serene, even. He sucks air in through his teeth.

  ‘Thomas, you’re freezing,’ Sophie says. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’

  He walks in front of her, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet, but she doesn’t care.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone off like that. I’ve been worried.’ She stands behind him and helps him out of his jacket. ‘Honestly, Thomas, you’re like a little boy sometimes.’

  There, she said it. Thomas turns around, his face only a few inches from hers. He raises a hand and touches her cheek. His skin is icy. Then he pulls it away again and looks at the floor as he unbuttons his waistcoat. Sophie is stunned for a moment by the gesture, by the electricity that passed between them from the touch. She still holds his wet jacket over her arm, and he hands her his waistcoat as well, then his shirt. When he removes his undershirt, she has a glimpse of his translucent underarm hair as he turns away from her. Water smears across his back, catching like jewels in the goosebumps that shiver over his skin, and she catches the smell of him she had conjured up while he was away. She realises he no longer smells of peppermints, so what she can smell now is entirely his own. She feels a tingling in her arms that she knows is desire.

  His boots and trousers come off next, but he leaves his long underwear on.

  ‘Get into bed now, you’re shivering.’

  He does as he is told and she gathers his soiled clothes and boots — her arms are stuffed full of them — and exits the room.

  Later she sends Mary up with Thomas’s supper — hot soup to warm him up. She tries to sit quietly and read a book, but the chair feels as if it made of needles, and the words on the page seem to play leapfrog. She keeps finding herself standing in the hallway, looking up the stairs at Thomas’s closed door. Finally she convinces herself it is late enough to go to bed.

  She undresses quickly in her cold bedroom and reaches for her nightgown. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her body is flour-white, even in the caramel glow of the lamp. She stands up straight and turns to the side. She has lost the swell in her stomach as well as the plumpness in her cheeks; her hipbones are solid beneath the skin. She should have children by now. This thought should make her feel younger — that her time has not yet come — but instead it makes her feel like a barren old maid.

  My heart and my womb make a fine set of twins, she thinks.

  She thinks about her conversation with Agatha this morning — what she said about doing something, anything but ignoring the problem and hoping it will go away. All this taking him for walks, tiptoeing around him — it’s not helping so far. She has spent too much energy disapproving of Agatha — after all, isn’t it the things that are different about her that make Sophie want her as a friend? Perhaps she has always liked her because of, not in spite of her behaviour — and a part of her wishes she could live life as free from pettiness and the strictures of propriety. After all, Thomas has changed, perhaps irrevocably. Perhaps she needs to change as well, and then — only then — will they make some progress.

  She runs a hand over her breasts, still full and rounded, the nipples cold. She thinks of her husband in bed wearing only his underwear. The smell of him, his naked back. What would Agatha do right now?

  Thomas’s room is dark and smells slightly of beef soup. His breathing is even but loud. She creeps to the side of his bed, pulls back the cover and slips into bed. He wakes with a start as her hand finds his chest, where his own are neatly folded.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘It’s only me.’

  If she could see him, she pictures his face full of alarm, but she imagines as she caresses his chest that she is rubbing his fear away.

  ‘Everything will be all right.’ Fingers tracing circles on his chest, around his nipples, stroking his hands. She moves her hand lower, to his stomach and the woolly line of hair that rises up from his underwear. It quivers under her touch. She leans over him and kisses his neck, then his cheek, then finally his mouth. It remains slack under hers for a second, then his lips part and she lets the tip of her tongue fall in and touch his. He responds, with his mouth at first, and then his hands are on her back as she moves on top of him. Her whole weight is on him now as she uses both hands to push his underwear down. She is in control and she feels a surge of power and arousal. She pushes herself up and brushes her nipples over his. With her hand she guides him inside her.
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  A moan escapes him. Is there a word waiting there too?

  ‘Say my name,’ she whispers, but he is silent. She moves forward and back until she feels him tense beneath her. She places her hand where she can touch herself every time she moves forward and as his grip on her thighs tightens she feels another surge of power through her, this time warmth and tingling, shooting up her abdomen, through her scalp and down the insides of her arms. She cries out for both of them and falls forward onto the sweating chest of her mute husband.

  She awakes in the night after dreaming she is lying on the edge of deep well. She reaches out a hand — Thomas is gone. After they made love he turned his cold back to her and her joy dropped like a barometer. Now he is not in bed; he is nowhere in the room. Her body is replete, arms and legs limber, her bones liquid. But a crackle of doubt is growing inside her again; she feels it physically as a hard, round pebble in her gut. How long will this go on? Wavering between hope and crashing despair? She wants — no, she needs — to remain optimistic for him, but she can’t keep building up her hopes and having them pushed back in her face like this.

  Stop it, she tells herself. We have made progress: we have. Three weeks ago she wouldn’t have dreamed of creeping into his bed like this. His body was as brittle as dried grass then; now it is filling out and the wounds have healed. She can still feel the warmth of his cracked hands on her back, the jagged edge of broken skin that traced a line down her spine. He is getting better. He is getting better. He made a sound, too, didn’t he? It is only a matter of time before his moans turn to words.

  She sits up and listens, but the silence and the darkness are absolute. Thomas has left the covers on his side pulled back and the bottom sheet is cold and damp. She gets out of bed and wraps a sheet around her.

  Her feet make no sound on the stairs as she pads down. The rest of the house is dark as well, apart from a faint glow in the hallway, coming from under Thomas’s study door.