Sound of Butterflies, The (10 page)

Captain Samuel Fale alights from his cab at the entrance to the Star and Garter Hotel. He is meeting his old friend Sid Worthing, but plans to get there a little early to knock back a sly whiskey or two to help him cope with Sid’s banter about his wonderful life. Not that Fale begrudges his friend his good fortune — Sid had taken some options in a Brazilian rubber company and is now enjoying the fruits of a remarkable boom — but he doesn’t need to hear him drone on about it. About that, and about his pretty new wife, a silent Frenchwoman he picked up in his travels. She is a gorgeous specimen, no doubt about it, with a sweetly puckered face like a marigold; but Fale can’t work out how he has made her so damned quiet — after all, aren’t those Mediterranean types supposed to be hot-blooded and noisy? He rather thinks this is their attraction. Not that he wants one for himself — give him a straight-backed English girl any day — but he can’t help but wonder what the point is. Perhaps her demureness is just for show and all that passion is repressed all day, to be let out at night.

He chuckles to himself at the thought of Sid — not the most agile of men now that his wealth has gone to his belly — wrestling under the sheets with a golden beauty. What a waste.

He pays the driver, who grumbles at the short distance from Fale’s home. The captain feels his eyes on his back as he limps away, and he exaggerates the stiffness in his leg to rouse some sympathy from the rough young man. Surely he can see that he isn’t about to walk here from his house with his injury. He hears the driver click his tongue to his horse and drive away.

The dining room is filling slowly, but it is nowhere near capacity. On the weekend, which had been unseasonably warm for late spring, there were close to six hundred for dinner. The Star and Garter is the fashionable place for Londoners to venture for the day — they often spend the morning at Kew, then make their way to Richmond and be home on the train or boat by supper time. Fale missed out on his favourite spot and took tea on the terrace overlooking the river, which he found to be most pleasant. He closed his eyes and felt the sun beating down on his lids. When he opened them a fraction, and tiny slits of Italian Romanesque architecture loomed above him, he could fancy himself somewhere on the Italian Riviera, a place he had never been but had always wanted to go.

Fale takes his seat and orders a drink. The clinking of cutlery and the murmur of sparse conversation nibble at the edge of his consciousness. The smell of roast beef feeds his stomach’s anticipation. He nods at the man at the next table, who nods back and returns his attention to his newspaper. He seems a very tall fellow; his long legs jut out the side as if he can’t quite fit them under the table. His pale suit is crinkled and a black bowler sits on the table beside his elbow; a coat is draped over the back of his chair. He reminds Fale of a colonel he once served under, a huge man with an even larger voice and the same neat beard, who died under the hooves of a runaway horse when he pushed a young private out of its path. This resemblance gives Fale a respect — irrational, he knows — for this stranger, and suddenly he cares very much what the man thinks of him. He sits up straighter in his chair and, with his finger, checks his moustache for crumbs.

The waiter puts his drink down and moves on to the stranger’s table.

As Fale takes a sweet sip of his whiskey the waiter says, ‘Will there be anything else, Mr Winterstone?’ The man, Winterstone, orders a brandy. Fale is disappointed to hear his voice, which is not booming as his colonel’s was, and has no pretensions in the accent — pretensions that Fale himself maintains at all costs.

Winterstone, Winterstone. He knows the name, but can’t place it. Fale takes in the long legs again, which put him mind of a stork’s. His shoulders are broad but fine, giving him proud, upright air. And those long legs …

Sophie
.

He leans back casually and takes a cigarette from his silver case. He taps it twice on the tablecloth and lights it. He realises he has been staring when Winterstone looks up and returns the gaze. Yes, there in his eyes is a further resemblance. They stare over the half-moon reading glasses, into Fale’s heart, analysing him. Fale feels a curious sense of regret — for what, he can’t be sure. He sees that he is going to have to speak to justify the scrutiny. He exhales his lungful of smoke and addresses the man, maintaining his nonchalant stance.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

Winterstone says nothing.

Fale presses on. ‘Are you by any chance related to Mrs Sophie Edgar?’

The man folds his newspaper slowly and deliberately. He places it neatly at the corner of the table, lining up all parallel and perpendicular lines. He removes his glasses.

‘She is my daughter,’ he says at last. ‘And you are?’

Fale surprises himself by stuttering. ‘F-forgive me, sir. I couldn’t help overhear your name and make the connection. My name is Fale, Captain Samuel Fale. Mrs Edgar is an acquaintance of mine.’

‘Is she? Surely you mean her husband, Mr Edgar?’

Fale takes a breath. He knows he could make a fool of himself and put Sophie at risk with whatever comes out of his mouth. He must act carefully, deliberately. And fast.

‘Yes, of course.’ He can’t remember Edgar’s first name. What is it? ‘He … he and I are old friends,’ he lies. He realises too late that he is digging a hole for himself, and possibly with both hands. ‘That is, we have known each other for some time.’ This is not completely untrue — Fale met Edgar’s father once, when — Thomas! Of course, it is Thomas — was just a lad. The boy accompanied Mr Edgar senior into town.

‘I see.’ The man’s face softens, and he does not go back to his newspaper. ‘Would you care to join me, as we are both drinking alone?’

‘Well, I am expecting someone …’

‘I see,’ Winterstone says again.

Fale must remember that this man is not his sturdy colonel. He has embarrassed him, and he can see the older man’s hands shake slightly as he goes to take up his glasses and newspaper again. He must make amends. ‘But my companion won’t be here for another twenty minutes. I would be delighted, sir.’

A slow smile spreads over the older man’s face.

Fale starts to rise, but Winterstone spots his walking stick and his stiff leg and bids him sit, instead picking up his drink and moving to join him.

It turns out that Winterstone dines at the Star and Garter whenever he is in Richmond on business as a barrister. The two men discuss the history of the hotel; Winterstone visited it as a young man, when it was another building altogether, before it burned down in 1870. He recalls his excitement when he first visited the hotel without his parents. Captain Fale attended an engagement for the Indian officers who had arrived for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. He doesn’t tell Winterstone, but he made up a few stories that night — made out that he had been fighting in the Boer War when he damaged his leg. Nobody had any reason to disbelieve him.

‘You must see something of your daughter, sir,’ says Fale, ‘if you come to Richmond so frequently.’

Winterstone looks away, and his jaw tightens.

‘Not very much,’ he says. ‘I am usually too busy.’

‘Ah,’ says Fale. ‘That is a shame.’

The man smiles a watery smile. ‘I did see her today, however. I had tea with her this morning.’

Fale nods. ‘It’s a terrible shame, isn’t it? About her husband, I mean.’

Winterstone’s head snaps up. ‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’

Fale pauses to read the man’s voice. He detects an icy tone creeping into it. He must proceed with caution. ‘Did you not see Mr Edgar today?’

‘He has been called to London on urgent business. I had hoped to meet with him and discuss his journey to the Amazon. It was all planned, but he had to leave at the last minute. He will be away for some days.’

Fale realises he has made a mistake in mentioning this, but then a myriad possibilities swim before his eyes. Mr Winterstone does not know about Edgar’s condition. Sophie has lied to him, surely. Or perhaps Edgar has recovered. Since his return, Fale has kept his distance, but Sophie confided in him only yesterday, when he had met her on the street. He could tell that she was putting on a brave face; she stood so tall and strong. Beautiful. He felt a tug in his breeches, but luckily it didn’t amount to much. She asked him not to tell anybody — not yet, anyway — and he complied for her sake. But here is a chance to do some good, perhaps. Surely if her father only knew about his son-in-law’s muteness, he would be able to help her. Perhaps he could arrange for some top-quality care in some hospital, somewhere far away.

He realises he has not spoken for some time. Winterstone searches his eyes. ‘What exactly are you saying about my daughter’s husband, Captain Fale?’

Such an elegant man. Even when he suspects something is being held from him, he keeps such a strong composure and good posture. He was so considerate when he spotted Fale’s walking stick. A real gentleman, Fale thinks, and it comes to him, the nature of the regret he has been feeling.

He should have liked this man for a father-in-law.

Santarém, December 6th, 1903

My dearest Sophie,

Thank you for your last letter, and for sending me my beloved peppermints. I ran out a week ago, and have not been able to find any like them in Belém. I’m glad you are coping without me, my lamb, but I still fret and have some regrets about leaving you alone for so long by yourself. I trust you are surrounding yourself with good company.

We have left Belém, as our journey up the Amazon must continue. We boarded another ship bound for Manaus, which arranged to drop us off at Santarém. We are fortunate that there is currently a rubber boom, because it affords easy mobility up the river. I think about the times that naturalists before us had to reach their destinations by small unreliable trading vessels and canoes, at the mercy of who knows what type of scoundrels and heathens! We may yet have to take such a boat if we wish to go further into the interior, but for now I’m happy not to experience the genuine article.

We were all a little sad to leave Belém, despite our impatience both to see more of this wondrous country and to meet Mr Santos. It will not surprise me at all if our time at Belém turns out to be a golden period of our stay — despite small discomforts, life was very easy there. It was there I began to think of myself as a collector, not just one who dabbles, meandering around the countryside, picking up the odd pretty insect.

I have not much to report about the 400-mile journey up the Amazon. After leaving Belém, and the stretch of tributary before the main river, the huts of caboclos, those people who are a mixture of all the races of Brazil, thinned somewhat. I encountered some of these settlements in my walks when I had ventured some miles from Belém. The caboclos live by gathering from the forest and fishing in the river, and off the produce of a small plantation. Many of these people are also rubber gatherers, and the men are lured by the promise of wages and drink away from their families. The women are left to take care of themselves. I was struck by how miserable the plantations were, and there were always plenty of small children whose mouths, no doubt, needed feeding. Once or twice I confess I succumbed to my pity and gave the children some coins. More often than not they looked at them as if they didn’t know what they might do with them. Their big eyes asked,
‘Do you expect me to eat this?
’

Continuing up the river, it becomes so wide in places one cannot see the other side. The view became monotonous once we were accustomed to it, a steady but not unpleasant draping of green above the ochre of the river. Every now and then we saw some creature or another rise out of the depths. The crew tossed out scraps to see what would pick it up, and pointed out alligators and pirarucu, one of the fish here, which grows to the size of a small dolphin.

We arrived at Santarém and what a welcome sight it was — I am anxious to continue with my collecting. Santarém is a pretty town at the mouth of the Tapajós River, which flows into the Amazon, set on sloping ground, with whitewashed houses that have red roofs. It is quite European in its appearance, disarmingly so. The inhabitants are mostly Roman Catholics, and the church, which stands in a large grassy square, is quite impressively large,
such as something you might find in Spain or Portugal. Walking at first through the streets I might have been inclined to forget I was on another continent were it not for the oppressive, moist heat and the forest encroaching on all sides. The forest is quite different here from in Belém. It is sparser, and the hilly ground is marked by wide-open spaces of clumpy, dried-up grasses. In the height of the dry season, the locals tell us, it rains less than once a week.

The house in which we are staying — once again arranged for us by Santos’s man Antonio, who has accompanied us — is at the outskirts of the town, towards the banks of the Tapajós, which has broad, white, sandy beaches, graced with tall javary palms, and water of dark green — a welcome change from the monotony of the yellow Amazon with the forest trailing into the water.

We have been here scarcely a day, but have already discovered the pleasures of swimming in the river. I prefer to run in and straight out again, thereby avoiding any nasty creatures (water snakes, or piranha, or a particularly nasty tiny fish that swims into one’s most intimate places and makes a home!) while still enjoying the cooling benefits of the swim. John is a strong swimmer, and uses the opportunity to take some exercise, pounding the water for several hundred yards before turning and swimming back against a rather strong current (indeed, the current is what keeps us safe from alligators). Not that I want to worry you, my dear. I assure you I am perfectly safe! Ernie stands about up to his waist, smoking a cigarette, and George doesn’t go in the water at all, save taking his boots off and dipping his toes in. The local Indian children, who live in thatched huts nearby, come down to the water and lie very still in its shallows. I became curious after I heard them giggling to themselves, and when I approached saw they were attended to by tiny fish, which seemed to be kissing them all over. Antonio explained to me that the children lie very still in the water and the fish come and eat the ticks and jiggers and other parasites that have burrowed into their skin! I assumed this act would mean the children would get regularly nipped, but from their laughter it appears it tickles them more than it hurts them.

The house is pleasant enough, though a step down from the house in Belém. Again we are sleeping in hammocks (I have resigned myself to the fact that as long as I am on Brazilian soil, I will not have an ordinary bed). We are only staying in town for a week. We were to have met Mr Santos and have him accompany us to Manaus, but he has been further delayed. Instead, we have been promised an excursion into the interior, where we will stay for as long as suits us. We will be taking the cook that Antonio arranged for us; Antonio himself will be our guide, as it seems he knows this area well, and George managed to persuade young Paulo from Belém to accompany us, at least as far as this, if not further. So we have plenty of help. I believe we may even be travelling by canoe, in which case we will have one or two Indians to steer us and to help us by catching food for us to eat.

I have developed a taste for the local coffee, my love, of which I enclose a sample. It is refreshing in the extreme when taken first thing in the morning, and what seemed bitter to me at first is now aromatic and bracing. I advise you to take it quite weak to begin with, then build up the strength as you get used to taste. I assure you it is much better than the coffee we usually drink at home. I look forward to sitting in our parlour together, little Sophie, and sharing this pleasure with you. I am also hoping, my darling, that you can send me some more peppermints. By the time you get this, and then send them back to me, months may have passed. How frustratingly slow letters can be!

I think of you always, my love, and look forward to the day when I will again be

Yours,
Thomas

Thomas found he relied on his peppermints more and more to disguise the taste of smoke in his mouth when he went to bed. He enjoyed it while smoking the cigarette, but it did turn to an almost brassy sensation on his tongue — from where it came he couldn’t imagine. His fingers were beginning to develop a yellow stain, which occasionally wore off after a lot of scrubbing, but mostly sat on his fingers reminding him of his new vice. But Ernie Harris had the same stains, and despite himself Thomas thought of the mark as a brand of brotherhood between them. Of manhood.

He took the folded packet of ground coffee, wrapped it with the letter in brown paper and tied it with string. His hand shook slightly as he wrote his own address on the front — it was only in moments like this, when he had imagined his conversation with Sophie and written it down, that he felt the bruises of homesickness.

On the other side of the room John Gitchens — his new roommate — made scratching sounds as he sketched the shrubs he had found that day on the campos. Every now and then there was a ‘gloop’ as he dipped a brush into a jar of water and added some colour to his sketch.

The house was smaller than the house in Belém, and had no balcony, so they either had to sit outside in the sun, or inside where it was dark. Thomas had made this corner his own as soon as they arrived, even though he knew they might not stay for long. The house was at their disposal while they were away on their expedition to keep the belongings that were unnecessary and difficult to carry. He had been furnished with another wooden table, the same size as the one in Belém, and he had stacked up his books and journals and laid out his tools. A silver-framed photograph of Sophie gazed at him as he worked.

He took great joy in cataloguing his finds through drawing and painting — the one thing he excelled at. He had watched George trying to paint — his lines smudged and he more often than not ended up with a swirling puddle of brown water, which ran off the side of his page and onto his trousers. George had rebuffed him when he offered to help.

‘It takes more than a few painting skills to be a scientist, Thomas. I’m very happy for you that you could always take a job as an artist if you needed to.’

Thomas already cringed at his own clumsy knowledge in comparison to George’s without the man taking pity on him and all but patting him on the head. He knew it wasn’t necessary to make studies of the butterflies — they had already been done by those who had gone before him — but he liked to keep a log for his own satisfaction, and of course it was a way of keeping track of the hundreds of specimens he would be shipping back to Ridewell to sell for him. With each consignment that was sent back, he asked Ridewell to reserve an amount for his own collection.

John stirred behind him, and Thomas turned to look at him. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms stretched up and back over his head. The chair tipped onto its back legs and for a moment Thomas was worried it would break under the big man’s weight. But he finished his stretch and let the chair back to the ground without a sound.

John, too, had piled books up on his desk, and there were tins lining the wall, in which he kept his seeds. Propped beside his desk were his botanical press and a pile of brown paper, in which he wrapped the plants before pressing them. John appeared to be packing up for the evening, so Thomas ventured to ask him a question. He had observed that John carried no photographs with him. Even Ernie and George, whom he knew to be unmarried, had pictures of their parents and brothers and sisters.

‘Tell me, John,’ said Thomas, ‘are you married? May I ask?’

John turned in his chair and looked at Thomas from beneath a solid, high forehead. His beard was becoming unruly, and his cheekbones were squared and sharp above it.

‘No, I’m not. I see you are, though. I couldn’t help but notice your pretty wife.’ Again, Thomas wondered at John’s soft northern voice in one so large and rough. ‘And how long have you been married?’

‘Two years,’ said Thomas.

‘It must have been hard for you to leave her behind.’

Thomas nodded, but he was suddenly gripped by a feeling he realised with panic was something like guilt. That he had left her alone like that. She had said she didn’t mind, was excited for him in fact, but still, what if he hadn’t made sufficient arrangements for her? Wasn’t taking enough responsibility for her?

‘That’s why I could never marry,’ said John, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Someone of my profession. It wouldn’t be fair on a woman.’ He ran his hands over his face. He was a statue, larger than life-size, his edges hewn with a rough chisel. He sighed. ‘When I fall in love one day, perhaps I will. But who will feed the hungry mouths if I’m killed in a jungle somewhere?’

Thomas shuddered. ‘Is that something you think about?’ He realised he hadn’t thought of danger like that, had let excitement push away all thoughts for his safety.

‘Of course.’ John stood up, blocking the light from the lantern momentarily before moving aside, causing an occlusion that fluttered in the air like a moth. ‘But you can’t let it stop you living. I just see it as inevitable that when my time comes, I will go. I would rather go in the jaws of a tiger than in some quiet corner of England.’ His lip curled as he said ‘England’ and a drop of spit launched itself from his mouth, disappearing before it hit the floor.

Thomas sensed that it was time to stop talking, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. ‘And what of your family? Your parents?’

‘I haven’t seen them since I was a lad. My lot was to go down the mines like my father. I wanted to learn, but do you think opportunities were there for someone like me?’

‘But you seem to know so much, John.’ Thomas meant his knowledge of the rainforest, his fluent Portuguese.

‘Aye,’ said John. ‘Well, it’s not from working down any mines, I can tell you. I got out when I could. I hitched a ride down to Liverpool and jumped on the first ship I could find. Met a man; a collector he was: a botanist. Took pity on me — they were going to throw me off at the next port — and took me on as his apprentice. Took me all over.’

‘How wonderful,’ said Thomas limply.

John just stared at him. The jut of his brow cast his eyes in deep shadow, but still there was a glint there. He shook his head.

‘Wonderful, terrible. It’s all the same. I’ve seen some things. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you if it wasn’t for that man.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Gone.’ John rose again and screwed up his mouth as though it had filled with saliva. He crossed to his water jug and poured some into the bowl. He sluiced his face, his back to Thomas, who decided to leave the man alone for a few minutes.

Outside, the chorus was softer than in Belém. A light breeze cooled the sweat on his face and arms. The scent of some flower — John would be able to tell him what it was — filled the courtyard and once inside his lungs made him nauseous. He took his tobacco from his pocket, quickly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.