Sound of Butterflies, The (8 page)

Nobody has taken to collecting the numerous great spiders that are about the place. There is one — a ghastly hairy thing it is — called a mygale, of which there are many different species. One of them spins a thick web between two trees and catches small birds in it. I have never seen such a thing as a finch, quite dead, covered with some kind of venom, while another struggles to free itself. One wants to help, but we know that we can’t interfere with nature in this way; besides, who knows what state it would have been in had I freed it? I can’t help but feel ill when I see these spiders, and whenever I do it takes me longer than
usual to get to sleep at night. I have taken to greasing my hammock strings with the same vegetable oil we use to deter the ants. I haven’t spoken of this (rather irrational, I know) fear, but I suspect the others feel the same, otherwise why have none of them caught any?

When Antonio arrived to give us Portuguese lessons this afternoon, we talked to him about our desire to move on. He has agreed that it is time, and that we are ready to meet our benefactor. We are to leave for Santarém next week, where we will at last meet our Mr Santos, who lives in Manaus, and then we will progress into little-charted depths. We would have met Mr Santos earlier, said Antonio, but he has been delayed upriver by some troublesome native rubber workers.

I sense that it is only a matter of time before my beautiful butterfly comes to me. I will hold it in my hands more gently than I would a lover. It will be my key to greatness; more importantly, it will
belong
to me.

Richmond, May 1904

By the slant of the sun, Agatha judges that it is nearly eleven. She clutches her elbow with a gloved hand as she inhales the last of her cigarette, then tosses it into the scrubby part of the flower bed where it will never be found. Her other glove is in her pocket; she takes it out and bangs it on her dress to rid it of any tobacco smells, then returns it to her right hand.

She promised Sophie she would visit today, but the thought of running into Thomas again repels her. That first time she saw him, after his long absence, he seemed to slither along the walls. His newly rough features held a chilling vacancy. She wanted to steal Sophie away from the source of her pain.

No — she is being cruel. Her grandmother would have said that Thomas had been taken by spirits. Agatha has heard of it happening before — people moving around as if they live on this earth, while their ears and hearts are focused on another realm. And he did have about him the air of one who is not fully occupying the world. He stared off into the corner of the room, as if watching something there. But when she forgot herself for a moment and made a light joke, his eyes found hers and quickly looked away; he heard her, all right, but something prevented him from reacting to the world around him. Poor Sophie looked at that point as if she might cry.

Maybe she is not imagining his snake-like quality. Just as she told Sophie that the deer she encountered in the park would stay with her, perhaps Thomas met with a snake in the jungle. They probably crossed his path willy-nilly — there would have been no getting away from them. But no. Her grandmother led her to believe that animals are good spirits, not bad ones that would rob a man of his ability to speak and thereby devastate his wife. Unless he has done something to deserve it.

She shakes this thought off immediately. Not Thomas — he wouldn’t hurt a fly. She smiles. Because he
does
hurt flies, doesn’t he? And beetles. Even the butterflies he professes to love so much. The first thing he does when he catches them is pinch their little bodies until they die, or drop them in a jar with poison until they suffocate to death.

She sighs and closes her eyes to the strengthening sun. She
has
always liked Thomas, if just for the fact that he makes Sophie so happy. Despite his murderous tendencies towards insects — she isn’t naïve, she knows it’s all in the name of science — he has a light touch with his wife; when they are together his hand on her waist seems to make Sophie float. He brings out a maternal instinct in the women around him — even in Agatha. She was with him one day when he tripped on the road and she had an urge to kiss the graze on his palm better. Thomas mistook her hand on his and the look in her eye for something far more inappropriate and jumped to his feet, his face exploding with colour. She laughed at him then; she couldn’t help it.

Agatha hides her cigarette case in her little purse, adjusts her new hat, which she decorated herself last week with silk flowers, and sets out for Sophie’s house. She feels a little guilty that she doesn’t plan to stay long; she has used Sophie as an excuse to leave the house, but she plans to spend the afternoon with Robert. The deception adds to the thrill.

Mary answers the door and shows her to the parlour. Sophie’s cheeks are pale when she looks up. Agatha wonders how long it has been since she has taken one of her daily walks. She wears her dowdiest blouse and skirt of coarse cotton that verges on hessian; Agatha supposes she has recently returned from church. Her knees are probably rubbed raw from kneeling and praying for her husband. Her hair is scraped into a tight bun, quite out of step with the current fashion, and it gives her the look of a cruel schoolmistress. Agatha feels quite shocked; it’s as if her friend is punishing herself.

Sophie seems too lethargic to even stand and welcome her, so Agatha bends to kiss her on the cheek and sits.

She leans forward. ‘So where is he?’ she whispers.

‘He’s still having bed-rest,’ says Sophie. ‘He gets up in the evenings and we dine together. But the doctor said he’s to live quietly. To see if it …’ She raises a hand to rub at an imaginary spot on her forehead. ‘To see if it helps his condition.’

Agatha slumps back in her chair and lets her arms dangle off the sides. Sophie is enormously distracted; she hasn’t even commented on her new hat. She usually teases her about whatever she wears.

‘Sophie Bear. My Sophie Bear …’ She doesn’t continue.

Sophie nods, as if in answer to an unspoken question. ‘I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.’ She manages a weak smile, which broadens, falsely, as Mary brings the tea things in. ‘Thank you, Mary. Down here, please. I’ll pour.’

Mary backs out of the room. She seems to be trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible and it’s working. Agatha shoots her a sympathetic look and takes a cup, turning her attention back to Sophie. ‘What are you going to do? Do you have a plan?’

‘Dr Dixon said I should try to communicate with him by taking him to do the things he likes. Take him to the park.’

‘He hasn’t been yet? But he was always there …’

‘Yes, he was. But no, he hasn’t been.’

‘And what about his brother? What about Cameron?’

‘He’s abroad. I’ve written to him, but as yet I’ve had no reply. But look, there’s this.’ Sophie pulls a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her skirt. It amazes Agatha, the things that Sophie produces from her pockets: a handkerchief, a letter, a book — she once saw an umbrella appear from seemingly nowhere and was inclined to think that Sophie had been keeping it hidden in her skirts.

It is a letter. Sophie hands it to Agatha, who immediately recognises the mean, tight writing. ‘From your father,’ she says. ‘Did you tell him Thomas is back?’

Sophie nods. ‘I had to, really. He might have heard about it from somebody else. I wrote to him straight away.’

‘And have you told him?’

‘No! Heavens, no. Give him something else to disapprove of? Ugh. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘So what did you tell him?’

‘Well, naturally I told him that I had moved out of your house and back here.’

‘Ah yes, The White Lie.’ They thought of the lie — that Sophie had moved in with Agatha’s family — as quelling Mr Winterstone’s anxiety. He wouldn’t stand for having a daughter abandoned by her husband to live alone. But Agatha and Sophie both knew that if it was Sophie’s welfare he had been concerned about, they wouldn’t have lied to him; Sophie was convinced he was more worried about appearances than anything else. The thought of his daughter keeping house alone might enrage him. Anyway, it wasn’t a complete lie: Sophie does spend a lot of time with Agatha’s family; she even spent Christmas with them.

‘But here’s the problem, see.’ Sophie leans forward and taps the final paragraph of the letter. ‘He wants to visit. The day after tomorrow.’

Agatha reads it out loud. ‘
I am interested in discussing Thomas’s expedition with him
.’ She looks up. ‘Oh, hell.’

Sophie flinches.

‘Sorry,’ says Agatha. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t expect to have to deal with this so soon. I mean, he
never
visits. Kingston is only a few miles away, but he just never seems to have the time.’

‘And he never issues invitations to you.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What will he do?’

‘If Thomas still isn’t speaking?’

Agatha pauses. How naïve Sophie can be, how optimistic. That she even thinks there is a chance Thomas will be speaking in two days’ time makes her want to jump up and hug her. ‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Well, in the worst situation, I suppose he might order me to come home and insist that Thomas goes to a hospital. But then again, what kind of a scandal would that cause? I doubt he would tolerate that. Perhaps he will ignore the problem. Maybe he will turn his back on us forever.’ She takes the letter back off Agatha and begins to fold it into smaller and smaller squares. Her hands shake and some colour is creeping back into her face.

‘Don’t be angry with him yet,’ says Agatha. ‘You don’t know that he’ll desert you.’

‘Yes,’ says Sophie. ‘I’m letting my imagination run away. It seems too real sometimes. You’re right. Perhaps he’ll turn out to be kind about Thomas after all.’

‘What’ll you do in the meantime?’

‘Follow Dr Dixon’s advice, of course. I plan to take him for a walk this afternoon.’

‘And you think this will help?’

Sophie sighs again. It settles over Agatha. The weight of it presses on her shoulders.

‘I don’t know, Aggie. What do you think?’

Agatha sips her tea and takes a bite from a muffin. ‘I think …’ Her mouth is full, but she presses on. ‘What about dancing?’

This elicits a smile from Sophie. ‘Thomas didn’t dance very well before!’

‘Well, there you go!’ says Agatha, pleased she has at last raised some mirth. ‘He’ll probably be much better at it now!’ She reaches out and touches Sophie’s knee. ‘We’ll get him to talk, darling, don’t you worry.’

‘I don’t know if it’s just a matter of getting him to talk, as you say. There’s something that has silenced him, and I need to find out how to get him back. To get my Thomas back.’ Her face becomes suddenly red, and the tears follow.

Agatha realises she has been uncharitable in thinking of Thomas as a snake. It’s not his fault; the man is very ill. She only identified him as the cause of Sophie’s suffering and reacted badly. He is more like an infant, a burden on her poor friend. She must do everything she can to help.

But not this afternoon. She is already walking towards Robert in her mind, planning the secret route he showed her from the park, which will take her past the ugly old crows that loiter by the wall and through a rotting gate into his garden. She knows that Sophie saw their exchange in church that day, and Agatha has waited for her to say something, or to start asking questions. She might even have told her if she wanted to know. But now her friend has too many other things on her mind.

Besides, the room is oppressive. There is no hint that it is a beautiful morning outside; the curtains are nearly closed. ‘It’s no wonder you’re feeling so gloomy, Bear.’ Agatha stands and crosses to the window. She tugs at the drapes, letting a wash of light fall into the room. ‘And now I really must be going. I promised Mother I would help her with her sewing.’

And she will. Later.

Sophie stands over her sleeping husband. His tanned skin is reverting back to its paleness — too pale, really, but it could be the gloomy light of the bedroom. He sleeps on his back, with a pile of pillows beneath his head and shoulders, so that his body is bowed. His arms lie outside the bedclothes, and below the sleeves of his nightshirt his hands are still red and callused. The wound on his arm is beginning to heal, and soon she will remove the bandage altogether. His face is turned to one side. Even in sleep his lips are neatly pursed. His hair is beginning to curl awkwardly around his ear, which protrudes less obviously now that his face is filling out somewhat. He hasn’t lost his appetite at least; he eats the soup she brings him every day, and in the evening has been devouring a good-sized plate of meat and cheese and bread for supper. And yet he still looks deflated somehow, hollowed out. There is an air of sadness about him, even as he sleeps.

She misses him more than she did when he was in Brazil. At least when he was there she knew he was thinking about her — to begin with, anyway — and she could imagine him moving through the rainforest with strong legs, his face crinkled with concentration. The day she saw him off at the station, he pulled her onto the train with him and embraced her in his empty compartment. When the whistle blew, she had to disentangle herself from his arms; the train had started to move as she opened the door and jumped back onto the platform. She was left with the smell of peppermints in her hair and the sight of his bright face at the window.

Thomas jerks awake and for a moment she thinks he is going to smile at her, but his face remains expressionless, his head fixed to the pillow. Only his eyes dart about, as if looking for the other people she might have brought into the room with her.

‘Let’s go for a walk in the park,’ she says. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon.’

Her husband draws back the bedclothes to let himself out of the bed. His thin legs, she notes, are also scarred from the insect bites. The golden hairs are caught in a chink of light from the window and they seemed to sparkle. He stands firmly on his feet — he has been kept fit with a turn around the garden every evening before supper. Sophie will not have her husband a cripple as well as a mute.

‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ she says.