Chapter 71: Chapter 71

*****

The butterfly flits from one blossom to another. It doesn’t stay long on any one bloom, but in the well-

kept borders, there are plenty of flowers for it to sip from.

Shelley watches her target, hawk-eyed. Kneeling on the short-clipped grass, poised, her rear end twitching like a cat watching a mouse, she watches the flutterby in its journey from one white and yellow daisy to another As the insect settles on the next flower, its jewelled wings rising and falling in the sunlight, she pounces. The jar comes one way; the lid the other and, with a snap, she has it.

She screws the lid closed and with a whoop of triumph, dashes across to the ladder leaning against the wall of the house. Proudly, she holds up the jam jar up. “I’ve catched a butterfly,” she yells.

David, paint-brush in hand, looks down, watching her carefully, just in case she decides to do anything adventurous, like touch the ladder. “That’s nice, Shelley. Why don’t you go and show Stevie.”

She darts indoors, clutching her jar, looking for her other brother. She finds him in the living room, a screwdriver in one hand, swinging the door back and forth, looking one way, then the other at the hinges.

“I’ve catched a butterfly!” she announces, pushing the jar up for Stephen to see. “Isn't it pretty.” Inside, the multi-coloured prisoner flutters against the glass while the already wilting daisy head flops at the bottom.

“Yes, it's very pretty.” Stephen puts down the screwdriver then takes the jar from her, inspecting the butterfly. His gaze drops to hers. “Do you want to keep it?”

Her eyes are a brilliant green sparkle. “Can I?”

“Yes, but not like that. Come on, I'll show you.”

He reaches into a high cupboard and takes out a bottle, then fishing around in a drawer, takes out a roll of cotton wool, tearing off a small piece. He tips a little liquid from the bottle onto the cotton wool.

The little girl peers close. “What are you doing?”

“You'll see. Just watch.” Unscrewing the jar, he pops the cotton wool inside and sets the jar down. After a few seconds, the butterfly slows and drops to the bottom. It twitches, then falls still.

“What have you done? Have you hurt it?” She peers in, then demands, “Have you hurt my butterfly?”

Stephen hesitates then, “It’s gone to sleep. You can keep it now.”

Shelley stares in at the lifeless insect, her eyes brimming. “Is it dead? Have you killed it? Can't we let it go?”

“Not now, Princess.”

“But it was so pretty.”

“Well, now it's going to be pretty forever. Look, like those up there.” He points to the framed pinboards on the wall with their glittering occupants lined up in rank and file, each carefully labelled.

She starts to cry. “But you've killed it. I liked it when it was flying about.”

He picks her up, then sits, taking her on his knee. “I know, Princess. But in a day or two, it would have been caught by a bird maybe, or a spider. Or it would have died anyway when the weather got cold.

They don't live long. This way you can keep it forever. You’ll see. I’ll make a nice picture for you, for your bedroom, like those.” He points up to the framed exhibits.

Shelley sobs. “But I didn’t know they was real butterflies. I thought you maked them. Like Mummy maked dresses and things.”

“No, Princess. They’re real butterflies. And now we can keep them pretty forever.”

*****

The following day, Stephen calls her. “I’ve got a present for you. Come and see.” He takes her by the hand and she toddles with him to her bedroom. “Here you are.” He points to the wall. Mounted on a card and with a hand-written tag below, Shelley’s butterfly sits in its frame, protected by glass, a long pin through its thorax.

“Like it?” he asks. “It’s still just as pretty isn’t it?”

She nods but looks down, her lip trembling. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I know you’re still upset, about well…. Mummy going, and Daddy being poorly and everything. And I know you didn’t think we’d be living in a new house, but why don’t we make you bedroom all pretty too? We can make it just how you like it and then it’s your special place.

A smile breaks through. Looking up, “That sounds nice,” she says happily.

*****

It’s a big shop. And Shelly has never been in a shop like it before. A thousand enormous tins stand on shelves, in lots and lots of different colours. She didn’t know there were so many colours. And on racks, rolls of wallpaper are heaped up. Some are just boring with writing and squiggles and stuff. But some have spaceships and cartoons. Other have flowers and kittens and puppies and rainbows. She walks around looking at all the lovely things.

Stephen stands by her, looking down. “What would you like, Princess? You choose. It’s going to be your special room.”

She points. “That one’s nice. The one with the dragonflies and the frogs.”

He looks askance. “What, the green paper? I don’t think that’s very nice. With all those... What are they? Leaves?”

Shelley stamps and giggles. “They’re lily pads, Stevie. For the frogs to sit on. Look, the frogs are smiling….” She stretches a finger to where a six-inch frog looks up at a dragonfly, smiling almost as widely as she does.

Stephen eyes the paper, then points. “Wouldn't you prefer that one? The pink one with the little ponies and the stars. Much more little girly.”

“Stevie, I'm seven. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Exactly. Come on Princess. We'll get the pink paint too and the curtains to match. You’ll see. When I've decorated your room, you'll love it.”

*****

Michael Over several weekends, we’ve made great progress. What was once an impenetrable thick of spikes, spines, stings, thorns and prickles has transformed into a large area of rough grass on the one hand and a giant bonfire heap on the other.

Charlotte is happily drilling holes in brick, knocking in wall-plugs and screwing vine-eyes. “What’s it going to be?” asks Ben, nodding her way.

“She’s putting up trellises for climbing roses. She reckons she can rescue some of those we clipped right back.”

“Not a very feminine activity, is it?” he comments, an acid edge to his voice.

I refuse to rise. “She’s not the useless type. And I’m only going to interfere if….” The buzz of the drill rises to a squeal….

Ben eyes me. “…. If she’s trying to drill into something she hasn’t got the shoulders for.”

As if to prove a point….

I march over, wait until she breaks off for a moment then take the drill from her hand. “I’ll do those. You can’t drill into stone.” She looks first annoyed then shrugs. “Where do you want them? And how deep?”

“There’s the marks and these are the screws.” I measure the screws against the bit, then start drilling, the hammer jammering up my elbows as I drive in. She watches me for a minute then makes her way across to the cleared area. By the time I’ve done, she’s marking out areas with string.

“What are these going to be?” asks Ben.

“Veggie beds.” She picks up a spade and starts digging.

Ben stands back, watching. “Didn’t know you were a gardener?”

“I learned on the farm.” She says, “We grew all our own stuff there. This can go into the restaurant.”

His brows rise. “A farm? Didn’t realise you’re a country girl….”

I break in to forestall where that conversation might lead. “Homegrown and organic,” I explain. “Just another notch for the healthy living menu.”

“Gotcha,” says Ben, picking up another spade.

*****

An hour later, Charlotte has returned to her trellises and Ben and I have most of the first bed turned over. It’s hard work and my back’s had about enough for one day, but….

He’s humming….

Never in my life have I heard my brother humming.

“You sound like a man with a song in his heart.”

He straightens up, rubbing at the base of his spine. He grimaces then grins. “Ah, I should tell you I suppose. I've got a new girl.”

*Alarms ringing*

But I keep my voice steady and try to sound pleased. “Really. Who is she? Anyone I know?”

He sniffs. “I wouldn't think so. I met her out on the beach. I was out jogging with Scruffy. She was walking her dogs.”

I lean forward onto my spade handle, trying to ease the kinks out of my lumbar region. “You're not going to instantly decide she's The One, are you?”

Ben gives me a sour look. “You're a cynical bastard sometimes.”

“I don't think it's cynicism. I just don't want to see you upset again because you....”

“Give it a rest, Mike. Anyone would think you wanted me miserable.”

He’s right….

I feel a complete shit. “I’m sorry, Ben. C’mon. Tell me all about her.”