Sound of Butterflies, The Read online

  Up the Tapajós, January 2nd, 1904

  We are nearing the end of our time in this godforsaken place. I am ashamed to admit that I am longing for the relative comforts of Santarém, but who will read this journal other than myself? Our salted meat has run out. The men took the canoes a little upriver to a village to trade, but all they managed to bring back was a skinny chicken and some fruit. Their fishing endeavours amounted to little — I understand now why the residents of Captain Arturo’s settlement were so thin — even fish is not in as much supply as on the main river. We had one fish go around between the eight of us, and though it was large it didn’t last long.

  Ernie diagnosed my stomach cramps as constipation, and I am not surprised. I was so unwilling to do my business, my body unconsciously held on to it. It took something extraordinary to alleviate the problem. Imagine my horror when João appeared one afternoon with a monkey — a dear little long-haired creature with white hands — a whaiápu-saí, as the natives call it. João had the decency to kill it before he brought it back to camp so we would not have to listen to its cries. He carried it by tying its tail around its neck and using it as a handle. He seemed at first to be swinging some kind of purse when he approached the camp, all smiles. Late that evening he placed it on the fire to burn its hair off and I had to leave the compound. With its hair gone, it looked even more like a tiny human baby. Its hands were so like a child’s that I imagined it reaching out to me, much in the way the caboclo children reached out to me for coins. I’m afraid this thought made me quite sick in the stomach, and I spent the next half hour squatting in the undergrowth, well away from the camp, the monkey and the nests of red ants. It cleared up my stomach cramps at least.

  I couldn’t bring myself to eat the monkey; to me it would have been like eating a baby. The locals sometimes have these monkeys as pets — I saw many on the shoulders of the villagers. By all accounts they don’t make very agreeable pets — they are not as playful as one might expect and rather tend to sulky behaviour — but to me that makes them even more human. The others were hungry enough to eat it. Ernie berated me, said I should keep my strength up or risk falling ill, but I do not see how a few days with less food will hurt me all that much. It is true that I have lost some weight since arriving in Brazil — my clothes are looser — but there is nothing to be alarmed about yet. We have been very lucky in that regard, and I know it cannot last.

  It is now a week since José the hat merchant left us. He was gone when we awoke in the morning. Even Ernie, who shared his room, had not heard him leave, but this is not so unusual — he had probably been drunk the night before and could hear nothing over his own snores. It wasn’t until after he had gone we realised we had not seen any of his hats.

  Tomorrow we depart for Santarém. We have exhausted the collecting opportunities in this area — at least as much as our bodies will tolerate. It is shameful, I know — the great naturalists who went before us spent months up the tributaries: we have lasted barely two weeks. I sense that I am feeling it the most — even George, who appears to be a man comfortable only among civilised people, has not complained as much as I would have expected.

  There is still no sign of my butterfly — the people we have met in the area have never heard of it. I am beginning to despair that it has all been for nothing, and that my journey up the Amazon will in the end amount to nothing more than the collection of a few pretty insects and a body’s worth of insect bites. I did not manage to escape being stung by the wretched fire ants, and our time here has been punctuated by the shouts of men. Ernie even has a sting on his face, which gives him a clownish appearance, so close to his nose. I vow right now not to allow myself to be made to camp around such a hazard. Alligators and snakes I can tolerate — it’s the unseen menace of the lurking insect that chills me to the bone.

  Five

  Richmond, May 1904

  If one butterfly makes no sound, coasting on the air, harnessing it with a flicker of its wings, would a swarm of butterflies be silent as well? Thomas has told Sophie before about the giant flocks of monarch butterflies that migrate from Central America, fanning out across the world. She imagines standing in a field one day while a flock of monarchs looms behind her — a stormcloud, silent. Would the air crackle the way it does before an electrical storm, when a black tempest puffs at the horizon and moves across the sun? Or would she hear the butterflies as she might hear a wind, passing through anything that gives it resistance, stirring, whispering? She imagines the flock of butterflies as a giant sigh, building up behind her and escaping as the monarchs pass through and around her, parting as the river does around a rock, opening and meeting again, liquid.

  But the beating wings. Surely, though generally inaudible to the human ear, when magnified a thousandfold they must produce a sound. A flapping as of bird wings, or the steady flick of a deck of cards. Do people in Mexico stop and look up as a dark swarm of butterflies moves overhead? Leaning on their hoes as they work their land, taking their hats off and wiping at their brows, raising a hand to block the sting of sunlight so they might observe the phenomenon better?

  All this Sophie thinks of, as she kneels alone in the church for prayer. Her thoughts have spun away from the spiritual and once again to Thomas — meandering sideways to the butterflies. She is lucky, she knows, that Thomas has always shared his knowledge with her, telling her snippets of information that she might be curious about. Such as the monarch, and how people have stumbled into valleys of them in the jungle, where every tree and leaf and flower heaves with them, a tapestry of orange and black, where walking means treading on the beautiful creatures by the hundreds. She should like to see a sight such as that before she dies, but doesn’t suppose she ever will.

  It is now more than a week since she met Thomas at the station, and beyond his occasional communication through a nod or the shake of his head, she’s made little progress with him.

  A shuffle of soft shoes catches her attention. The vicar pads down the aisle. She catches his eye and begins to rise.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Edgar,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  She brushes at her skirts, then pats her hair. ‘You didn’t. I was just leaving.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  She sits back down on the pew, and he sits too, perched on the edge of the aisle. She is always surprised, when she sees him sitting, that his legs manage to reach the floor. When he first visited her house, he was swallowed by the armchair in the drawing room, and always chose a hard, straight-backed chair from then on. Though modest, he seems very self-conscious about his size. She often wonders if he has grown such thick muttonchops to prevent people mistaking him for a child. His face reminds her of a little pug’s.

  ‘I’m not well, I’m afraid,’ says Sophie. ‘You know my husband is back.’

  His eyebrows rise. The beginning of a smile. ‘No, I didn’t. That’s wonderful!’ He puts his hand to his mouth and glances sideways around the empty church. ‘Wonderful,’ he says again, more quietly.

  Sophie doesn’t look at him.

  ‘Oh, but things are not so wonderful,’ he deduces. His face collapses into seriousness again. He rubs at his chin.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I didn’t know where to start. I suppose I was hoping it wouldn’t be a problem for long.’ She stops and picks at a loose splinter on the pew in front.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Edgar? Please, do go on. I’m listening.’

  Sophie sighs and tells him everything that has occurred since Thomas’s return — everything, that is, except the part where she lied to her father. She thinks hard about this. By not telling him, is she now lying to the vicar, too? Surely that is a wicked sin? But no. She is simply being selective with her information. Her jaw becomes tight; she is a coward. She knows full well she isn’t telling him in order to not incriminate herself. Selfish, selfish.

  The vicar listens generously, without speaking. This is his usual behaviour — he encourages
people to relate their whole story or predicament before offering any comfort or advice. When she has finished, he makes a steeple of his joined hands and presses his face against his raised fingers.

  ‘Hmm,’ is all he says.

  Sophie waits patiently. A cool breeze scratches at her neck; the door to the church has come slightly ajar. She watches the coloured patterns on the floor from the stained glass windows fade in and out as the sun passes behind clouds and out again.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your troubles,’ he says at last. ‘This is indeed a test for you. But it has only been a short time … perhaps he will come right of his own accord. I trust you will bring him to the service tomorrow?’

  ‘Do you think I should? To be honest … I was hoping to keep him away from prying eyes until he is better.’

  ‘I understand your reluctance. But who knows what opportunities he had to commune with God in the jungle? Perhaps just setting foot in our little chapel will do him the world of good.’

  Sophie nods, her eyes downcast.

  ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of, Mrs Edgar, if that is what you are thinking. Your husband is ill, that is all. It is no different than if he were recovering from pneumonia, or had a broken leg. At least he is able to physically come to church.’

  Sophie is silent, thinking. She remembers again the time she watched Thomas in prayer. He was enraptured. Surely he has not lost the part of him that can be moved so? But then she remembers the little butterfly that flew out from his hands. Perhaps it wasn’t the church or God that had moved him after all.

  ‘Thank you, Vicar,’ she says. ‘I will think over what you have said. You are very kind.’

  ‘As are the members of our congregation, Mrs Edgar. I know that people can be judgemental, but I’m sure you will also find they can be kind, that they will only want what is best for you.’

  She hopes he is right.

  Agatha stands at the end of Robert Chapman’s garden while Robert attacks her neck with wet kisses.

  ‘No, I have to go,’ she says, and pushes him away.

  ‘You’re a brave woman, Agatha Dunne. Imagine if someone saw you here, standing in my garden like this. Unchaperoned!’ He takes her hat from her hands and places it on her head.

  ‘Don’t tease me, Robert. You know I’m careful that nobody sees me.’

  ‘Still, we ought to be more careful. We don’t want you branded a wanton woman.’

  ‘Stop it, Robert. Is that what you think?’

  ‘Darling.’ He pulls her into an embrace again. ‘You know I don’t. I find your candour exciting. And refreshing,’ he says as she starts to jerk away again. He laughs as she struggles. Then, ‘Ow!’ as she stamps on his foot.

  ‘I am warning you,’ she says, and she knows then that she is giving him what he calls her ‘wild-eyed gypsy stare’. She can’t help it. She mostly enjoys his touch but every now and then he clings a little too tightly, his tongue a little too wet.

  He is still laughing, and she sighs and pins her hat, allowing herself to relax into a smile.

  ‘All right, then,’ he relents. ‘I’ll see you in church tomorrow. It’s not long to go now, my sweet. We can begin a public courtship at the end of summer. You know it’s just too soon after Nellie …’

  ‘I know.’ The truth is, she doesn’t know if she wants to begin a public courtship with Robert. That would make things too … official. The courtship would lead to marriage, and she’s not sure she is ready for that. She has seen what it has done to her friends — turned them from carefree pranksters into serious ladies, all talk of servants and hostessing. Nothing makes them smile any more; it is a serious business, being a wife. Except Sophie. She at least has retained some of her independence, but that is only because Thomas went off and left her like that. Agatha was the one to encourage her not to care what others thought of her, but she felt bad when disapproving looks were cast at Sophie in the street — looks to which Sophie herself had been oblivious.

  Robert walks with her to the back gate and opens it into the quiet pocket of the park. He kisses her once more, dryly this time, on the cheek, before giving her a last, longing look and pushing the gate closed. It always makes her nervous when he starts talking about their future together, and she wonders, not for the first time, whether she wouldn’t do better to break it off before he announces it to the world.

  She turns and leans against the gate while fumbling in her pockets for her cigarettes. As she pulls them out, a small movement catches her eye. A figure sits on a log in the shadow, looking at her. She curses to herself; nobody ever comes to this part of the wood, except for the odd beetle collector, rummaging among the dead and rotting tree stumps. She takes a step closer, to determine whether it is someone she knows. Did they see that last kiss?

  It is Thomas Edgar. She has to stop herself from gasping. This is a surprise. He rises as she approaches, and she has no choice but to go and greet him. What is he doing, lurking about in the shadowy, damp corner of the park? Sophie told her that he doesn’t go out, that he stays in bed all day and mopes soundlessly.

  He looks as shocked to see her as she is him. Agatha looks at the cigarette in her hand, and back at him. It is too late now — he’s seen it. She shrugs and sits down on the log, and he drops himself back down. She fumbles with gloved hands to light her cigarette; in her haste, she breaks a match as she tries to strike it, and the next one she drops. A nervous giggle escapes her, and her cheeks begin to burn.

  Thomas, with his bare hands, which are brown and callused, takes the matches from her, and she looks at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at her; he concentrates on the matches. He strikes and the flame jumps to life. Slowly, he raises the match to her face and she cocks her head and touches the paper to the flame. Agatha looks behind them, to get her bearings, and sees only a steep bank; they are sheltered here, from the wind, and from prying eyes.

  She inhales with a trembling hand. Thomas still holds the match, staring at it as if the answers to all the world’s questions are contained in its flicking flame. He doesn’t throw it away until it burns him, at which point he drops it and immediately puts his thumb in his mouth. It comes out glistening with saliva, and he licks it one more time before replacing his hands in his lap. Agatha realises he is now staring at her cigarette, where it balances between gloved fingers on her knee. When she raises it to her lips, his eyes follow it, and his stare is hungry.

  He wants one, she thinks. She didn’t even know he smoked.

  She shakes one out for him and he takes it quickly, lighting it in one fluid motion. He inhales deeply, and closes his eyes as he blows out a transparent dribble of smoke; most of it seems to have been absorbed into his body.

  ‘Have you been sitting here long, Mr Edgar?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head and goes back to his cigarette. His face has taken on an almost serene appearance, such is the pleasure it obviously gives him. She still has no clue as to whether he saw her with Robert.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’

  He nods slowly, still not looking at her.

  ‘I meant to call on old Mrs Hatchett, but I’m afraid I got a little lost. I was sure her house was through that gate there, but it turns out I was wrong.’

  He looks at her then, and nods again. Is that a smile curling at the edges of his mouth?

  ‘Mr Edgar,’ she says, determined to change tack and swing him away from the reasons for her presence in this part of the park, ‘Sophie is very worried about you. Can you not tell her what is the matter? You can still write, can’t you? Why not write it down for her?’

  All trace of the smile leaves him. Instead, his eyes grow wide and sad. How small he looks, Agatha thinks. He has lost any sign of the youth that once plumped his cheeks. His pert lips quiver before he takes the last puff of his cigarette and flings it away with a surprisingly powerful flick of his wrist.

  ‘I would say, Mr Edgar, that you look like a man with a secret.’ She angles her head towards him and blows out her
last stream of smoke. It wafts around his face. She drops her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Do you have a secret, Thomas?’

  This gets a reaction from him at least. He stands and draws himself up tall, then makes a movement with his head, which could be an assenting nod, or could be a clumsy sort of a bow, dismissing himself. He turns and marches away, his arms stiff at his sides.

  Agatha feels a surge of energy. She has really touched the quick. What possessed her to say it? There was something in his face that leapt out at her — he is concealing something; if it were found out, he might talk again. But he has her secret too, probably. She’s not bothered about smoking in front of him — if he knows about Robert then he might as well know about her habit — and it’s not as if he would tell anyone, would he? Her breathing calms and she chuckles. She can tell him anything, now, can’t she? Perhaps he will become her unwilling confidant. Lord knows that Sophie is too easily shocked.

  Sophie lies in her bed and watches the line of sunlight move across the floor. When it reaches her she knows it is time to get up and get ready for church. She remembers Thomas telling her how as a child he watched a similar patch of sun in the spring — that if it wasn’t there when he woke up, he knew that it was a grey day and the butterflies would be in hiding. Even worse, if it was raining he would have to spend the day inside with his brother Cameron, who would inevitably pull his ear or push him over and make him cry.

  She washes and dresses carefully, with Mary’s assistance, in tight stays — which emphasise her already substantial bosom and pitch her forward with a concave back; two petticoats; a high-necked blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves; and her best Sunday suit — an emerald-green woollen skirt with a slight train and bolero jacket that Agatha helped her pick out. At the time Agatha said it was boring. ‘But if it’s for church, boring is probably what you want,’ she’d said with a sigh. The rigidity of the undergarments will leave her breathless and sore within a few hours, and she will join the rest of the women in the congregation in tottering about stupidly in order not to fall flat on her face from being front-heavy.