Sound of Butterflies, The (14 page)

But her letters were cheerful enough — full of meals with friends, with games, with walks in the park — and they went a good way towards alleviating these feelings. He even envied her a little bit, for the time she spent in his beloved Richmond Park. He did miss it, despite the fact it would seem quite bare and barren of insect life when he returned.

He remembered his first walk in the park, clutching his new butterfly net, a few days after his fifth birthday. He saw a deer picking its way through the bracken. His father gripped his hand and walked briskly towards the flower beds, the rough tweed of his jacket flapping in Thomas’s face. Thomas had to run to keep up with him and his first attempts at swiping at a red admiral failed. He was on the verge of tears when his father put his big hand over his own and guided it. Together they caught the butterfly and Thomas watched its slow struggle in the light netting, its legs as fine as hairs poking through the tiny holes.

His parents hadn’t realised that by giving him such an innocuous present they had started a fire. Butterflies began to take up all of his spare time. He was still too small to go collecting on his own, but inevitably his father would get so fed up with Thomas’s badgering that he would yank him into the park, stand around smoking his pipe for five minutes, then order him home again. Thomas did not let this deter him. He began to request books on butterflies for all of his birthdays, and whenever the family went on a picnic would take his net and jars with him.

Elderly gentlemen they passed on the way to their picnic spot invariably feigned interest. ‘Going fishing, are we?’ Thomas would shake his head and the men would wander away, no doubt wondering at the impertinence of the boy. He clearly had a net with him; what else would he be doing with it?

‘For goodness’ sake, Thomas,’ said his mother, when they were settled and pouring tea. ‘Sit
still
. You’re to finish your sandwiches and sit there and be quiet before you go running off all over the countryside. Really,’ she said, turning to her husband, ‘I wish we’d never given him that stupid net.’

But his mother had gasped with pleasure when he brought her the chrysalis he had kept on his windowsill. Together they watched the brimstone emerge from its slippery bed, yellow and slick as a newborn calf. Slowly and quietly; they felt that if they spoke or breathed it might disturb the transformation and send the butterfly back into its cocoon. It slipped out, dew-wet, and rested, testing its wings, opening and closing them carefully, feeling for a drying wind that didn’t exist in his mother’s gloomy bedroom.

‘Let it out now, Tom,’ she said, and he sensed in her the same reluctance he felt to say goodbye to this small miracle. He crossed to the window and opened it, setting the jar with its branch on the sill. The butterfly waited another minute, seemed to be gathering its bearings, then launched itself from the branch and spun away into the garden.

‘It’s gone,’ he said, and his mother opened her arms to him. He climbed onto her bed and was enclosed in a rare embrace by her cinnamon smell and the pillow of warm air that arose from under the covers.

For all his father’s gruffness and complaints, he still encouraged his son’s habit. He took him to London when he was twelve years old to ‘Watkins and Doncaster, Naturalists’ in the Strand. Up until this point Thomas had caught butterflies and inexpertly pressed them into books, where they lasted for only a few months before insects attacked them and they mildewed and rotted away. Visiting Watkins and Doncaster was to Thomas as pleasurable as being in the most delicious sweet shop was to other boys — rows and shelves of all the equipment the serious collector could ever hope for. Instead of the smell of blackballs and sherbet, Thomas was enclosed by the odour of killing chemicals, laurel leaves and the dusky odour of plaster of Paris. He was allowed to select a new net, some cork-lined collecting boxes and, most important, a bottle of cyanide potassium. Until this point, he had only been allowed to use laurel leaves to kill his insects. The man behind the counter, with a giant belly and fingers like sausages, bent his face down close to Thomas’s and said, ‘Highly poisonous, young man. If you touch this or breathe it, you will die. You must only use it when your father is there to supervise you. Do you understand?’ Thomas nodded and pulled his face away — the man’s grey muttonchops were tickling his nose. The man gave a nod, satisfied that he had relieved himself of all responsibility should the boy kill himself. Mr Edgar gripped the back of Thomas’s neck and squeezed, just to make sure the message had got through.

The last present Thomas received from his father before the old man died, when Thomas was finishing his studies, was a magnificent set of collecting drawers, fashioned by none other than the Bradys of Edmonton. Thomas could hardly breathe when he saw them; they were the most highly prized drawers that money could buy. Usually, money
couldn’t
buy them. The Bradys, a father-and-son team, wouldn’t sell them to just anyone who asked; one had to impress Brady senior with one’s connections, and he might offer to make a set of drawers. It was an elaborate game that saw many men leave his premises empty handed, their supply of famous names well and truly exhausted, their countenance defeated.

But here they were: a set of Brady drawers, for Thomas.

‘Just remember I will always be proud of you, Thomas, no matter what you do.’ His father laid his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, and his eyes became rimmed with red. It was the most honest display of emotion Thomas had seen from him, and he vowed at that moment not to hide his feelings from his own children for so long. Mr Edgar died a month later. The doctor said he had a weak heart.

The sadness that rose up inside him as he lay on his hammock surprised him. He hadn’t thought of his father for some time. His gut twisted and a pain shot between his lower ribs. His father had loved the park. And now Sophie was discovering the delights of its shaded walks and the hidden valleys. In her letter, she also spoke of her friendship with Agatha, who he knew would keep her happy — she had a gift for making people laugh, Thomas included. Sophie had also mentioned a retired army captain she had met at church. Some kindly old widower, he expected, who had taken an avuncular interest in Sophie in the absence of her husband and her father.

His guilt was subsiding, along with the pain in his stomach. She’ll be all right, he thought. She’s strong and likes to be independent.

He turned his thoughts again to the giant swallow-tailed butterfly he hoped to capture. What if he found only one? He would be reluctant to kill it right away, but knew that if he didn’t it could damage itself and then be useless as a specimen. Would he sell it? Or would he donate it to the Natural History Museum in the name of science? Science. He shuddered. The more he collected, the more Thomas realised how far from a scientist he actually was. Ernie and George made that obvious to him every day — not always intentionally. He had to identify many of the specimens he caught with books, and George seemed to be able to recognise many that he couldn’t. Thomas had pored over the cabinets of lepidoptera at the museum, but their Latin names filled him with frustration at their unwillingness to adhere to his memory. He was still an amateur, no matter that he would make some money from his sales.

No, it was clear to him that the only way he could truly make a difference in the world was as an explorer — he would bring home the
Papilio sophia
and the world would remember him for it. His wife’s name would be immortalised, and he would be revered. He would travel the world speaking to entomological societies about the butterfly. He would relate again and again the adventure of the chase, the triumph he would feel when he caught one in his net, the skill he would use to do so.

The jaguar yowled again, and another blast of pain echoed around Thomas’s stomach. Perhaps it wasn’t grief that was hurting him after all. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. It seemed the closer he got to the butterfly, the more the dark rainforest tried to hinder him. He would speak to Ernie tomorrow.

The following afternoon, as the men returned from their day’s collecting — Thomas clutching his gut to try to subdue the waves of pain — Antonio, who had stayed behind, met them on the path.

‘You have a visitor,’ he said, his wide face looking at them for approval.

Outside the cookhouse, a white man of around fifty years was sitting on a chair with his feet up on a stool. He stood and removed his hat before walking forward to greet them. His neat cream suit was remarkably spotless. He was smooth shaven except for a large grey moustache, waxed into thick leaves. There was something unnatural about the face beneath the combed and oiled hair. Thomas couldn’t quite place it until they stood face to face with him: the skin was utterly dry. While all around him men wiped at their grimy brows, slick with sweat, this man was as cool as if it were an English spring day. He bowed slightly as he shook each of their hands; his palm confirmed Thomas’s perception of him — it felt like cool glass, and his nails were clean and cut into neat squares.

‘I am very honoured to meet you, sirs,’ he said in almost flawless English. ‘Your man Antonio has told you who I am?’

‘Only that you are a hat merchant, my dear fellow,’ said George, whose nervousness had deserted him once he had laid eyes on the man; his relaxed hands were folded loosely in front of him.

‘My name is José,’ said the man. ‘Please just call me José. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. No!’ He held up his hand as Ernie went to speak. ‘Please do not tell me. You are the doctor, Ernest Harris?’ Ernie nodded and raised his eyebrows, before following José’s gaze to John. ‘And you … you must be Mr Gitchens, I think. The hardy plant-hunter.’ John nodded, but looked at the ground. Thomas sensed that John was anxious to wander away, to snatch some moments alone with his work. His whole body seemed to be straining towards the hut. ‘And this must be Mr Sebel, of course, the learned scholar. And finally young Mr Edgar.’

Thomas had the curious impression they were being welcomed to their own camp; he almost expected the hat seller to stretch his arms out to them. ‘And how do you know so much about us?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that would be your man Antonio again. We have been talking for a good two hours in your absence. I trust you had a good day collecting?’

Ernie suggested they sit down. They gave their equipment to Paulo, who staggered away under its collective weight.

‘What brings you up the Tapajós, sir?’

‘Hats. I have come from Manaus, and I thought I would take a detour up the Tapajós before leaving Santarém for Belém. I have many hats to sell.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘Sao Paulo. I came to the Amazon to make my fortune in Manaus. I arrived there two years ago, and tried to sell my hats there, but nobody wanted to buy them. I even tried to drop the price, but nobody wanted them. Then I learned something. You see …’ He leaned forward in his chair, as if about to let the men in on a secret. ‘In Manaus everything is very expensive. The people there, they don’t care for quality, they only want what costs them the most so they can brag to their neighbours about it. Those rubber men! When they would not buy my hats, I put the price up a thousand per cent. I sold out within a week. They all wanted my hats! They were the most expensive, you see, and to them that means status! So you see before you a much wealthier man than the man who left Sao Paulo.’

‘And well educated, I am guessing, sir, by your excellent English.’

‘Oh, you know, one picks it up.’ He laughed. ‘May I be so bold as to ask if we may have some tea?’

They looked at one another. Tea was a habit they had fallen away from in Belém.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have any tea, old man,’ said Ernie, and Thomas wondered if José would be offended by the expression. ‘We can offer you some coffee. Please forgive us for not offering before.’

‘
Coffee
?’ José looked terribly disappointed. ‘But you are English! Surely you drink tea?’

‘We do, but it has been a little hard to get. And we have developed a taste for coffee.’