The Butterfly Storm (17 page)

She stirs, her eyes open and focus on me. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost seven,’ I say. ‘You haven’t been sleeping long. Food’s ready.’

‘Oh.’

‘Are you still hungry?’

She nods and throws off the blanket. ‘Where’s the damn crutches?’

I retrieve them from the end of the sofa and help her to her feet.

‘I thought we could eat outside,’ I say.

‘Fine.’

Mum hobbles out to the patio while I dish up. She looks at the tubs of geraniums at the bottom of
the steps and the shrub-filled borders edging the grass that Robert advised me to cut. I wait until she’s
settled at the patio table with her crutches propped against the nearest tree before joining her with two
plates of food. We eat in silence. Mum picks at the salmon, taking tiny forkfuls and chewing
until there surely can’t be anything left in her mouth. We gaze off in opposite directions
with Mum looking across the garden towards the cottage while I watch the horses in the
field.

‘Robert seems to really care about you,’ I say, to fill the silence.

‘He’s a good friend.’ She methodically cuts her salmon and potatoes into bite-sized
pieces.

‘I haven’t met his wife yet.’

Mum stops cutting. ‘His wife?’ She looks at me. ‘She’s dead.’

‘I didn’t realise. He wears a wedding band, so I thought… You know.’

‘She died when Ben and Vicky were teenagers.’ She skewers a piece of potato on to her fork. ‘Why
do you ask? Did you say something to Robert?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. I was curious. It’s me assuming too much.’

‘He always wears the ring but rarely talks about her. It’s not a good subject to bring
up.’

‘I won’t.’

She swallows her mouthful and says, ‘Did you think I was having an affair with him as
well?’

‘You’ve taken me completely the wrong way.’

‘Really?’ She lets her knife and fork clatter on to her half-eaten plate of food and leans back in her
chair. ‘But you wouldn’t have been surprised if we were?’

‘Truthfully? No.’ I move the salmon about on my plate. ‘So, how did you find this place,’ I ask,
hoping
Salt Cottage
is a safe subject.

She tears her eyes away from the garden and looks at me, her blue eyes lingering on my
face.

‘On the internet,’ she says.

‘Why here?’

‘I had a contact over this way who wanted me to arrange her daughter’s wedding.’

‘You moved for a wedding?’

‘It was as good a reason as any. It was a toss-up between a city that had sucked me dry or a place
like this.’

She smiles when she talks about the cottage. I’m not surprised. To have somewhere so beautiful, to
have my own space and to do what I wanted when I wanted would put a smile on my face
too.

‘I’m amazed you left Bristol in the first place.’

‘I had nothing keeping me there.’

‘Honestly?’

‘You’d gone. There was no family. Just a string of broken relationships.’

‘You had masses of friends.’

‘My friends were more obsessed with dieting and how to look good in a bikini than real life. I’m
being unfair but I honestly didn’t care about moving so far away from them. They’ve all got
families of their own, kids and teenagers; I’ve got a grown-up daughter for God’s sake. We
spent less and less time together. I wasn’t worried about not knowing anyone here. I’m not
shy.’

‘I saw the photo in the living room,’ I say. ‘The house looked a mess.’

‘A bloody tip. Dirty. Stained walls. The oven didn’t work, I couldn’t find the microwave. I got a
takeaway the first night. The nearest Chinese is a five-mile drive away, not round the corner like Hazel
Road.’

‘I’d have been scared I’d made a mistake.’

‘I only moved house, not countries.’ She stares at the cottage for a moment before saying, ‘I was
worried, but not for long.’

Mum stays sitting outside watching the birds darting between the trees as the sun begins to dip on
the horizon. I wash up but it doesn’t take me long. I find an old newspaper and sit down at the kitchen
table to do the crossword.

It’s dark by the time Mum appears in the kitchen doorway. She staggers in as if she’s under the
influence of alcohol rather than on crutches.

‘It’s cold out,’ she says.

I fold the newspaper and scrape back my chair. ‘Do you want to sit down? Watch TV?’

‘I’m going upstairs,’ she says, heading for the hall door. ‘I’ve got things to do tomorrow.’

‘Sleep will do you good,’ is all I can think of to say. I follow her into the dark hallway, turn on the
lights and stand helpless for a moment while she struggles up the first couple of stairs. ‘Here,’ I say,
joining her. I half expect her to shrug me off but she allows me to guide her up the stairs. She pulls
away from me when we reach the top step.

‘Can I help with anything else?’ I ask.

We stand opposite each other on the landing. A moth flits around the naked bulb above.

Mum puts her hand on her bedroom door. ‘I don’t care about cleaning my teeth or getting out of
these bloody clothes. I just want to sleep, in my own bed.’

I shrug in defeat. ‘I’ll be next door if you need me.’

‘I know where my spare room is, Sophie.’

She closes her bedroom door on me. I remain outside, half hoping she’ll change her mind and want
my help, but I hear nothing apart from the moth hitting the light bulb. I silently close the spare
bedroom door behind me. I leave the blinds open on a clear midnight blue sky, the moon and stars
glowing brightly. It’s too still and quiet to sleep. I entertain myself by sketching a caricature of Mum
with her bulbous cast and frown lines the size of craters across her forehead. I add steam coming out of
her ears for good measure. I’m beginning to relax when something smashes against the other side of
the wall behind my head. I drop my pencil and notebook on the bed and dash on to the
landing.

‘Mum?’ I call through her closed door. I put my ear close and hear sobbing.

‘Mum, can I come in?’

‘Leave me alone,’ she says.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Of course I’m fucking hurt!’

I push open the door. She’s perched on the bed, her broken leg stuck out, her head buried
in her hands. The wardrobe door is open and a man’s shirt is hanging on the back of it.
One of the glasses from the bedside table is smashed on the floor. Water trickles down the
wall.

‘It’s like he’s going to fucking walk in any minute,’ she says. She wipes her eyes with the back of her
hand.

‘I didn’t want to touch your room,’ I say.

‘I thought I was okay about him. I coped too bloody well. But coming back to this.’ She throws her
hands in the air.

I notice his aftershave next to her perfume on the dressing table and the washing basket lid open. I
can only imagine she found his dirty clothes mixed in with hers.

‘I’ll clear up,’ I say.

‘Leave it.’ Her voice is firm. She looks at me. ‘Just leave it, Sophie. It’s out of my system
now.’

‘Do you want me to help you?’ I motion towards the smashed glass.

She shakes her head. Before I close the door she quietly says, ‘Thank you.’

I’m not tired so I lie on my bed and gaze out of the window at the stars. Alekos feels as
distant as Mum had seemed until just a week ago. I’ve lost track of days and time and can’t
think what he’d be doing right now. Thinking of me? I hope so, because I’m thinking of
him.

I emerge from the spare bedroom feeling lethargic from too much sleep. Going to bed early was
a bad idea. I normally survive on five hours’ sleep not ten. Mum’s bedroom door is ajar
and the bed is stripped of the duvet cover, sheets and pillowcases. Downstairs the washing
machine rumbles and Mum’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and a piece of
toast.

‘There’s filter coffee if you want some,’ she says.

‘I should be doing this for you.’

‘You don’t have to treat me like an invalid.’

She’s still in the same clothes as yesterday. I put a slice of bread in the toaster and join her at the
table with my own mug of coffee.

‘What are you going to do today?’ I ask.

‘Make phone calls. I’ve got a wedding to finish organising for Saturday.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yep. I’m doing the flowers and the bride’s make-up.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Not really.’

I was hoping she’d say yes. I don’t want to be knocking around the house, getting in her way, killing
time.

‘You can weed out front if you like,’ she says. ‘And cook dinner.’

She gets the fork and trowel from the shed and shows me where to weed. After getting washed and
dressed she shuts herself in her study.

It’s another warm, sunny day. I’m amazed by the run of good weather. It’s as if I’m back in Greece,
except the trees and fields are a more vivid shade of green. It’s a different landscape but just as
appealing.

I set about weeding the front garden. It looks immaculate but as I delve between the shrubs and
flower beds I find healthy weeds poking through. It’s satisfying ripping weeds up and working outdoors;
being stuck in a stuffy kitchen all day and night in a hot country can get claustrophobic. At least Mum
and I aren’t getting underneath each other’s feet. Perhaps that’s why she sent me out here. Alone, with
my back to the cottage and facing the trees that enclose the large front garden, I think about what I’d
be doing back in Greece: marinating meat and making filo pastry for the evening; drinking
a
frappe
on the patio with Alekos and Takis; chasing after a cat that’s brought a lizard
into the garden after a successful hunt in the field. I hear a car on the lane and glance at
my watch and realise I’ve been outside for over an hour. Robert’s Toyota pulls into the
drive.

‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Robert says, getting out of the car. ‘Leila inside?’

‘In her study, working.’ I stretch and I’m suddenly aware of the strain on my back from bending
over.

‘Really?’ Robert says and frowns, before striding towards the front door.

‘She insisted,’ I call after him.

‘Dad’s a worrier,’ Ben says, emerging from the passenger seat.

‘Mum’s not.’

‘Do you fancy escaping for a couple of hours?’ He leans on the open car door. He’s clean-shaven,
which makes him look younger, and wearing sunglasses. ‘I want to make it up to you for being an
arsehole the other night. I was tired and I had a lot on my mind, so sorry.’

I shade my eyes with my hand. ‘I don’t know if Mum needs me.’

‘They’ll be talking for hours. Trust me they won’t even notice we’re gone.’

It’s an enticing thought to have a bit of time away. I stick the trowel in the soil. ‘Okay. I’ll get my
jacket.’

Robert’s talking to Mum in the kitchen and the kettle’s boiling. I grab my jacket from off the hook
in the hallway and close the front door behind me.

‘What’s the deal with them?’ I ask, getting into the car.

‘What do you mean?’

‘They seem close.’

Ben shrugs. ‘They were friends a long time before I got here.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘What?’ He glances at me as he turns the car sharply round, crunching over the gravel. ‘You think
there’s something more?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Dad adores her,’ he says. ‘But as far as I know Leila’s always been with someone.’

‘That figures.’

I wind the window down when we reach the main road and let cool air buffer my face. I immediately
feel more relaxed with Ben than Robert. It’s got nothing to do with age, but his attitude. Ben is laid
back, unlike Robert who always seems on edge, asking questions to fill the gaps in the conversation.
With Ben the silences are comfortable. We listen to Radio One as we wind along the coast road away
from Marshton. The land flattens and marshes spread towards an expanse of pale blue on the
horizon.

We reach Salthouse, a village of flint houses lining the road facing the distant sea. The focal point is
a triangular patch of grass full of parked cars next to a tiny fish restaurant and a Post Office. We
drive past and turn left down a sandy track simply signposted ‘Beach’. We cut through the
marshland until we reach a stony car park in front of a bank of pebbles. The wind batters
the car and when I get out its whistle mixes with the rumble of waves folding on to the
shore.

‘It doesn’t look too busy,’ I say, glancing round at the few cars lining one side of the car
park.

Ben takes a rucksack from the boot. ‘Most people head up to the sandy beach at Wells. I like it
here.’

He throws the rucksack over one shoulder and strides towards the pebbly hill. We scramble up the
embankment, our feet sinking and slipping with every effort to reach the top. It’s worth it. The pebble
beach stretches so far in each direction I have to squint. The sea is grey-green and churns rhythmically
as it crashes on to the shore with a flurry of white foam. There are families and couples close by,
camped out with their windbreaks and picnics. A young man walks with his dog along the edge of the
shore.

‘Come on,’ Ben says.

The pebbles knock together like marbles as we half-run, half-slide down the embankment
to where the beach levels off. It’s difficult to walk, almost as bad as struggling across a
sandy beach, but instead of my feet sinking it feels as if I’m dragging a dead weight behind
me.

We find a quiet spot away from any families and screeching children. We struggle back up the
pebbly embankment, almost to the top, so we can look down on the waves curling on to the
shore.

‘You’ve come prepared,’ I say, as Ben reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a travel
rug.

‘Better than getting a cold arse.’

He flicks the rug out and the wind catches it, whipping it high into the air. I reach for one of the
corners and together we bring it down flat on to the pebbles. We secure it with a large pebble on each
corner and sit down.

Nearby voices are muffled by the wind and the waves breaking and bubbling on to the stones. I close
my eyes and everyone around me, including Ben, peels away. The wind whispers and wraps itself
around me. I shiver. I’m glad of my jacket and pull it tighter. ‘That’s quite a breeze,’ I
say.