The Butterfly Cabinet (2 page)

You have her sweet nature, Anna. You’ve waited for a child nearly as long as Florence waited for you. You must be, thirty-two? Am I right? Not far off it. September babies, the pair of us. What does that make us? Virgo and Libra: that’d be right. I remember the night you were born, the Big Sunday, September the twenty-seventh, 1936. The place was full of day-trippers, pouring into the town from the crack of dawn, taking their last chance at the weather, putting a full stop at the end of the summer. The Parade crammed with stalls selling ice cream and minerals, and the spinning pierrots, and the bay full of dancing boats: green and yellow and blue. Your mother and father were living in the yellow house where you are now, at Victoria Terrace, only yards away from the harbor. The young fellas started as usual to push each other out onto the greasy pole, and every time one of them fell in, there was a splash in the water and a roar went up from the crowd, and poor Florence gave another groan out of her and another cry. Ten hours, she was in labor with you. Poor Mrs. Avery, the midwife, was exhausted. And your father, pacing up and down the hall outside, drinking one pot of tea after another, smoking a whole packet of Players, and then going down to switch on the wireless as if there’d be some news of you on there. The psalm music was coming up from below: the BBC Chorus and then “Hallelujah!” and one last cry, and there you were. Little Anna, with a rosy face and a smile that would melt an unlit candle. You were born into love the like of no other child I’ve known. You’ve
heard that story before, Anna, but you never tire of it, do you? Everyone should have a person in their life to tell them stories of their birth.

Florence got shockin’ upset, a month or so before you were born. A baby was got in the river, up at the Cutts in Coleraine. A baby girl, it was, or part of one: she’d been in the river a long time. The coroner couldn’t tell if her lungs had ever drawn a breath, the paper said. Your mother walked about for days after it, cradling her belly, talking to you. She mourned for that baby like it was her own, took it severely to heart that someone could do such a thing to an innocent child. And I was thinking that somewhere up the country, near where the Bann runs fast, there was a girl, standing in a farmhouse kitchen maybe, or behind a counter in a shop, a girl who had been waiting for that news, a girl with the paper in her hands, reading, knowing that was her baby that was got in the fishing gates, a girl with the insides torn out of her.

It’s an odd thing I ended up back here after all these years. You know, it is a kind of home to me, for when you add up the time I was here as a servant and the time I’ve been here as a resident, I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere.

The first time I came, Anna, the first time I set foot over the door of this house, I was fourteen years old. I’d never seen anything like the castle. Oh, I’d seen it from the outside, sure enough, you couldn’t miss it. Grew up in its shadow, you might say, the way it stands on the headland looking down over Bone Row and the Parade and the harbor and the Green Hill at the far end. On a day like this, you can look out over the sea to the hills of Donegal in the west, Scotland to the east and the Atlantic as far north as you can see. It was never what you would call a pretty building. There’s always been a touch of the fortress about it: gray, nothing heartsome. But inside, it was a palace. Rooms the size of churches, not all divided up like they are now, everything light and airy, full of fine-looking furniture but spacious, you would
say, nothing too close to anything else. And smelling of lilies, the mistress loved lilies. I hated them, still do, those white petals like curled tongues when they open, the choking way they catch at the back of your throat, the rusty pollen that stains your hands for days. Give me a bunch of snowdrops any day, or bluebells, bluebells from Knockancor Wood. But your grandmother loved the lilies, would have filled the house with them if she could. She thought they cloaked the smell of the gas. Better than the smell of the place now, anyway: Jeyes Fluid and boiled spuds. Washable surfaces, that’s what’s important now, lino and emulsion; the smell of disinfectant everywhere. Why is it that people come to the sea to die? Is it the sound they’re after? The first sound? Mistaking the crash and suck of the ocean for the swill of warm blood in their ears? Is it a return?

Do you see that, Anna, that little mark above my wrist? I saw that same mark on my mother’s hand not long before she died. It would put you in mind of a swift in full flight: two dark wings, a divided tail. I know where that little bird is headed: swift by name and swift by nature, straight to the blood. I’ve been hiding it up my sleeve; I don’t want the doctor near me. Let the hare sit, that’s what I say. What’s the point of rising it now? My time’s near as well, but in a different way to yours, thank God. I’m glad you’ve come.

There’s Nurse Jenny, Anna. Do you see her, in her lovely white uniform? She can smell death on a person. She’s never said anything, but I’ve seen her face change, one day when she was helping oul’ Mrs. Wilson up out of the chair; another day when she was spooning Jimmy’s dinner into him. There’s a gray look comes over her round face; a furrow comes in her brow, and then she’s very gentle, gentler even than before. Oul’ Mrs. Wilson was dead within two days, Jimmy that very night. It’ll not be long now, I’m thinking, till she smells it on me.

There’s something I want to show you, up in my room,
behind the door. Do you know what it is? It’s your grandmother’s butterfly cabinet: I’ve had it these years. The keeper of secrets, the mistress’s treasure. Ebony, I think it is, very solid: four big balled feet on it. The darkest wood I’ve ever seen. There was never any warmth in it, not even when the light from the fire fell on it. Twelve tiny drawers, every one with its own small wooden knob. None of us was allowed to go near it; it was the one thing in the house that the mistress saw to herself. I’ll never solve the problem of her: what’s the point of keeping a dead thing? No luck could ever come of it. Mammy used to say that a white butterfly was the soul of a child and that you daren’t harm it or the soul would never find rest.

The cabinet ended up in Peig’s house, and when I opened it all those years ago and looked inside there was nothing left but dust and mold and rusted pins where the butterflies would have been. It was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen and for the first time ever—I don’t know why—I felt sorry for the mistress and I cried for her. I cried for her loss of Charlotte and her loss of the boys and her loss of the master, and for the days she spent in prison and for the misery of her sad lonely life. And most of all I cried that she didn’t know what she had and what she’d lost. Every drawer was the same: dust and mold and the dried-up bodies of carpet beetles and spiders, a waste of small lives.

But when I went to close it up again, one of the drawers wouldn’t slide back in; I could tell there was something behind it. I slid the drawer out and reached in and felt a book and when I pulled it out, I thought it was a missal, bound in black leather with a metal trim. I opened it and saw the date in pencil on the first page and then I knew straightaway what it was: the diary the mistress had kept in prison. Her writing was very neat always, small and careful, but here and there, there’d be a stumble forward to the loop of an “l” or an “f,” like the pencil was trying to get away from her and start some jig of its own.

I read three lines, and I closed it up again and put it back. You might find that hard to believe, Anna, but it wasn’t meant for me. Maybe she put it there that first visit back to the house. Maybe she meant to come back. Maybe she intended to destroy it. Maybe it was for your mother. Who’s to say? But, I think, it was her chance to speak, and she must have wanted someone to listen and she wouldn’t have wanted it to be me.

After Peig died, the cabinet and the diary passed into my hands. I decided I’d give them both to Florence someday, when you’d grown up a bit, when she’d proved to herself that there was no curse, that she was deserving of the name of “mother.” But I waited too long. And now I’m giving them to you. You are the true heir to the story. You can decide for yourself whether to read it or not, but you’re its rightful keeper. Who better than you?

I’m tired, daughter. You’ll come back? I could tell you more, maybe, another day. There’s more to tell. But the story runs away from me, the like of a woolen sleeve caught on a barbed wire fence. It unravels before my eyes. I am trying with my words to gather it up but it’s a useless shape at times and doesn’t resemble at all the thing that it was. It’s hard to do, to tell one story, when there are so many stories to tell.

Saturday 16 April 1892

There is someone who looks just like me, who wears my clothes and brushes my hair, who rises when I am lying on this mattress in the early morning and goes about her business as if she were me.

The cell is eight by five. I have had time to measure it with my steps. The damp of the flags creeps up my legs despite my woolen stockings. There is a small barred window of ground glass above the height of my head. I have a view of a square of sky the size of a handkerchief. On a good night, when blessed sleep comes, I dream that I am stretching toward it, the silken square, and that when I am about to grasp it, it flaps its wings, a chalk-hill blue, and all that dusty color falls down around my face. The irony of the situation has not escaped me. To be locked in a room like the room into which I put Charlotte appears indeed to be an apt punishment.

I have learned to be thankful for small mercies. They have permitted me to wear my own clothes. I must wear mourning, of course, and I am mocked for doing so since, as I was told by the papers, I myself am the cause of having to wear it. I am sick at the sight of black crape. I had only just left off wearing it after Father
died, and then Mother, and now here I am sheathed in it again. As if there were not misery enough to be had, without looking down on it every day.

I confess that I was unaware of the subtleties of degrees of punishment. I was a believer in absolutes. If one were dying, there was no comfort to be had. It was all the same, I thought, to die in a ditch or to die in a soft bed. What difference did it make? The choice of location did not alter the outcome. And if one were incarcerated, then there was nothing to be added or taken away. Nothing, I believed, could ease or exacerbate the truth that one’s freedom was gone. Now, though, I can see that to have one silken square of sky is everything. To be able to see a glimpse of the world that is outside the horror of the place where one is confined, to see the sky change, to observe clouds pass overhead (once, I am sure of it, I glimpsed the flutter of a tortoiseshell): that means everything.

On a bad day, a sound like a hornet’s wings shoots past my ear and I raise my hand and swipe at the air, at nothing. Tiny specks flit about at the corners of my vision. When I move my eyes toward them, they dart away, a silver-backed shoal of light, always just on the edge of what I can see. They herald the pain and when it comes, it is directly behind the eye like a splinter of light, like something that has been left behind from too much seeing. I feel that if I could reach in and touch it I would find it lodged there, jagged and solid. Then nausea, a heaving, emptying stomach, and each time I put my head down to find the pail, the jag of pain stabs forward again and again. I should recognize the signs by now. Yesterday, I bent my head over the copper basin, scooped the chill water into my hands and over my face, threw up my head to prevent the water dripping on my dress, then felt myself flung backward against the door of the cell, a sound like the beating of small wings in my ear. I found myself seated on the stone floor, staring back toward the window, and it seemed to me
that the wall before me had tapered in, had narrowed a good three or four inches toward the ground. When I picked myself up my face and dress were dry. Afterward, in the yard, it was as if I had been blinkered, as if I were seeing everything down the barrel of a telescope. As I walked, the flagged ground, the wall, the inmates, the warders, the scraps of moss the crows had picked off the roof and dropped, the entire scene jolted up and down to the rhythm of my steps.

And all the time, I am lying here, eyes open, not moving, watching the square of barred light creep down the wall and cross the floor and vanish into darkness. A new skeleton has formed inside the old: it is she who walks about and mouths the words, and I, the split skin, am left discarded here, opened at the seams. There is nothing the prison doctor can prescribe for the headaches, he says, for fear of damage to my unborn baby. My ninth child: what will it be?

I consider my roll call of children: Harry, the eldest, who is honorable, who will always do the right thing, who takes after Edward in character, who resembles my father in looks. Thomas, whose eyes are green as marram grass and who bends with every breeze, who cannot settle at a task for more than a minute at a time, who in this, as in other things, takes after Edward’s father, Lord Ormond. James, I think, a little like my mother, stern mouthed, somewhat self-indulgent. If he continues to favor her in looks he will never be tall but fine framed and pale, much like my sister, Julia. Gabriel and Morris remind me of Edward’s maternal grandfather, or at least of what I know of him: bluff, red-faced, matter-of-fact chaps, hands-on, curious, practical. Freddie and George, too young, too early to say, though Freddie shows signs of Morris’s temper when his teeth are coming through—as if firing his rattle against the wall will make them come any sooner or easier. They are none of them alike, my children: dark, fair, red haired; gray eyed, blue eyed, brown; tall, heavy framed, fine. I see
nothing of myself in any of them. They have come through me from Edward, from his ancestors and mine, but they seem little to do with me. And that is especially true of Charlotte, my sixth, my only girl. What can I say about her?

She had a gesture that was all Edward’s: a way of tilting her head when she was listening carefully, a strange fully-grown tic that seemed entirely at odds with her small frame. It did not seem copied: it appeared that she had inherited it, as surely as those serious gray eyes, those blond curls that had been his too as an infant. And she was wise, like a child, as they say here, that had been before, would be again.