Butterfly Summer

by Anne-Marie Conway

  The house was a state, especially the kitchen. There were newspaper cuttings and pieces of puzzle everywhere. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier we’d been standing there screaming at each other. It seemed like ages ago, days even.

  “I’m sorry about the puzzle,” I said. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was so scared and angry.”

  Mum turned me round by the shoulders and led me out of the kitchen. “Please don’t say sorry, Becky. I don’t care about the puzzle. I only started doing them after Rosa May died as a way of numbing the pain, but I don’t need to do that any more. I’m going to make you a hot, sweet drink and tuck you up in bed and then I’m going to get this mess cleared up.”

  I had the best sleep I’d had since moving to Oakbridge. I didn’t dream about Rosa May or my dad, but in a weird sort of way I felt they were both close by. My dad was due back in Oakbridge any day, and I realized, as I lay there, that my falling-asleep dream might actually turn into reality. “Becky Miller, I’ve been searching for you for the last twelve years!” I whispered to myself in the dark. It’s okay, Dad, better late than never, eh?

  I woke to the smell of bacon and eggs.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Mum said when I went down. “It’s nearly midday, you know. I’m so pleased you slept in. You really needed it.”

  The kitchen was spotless. Mum had opened all the windows and she was standing at the stove, wearing one of her pretty summer dresses.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking.” She handed me a plate piled high with food. “Why don’t you invite Laura up to stay? Maybe next weekend? Or the weekend after that?”

  “I’m not sure, Mum. I haven’t heard from her all that much since we got here.”

  Mum sat down at the table with me. “Well, have a think about it and let me know. I can call her mum if you’d like? Oh, and when you’ve finished eating there are some things I want to show you. In my bedroom.”

  Mum had laid out a whole load of stuff on her bed. There was the wooden jewellery box, the diary I’d found in the shoebox, some photos and a letter. She opened the jewellery box first and pressed the tatty piece of fabric into my hands.

  “I want you to have this,” she said. “Rosa May made it for me when she was ten. For Mother’s Day. I thought she’d forgotten, you see. The whole day passed and she didn’t give me a card, or make a fuss of me, or even say Happy Mother’s Day. I was quite hurt. I remember I said to your dad that just a card would’ve been nice, but then when I went up to bed I found this lying on my pillow. She’d waited all day to surprise me. That was just typical of her.” Her eyes filled with tears but she picked up the diary, determined to carry on.

  “This is my diary,” she said. “I wrote it after you were born, every day for the first year of your life. It’s not easy reading, to be honest, and I’m not suggesting you look at it now, but it’s here if you ever want to know more about those early days.”

  I didn’t tell her that I’d already read that one awful entry. “What’s this?” I asked, picking up the letter.

  “It’s from your dad. It only came a few weeks ago, just after I lost my job. I was going to give it to you, Becky, but I knew I had to tell you about Rosa May first and I’m so sorry, but I didn’t feel strong enough.”

  I ran my hand over the letter. It was still sealed. “Is it for me? Did he write it to me?”

  “Yes, my love, it’s for you. I don’t know what’s in it, I haven’t read it.”

  I looked up at Mum. “Stella said my dad was a lovely man. She said he was gentle and that he cared about animals.”

  The tears spilled over then, running down Mum’s face.

  “Oh, he was,” she said. “He was wonderful, the only man I’ve ever loved, but losing a child can do terrible things to you, Becky.”

  We sat there on the bed with our arms around each other. I wasn’t angry with Mum any more; I knew she’d done the best she could. “You know what I’d really like to do?” I said after a bit, pulling back. “It might be hard for you, but I’d like to visit Rosa May’s grave.”

  Mum reached for a tissue from her bedside table and wiped her eyes.

  “No, I think that would be lovely,” she said. “It’s something I should’ve done a long time ago and it’ll be so much easier going with you.”

  We visited the cemetery later that day. Rosa May’s grave was tucked away in a dark, shady corner under a big oak tree. It looked sad, uncared for, forgotten. We’d brought some cutters with us and some lovely fresh flowers and we got busy trimming the grass. Mum told me about the funeral, about how she’d been too ill to attend. She said it was one of her biggest regrets. Father Hill had come round later that day to try and comfort her. He said Rosa May was one of God’s angels now and that wherever she was she’d understand, but Mum felt as if she’d let her down all over again.

  “Is that why you didn’t want to go to Albert’s christening?” I asked.

  Mum nodded. “I didn’t want to see Father Hill again. I was too scared – frightened of what he might say.”

  “What about Mrs. Wilson? Did she live in Oakbridge back then?”

  “No I told you, Becky. I’d never met Mrs. Wilson before that day she came round.”

  “But she always looks at me as if she knows.”

  Mum sat back on her knees. “Knows what?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve seen her face. It’s so sour...”

  “Well, she hasn’t got the friendliest face in the world,” said Mum, smiling, “but I wouldn’t read too much into it if I was you.”

  “Hey, you’ll never guess what Mack said. He said Mrs. Wilson performs exorcisms. You know, like in horror movies, when they go into people’s houses to get rid of bad spirits and stuff like that!”

  Mum’s face grew sad again. She glanced down at Rosa May’s grave, shaking her head. “There are no bad spirits around here, Becky. Just peace at last for a very special girl whose life was cut short.”

  I kept expecting Mum to slip back, put herself to bed, clam up, but it didn’t happen. She spent the next few days applying for jobs, phoning companies, sending out her CV. She cooked me proper meals, kept the house tidy, and at the end of the week we went to visit my new school. It was on the outskirts of Farnsbury, not far from the leisure centre. We went on the bus and I told Mum all about my swimming lessons with Mack and how determined I was to learn. I was sure she’d freak out, but she was all for it. She even said she might see about having some lessons herself.

  I didn’t open the letter from my dad straight away. I never found out who wrote that first note way back at the beginning of the summer, but this was a real letter from my dad and I was frightened. What if it said something awful, like he’d decided to stay in Australia, or that he was coming back but he didn’t want to see me after all? It was Stella who persuaded me in the end. She dropped by to see us a few days after everything happened.

  “I’ve been dying to give you this for so long,” she said, handing me an old photo. “I found it tucked away in an album from years ago, but your mum didn’t want me to show you. Not until she’d told you about Rosa May.”

  It was a picture of me and my dad outside the Butterfly Garden. It was difficult to see his face very clearly because he was holding me in his arms and we were smiling at each other. I was wearing a little pink sundress and a pink bonnet and I was clasping hold of my dad, my plump baby arms wrapped around his neck.

  “This was the day the Butterfly Garden opened,” Stella explained. “It was exactly a year after Rosa May died and the opening was supposed to be a celebration of her life.”

  “What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’?” I said, still staring at the photo. At me in my dad’s arms.

  “He couldn’t cope,” said Mum quietly. “Everyone was there. All our friends from the village, Rosa May’s friends from school, Stella, Colin and Mack, the Jacksons, Father Hill. They’d all turned out to pay their respects, but your dad had a funny turn.”

&
nbsp; “What happened? What sort of funny turn?”

  “He thought he saw Rosa May, in the water. He waded in to try and rescue her, screaming for help. He even called 999. It was awful. We couldn’t get him out. We tried to calm him down, we did everything we could, but he was convinced she was in there.”

  “Maybe she was,” I said quietly, but Mum had turned to Stella and they were lost in the past, talking about that day at the Garden, the day my dad saw Rosa May in the lake.

  I ran up to my room, clutching the photo to my heart, and threw myself across the bed. The letter was under my pillow. I pulled it out and tore it open. It was quite short, only a page, written on thick, white paper.

  My dearest Becky,

  It’s very difficult to write this letter after so much time has passed. Your mum has probably told you that I’m coming home and I’d like you to know that my deepest wish is to see you again. There’s so much I want to talk to you about, to explain. After Rosa May died, I tried to be a father to you, the father you deserved, but I kept getting it wrong. My heart was broken, Becky, and I couldn’t fix it. But things have changed. I had to go very far away to learn that the place I most wanted to be was back with you.

  I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me. We can never get those years back, and I’m sure, to start with, I’ll seem like a stranger to you. But I’m hoping that, over time, we can get to know each other again.

  I’m due back in England at the beginning of September, but I’ll wait to hear from you before I contact you again.

  I’m sending you an ocean of love in the meantime,

  Dad x

  I only went back to the Butterfly Garden once more before the end of the summer. Mack came with me and we sat on a bench by the lake, chatting. The weather was changing. It was still hot, but heavy clouds filled the sky, blotting out the sun for the first time in weeks. Stella had told Mack about what happened – about Rosa May drowning and how I was going to meet my dad when he came back – but we didn’t really talk about it.

  “They said it’s going to rain later today,” I said. “D’you know, I don’t even remember what rain looks like, it’s been so long!”

  “It’s wet,” said Mack, grinning. “Which reminds me, are you ready for your next swimming lesson?”

  “Do you still want to teach me?” I asked shyly, glancing up at him. I still couldn’t get over the fact that he wanted to hang out with me.

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “It’s bubbles, remember. Bubbles is the best lesson ever!”

  “Yeah, okay, but what comes after bubbles? It’s not actual swimming, is it?”

  “Listen, Becky, they’re not called swimming lessons for nothing. At some point you are going to have to do some actual swimming. But don’t worry, I’ll be there to save you if anything happens. I’ll even give you the kiss of life if I have to!”

  I could feel myself turning crimson and I looked away, willing my face to cool down. How could he do that? How could he mention kissing? I was just about to suggest we go for a walk, or get something to eat – anything to change the subject – when I spotted a blue butterfly hovering over the bridge. It was different from any of the blue butterflies Rosa May and I had seen before; smaller, more delicate.

  “Look,” I breathed.

  “What?” said Mack.

  “Look, over there. That blue butterfly. I think it might be a Silver-studded Blue. I’m not sure, but there’s something about it...”

  Mack started to ask me what I was on about, but I put my hand on his arm.

  “Shhh, don’t move.”

  The butterfly danced towards us, weaving its way through the tall grass, flitting from flower to flower. As it got closer, I saw it was deep blue, with delicate silver edging around its wings. My heart started to thump in my chest.

  “It’s her,” I whispered.

  Mack reached for my hand and I held my breath as the butterfly fluttered above our heads. The memories came flooding back...early morning hunts through the bell heather. The first time I saw Butterfly Rock. Lying in the grass with Rosa May as she told me about the ancient myth.

  “It’s okay,” I said, smiling as the butterfly fluttered down, settling on my shoulder. “It’s Rosa May, but she’s just come to say goodbye.”

  We sat there for a while longer and watched as the Silver-studded Blue danced its way back over the bridge, disappearing out of sight. We were still sitting there when the first drops of rain fell. We turned our faces up to the sky, almost giddy with excitement, and then, with almost no warning at all, the clouds burst open.

  “Come on!” cried Mack, leaping up. “It’s time to go!”

  And we ran laughing, hand in hand, towards the exit.

  A really big thank you to: Rebecca Hill, for believing in Becky and Rosa May, but most of all for believing in me; the rest of the team at Usborne for taking so much care over every aspect of the manuscript; my wonderful agent Julia Churchill; my sister Paula for all her brilliant help with the first draft – I swear she was an editor in another life; my mum for letting me talk through the story over and over until I was sure I’d got it right; Callum and Freddy for reading the entire manuscript chapter by chapter as I wrote it, urging me to hurry up so they could find out what happened next. And my BIGGEST thank you of all to Danny, for giving me the self belief I so badly needed to put pen to paper in the first place.

  Anne-Marie Conway is a primary school teacher specializing in drama, who also runs her own children’s theatre company, Full Circle. She lives in London with her husband, two young sons and two eccentric cats, Betty and Boo. Anne-Marie’s first book, Phoebe Finds Her Voice, was picked for the 2011 Summer Reading Challenge.

  “Tackling issues of family and friendship, it’s warm and accessible and spot on for the Cathy Cassidy market.”

  The Bookseller on Phoebe Finds Her Voice

  Find out more about Anne-Marie at

  www.annemarieconway.com