The Roar of the Butterflies

by Reginald Hill

  ‘That’s right. It depends where I fit into Jenny’s new scale of friends, I suppose. I’d quite like to see her.’

  Connon reluctantly digested another piece of the revolting honesty of the young and turned to go. He heard a burst of laughter as he moved to the door. Arthur noticed him this time.

  ‘Hey, Connie, how are you there, boyo? How’s the head?’

  ‘It’s all right now.’

  ‘Good. I settled that fellow’s nonsense anyhow. Time for a drink?’

  ‘No thanks, Arthur. Gwen coming down tonight?’

  ‘Why yes, she is. Always does, doesn’t she? Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. I haven’t seen her for a while, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s because you’re always bloody well rushing off home, isn’t it? Why doesn’t Mary come down nowadays?’

  Connon shrugged. For a second he contemplated offering Arthur a long analysis of the complex of reasons governing his wife’s absence.

  ‘Too busy, I expect,’ he said. ‘I’d better be off. Cheers, Arthur.’

  ‘Cheer-oh.’

  The car park was quite full now and his car was almost boxed in. He had once proposed at a committee meeting that the club-house facilities be restricted to those who at least watched the game but this voluntary restriction of revenue had not won much support. Finally he got clear without trouble and drove away into the early darkness of a winter evening.

  He glanced at his watch and realized just how late he was. He increased his speed slightly. Ahead a traffic light glowed green. It turned to amber when he was about twenty yards away. He pressed hard down on the accelerator and crossed as the amber flicked over to red.

  There was no danger. There was only one car waiting to cross and it was coming from the right.

  But it was a police-car.

  Connon swore to himself as the car pulled ahead of him and flashed ‘Stop’. He drew carefully in to the side and switched off his engine. Its throbbing continued in his head somehow and he rubbed his temple, in an effort to dispel the pain. Out of the car ahead climbed two uniformed figures who made their way towards him slowly, weightily. He lowered his window and sucked in the fresh air.

  ‘Good evening, sir. May I see your licence?’

  Silently he drew it out and handed it over with his insurance cover-note and test certificate.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The gears in his head were now grinding viciously together and he could not stop himself from rubbing his brow again.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No. Well, no. I had one whisky but that’s all.’

  ‘I see. Would you mind taking a breathalyser test, sir?’

  Connon shrugged. The policeman accepted the negative result impassively and returned his documents.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You will hear from us if any further action is proposed concerning your failure to halt at the traffic lights. Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening,’ said Connon. The whole business had taken something over fifteen minutes, making him still later. But he drove the remaining five miles home with exaggerated care, partly because of the police, partly because of his headache. As he turned into his own street, his mind cleared and the pain vanished in a matter of seconds.

  He drove carefully down the avenue of glowing lampposts. It was a mixed kind of street, its origins contained in its name, Boundary Drive. The solid detached houses on the left had been built for comfort in the ’thirties when they had faced over open countryside stretching away to the Dales. Now they faced a post-war council estate whose name, Woodfield Estate, was the sole reminder of what once had been. This itself merged into a new development so that the boundary was a good four miles removed from the Drive. Mary and her cronies among the neighbours often bemoaned the proximity of the estate, complaining of noise, litter, overcrowded schools, and the comparative lowness of their own house values.

  This last was certainly true, but Connon suspected that most of his neighbours were like himself in that only the price-depressing nearness of the estate had enabled him to buy such a house. Even then, it had really been beyond his means. But Mary had wanted a handsome detached house with a decent garden and Boundary Drive had offered an acceptable compromise between the demands of social prestige and economy.

  His gates were closed. He halted on the opposite side of the road and went across to open them. While he was at it, he walked up the drive and opened the garage doors. It was quite dark now. The only light in the house was the cold pallor from the television set which glinted through the steamed-up lounge windows.

  When he went back to his car a man was standing by it with the driver’s door open. Connon recognized him as the occupier of the house directly opposite his own, a man named Dave Fernie whom he also knew as a chronic grumbler at work.

  ‘Evening, Mr Connon. You left your engine running. I was just switching it off.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Connon. He never knew how to address this man. He worked in the factory of the firm for which Connon was assistant personnel manager. But he was also a neighbour. And in addition, possibly with malice aforethought, Mary had made of Mrs Fernie the only friend she had from the council houses.

  ‘I was just opening my gates,’ he added, climbing into the car.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Fernie graciously. ‘I’ve just been down the match. Were you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Connon. ‘I mean, no. I was at the rugger match.’

  ‘Oh, that. I meant the football. We won, 3–1. How did your lot come on?’

  ‘Oh, we did all right.’

  ‘Good. Rugby, eh? Here, you used to do a bit of that, didn’t you? My wife saw the pictures.’

  ‘Yes, I did once.’

  He turned the key in the ignition and felt the turn in his skull so that the pain in his head shook with the roar of the engine, then settled down as quickly.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Fernie.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Well, good night then.’

  ‘Good night.’

  He swung the car over the road and into the drive, slamming his foot hard on the brake as the branches of an overgrown laburnum slapped against his wing. He was used to this noise, but tonight it took him completely by surprise. He had stalled the engine and this time it took two or three turns of the starter to get it going again.

  At last he rolled gently into the garage. He shut the main doors from the inside and went through the side door which led into the kitchen.

  In the sink, dirty, were a cup and saucer, plate and cutlery. From the lounge came music and voices. He listened carefully and satisfied himself that the television was the source of everything. Then he took off his coat and hung it in the cloakroom. He looked at himself in the mirror above the hand basin for a moment and automatically adjusted his tie and ran his comb through the thinning hair. Then, recognizing a desire to delay, he grinned at his reflection and shrugged his shoulders, grimaced self-consciously at the theatricality of the gesture and moved back into the entrance hall.

  The lounge door was ajar. The only light within was the flickering brightness of the television picture. A man was singing, while in the background a lot of short-skirted dancers sprang about in carefully choreographed abandon. His wife was sprawled out in the high-backed wing chair he thought of as his own. All he could see of her were her legs and an arm trailed casually down to the floor where an ashtray stood with a half-smoked cigarette burning on its edge. The metal dish was piled full of butt ends, he noticed. The burning cigarette had started another couple of stumps smoking, and Connon wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ still hesitating at the door.

  The music and dancing seemed to be approaching a climax. The trailing hand moved slightly; a gesture of acknowledgment; a request for silence, a dismissal.

  Connon let his atte
ntion be held for a moment by a close-up of a contorted face, male, mixing to a close-up of a shuddering bosom, female. The cigarette smell seemed to catch his throat.

  ‘I’ll just get a cup of tea, then,’ he said and turned, closing the door behind him.

  Back in the kitchen he found a slice of cooked ham, evidently his share of the meal whose débris he had noticed in the sink. He slapped it on a plate and lit the gas under the kettle. Even as he did so, he felt his head begin to turn again and this time his stomach turned with it. He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth and moved shakily upstairs. Distantly the thought passed through his mind that he was well conditioned. Being sick in the downstairs toilet might disturb Mary. Now he was on the landing and his knees buckled and he gagged almost drily. Wiping his mouth, he pulled himself up, one hand on the handle of his bedroom door.

  The next time he fell, he fell on to the bed and the wheels in his head went spinning on into darkness.

  ‘Do we have to have that tripe on?’ asked Dave Fernie.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said his wife. ‘You usually like it. All those girls. You must be getting old.’

  ‘Too old for that.’

  Alice Fernie glanced across at her husband with a smile, half ironical, half something else.

  ‘Old enough for what, then?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to switch it off?’

  ‘I didn’t switch it on.’

  ‘No. I did. So you could see your precious football results after you rushed back from your precious match. And when you didn’t come, I even marked them down for you. Don’t you want to see?’

  Fernie reached across and took the paper from the arm of his wife’s chair.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  The singer was off again, alone this time; a ballad; his voice vibrant with sincerity.

  ‘For God’s sake, switch that bloody thing off, will you!’

  Angrily she rose and pulled the plug out of its socket.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you these days. I’m getting pretty near the end of my tether with you. Other women wouldn’t put up with what I do.’

  Fernie ignored her and peered down at the newspaper, but she sensed he wasn’t really seeing it. She stood in the middle of the room and glowered down at him. He was in his early thirties, the same age as herself, but there was a puffiness about his face and a sagging at the belly which made him look older. Normally the contrast to her own advantage pleased her. Now she screwed up her face in distaste. Then, quickly as it came, her anger drained from her and she sat down again.

  ‘Are you ready for your tea yet?’

  ‘No, love. I told you I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Is there anything bothering you, Dave? Are you feeling all right?’

  She steeled herself for the irritability her concern for his health always seemed to cause, but unnecessarily.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘You were late tonight.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I got held up. It was a good gate. I met his lordship on my way up the road.’

  He jerked his head towards the window which faced the street. Alice affected not to understand.

  ‘Who’s that you mean?’

  ‘You know who. Connon. Bloody twat.’

  ‘Why? What’s he ever done to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he grunted. ‘I just don’t take to him, that’s all. Too bloody standoffish for me.’

  ‘That’s what he was. A stand-off.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Stand-off. His position at rugby. Mary told me.’

  Fernie laughed. ‘Stand-off, eh? That’s bloody good. Wait till I tell them on the bench. That fits him.’

  ‘Anyway I think you’re wrong. When I met him he was very nice. Charming. A bit quiet perhaps but he’s just a bit shy, I think.’

  ‘If he’s shy he shouldn’t be a bloody personnel manager, should he? Anyway he’s more than that. He’s a snob.’

  Alice laughed with a slight edge of malice. ‘I’d have thought you could say that about Mary Connon. But not him.’

  Fernie shook his head dismissively. ‘Her. That’s different. She’d like to be better, but knows she isn’t. He believes he is. Bloody rugby club.’

  ‘Oh, Dave, don’t be daft. It’s not like that these days. Anybody plays rugby. Maisie Curtis’s boy next door, Stanley, he’s in the Club.’

  ‘So what? Things don’t change all that quick. What a game. Organized thuggery, then they all sing dirty songs like little lads. Yet they all tut-tut like mad if one of our lads runs on the field and someone shouts “shit” from the terraces.’

  ‘There’s no need to get excited, Dave.’

  ‘No? No, I suppose not. Here, I think I’m ready for my tea now.’

  Alice rose and went into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll tell you something about your precious stand-offish Mr Connon, though.’ His voice came drifting after her.

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘He’d had a couple tonight. He was swaying around a bit. And I thought he was going to drive across his lawn and in through the front door.’

  Alice came back to the sitting-room door.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? Don’t tell me that you’ve only heard good of him from Madam Mary?’

  ‘She doesn’t talk much about him at all.’

  ‘I don’t know why you bother with her. You’ve only got your age in common.’

  Alice took an indignant step forward.

  ‘What do you mean? I can give her ten years, and more.’

  Fernie caught her hand and pulled her down beside him on the settee.

  ‘As much as that? Mind you, she’s well preserved. And game too, I should think.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alice, struggling to get up.

  ‘She must have caught him young then, very young. He’s only thirty-nine, you know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He didn’t answer but went on, ‘And they’ve got that girl of theirs …’

  ‘Jenny.’

  ‘Yes, Jenny, at college. He must have been caught young. Very young. She’s a pretty little thing, now.’

  ‘Don’t you want any tea, Dave?’

  Fernie’s brawny arm held his wife in a clamp-like grip round the waist. He looked thoughtfully into her face, then pressed gently with his free hand where it rested on her leg just above the knee.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve changed my mind again.’

  Jenny Connon hadn’t quite made up her mind what to do about the hand on her knee. Adaptability was an important quality in a teacher, her education tutor had told the class that morning. How to cope with the unexpected.

  Though, as she herself had arranged that her roommate should go out and she herself had turned the key in the door to prevent interruption, the situation was not all that unexpected.

  ‘Do you really want to be a teacher?’ she asked brightly.

  Antony (he insisted on the full name) pushed the hair back from his brow with a gesture almost girlish (but he used the hand not on her knee) and smiled.

  ‘If you mean, have I got a sense of vocation, no. If you mean, are my natural inclinations to be something else being repressed, the answer is equally no. Being at college is less distasteful than most of the alternatives, and it pleased my parents. Anyway, think of the holidays. I have a sense of vacation very strongly developed.’

  Antony Wilkes was without doubt the smoothest man in the South Warwickshire College of Education at the moment. As he was in his third year and Jenny was in her first, the opportunities for the relationship to develop were limited. As it was, Jenny had decided to feel flattered that she was the second girl he had chosen from the year’s new supply. Her college ‘mother’ in the second year had assured her (rather sadly) that Antony was most discriminating in his selection. Her room-mate had been even more positive. She had been the first of the year. This gave Jenny the advantage o
f being well briefed in the Wilkesian technique, but being forewarned she was discovering did not prevent her from being disarmed. Antony was one of the few people she had met who really did talk in long well-organized speeches like people in plays. Most of her acquaintance, she realized, hardly ever strung together more than a couple of dozen words at a time except when telling an anecdote, and in fact the few who did talk at length were down in the catalogue as bores and therefore to be avoided.

  But Antony talked eloquently, interestingly, without strain; with none of those changes of direction, grammatical substitutions, syntactical complexities, whose existence her linguistic lecturer assured her was the real framework of the spoken language.

  His speech, Jenny decided, was the smooth, reassuring surface of his amatory technique. Even the slight sense of staginess it conveyed worked for him, creating a faintly non-real, therefore non-dangerous, context. But beneath the surface …

  The obvious survival tactic was to stay afloat. She seized at a bit of driftwood in his last speech.

  ‘Is it important to please your parents?’

  ‘But of course. It’s important to please everyone who deserves it, even a little beyond desert if possible. Financially it’s not important. My father has a strict scale of values. He gave me the precise amount necessary to bring my grant up to the level he has worked out to be sufficient for my well-being. Less would be neglect; more would be luxury. So I never get more or less for any reason. And to use money as punishment or reward is quite out of the question.’

  ‘He sounds like a Puritan banker.’

  ‘Not at all. If you wish to combine his religion with his profession, you’d have to call him an Aston Villa butcher. Mind you, my mother slips me the odd note now and then. But, as I say, this has nothing to do with the question. The only real answer is that, despite the fact that in many ways they find me utterly incomprehensible, they have always felt inclined by nature to please me; similarly I them.’

  ‘You mean you love them?’ asked Jenny, half-consciously trying to embarrass him.

  ‘Yes, of course. Had I not made that clear? I’m sorry. And you, do you love your parents?’