Summer of the Mourning Cloak , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Kathleen Nelson

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143 pages

English

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The Summer of the Mourning Cloak is the story of a visit which changes lives forever. The title refers to a beautiful, rarely seen butterfly, The Camberwell Beauty, sometimes know as The Mourning Cloak, which is used throughout the novel to symbolise the emotional journey of the protagonist. The main character is an 11-year-old girl, Hyslop, who arrives in England from Italy with her emotionally distant mother Vanessa. In the past they have flitted from the shelter of one wealthy man to another, but Hyslop finally finds love and stability from her godmother Sandy and an eccentric old man, Sir Northcote Hemmings. He teaches her about butterflies and asks her to find him a Camberwell Beauty, a butterfly that is something of a Holy Grail for our protagonists. The parallel world of butterflies that is explored throughout the narrative invites the reader into Hyslop's imagination, where her fascination with butterflies mirrors her desire to be free from her mother's cruel domination. Hyslop is shadowed by a lonely local boy, Zak, who is bullied both at home and at school, and his fascination with her reflects the way her glamorous mother charms everyone with her beauty. As flighty Vanessa's powers start waning, Hyslop is just beginning to find her wings. Will Hyslop find her ideal habitat in the end?

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 mars 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783067329
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Summer of the Mourning Cloak
Kathleen Nelson

Copyright © 2014 Kathleen Nelson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1783067 329
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Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

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For Lesley and David
Contents

Cover

Endorsement

Quote

Prologue

Quote

Five Years Later…

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Quote

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Quote

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Quote

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Quote

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Acknowledgements

Join Butterfly Conservation Today!
ENDORSEMENT
We at Butterfly Conservation are delighted to be associated with this unusual book. Quite apart from its thought-provoking and intriguing story about growing up, it gives a great deal of accurate information about the wonderful range of British butterflies and their lives. It is suitable for teenagers and adults of all ages.
Butterfly Conservation, through its dedicated staff and volunteers, works hard to protect our endangered species of butterflies and moths, which are under threat on many different fronts. This book is a very welcome step in bringing increased awareness of their fragile beauty to a wider public."
Dr. Martin Warren, Chief Executive, Butterfly Conservation
Quote

“The butterfly never meets its mother. It must survive independently and remains a stranger to affection… A child who grows up in a cold and detached home environment is similar to the butterfly, in that kindness is sparing. Once an adult, it will be very difficult for that person to show compassion.”
HH The Dalai Lama
Prologue
A Funeral, a Beetle and a Pair of Red Shoes

It is always best to find shelter when a house turns spiteful.
Under the dining room table seemed a safe place, and there was already a companion there waiting for her, a fellow mourner: a shiny black beetle.
He was a large, solid sort of beetle, all in black as she was. He kept her from thinking of the terrifying spectacle of her grandmother lying in her open coffin in the room next door, and distracted her from the wailing of some of the mourners. Her grandmother, who had been everything to her for all of her six and a half years, was there in the next room. At least they told her it was her grandmother, but for Hyslop this was not true. What was laid out in the coffin was a body , and a body is not a person. That pale face, cold as one of the marble Madonnas in the hall, was not the familiar smiley face of her grandmother any more. Whether she was in purgatory or in heaven with the Virgin Mary, what was certain was that she was no longer there in her old body. She was not there to make the world all right again. She was not there, but the beetle was.
They were together, and they were staying together. Hyslop found his presence comforting. Beyond the long folds of the tablecloth that shrouded them in a white cocoon was the scary world of the black shoes.
The house was full of old women, all dressed in black. They had been wandering around the house since her grandmother had died three days previously, sitting and walking, endlessly talking, crying, laughing, opening and closing doors, drinking coffee, never silent for a moment. All Hyslop could see of them now was their black shoes: thick ankles, encased in black stockings, ending in those flat matt black shoes.
Some of the old ladies were familiar to her as her grandmother’s friends from church, who had called round for cake and sweet white wine, but some of them were strangers. How had her grandmother known so many people, she wondered. They were all speaking at once, voicing their emotions loudly in a way that only old Italian women can. Signora Crolla, a particular friend who always called round on Sunday afternoons, had even begun tearing at her hair and wailing loudly. Signora Crolla was not behaving as she normally did and Hyslop did not like it. She listened as she heard some of the other old ladies clucking and hissing their disapproval.
One or two of them urged Signora Crolla to mourn in a more dignified manner, which led her to wail even more loudly about how she missed poor Violetta. The noise level, as the black shoes drew nearer, made Hyslop put her hands over her ears.
They all talked at once, and no one seemed to be listening to anyone else until one of them approached the table and suggested cutting the pine nut tart. The black shoes were all around the table now. They were closing in, and the beetle moved to her side, twitching its antennae.
In later years Hyslop was to learn of a beetle called The Death Watch Beetle, which would surely have been a suitable name for a fellow mourner. This particular beetle, however, with his large head, bulging green eyes, intelligent expression, and shiny black shell, was a species that she never found again. In later years she also learned that new species of beetle are constantly being discovered all over the world. Her companion may have been one of those rarities, or he may have been a special one-off. He was unique, her personal Funeral Companion Beetle.
“It’s not safe for you out there,” she whispered to him. “You’ll get crushed by those horrible shoes.”
The beetle waved his antennae in her direction, and remained still. He was clearly in agreement.
“No one knows we’re here,” she said. She knew he could understand her.
It was not only the people who seemed scary and different. The house was different too: it was full of spite and malevolence. The house and all the furniture in it would shortly belong to her Uncle Carlo. He was not a kind man, her Uncle Carlo. He had hardly ever visited his aged mother, and when he did, he always ended up shouting at her. He would ignore Hyslop, even when she had tried to speak to him in the early days. It was as if she did not exist for him, though she had no idea what she had done to annoy him. Hyslop had always thought of the house as her home, the only home she had ever known, but now that her beloved grandmother was gone, she realised that “home” is not a place: “home” is a person . All the rooms in the house, the furniture and the paintings, the little corners and secret places where she had played, the dusty piano, the air itself, were different now that her grandmother was gone. The house had lost its kindness. Even Hyslop’s favourite chair, with its carved wooden legs and its faded tapestry picture on the seat, no longer seemed to talk to her in a friendly way. It no longer said: “Come and sit down, Hyslop!” It had grown cold, and become a stranger. It was as if the house and all its furniture were hissing at her: “We once belonged to you, but now we are waiting for Uncle Carlo. You are not welcome here any more.”
Occasionally one of the old ladies would mention her name. There would be exclamations of: “Oh, Eesloppa, the poor child!” “How she will miss her grandmother!” “What a tragedy for both of them!” but no one sought her out, and she and the beetle kept a quiet vigil under the table. Together they watched all those pairs of shoes approaching the table and then walking away again, to the sound of glasses clinking and plates clattering. “Oh, it’s so sad, but at least dear Violetta will be with her husband now, and her dear Sandro. He was always her favourite son.” “Yes, it’s a shame he’s gone, and that other one isn’t.” This resulted in more wailings of: “Oh, the poor child!” Then there was a chorus of admiration for the pine nut tart: “Violetta taught her well, didn’t she?” “Oh yes, Rosa can cook, that’s for sure!” “Will she stay on do you think, now that Violetta’s gone?” “Oh, I don’t think she’ll work for Carlo.” They were all talking at once, not listening to each other, and Hyslop felt cross at them for being able to enjoy eating and drinking. She felt so sick inside that she had hardly eaten since her grandmother had died. Rosa had made her huge bowls of her favourite pasta with pesto, but she had only picked at it. For Hyslop the world as she knew it had ended with her grandmother’s death, but for those others, although they shed tears and lamented loudly, it was different. Yes, they were sad, but