Writing for Fun
Butterflies - Pete Norman
October 2014
The butterfly flapped its wings and with every stroke it rose higher and higher into the air until it was nearly level with Marjorie's eyes. Then, with its wings spread out wide it glided gracefully back down again towards the ground. Over and over it repeated the simple routine and in this peculiar manner the butterfly and the small girl made their way slowly along the tow path of the canal without a care in the world. When it flew upwards, Marjorie walked quickly to keep up with it and when it glided back down again she slowed her pace to maintain the optimum distance behind it: the trick was to be patient and to be close enough to stay in contact but far enough away that it would not be frightened by her presence.
Eventually the butterfly reached a small pocket of wild flowers and drifted down to feed. Marjorie held her breath until it had settled and then with practised ease leaned forwards and cupped her hands around the tiny creature. For a few moments she could feel the anxious fluttering against her palms and then it was still. When she finally opened her hands the butterfly remained perfectly motionless and she was able to study it closely. It was a Red Admiral, and the sun glinted off the incandescent red, yellow and blue gossamer wings; off the strange eye patches on their tips which appeared to return her stare with a lazy indolence.
Finally she blew gently into her hands and the butterfly flew away. This time she allowed it to go unmolested. This was her favourite game and this was her favourite place in which to play it. The canal would have been a busy industrial lifeline in past years, but those times had long since passed. Nowadays if one or maybe two boats disturbed the green slime that covered the shallow water it was considered to be a busy day.
Beside the canal the tow path was wide and firm and Marjorie knew every inch of it like the back of her hand; it was her home turf. The only parts she did not love were the bridges. In order to keep the spans to a minimum, the tow path under the bridge had been constricted to a narrow walkway, which must have been barely wide enough for the huge horses to pass along when they were towing the barges. Beneath the bridges the water was black and the vivid imagination of a nine year old girl could populate its inky depths with creatures from her wildest nightmares. To pass the danger she would always press her back to the cold brickwork and scuttle sideways like a demented crab as fast as her shaking legs could carry her. It was only when she emerged onto the wide path beyond that she would release the breath she had been holding for fear of breathing in the stench of the beast from the dark water.
The routine was always the same; once safely past the scary bridge she would gather a handful of pebbles from the edge of the path and hurl them into the water in the shadowy depths and shout at the top of her voice, 'Kill the beast! Kill the beast!'
In the past the beast had never ever called back, but this time a deep voice behind her stopped her in mid hurl. 'Don't wake the Kraken!'
She spun around and saw an untidy pile of cardboard in the corner where the red bricks of the bridge blended into a tangle of nettles and brambles. Marjorie relaxed; she could tell that it was not a talking box, because a thin pair of legs and a pair of ancient and worn brown boots protruded from the bottom of the pile. Further up, through a narrow slit a pair of intense brown eyes peered out at her, at the stone still poised for flight in her hand.
'I said, don't wake the Kraken.'
Marjorie put her hands on her hips. 'What's a Kraken?'
A withered hand slipped out and pulled the uppermost piece of cardboard away and the oldest face Marjorie had ever seen slowly came into view. Its hair was a matted tangle of white and grey, its skin, partially concealed behind a rough nicotine stained beard, was like a map of the London Underground engraved into leather, but the smile was warm enough, despite the colour of the teeth it displayed and the gaps between them.
'The Kraken. You don't want to know about the Kraken.'
'Yes I do. Why shouldn't I wake it up?'
'Cause it would rise up from the black water, covered all over in green slime, and gobble you up for disturbing it's sleep.'
Marjorie laughed. 'You're making that up.'
The old man grinned and a soft cackle slipped past his lips, closely followed by a deep rumbling cough which seemed to rise from the pit of his stomach in ever increasing bursts until his whole emaciated body convulsed with the effort.
Marjorie waited politely until he had finished and said, 'Are you going to die?'
The old man tipped his head to one side.
'Only . . . if you was going to die and turn into a ghost . . . would you come back and haunt this bit of canal so we could be friends? . . . I could teach you to hunt butterflies.'
The deep belly laugh was followed by another round of hacking cough and when it finally subsided he managed, 'I think I'd prefer to live a little longer . . . if it's all the same with you.'
'But we can still be friends, can't we?'
'If you want, but you can be off with you now; I was asleep and I'm more of a bugger than the Kraken when I'm disturbed.'
Marjorie spotted a small white butterfly and skipped off along the tow path, calling over her shoulder, 'Ok. I'll come back and see you tomorrow . . . if you're not dead.'
For the next few days Marjorie hunted her butterflies as usual, but she made sure she always ended up at the bridge with her new friend. He was raggedy and scruffy and grumpy and he smelt of sweat and stale tobacco and, she had to be completely honest with herself, he also smelt a little bit of wee-wee. However, despite all of those horrid things, when he smiled it was warm and he was kind and gentle and he made her laugh. She had never had a friend quite like him before.
On Monday morning she skipped along the tow path, scuttled crabwise through the bridge, tried hard not to wake the Kraken and peeped around the corner . . .
He was not there. The cardboard was still there, but there were two council men trying to fold it up and stuff it into big black sacks.
She backed behind the bridge, confused, upset.
She heard the younger of the two council men ask, 'D'ya reckon he's died?'
'He might be for all I know. They took him to the 'ospital yesterday afternoon. Nights are getting colder. It's not right 'im sleepin' out 'ere like this at 'is age – he ain't no spring chicken.'
Marjorie groaned. No, he certainly wasn't a spring chicken; she hoped against hope that she was not too late.
She ran up the path, over the embankment and hurried through the empty streets of the industrial estate. She was lucky the hospital was not too far away. As she got to the high, ornate gates she stopped. She had no idea where he would be. She was certain he would not still be in the Emergency Room. She traced her finger across the large colourful map of the departments – he would either be in one of the wards or . . . or in the morgue.
Methodically she worked her way through corridor after corridor until, finally, in Herbert Jeffery Ward she stopped. There he was, in the bed beside the window. She crept across and stood beside his bed. It wasn't the same man she knew – well, she supposed he was the same man, but they had washed him up a bit; his hair was clean and combed and he didn't smell of all that stuff anymore. He just looked like someone's granddad.
And, thankfully, he wasn't dead, because she could see his chest rising and falling and could hear his breathing coming out in soft, rasping bursts. He didn't sound very good, but he was still alive. She settled into the high wing-backed chair beside the bed and waited patiently – she didn't want to awaken the Kraken; he said it could be a bugger when it was disturbed.
An hour passed and Marjorie's eyes kept closing; it was so hot and stuffy in here. She was just drifting off when a deep voice said, 'What in tarnation you doin' here?'
She was instantly wide awake. 'They told me you was dead, so I had to see for myself, didn't I?'
The man laughed. 'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.'
'I'm not disappointed . . . I just didn't want you to die and your ghost just sort of drift away, like.'
At that moment a lady in a green uniform pushed the tea trolley noisily into the ward and called across, 'Do you want a cup of tea, Harold?'
Harold turned to Marjorie in the high wing-backed chair. 'Would you like some tea, Marjorie?'
The lady in the green uniform looked at the empty chair and asked, 'Who are you talking to, Harold?'
Harold looked at the lady and then at Marjorie in the chair and then back at the lady again. The look on her face told it all . . . she couldn't see the girl.
An intense pain flashed across his chest. He let out a sharp croaking hiss, clutched his heart and dropped back against his pillows. The machine behind his head flat-lined with a harsh scream.
The lady rushed out of the ward shouting for help, but after a few moments Harold sat up and through his ephemeral form Marjorie could clearly see his lifeless body slumped where it had fallen. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed.
'It's ok, Harold, it's just you and me now . . . come on, I'll teach you how to hunt butterflies.'
