The Butterfly Box (14 page)

Ramon walked up the beach and experienced for the first time in his life the hollow pangs of bereavement. It was evening and he was alone. He hadn't even been able to take Rasta for a walk, for without Federica there didn’t seem much point. So he had walked past the dog’s small prison looking the other way and ignoring the animal’s excited breath and husky barking. His heart ached with remorse and self-loathing and yet he didn’t consider changing his ways as Helena had asked him to. He hadn’t even offered to try. He wallowed in his misery, enhanced by the natural melancholy of the dying day. He turned his weary eyes to the sea and tried to imagine their new home in England. He remembered Polperro and the first time he had seen Helena. He imagined it the way it was then.

He sat on the sand and rested his elbows on his knees looking out over the choppy Pacific Ocean that stretched out before him, untamed and free. He had been like the sea then, going wherever the tide of his imagination took him. Those were the days when he was young and adventurous and blessed with immortality. Or so he had thought. He could do anything he wanted. So he had

travelled, sometimes sleeping under the stars, other times boarding with strangers generous enough to take him in. He had been born into a world of privilege and yet money had never meant a great deal to him. As long as he was on the move he was happy. At first he had written poems, which a friend of his father’s, who owned a small publishing firm in Santiago, had published for him. It had been immensely exciting seeing his work in print for the first time, with his name in big letters, positioned in the bookshop window for all to see. But he didn’t care too much for fame either, he was happier wandering the world unnoticed. Then he had written a collection of short stories, inspired by his adventures and embroidered with his fantasies. After that he was no longer an unknown in Chile; he began to be recognized. His book sold in bookshops all over the country. His picture appeared in
El Mercurio
and
La Estrella
and alongside the articles he wrote for various magazines such as
Geo Chile.
His desire to be creative was insatiable, nothing could pin him down. He’d stay in Chile long enough to see his family and then he’d be gone again, as if he were afraid his own shadow might catch up with him.

When he first met Helena he was writing a piece for
National Geographic
about the historic sights of Cornwall. He had been inspired to write the story

having met a weathered old seaman who had grown up in St Ives before joining the Navy and finally ending up in Valparaiso. He had woven a compelling tale of the land of King Arthur and Ramon had been struck with the urge to go to see it for himself. He hadn’t been disappointed. The villages and towns were stuck in the past as if the modern world had not yet discovered them. The houses were whitewashed and built into the rich green hills that fell sharply into the sea. The bays were solitary coves haunted by the ghosts of smugglers and shipwrecks. The roads were little more than narrow, winding lanes lined with tall hedgerows scattered with cow-parsley and long grasses. He had been enchanted. But if it hadn’t been for Helena he would only have scratched at the surface.

Helena Trebeka had been sitting on the quayside in Polperro when Ramon had first seen her. She was slim, carefree, with long wavy hair of such a pale blonde that he was immediately struck by it. He sat down to watch her, making mental notes in order to put her into one of his stories. He imagined she was the granddaughter of a smuggler. A girl with a wild nature and rebellious inclination to do exactly as she pleased; he wasn’t far wrong. She caught him staring at her and stared back in defiance. Not wanting to offend her he walked

over and placed himself next to her so that their legs dangled over the edge together.

‘You’re very beautiful, like a mermaid,’ he mused, smiling at her. She was caught off guard. Englishmen were never that poetic or daring and most of the men she knew were afraid of her.

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, I have legs not fins,’ she said and smiled back vivaciously.

‘So I see. Much more practical, I should imagine.’

‘Where are you from?’ she asked. He spoke with a heavy accent and his black hair and brown skin were new to her, as were the leather moccasins he wore on his feet.

‘I’m from Chile,’ he replied.

‘Where’s that?’ she asked, unimpressed.

‘In South America.’

‘Oh.’

‘There is a world outside Polperro, you know,’ he teased.

‘I know,’ she said tartly, not wanting him to think her provincial. ‘So what are you doing here in my little town?’ she asked, unable to curtail her curiosity.

‘I’m writing an article about Cornwall for a magazine,’ he said.

‘Do you like it?’

‘What, Cornwall?’

‘Yes.’

‘So far, I like it very much.’

‘Where have you been?’ she asked, smiling, for she knew he wouldn’t have been to the secret places that weren’t to be found in guidebooks. So he listed the towns he’d visited and some of the history he’d picked up.

‘You know, my grandfather was a smuggler,’ she said proudly.

‘A smuggler.’ He laughed, congratulating himself on his acute powers of perception.

‘A smuggler,’ she repeated.

‘What did he smuggle?’

‘Brandy and tobacco, that sort of thing. They used to cart it by the wagonload to Bodmin Moor where they would hide it. They’d sell it for a fortune in London.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Now that’s the sort of thing you should be writing in your article.

Everyone’s bored of King Arthur. Why not write something original?’

‘Well, I—’

‘I could show you all the secret coves and bays and Dad could fill you in on the details,’ she said impulsively. Ramon thought that sounded like a good idea. At least if the smuggling story didn’t work he’d have some time to get to know this intriguing character who was presenting him with a tempting challenge. She wasn’t like other girls he’d met. She was outspoken and confident.

‘Okay. I’d like that,’ he replied, surprised at her forwardness that contradicted sharply her almost angelic looks.

Jake and Polly Trebeka were appalled when Helena skipped in for lunch to tell them that she had made a new friend, a writer from somewhere in South America, whom she was going to show around all the old smuggling sights.

‘You can’t go picking up strangers, Helena. You don’t know anything about him,’ said Jake sternly, carefully hingeing the miniature wooden door on the model boat he was making.

‘He could be a murderer,’ Polly added wryly, as if murderers were commonplace. She took a steaming vegetable lasagne out of the Aga and placed it on

the table. ‘Where the devil is that brother of yours? Toby!’ she shouted. ‘Toby!’ ‘Mum, he’s not a murderer,' Helena protested.

‘Well, you’ll only find out when it’s too late.’ She chuckled heartily, wiping her hands on her woollen skirt. Polly was a large woman, not fat, but big-boned and strong. She thought diets were frivolous and spending time in front of the mirror a wasteful indulgence of the very vain. Like a magnificent galleon she dwarfed her husband who trailed behind her like a crude sailing boat. Not that Jake was slight; he might have been small in stature but he could knock the breath out of any man who caused him offence. They looked an odd couple but they were immensely fond of each other and agreed on everything as much out of habit as out of a united opinion. Jake owned a thriving joinery business and Polly ran the house, raised the children and the beds of flowers that blossomed every spring. They were comfortable but not rich. ‘What do I need a lot of money for?’ Jake would say. ‘I can’t take it with me when I die, can I?’

Toby descended the stairs, the loud thumping noise of his feet on the wood shaking the entire building. ‘What’s for lunch, Mum?’ he asked, smelling the heavy aroma of his mother’s celebrated cooking.

‘Vegetable lasagne,’ she said briskly, placing a water jug on the table.

‘My favourite,’ he enthused. Jake had always said that Toby must have holes in the soles of his feet because he had an amazing capacity for food but never gained weight. He was slim and lithe like a rubber plant, with the gypsy black hair of his father and the good humour of his mother. When it came to food he had an appetite that far exceeded both theirs combined.

‘Jake, can’t you finish that after lunch?’ said Polly impatiently. ‘Why we need another model boat is beyond me.’ She sighed, casting her eyes over the rows of models that cluttered up her surfaces like the shelves of a toyshop.

‘What if I bring him here to meet you, then you can judge for yourselves?’ Helena persisted.

‘Bring who here?’ Toby asked, dishing himself a large portion of lasagne.

‘Helena’s met a man in Polperro who wants her to show him all the old smuggling sights for an article he’s writing,’ said Jake.

‘Oh yes?’ Toby exclaimed. ‘That’s a good one.’

‘No, he really is writing an article,’ Helena insisted.

‘Why, did you see it?’ said Toby.

She pulled a face at him. ‘Of course not, stupid. He hasn’t written it yet.’

‘All right, all right. Enough you two,’ said Polly as if she were talking to a couple of rowdy dogs. Tell him to come here for tea, then we can meet him for ourselves.’ Helena smiled triumphantly.

‘How old is he, Helena?’ Jake asked seriously, pulling out a chair and joining them at the table. He dug his fork into the lasagne.

‘Mid to late twenties,’ she replied and shrugged because she didn’t really know. He was bristly and hairy, well built and confident. He could have been anything between twenty-five and forty.

‘And he’s travelling alone?’ he said, chewing on his food. ‘Polly, this lasagne is really very good,’ he added as his wife sat down and helped herself to what was left.

‘Looks like it,’ said Helena.

‘At eighteen you might think you’re a woman, but when I was your age I had to have a chaperone,’ said Polly.

As if you needed a chaperone, Mum, you could flatten the strongest of men with one wave of your big hand,’ Toby chuckled irreverently.

Ramon met Helena as planned on the harbour wall. She was embarrassed to tell him that she had to introduce him to her parents before they’d allow her to

go anywhere with him.

‘My mother thinks you’re a murderer,’ she said and sighed.

‘Well, you can never be too sure.’

‘You come from a strange country, how are we to know, you might be a cannibal.’ She laughed.

‘Well, if I were I think you’d be pretty tasty.’

She smiled coyly but didn’t lower her eyes or blush. She looked at him with her steady blue eyes, assessing him. ‘You think so,’ she replied loftily. He nodded and grinned at her. Her arrogance amused him although he was sure it wasn’t meant to. ‘Well then, I think you’d better come and meet my parents. We live just outside Polperro so you can either travel as I do by bike or walk.’

‘I’ll find a bike,’ he said. ‘We can go together.’

They cycled up the hill out of Polperro, leaving the sleepy harbour and whitewashed houses that were stacked up the banks of the hill like dolls’ houses. It was a clear summer day, the seagulls floating on the salty breeze and the bees humming in the cow-parsley. As they cycled together Ramon told her about Chile and his book of tales. When he told her he was a well-known writer, she didn’t believe him, retorting that she had never heard of him. ‘Well, if you

come to Chile you’ll hear about me,’ he said.

‘Now, why would I want to go to Chile?’ she replied.

‘Because it’s beautiful and a girl like you should see the world,’ he said truthfully.

‘I’ll see the world one day. I’m only eighteen, you know.’

‘You have plenty of time.’

‘And lots of more important places to see first,’ she said. Ramon laughed and shook his head. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss her, but he bicycled on. There would be time enough for that later.

Helena’s house was a pretty white building crawling with an abundance of clematis that climbed up the walls and onto the grey tiled roof above like the tentacles of a floral octopus. Ramon noticed a family of pigeons hopping about by the chimney, watching him from their lofty height with shiny black eyes. ‘Well, it ain’t much but it’s home,’ she said, dismounting and throwing her bike against the wall. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ she added, winking at him mischievously.

Polly Trebeka was not as Ramon had expected. She had pale hair like her daughter which was streaked with a silver grey and tied into a rough bun which

left curly wisps floating about her neck. Her face was completely free of makeup. She seemed the sort of woman who never bothered with creams yet her skin was soft and youthful and her smile that of a young girl. When he was introduced to Jake Trebeka he saw where Helena’s pale blue eyes came from. They were almost the colour of aquamarines. In Jake they were more evident due to his swarthy skin and jet-black hair. He looked like a strange gypsy with the eyes of a hawk. Helena had inherited their best features and was more refined than both of them.