The Flower Plantation

THE FLOWER PLANTATION

THE FLOWER

PLANTATION

Nora Anne Brown

For Louisa and Peter

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

ENGLAND, 2013

I was born in a flower field thirty-three years ago. For months before my birth elephants had been roaming into my mother's fields, eating and trampling her white and yellow chrysanthemums. She had a hut built in a clearing for the nightwatchmen, whom she gave torches, whistles and drums, but the elephants went on raiding. On the night of my birth she became suspicious that the watchmen were doing nothing and set out to defend the flowers herself.

Mother told me how she struggled through endless fields, up to her bump in flowers. “The moon was full,” she said, and sparks from her torch “danced around her hair”. Exhausted, she arrived at the hut to find it abandoned, with bottles of beer scattered round a burnt-out fire. Furious, she bent down, picked up a bottle and hurled it into the night. As she threw that bottle, an ache shot through her belly that stole her breath and made her scream. She crouched in the clearing, frightened and alone, and as her contractions came so too did the first elephant, out of the forest, hungry and strong.

The elephant's ears flapped wildly, and its “God-awful trumpeting” filled the night air. As the pains came over her, more elephants emerged, out of the forest, one by one. The ground shuddered beneath her as they trampled the flowers, which grew only yards from where she squatted in the shadows of the dark Virunga Mountains.

“You were a surprise,” she'd tell me at bedtimes as the image of trampling elephants thundered through my mind.

Mother didn't like surprises.

She said the pain and fright of giving birth in the dead of night with only the moon and marauding beasts for company made her scream so loudly that the animals took off, more terrified of her than she was of them.

“If it weren't for you, the plantation would almost certainly have been destroyed,” she'd say, before adding: “You saved me from ruin before you were a minute old.”

Mother would kiss my forehead, tuck the covers under my chin and say: “Never go into the forest, Arthur. Nobody knows if the elephants are still there, how hungry they are or when they might return.” She'd then turn out the light and close the door behind her, whether I was asleep or not.

When I was a boy, that story kept me awake for more nights than I can remember. I was terrified that the hungry elephants might stampede again, charge into the house and kill me – or, worse, my parents – while I was sleeping. I was not a brave little boy, not what Mother must have hoped for when she named me Arthur, which some people say
means courage. Perhaps courage was something she felt we both needed that night, or perhaps Mother sensed just how much of it we'd need in the years to come, when the worst thing in the world would happen in Rwanda.

But between my birth and the worst thing in the world my childhood took place – a childhood imprinted with doodles, marks and stains in a book given to me by my father when I was five years old. The book went everywhere with me until I was fourteen, when I dropped it at the border trying to save Beni, the only true friend I've ever known.

Until it arrived in the post this morning, it had been twenty years since I last held the book – my favourite childhood possession. I knew exactly what the package contained before opening it: I knew from its pocket-size shape and weight, my mother's ageing handwriting and the Rwandan postage stamp with its bright-yellow sun, turquoise sky and lime-green hills. I ran my fingers round its edges and smelt the brown wrapping paper. It was sweet and sawdusty and transported me straight back to the house where I grew up, our ivy-covered bungalow on the flower plantation.

Peeling back a corner of the paper, taking care not to tear the stamp, I revealed the navy letters of
African Butterflies
on its pale-blue cover. The book now looks tatty from almost thirty years of love followed by neglect, and part of a footprint is branded on the front cover – a dirty-brown stain impossible to remove.

Sitting in my study I opened the cover and was thrilled to rediscover the familiar orange lining paper and my name – Arthur Baptiste – in my five-year-old writing in the top corner. A letter from Mother fluttered to the ground.

Gisenyi
April 2013

Mother
.

I turned to the first page, stained with my blood – it took me straight back to being a boy in Rwanda.

PART ONE

1

RWANDA 1985

A butterfly the size of Father's hand landed on the wind-screen of our stationary pickup truck. Kneeling on the driver's seat I pressed my nose against the glass and stared at the insect's belly. It was hairy. I wanted to catch it and see if it might stick to the marmalade and dirt that smeared my hands. I gazed, entranced by its body, and thought how effortlessly its paper-thin wings might tear off and of how it might taste after baking in the afternoon sun. It looked soft – and yet, I detected, it might just be crunchy too.

My thoughts of how best to trap it were cut short when Sebazungu suddenly yanked me out of the truck.

“Wake up, boy,” he said, as I tried to catch my breath. “Your mother's been calling you.” He bundled me over his shoulder and stole me towards the house.

As I glanced back, the glare of the midday sun bounced directly off the windscreen, and the butterfly I'd been so desperate to capture took flight on a single ray of light.

* * *

“Arthur,” said Mother as Sebazungu dropped me like a sack of potatoes in the kitchen. “What have you been doing?” She handed me a blunt knife. “Go and pick a cabbage for dinner, then come in and wash your hands. And no going into the forest,” she called after me as I shot out of the back door with Montague. Montague was Mother's West Highland Terrier – everyone called him Monty. We scattered the chickens in the yard.

I opened the side gate, ran towards the cabbage patch and knelt down among the neat rows. Picking cabbages was a bittersweet task: bitter because it meant eating cabbage for dinner (something I dreaded more than going to the dentist), but sweet because there was always the chance of discovering a big, juicy caterpillar that I could rescue in a jam jar and store under my bed for midnight observations.

Carefully I peeled back the grub-eaten outer leaves of a cabbage, which squeaked and snapped and smelt revolting, to reveal the shiny insides, which were smooth, cool and ripe for thwacking with my knife. On raising the blade, the butterfly I'd seen before landed beside me, its wings closed together like praying hands in church. I put down the knife, leant towards it and stared at the eye on one of its wings.

The butterfly bathed in the sun, and I forgot about chopping cabbages and thought about how to capture it instead. It was too big to cup by hand. I'd need something big, with a lid. While I was thinking about this, the butterfly opened its wings to reveal bright-blue topsides. Monty ran headlong
towards it, but the butterfly flitted into the air and flew away, blending effortlessly into the afternoon light. I abandoned the cabbage patch and gave chase.

Monty and I ran down the uneven path that connected the yard to the cutting shed, past Mother's rhubarb and artichokes, Monty yapping and jumping as the butterfly bounced in flight. I followed as best I could, trying hard not to fall, keeping one eye on the ground and the other on it. The butterfly danced from one side to the other – up, down, a spurt of pace here, slower there – but all the time weaving its way through the warm, dry air.

“Eh!” cried Sebazungu as the butterfly skipped over the cut flowers that lay on the ground by the cutting shed – an open-fronted, large brick building. “
Un papillon!”
I stood with my hands on my hips beside Sebazungu, dizzy from the dance on which I'd been led, and gazed up at the insect, which rested – a brilliant blue – on the grey tile roof.

“Il est beau
,” he said, and the gardeners stopped trimming, arranging and tying bouquets to stare at the creature.

With every bark and bounce from Monty the butterfly twitched. It seemed to look down at the huge purple agapanthus, calla lilies and sweet-smelling freesia that scattered the ground and filled countless buckets.

“Kwirukana!
Run!” whispered Sebazungu as the butterfly looped into the air, darting over the cutting-shed roof and skipping towards the fields. I took off, Monty following closely at my ankles, over the soil that edged the fields,
and jumped across the drainage ditch. I leapt so high I thought I might fly, up into the thin mountain air that barely filled my lungs. I landed with a thump in a field of golden alstroemeria.

The butterfly flew over the acres of flower fields that stretched from the cutting shed all the way to the Virunga Mountains. To the west, the volcano Nyiragongo was steaming, and to the east, on ordered terraced hills, grew cassava, potatoes and maize. To the south, in the distance, was Lake Kivu, and to the north lay the lava tunnel that led to the forest and Mount Visoke beyond.

The forest, home to the stampeding elephants of my birth, frightened me. And rumours of a red-haired witch who lived on Visoke, an inactive volcano, made it even more terrifying. Sebazungu called the witch
Kirogoya
, “wicked person”, and spoke of her living with wild animals.

I imagined her living in a cage, savage and snarling and foaming at the mouth. Mother said her temper matched her red hair, and that if she wasn't careful she'd die up that mountain – which sounded like a good thing to me. When I was five years old, the forest was strictly out of bounds. I was glad of that.

It felt as if we'd run for miles by the time the butterfly stopped again. It sat on a fence post showing no sign of tiredness as Monty and I panted for breath. Monty's tongue hung down the side of his mouth, and I bent double to relieve a stitch. But before we could recover, the butterfly
was off again, fluttering over a field of spotted foxgloves. We charged through the flowers, I shoulder-high in pink tubular bells and Monty rooting through the stems. Breaking out the other side of the steep field, barely able to stand, we ran straight into the clearing, which was only metres from the entrance to the tunnel and the start of the forest beyond. The butterfly skirted the edge of the trees, but I knew better than to follow any farther. To my relief, it settled on a solitary chrysanthemum by the grass hut where I was born.

I sat in the opening of the hut, my back to the forest, and watched the gardeners far below and the rain clouds rolling in over Lake Kivu. From so high up, the gardeners looked the size of flower beetles.

After a while, I realized the butterfly had disappeared – and so too had Monty. As I got up to see where they'd gone, the rain clouds broke. I took cover in the hut, certain that Monty would join me soon. The light dimmed. Thunder rumbled around the hillsides. Monty didn't come. The gardeners huddled in the cutting shed. Sebazungu ran for cover. Mother stood at the back door, no doubt calling my name. But still, no Monty. I hunkered down on the straw of the hut and watched a green gecko stalk a blue fly.

The rain stopped after an hour, and darkness closed in. Celeste, the housekeeper, lit fires. The smell of charcoal fogged the evening air. I was getting cold, but Monty was nowhere to be seen. I stood up and clapped my hands.
Nothing. I looked towards the tunnel and the forest. I knew I had no choice.

I took my first step into the dark, damp tunnel, thirty foot long and five foot wide. That's when I learnt: when you try not to think about elephants, elephants are all you can think about.

Edging my way towards the forest, attempting not to touch the cold slimy walls that looked as though they'd been formed by rough hides scratching against them, I forced myself to think only of Monty and where he might have gone. I decided on the heart of the forest: that's where I thought he'd have found shelter from the rain. But the heart of the forest would be a fine hiding place for hungry elephants, I thought. A fine place for a boy like me to be trampled to death!

After what felt like a long time, I stepped out of the tunnel and into the crowded trees. My heart banged so hard against my ribs I was certain the elephants would hear. As I crept through the twisted undergrowth of fern, moss and lichen, my breathing grew tight and shallow. Every twig that cracked beneath me made me gasp and jump.
Just think of Monty
, I said internally, over and over.
Think of Monty
. What would he do? Where would he go? I decided he'd follow the smell of rats and started to look for nests in the damp mossy ground. I saw nothing. No Monty. No nests. Nothing but elephant-shaped shadows.

On I went, deeper and deeper, picking my way through gnarly trunks until I stumbled on one of the roots. I heard something snap. Then my ankle burned. I lay on the ground in agony.

The next thing I knew I was coming round, freezing cold and hearing only the sound of a whimper. I held my breath, trying to understand what the noise was and where it was coming from. It was constant, a continuous pining – it didn't sound like an elephant, or a witch either. I sat up, clutched my ankle and listened some more. The pining was now broken by yelps.

Monty!

Hold on Monty
, I wanted to shout,
I'm coming
. But even then, when I needed to speak most, I couldn't. Those were the days before I was brave enough to talk, before I knew that it was more powerful to have a voice than not. Not a single sound came out.

Grabbing hold of a tree I hauled myself up. I tried to put weight on my ankle, but the pain was too fierce. I clung to the tree and steadied myself, took a deep breath and hopped on one foot to the next. I did this again and again. Hop – hold – steady – breathe. Hop – hold – steady – breathe. In the end, I must have done it fifty times or more before I found old Monty.

He was hanging by a hind leg, whimpering and squirming. I clung to a tree, terrified at what I saw. I found the courage to hop over to him and reached up. The wire cut
into his hip so deeply that blood soaked his white coat. I managed to loosen the knot, his blood covering my hands. The noose came free and we fell to the ground, exhausted.

From the forest floor the wire swung above us like a noose. I thought about the witch and the wild animals she lived with, whom she'd probably snared too – and I felt angry. I wanted to catch her and pull out her red hair and see how she liked it. I wanted to do all sorts of mean things I'd never done before.

While I was having those angry thoughts I had a sudden feeling that we were being watched. I stroked Monty for courage and rose to my feet. But as I stood, resolute in my anger, something banged – a bang that sounded long and low throughout the forest. It made my limbs freeze, my heart leap and my newfound courage disappear. And then, when the forest became still and quiet again, I heard someone running quickly, furiously away.