The Flower Plantation (12 page)

PART TWO

15

1991

After Monty died Mother wept for days. Most of the time she stayed in her bedroom with a bottle of wine and the door locked, not even opening it for Dr Sadler, who visited each day bringing fresh fruit and chocolate. I kept out of her way for fear of upsetting her more.

When she was able to join us for dinner, Father told her that Monty had died from eating foxgloves. That didn't make sense. Why would Monty have suddenly started eating foxgloves – a flower he had never tried in his life? When dinner was over I took down one of Mother's botany books and looked up
Digitalis
, which I knew was the foxglove's Latin name.

I read all about how death by foxglove was extremely rare, and that a person or animal would have to eat a lot of it to die. It said that one of the first symptoms was sickness. If Monty had eaten the flower and been sick, he wouldn't have eaten any more. It was clear to me, if not to Mother and Father, that someone had intentionally poisoned him.

Mother's book said that another name for foxglove was witch's glove. I took this as a sign that the witch was
definitely to blame – after all it was she who had snared Monty in the forest and she who knew how to poison fully grown men. But as time went by, I became less convinced by my theory. Monty had been found in the hut in the clearing, not in the forest; and Simon and Thomas had been fighting. There was something that didn't add up. I promised myself that somehow I'd find out what it was, since the adults were too concerned with the awakening of Nyiragongo and the arrival of the soldiers to care.

The volcano, Father told me, had suddenly awoken, like a grumpy giant who had been asleep for years. He said that when the giant woke he was so hungry his belly rumbled loud enough to make the earth shake beneath him. I knew it wasn't really a hungry giant that made the ground tremble, but Father's story was more comforting than the reality of a gigantic hole on the surface of the earth waiting to blow hot lava, ash and gas.

Over Christmas Nyiragongo resembled a huge red decoration in the sky. But when Mother took down the tree and the lights and the volcano still glowed, it became more sinister. It became a kind of warning light in the distance – but a warning for what I wasn't sure. I tried to ignore it, particularly before bedtime, when it glowed through my window like the red-eyed devil I'd heard about in church.

As for the soldiers, I had to try and piece together what was happening for myself, since nobody told me and I was unable to ask. About a week after they appeared, I heard
Mother say to Madame B. on our newly installed telephone that “soldiers living in Uganda had invaded from the north”. I was meant to be studying in my bedroom, but the excitement made it impossible for me not to eavesdrop. Mother continued: “We're safe here on the plantation, particularly now that Belgium has sent in troops, but what about you? Are you being evacuated?”

After that conversation, Madame B. never came for coffee again. Neither did she hold another party nor shop for chocolate in town. And one day in November, when we were passing the tea plantation, we saw their high-security gates lying wide open and a dead peacock on the overgrown lawn. The sight of the peacock, dry and lifeless in the long grass, worried me more than the invading soldiers or the volcano.

“Don't worry,” said Father when he noticed that I was looking back towards the carcass. “Things will settle.”

“Why have the Belgian troops withdrawn so soon, after only a few weeks?” asked Mother. “Some of the gardeners are talking about Tutsis being beaten and left without food or water for days.”

“Martha,” said Father, laughing, “since when do you listen to the gardeners' gossip?”

I figured if Father was laughing there was nothing to worry about – neither the dead peacock on the lawn nor the Tutsis.

* * *

One Wednesday in January, Father tuned his radio to an English-speaking station that sounded very far away and unlike anything the gardeners listened to. He was in his study and I at his door when he caught me, but instead of being angry, he beckoned me in and sat me on his knee.

“Do you know about the Tutsis fleeing to Uganda?” he asked, ruffling my hair and spinning us round on his swivel chair. I nodded, remembering the story Celeste had told me. “Well, now the sons and grandsons of those people are coming back. They want to live in Rwanda: they believe it is their home.” What he said made sense to me. The soldiers' families had been forced out of the country long ago. Why shouldn't they return?

Father went on to tell me about the invading army, the RPF, which had been trained by the Ugandans. They were strong and clever and spoke English, not French or Kinyarwanda. He said they wanted to “overthrow the government”.

“But the government have told the people the soldiers are creatures from another world with pointed ears and tails – and the people believe them.” The image of an army with pointed ears and tails was so strong that I almost believed it myself. “So now Rwanda needs soldiers to add to its army, which means we need to be careful not to let the government steal our gardeners.” Father tickled me on the tummy, kissed my head and put me down. I thought about how the government might steal the gardeners. Did they have a butterfly net like mine, big enough to trap men?
I let out a little laugh at that idea and went to my bedroom to collect
African Butterflies
and my collection kit that I'd been given for Christmas.

In the garden, with Romeo at my side, I placed the kit on Mother's bench and set up the equipment on the table. When I had first received it I wasn't sure how I felt. Having spent three years gathering eggs, creating the perfect environment for them to hatch, grow and turn into butterflies, I felt uncomfortable about capturing and killing them. But
African Butterflies
had an entire section about collecting that referred to the “happy dispatch” of butterflies. It occurred to me that maybe death wasn't so dreadful – after all I'd watched Monty die, and that looked pretty much like he'd fallen asleep. I decided, after a lot of thought, that I'd give it a go.

The “killing agents” needed to put the butterflies to sleep weren't included in my kit, so Father had brought me a selection from the laboratory, and for the first few attempts he supervised me in the garden.

First we tried cyanide. I ran up and down the garden, jumping over rose bushes and tumbling into hydrangeas while chasing after a citrus swallowtail that looked like a black-and-yellow bird-of-paradise feather floating above me. After several failed attempts to catch it in the air, I crept up on it when it rested on an iris. I positioned the hoop of the net over the flower so that when the butterfly leapt up it flew straight into my net. Feeling very pleased
with my catch, I ran straight to Father, who opened the bottle of cyanide.

“Cyanide's a good word, Arthur. Do you want to say it?” Increasingly I wanted to speak, so that I might talk to Beni, but trying to do it while poisoning butterflies was definitely not the right moment.

“Maybe another time,” said Father, his tone dejected, as the fumes from the cyanide killed the butterfly. Watching it die didn't feel how I'd imagined it would, and it wasn't as exciting as the thrill of the chase. I thought I'd feel powerful, but mostly I felt guilt and regret. The butterfly would never fly again – and I was responsible. It felt terrible, and yet I couldn't stop staring, just as I stared at the wrecked trucks at the side of the road on the way to town. I couldn't get over how quickly it had died and its colour begun to fade. I was able to watch life drain out of its veins – able to see it take on the appearance of one of Fabrice's faded tea towels.

Father encouraged me to have a second go – this time with chloroform, which he said wouldn't fade the colours. For this method we needed one of the little boxes supplied in the kit. They had glass bottoms for inspection and holes in the lid for the droplets of poison. After waiting several minutes for a forest leopard – a long, thin-winged butterfly that looked just like its name suggested – to land on a bright-pink gerbera, I managed to net it and place it in the box. I added a drop of chloroform and covered the holes with my fingers until the butterfly was dead. It felt as
though I'd taken a pillow and smothered someone in the night. I didn't like that.

On seeing my discomfort, Father decided that a bigger receptacle was needed, and so we tried a milk bottle with carbon tetrachloride. We poured some onto Mother's cotton-wool balls and placed them in a bottle. The grey-and-white butterfly I'd caught fluttered frantically, much to my displeasure. The specimen we used, a one-pip policeman, was a skipper, so its curved antennae and folded wings became caught in the wool. Its capture and death looked like torture.

Father said he had a plan to improve on this – “a solution that will combine all our efforts” – so off he went to the house in search of more equipment. He returned with a large pickling jar, blotting paper, brown paper and string.

In his absence I had caught a gold-banded forester, which was bright blue, black and gold, and placed it in a little box. Father put a half-teaspoon of ammonia into the pickling jar, placed several layers of blotting paper on the bottom and put the little box into the jar. He then covered it with thick brown paper and tied it tight with string. Very quickly the butterfly in the box appeared to sink into a deep slumber. Killing with ammonia was just as I had imagined killing butterflies would be. Its colours were still strong, I hadn't felt too involved and the butterfly hadn't struggled. The ammonia, though smelly, felt like the best option for the “happy dispatch” of butterflies.

That Wednesday, my equipment ready, I caught my second-favourite butterfly, a crimson-tip, which looks as if a young child has coloured the edges of its white forewings in red crayon and then outlined its entire body with a black pen.

I spent the best part of an hour chasing it through the plantation with Romeo, from the side garden through the yard to the vegetable patch, cutting shed and fields beyond. It wasn't until we were at the foxglove field and it stopped for a while that I managed to net it. It was thrilling to see the butterfly close up. I took it back to the side garden and set up the equipment. That done, Father came into the garden and stretched out on the bench asking if I'd like a story while I worked. I nodded and placed half a teaspoon of ammonia into my pickling jar.

He began by telling me how Rwanda was granted independence in 1962: “It happened so quickly that people didn't know what it meant.” He was still at school in England, but his papa had written letters telling how government helicopters had flown over the countryside dropping leaflets that explained all about it.

“Papa sent me a copy of the leaflet. It said things like ‘Tutsis and Hutus must unite' – ‘No one is allowed to steal' – ‘Everyone must work hard' – ‘Tax must be paid' – ‘Bride prices will remain'.”

The idea of paying for a bride seemed funny. I wondered how much Beni's family would want if I asked her to
marry me, and if Father would have enough money to pay. Once, when Mother and I saw a bride in a huge shiny white dress with her bridesmaids walking by the side of the road, she told me that most people paid for brides by giving goats or cows. We didn't have a cow to give. It filled me with worry and sadness that someone with lots of cows might want to marry Beni and then I'd have to let her go. I put some blotting paper in the bottom of the jar to absorb the ammonia. It seemed to suck up some of my sadness too.

“Anyway,” Father continued, “the government was worried that the Tutsis in Uganda might come back and cause trouble if there were big celebrations in the streets. So on Independence Day people were told not to celebrate, but simply to stay home and hug one another.” I was glad not to have been alive then – the thought of having to hug everybody made me short of breath.

“A few days later, Papa was told there were Tutsis from Uganda hiding in the forest, some of whom were captured by the gardeners behind the cutting shed. And then, not long after, armed Ugandan Tutsis were caught on the road to Kigali. They had hand grenades, machine guns, pistols, ammunition and whisky, and carried notebooks full of names of people to be killed – mostly Hutu politicians.” I put a little box with the crimson-tip inside it into the pickling jar, covered the jar with brown paper, tied it shut and left the butterfly to die.

“And then,” said Father, with an incredulous look on his face, “Belgian troops were withdrawn. For the first time in almost fifty years Rwanda was left without any Belgian control. Even the King decided to leave.”

The wheels of a car crunching up the lane brought the story to an end, and I ran to see who it was. I was surprised to see it was Dr Sadler, who never came to visit on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Hello, Arthur,” he said, mopping his brow with his red handkerchief. “Any words today? No? One day you will.” He was puffing quite a bit. I led him to Father, who shook his hand.

“Edward, this is unexpected. Cup of tea?”

“I might need a drop of brandy in that,” said Dr Sadler and muttered something about strength and fortitude, which was a word I didn't know.

Once inside, Father asked Fabrice to make tea and took Dr Sadler into the lounge.

“Arthur,” said Father, “be a good boy and look after Dr Sadler while I tell Mother he's here.” Father went to tell Mother, and I sat on the couch with Romeo.

“He's a fine-looking dog,” said Dr Sadler. I kept one ear on what the doctor said and another listening for Father. “What sort of dog is he, Arthur, can you say?”

Fabrice brought in tea and biscuits and told the doctor that Romeo was a mongrel. I was thankful Fabrice answered for me: Dr Sadler sat back in his chair, drank his tea and
looked like he was about to fall asleep, when Father came back.

“I'll try waking her again in a while,” he said, and I knew that meant Mother must have been drinking again. He sat down and poured himself a tea, then handed me a biscuit. Father was very good at sharing biscuits.