Masters And Lovers 1-4

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The butterfly flits from one blossom to another. It doesn’t stay long on any one bloom, but in the well-kept borders, there are plenty of flowers for it to sip from.

Shelley watches her target, hawk-eyed. Kneeling on the short-clipped grass, poised, her rear end twitching like a cat watching a mouse, she watches the flutterby in its journey from one white and yellow daisy to another

As the insect settles on the next flower, its jewelled wings rising and falling in the sunlight, she pounces. The jar comes one way; the lid the other and, with a snap, she has it.

She screws the lid closed and with a whoop of triumph, dashes across to the ladder leaning against the wall of the house. Proudly, she holds up the jam jar up. “I’ve catched a butterfly,” she yells.

David, paint-brush in hand, looks down, watching her carefully, just in case she decides to do anything adventurous, like touch the ladder. “That’s nice, Shelley. Why don’t you go and show Stevie.”

She darts indoors, clutching her jar, looking for her other brother. She finds him in the living room, a screwdriver in one hand, swinging the door back and forth, looking one way, then the other at the hinges.

“I’ve catched a butterfly!” she announces, pushing the jar up for Stephen to see. “Isn't it pretty.” Inside, the multi-coloured prisoner flutters against the glass while the already wilting daisy head flops at the bottom.

“Yes, it's very pretty.” Stephen puts down the screwdriver then takes the jar from her, inspecting the butterfly. His gaze drops to hers. “Do you want to keep it?”

Her eyes are a brilliant green sparkle. “Can I?”

“Yes, but not like that. Come on, I'll show you.”

He reaches into a high cupboard and takes out a bottle, then fishing around in a drawer, takes out a roll of cotton wool, tearing off a small piece. He tips a little liquid from the bottle onto the cotton wool.

The little girl peers close. “What are you doing?”

“You'll see. Just watch.” Unscrewing the jar, he pops the cotton wool inside and sets the jar down. After a few seconds, the butterfly slows and drops to the bottom. It twitches, then falls still.

“What have you done? Have you hurt it?” She peers in, then demands, “Have you hurt my butterfly?”

Stephen hesitates then, “It’s gone to sleep. You can keep it now.”

Shelley stares in at the lifeless insect, her eyes brimming. “Is it dead? Have you killed it? Can't we let it go?”

“Not now, Princess.”

“But it was so pretty.”

He points to the framed

to cry. “But you've killed it. I liked it when

Princess. But in a day or two, it would have been caught by a bird maybe, or a spider. Or it would have died anyway when the weather got cold. They don't live long. This way you can keep it forever. You’ll see. I’ll make a nice picture

sobs. “But I didn’t know they was real butterflies. I thought you maked

Princess. They’re real butterflies. And now we can keep

*****

takes her by the hand and she toddles with him to her bedroom. “Here you are.” He points to the wall. Mounted on a card and with a hand-written tag below, Shelley’s butterfly sits in its frame, protected by glass, a long pin

it?” he asks. “It’s still just as

lip trembling. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I know you’re still upset, about well…. Mummy going, and Daddy being poorly and everything. And I know you didn’t think we’d be living in a new house, but why don’t we make you bedroom all pretty too? We can make it just

up,

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didn’t know there were so many colours. And on racks, rolls of wallpaper are heaped up. Some are just boring with writing and squiggles and stuff. But some have spaceships and cartoons. Other have flowers and kittens and puppies and rainbows. She walks

down. “What would you like, Princess? You

The one with

paper? I don’t think that’s

smiling….” She stretches a finger to

the paper, then points. “Wouldn't you prefer that one? The pink one with the little ponies

not

the curtains to match. You’ll see. When I've decorated your room,

*****

Michael

progress. What was once an impenetrable thick of spikes, spines, stings, thorns and prickles has transformed into a large area of rough grass on the one hand and a giant bonfire heap on the

wall-plugs and screwing vine-eyes.

trellises for climbing roses. She reckons she can rescue

very feminine activity, is it?” he comments, an

to rise. “She’s not the useless type. And I’m only going to interfere if….” The

drill into something she hasn’t got the

to prove

she breaks off for a moment then take the drill from her hand. “I’ll do those. You can’t drill into stone.” She looks first annoyed then shrugs. “Where do you want them? And how

as I drive in. She watches me for a minute then makes her way across to

these going to