The Butterfly Box(55)

‘She’s got very good taste,’ said Ingrid, lifting her eyes over the easel and smiling at her son with pride.

‘What do you think, Sam?’

‘I simply don’t think, Molly,’ said Sam, irritated.

‘You seem to think about everything else,’ she said.

‘Perhaps, but I don’t think about Federica Campione.’

‘Darling, she’s a very sweet girl,’ Ingrid interrupted.

‘Exactly. A girl,’ said Sam. ‘If I fancied anyone she would be a woman, not a



girl’

At that moment Hester skipped out onto the lawn followed by Pebbles the Vietnamese pig and cradling a snuffling hedgehog in her arms. ‘I think Prickles is better now.' she announced. ‘He can walk again.'

‘Thank Heaven for that. Have you fed him?’ Ingrid asked, momentarily looking up from her work.

‘Yes. He drank all his milk. He’s still covered in fleas, though. Nuno says you shouldn’t have brought him into the house, he says he’s been scratching ever since.’

‘Your grandfather’s very impressionable. If you hadn’t told him about the fleas he wouldn’t be scratching.’

‘Fede’s coming for tea,’ said Hester.

‘Good.'

‘Her mother lets her bicycle now.’

‘About time too. She’s somewhat overprotective. Mind you,’ said Ingrid thoughtfully, her paintbrush poised, ‘after what that poor child has been through it’s hardly surprising.’

‘What has she been through?’ Hester asked innocently.

‘Well, she’s had to leave her home and start again in a new place,’ said In-grid.

‘She hasn’t seen her father since she left Chile,’ said Molly, plucking another daisy from the overgrown lawn. ‘I don’t believe she’s even received a letter from him. I bet he’s really horrid.’

‘You can’t call someone horrid when you don’t know them, Molly. Anyway, I don’t think he's intentionally horrid, just selfish and irresponsible.’

‘Poor Fede,’ Hester sighed. ‘She talks about her father all the time.’

‘I bet he doesn’t think about her ever, or her mother. Have they divorced?’ Molly asked dispassionately.

‘Goodness no!’ replied her mother, licking the end of her paintbrush. ‘They’ve just separated. I’m sure they’ll get back together in the end. I imagine it was hard for Helena living out there. It’s not England you know.’

‘Helena will probably fall in love with someone else,’ said Molly, relishing the idea of a scandal.

‘You’ve been reading too many romantic novels, darling,’ Ingrid laughed, shaking her head at her daughter with the same indulgence that had allowed all

her children to behave exactly as they pleased all their lives.

‘Hester.' said Molly. ‘Is or isn’t it true that Fede fancies Sam?’

‘Leave it, Molly.' said Sam, without looking up from his book. ‘Mum, if they don’t shut up I’m going to read in the orchard.’

Ingrid sighed. ‘Girls.’

‘Yes, it’s true. Ever since he rescued her from the ice,’ Hester replied, unable to resist her elder sister.

‘Girls, Sam is trying to read. I’m sure he’s very flattered that Federica has taken a shine to him, but really, he’s fifteen years old and has much more important things to think about than the infatuations of a six-year-old child.’

‘He should be grateful anyone fancies him at all.' added Molly, who always liked to have the last word. Sam ignored her and turned the page.

‘What glorious sunshine!’ exclaimed Nuno trotting out onto the lawn. “‘As night is withdrawn from these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May/” he said, surveying the tranquil scene before him.

‘Robert Bridges, 11 Nightingales11' said Sam casually, turning another page of his book.

‘Quite right, dear boy,’ said Nuno, nodding his approval with the slow

inclination of his head as if he were on the stage.

‘You must be thinking of Italy, Nuno, weather in this country is usually foul whatever the month,’ said Molly sulkily.

‘Oh dear! Moody Molly is like a grande nuvola obscuring the sun. I simply cannot tolerate the whining of a capricious child.’ He sniffed. Molly rolled her eyes and smirked at Hester. ‘Don’t think I don’t see the silent communication between you and your accomplice,’ he added, glaring at them in mock anger. ‘You’ll both be shot at dawn. Now, Ingrid, let’s see your opera d’arte.’ He leant over his daughter’s shoulder and peered at the canvas with great self-importance. ‘Not bad, our Italian masters might not celebrate your achievements with a glass of Chateau Lafitte in Heaven but neither would they recoil in horror,’ he said slowly in the clipped Italian accent that he had cultivated over so many years he was now unable to speak without it. ‘There is no mistaking that it is Sam, my dear, only which end is his head and which end are his feet?’