A Warm Spell 13_01_2009

The first time it happened, it was summer, so I was delighted, not surprised. The fluttering red admiral who appeared out of nowhere in my bedroom, flew across the top landing and out of my office window. Which I opened especially for it.
I can’t bear to see a winged thing trapped.

I thought ‘What a lucky house have I, in glorious Banff‘.
Ancient, but still standing, still here, like an ancient tree. Something magical just in survival.
Not broken up into flats, or a B&B, or worse, a legal practice. But much as it was, 245 years ago.
Adorable.
In the elegant way only Georgian houses can be.
But with a better kitchen.
And red admirals coming to call.

Banff has a noble naval heritage, no less than two admirals, the great nephew of one and father of the other, a Captain George Duff, a colleague of Nelson.
He was known for loving his wife. In those days, marriage was for property or money.
Much as is the case nowadays.
A man who married his sweetheart was so rare, even then, that it was worthy of note.
A distinguishing feature. He loves his wife, and she him.
Lucky sea dog.

The second time it happened, it was Hallowe’en and I was over the gibbous moon to see this dancing red admiral follow me up the stairs. A lucky visitor, last butterfly of the year. Charming good omens as this adolescent world groans up. I opened the bedroom window and out it flew.
And I thought, ‘what a lucky house have I, in glorious Banff‘.

Captain George Duff was born the year my house was built, as was his sweetheart. They would have known this house, and perhaps the owners.
As would Byron, who stayed across the road, at his maternal grandmother’s and courted his first sweetheart, who was resident just along my street.
As would Samuel Johnson had he time to peek out of his carriage as he rode swiftly away, after just one night, to breakfast elsewhere, such was his distaste for Banff.
He had no sweetheart, the briefest of readings of him clarifies why.
Only lovers can love.
Samuel Johnson did not love.

The third time it happened, was this New Year’s day. My sister gone home, the scent of our New Year bonfire still in the back court, truly champagne on ice in the crisp cold starry-skied snap of Arctic weather. A prayer for a safe journey and at the first twinge of loneliness of a loved one just left, a flutter of red admiral wings. In January! It led me up the stairs, and landed in the white room. The full of light room. Where I sat down amazed.
What does this mean?

Later that day he had moved to heat-bathe in the crystal lamp, the low energy bulb warm enough to give him energy, without roasting him alive. He is strategic my red admiral, and he stayed there all evening.
I couldn’t put him outside in the cold snap. So I left him to it.
And I wonder about them. Captain Duff. Admiral son.
Did they have a red coat?

The second day.
Each morning I open the curtains and fill my house with light, loving every creaking minute of this new old house. This daily routine of opening, opening, and opening is good for the spirit, I find. Just managing not to shout ‘This is where I live!‘, but unable not to dance and skip and birl. Opening opening opening.
Expecting to find a dead red admiral, I find him alive, not quite kicking but moved to the side of the lamp.
When I come back from a long walk, he’s gone from the lamp, but I don‘t find a butterfly corpse anywhere.

Was a red admiral once lovers with a lady of this house, fluttering in for brief moments of delight, then set free again?

The third day.
I’m astounded to hear that red admiral is in the white room. On the window sill in the sunshine. I hope white geraniums and hyacinths give nectar of some sort, and worry that hyacinths might be poisonous.

Admiralty jackets were blue with white waistcoat. Only soldiers wore red coats.
As any Jacobite would know.

The fourth day.
Red admiral is still fluttering. Slow but sure in the January sun, magnified by the big windows and reflected light of the snowy frost. I can’t possibly put red admiral outside in this cold. Minus 10 last night.

Was there a red-haired admiral perhaps?
Who did not love his wife?

Fifth day.
Red admiral is on the geranium, the soil is warm from the sun.

Sixth day.
Epiphany. I wonder how long butterflies live for and why I thought it was only a day?

Seventh day.
I can’t bear to look. He’s gone from the plant, and is now on the side window, where the long southerly sunbeams stream in most of the afternoon. He’s no navigational fool, my red admiral.

Eight day.
I can hardly bear to look. He’s there, wings closed, still. But not dead. He hardly moves all day. In the evening, I close the roman blind over the sill, and think of death.
Of children in Gaza here and now,
Of Sophia Duff, and the loss of her sweetheart.

Captain George Duff was decapitated by a cannon ball in the battle of Trafalgar. He had written a love letter to his wife, which he gave to his midshipman son, the admiral-to-be, to deliver to her.
George Duff was buried at sea.

Ninth day.
I am not done opening the hall curtains when the unmistakable flutter-burr racket of a butterfly flying fully and purposefully to escape, banging off the window and the roman blind, is too loud to ignore. Like an angel spreading good news, the trapped heat between the window and the blind has given him the boost he needs to break him free of his frozen vigil. Christmas morning never felt this good.

I catch red admiral in a big glass jar and take him out to the back court. It’s mild but very windy and I want him to be near plants. I put the jar on the tilt expecting him to flop out and die.
’If he flies it will all be alright’.
’If he flies it will all be alright’.
’If he flies it will all be alright’.
And in that whirling up and up and up moment, heart in my throat,
Death
Gaza
Zimbabwe
Ukraine
Redundancy
Woolworths
Men
Women
Children
Sorrow
Bad news
Worse news
No-one caring
No-one trying
No-one risking
NO-ONE BELIEVES THEY CAN FLY ANY MORE!!!

BREATHE!

He flies, up and up and up again, over the wall, over the trees, over the house next door and into the sunshine of the warm spell.