John Halkin - Squelch

‘And they weren’t frightened? Some species do that as a sign of fear. It’s the expulsion of air through the proboscis. I think we’d better go into the house and I’ll take some notes. Perhaps you’d care for a cup of tea?’

Sipping her tea, she had to admit her total ignorance of the subject of moths or butterflies or any other insects, but she tried her best to answer his questions. No, unfortunately she hadn’t noticed the antennae; nor had she actually seen any curled-up proboscis.

‘It’s a tube-like tongue used for sucking up nectar out of flowers,’ he explained, taking pity on her. ‘Not all lepidoptera are equipped with one.’

‘D’you have at least some idea what my moths were?’

‘Not native to this country, I imagine. But so many species are imported these days for study, or for zoos, some are bound to escape. Moths of that size are not impossible, specially in very hot countries.’ He thought for a moment, sucking irritatingly at his teeth. ‘This could be very interesting. You saw a swarm of them in your garden, you say? Some could have been laying eggs. You may find caterpillars in the spring.’

‘I never thought of that.’ She grinned shamefacedly. ‘I really don’t know anything, do I?’

‘The moths you saw would include both male and female. They copulate much as we do.’ He paused, then added with a slight laugh: ‘Though I’m afraid that doesn’t apply to me any longer. Too old, more’s the pity!’

‘Never say die!’ she retorted.

He smiled regretfully. ‘Then the female lays her fertilised eggs on some suitable food plant where they’ll have a chance of survival when they hatch out. Of course they have natural enemies. If they hadn’t — most people don’t realise this — a single pair might produce as many as three million caterpillars in one season.’

Ginny was fascinated. ‘Then if they are new to this country —?’

‘In the right circumstances they could soon be as commonplace — and as numerous — as bees. I don’t actually think that will happen, of course. Not in our climate.’ He stood up and shut his notebook. ‘Now let me show you where I breed.’

He took her into what had once been the vicarage dining room, but was now, he said, his ‘work station’. It contained a laboratory bench with a microscope and other items of equipment, together with three Victorian-looking cabinets whose tray-like drawers were filled with carefully classified specimens. On rough shelving along one wall were several rows of transparent plastic cylinders containing varying types of vegetation: his ‘cages’, he explained, in which he was breeding caterpillars which would eventually become moths.

‘Best way to study them,’ he commented, holding one up for her to see the little brown larvae inside. ‘You know, my dear, when I was first appointed to a country living, I thought — what luck! I saw myself as a famous naturalist like Gilbert White of Selborne. Instead, here I am, a moth-eaten lepidopterist. Of course I’ve parish duties, but not onerous. More funerals than christenings these days. The souls in these parts are so set in their ways, they’ll go straight to heaven or the other place regardless of what I say.’

‘How can I find out more about my moths?’ Ginny interrupted his musings. ‘If I want to write a script about them, for instance?’

‘Tell you what — I’ll set a trap tonight, just in case there are any more about.’

‘A trap?’

‘Yes, a mercury vapour trap. The night is full of insects, far more than we imagine. The mercury vapour lamp attracts them and they get caught in the trap. Specially moths. You’ll see in the morning.’

‘So if I come back tomorrow?’

‘First thing. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He went with her to her car, then gently put a hand on her arm as if trying to tell her something. ‘Stay the night if you can’t face the drive. Plenty of room.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, but I have to get back.’ The randy old goat, she thought as she put the key in the ignition. But then she looked up and caught the look of haunted loneliness on his face. ‘See you in the morning!’ she called out.

In the morning she telephoned from the call box instead of driving back there, telling him — a white lie — that she had some trouble with her car. Any news about her moths? As she half-expected, he explained that the haul was excellent — one of the most varied yet, not merely Broad-Bordered Yellow Underwing as was so often the case recently — but unfortunately they had caught none of her beautiful, ethereal giants. Perhaps she could drop by again when her car had been fixed? She’d be welcome any time.

The warm weather gave way to long bouts of cold rain and high gales which brought down the leaves in a rush and made the country lanes treacherous to drive along. Ginny found it oddly exhilarating after all the tensions of her old life in London. At last she felt truly free of it all!

Of course sooner or later she would get back into television, that was obvious. She began to work on an idea, something that would get the companies excited. City girl goes to live in country cottage previously occupied by old woman with supernatural powers — pact between them — girl returns to London now able to influence events to her own advantage…

Ginny cleared the oil lamp from her round table, took some A4 typing paper and sat down to scribble her random thoughts. She had written one sentence, crossed it out, and was starting again when she heard a car drawing up outside.

She went to the door, expecting to find Lesley; to her surprise, it was a mud-spattered Rover 3500 in front of the cottage. Bernie’s car. He hurried the few steps through the pouring rain to the shelter of her porch.

‘Hoping I’d find you in. Not disturbing you, am I?’

‘Come in,’ she invited, not unwillingly.

Bernie had changed since the days when Lesley had brazenly introduced him to all their relations as the putative father of her unborn child, declaring that they had not yet decided whether to marry or not: before making up their minds they intended to inspect each other’s families. At that time he’d been a tall, gauche, slightly bewildered student dressed, typically, in faded jeans, sweater and CND badge. Now he was crisply-spoken, with sympathetic blue eyes and a doctor-patient manner to inspire confidence. With the years, plus Lesley’s cooking, he’d filled out a little too, and his face was weather-tanned from the regular weekends and holidays he and the family spent sailing at Chichester. The jeans now appeared only for gardening or tinkering with the car; his normal dress when calling on patients was a light tweed suit.

‘You’ve certainly altered this place!’ he commented approvingly, glancing around her living room. ‘Mrs Beerston would never recognise it.’

‘D’you think she’d approve?’

‘Oh, I think so. She had a very young mind in that poor old body of hers. She hated old age, you know.’ His eyes fell on the sheets of A4 and the felt-tip. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You’re working.’

‘You’re welcome any time, Bernie.’

‘I really wanted a word about your moths. How are you getting on with identifying them?’

‘Well, I went to see the Reverend Davidson, then Lesley brought me these two books which I’m working through. No luck yet though. But she said she’d try to get hold of something more comprehensive if there is such a thing.’

‘I said nothing when you came to lunch on Sunday, but I’ve a patient in Lingford Hospital who claims she was attacked by giant moths. About the same time you saw them.’

‘D’you mean they stung her, or what?’

‘It may be just in her mind, you understand. History of depression and quite a heavy drinker. She was found unconscious on the road. Fractured leg, bruises, ribs damaged. If you could have a talk with her it might help.’