7

The girl in the buddleia bush was troubling. I sat on the bed, held the jar of caterpillars in one hand and tickled Romeo's ear with the other. Had it not been for the girl in the bush I would have been quite content. But she worried me: her presence made me question whether even with Romeo and my newly hatched caterpillars there was still something missing in my life.

To calm myself I stared into the jam pot and remembered I needed something bigger and better for my new friends to live in. I'd need a container, a lid without ragged edges, some sticks and food. Caterpillars, I had learnt from African Butterflies, are very picky eaters. They will starve to death before eating the wrong thing. I left my bedroom and went to the pantry to see what I could find.

“Fabrice told me about your tooth,” said Mother as I rummaged about looking for something to fill with sticks and leaves. She held my chin and had a good look inside my mouth. “Where is it?” I produced it from my pocket.

“Your first tooth,” she said. I was surprised to see two big tears burst from her eyes, which she wiped away before taking a deep breath and placing the tooth in her own pocket. “And what are you doing?” I pointed to the jar that I'd placed on the table. She gave a funny little smile and shook her head. “Just don't make a mess, whatever it is.” Then she disappeared with Monty following behind her. My tooth had distracted Mother from my missing coin and my Saturday clothes. I was glad about that.

Finding nothing for my caterpillars on the shelves, I opened the fridge, where I found a gallon-sized container of orange juice. It was perfect, but still a quarter full. I took off the lid, gulped down the contents and immediately felt sick. Romeo seemed to cast me a knowing eye – the previous night he'd eaten hot mashed potato from the dinner table and thrown up on the laundry-room floor. Celeste hadn't been pleased – she wasn't that keen on dogs at the best of times: she said they were only good for killing rats and didn't understand how Mother could have them in the house.

“Careful, Arthur – you be sick,” she said, coming in with a bucket of water.

I stumbled to the back door, jar and juice container in hand, and turned on the outside tap. The water shot into the container and out of the neck in a cold spray that splashed my face. Romeo jumped out of the way and watched from a distance, along with the chickens. I filled it to the very top, then let it slosh out in glugs. It was clean.

My body shook from the cold water and the quarter-gallon of orange juice churning in my belly. Bending over, I heaved the juice up, vomiting easily like Romeo. I examined the contents and turned on the tap, washing the sick away. It was only after it had disappeared and my head had stopped spinning that I noticed, by the gate to Mother's side garden, two skinny black legs – the buddleia girl.

I tried not to feel embarrassed about the girl having watched me throw up. More importantly, I needed twigs for the caterpillars to pupate. “Pupate” – I liked that word: I'd learnt it from my book.

After picking up my things I walked, head down, towards the woodshed, with Romeo following behind. The girl inched her way towards the back door. I went into the resin-filled shed and moved towards the back. From there I could see her without her seeing me. Romeo hunkered down and snapped at flies, apparently uninterested in the girl, but I watched her every step. She was against the back of the house, clinging to the kitchen wall. Sliding her way along, arms by her sides, she looked like a capital A.

I collected a fistful of sticks from the floor, then emerged from the dark of the woodshed and sat in the opening next to Romeo. Now the girl could see me and I could see her. She looked startled, like a gecko when you turn on the light.

Keeping her in view, I held up the juice bottle and angled the twigs to see which ones I could use. They had to fit snugly so that the caterpillars had something solid to cling on to. The girl crept closer towards the back door. Her spindly dark body in a bright-red dress made me think of Mother's crocosmia flowers.

Between where she stood and the door I spotted a handsaw. “Just what I need” – I thought – “I can chop off the top of the container and cut the sticks down to size.” I laid the jar, juice bottle and twigs on the ground and picked up the saw. I'd never held one before, but I'd seen Joseph saw plenty of things. I placed my hand firmly on the bottle and set about it. The vibrations tickled my arm but it worked. As the plastic shavings gathered on the ground I could feel the girl watching – her bare feet creeping closer. Her toenails were like the shells on the shore of Lake Kivu.

Eventually the top of the bottle dropped to one side and I was left with a neat-edged tub. I pushed the sticks at angles until they fitted perfectly. I was pleased.

All I needed to complete the job was foliage and a cover. I didn't like to leave the yard with the girl clinging to the wall, but Fabrice was in the kitchen listening to the radio and Celeste was washing floors. The girl couldn't get into the house without them noticing. I shot her a warning look, picked up my things and ran to the buddleia in the garden.

The buddleia was a bendy bush, difficult to break. Its lolly-shaped flowers smelt sweet as I tugged at the branches, which sprang back in a shimmer of purple. I grabbed a small branch and twisted: it came away with a ragged green cut. I felt as if I'd wounded it. I took another, then another, inspecting them for spiders – I didn't want my caterpillars to be eaten by predators. I placed them among the twigs in the container. I was proud of my work – silvery leaves and dark sticks – my very own caterpillar farm. It was good.

When I was done, I looked around to see where the girl might be. I glanced towards my bedroom window to check she wasn't there: she wasn't. Curiosity got the better of me and, after transferring the caterpillars from the jar to their new home, I went back to the house in search of a cheesecloth, an elastic band and – the girl.

“Eh, Arthur,” said Fabrice as I looked for a cloth in the pantry. “That's nice, very nice,” he said, admiring my farm. I secured a thick rubber band around a cheesecloth and the tub. He put his hands on his hips and smiled, saying: “Eh, I know someone who'd like that.” I gave him a wary look. Why did he think I'd want to share my caterpillar colony? “Come to the kitchen,” he said. “I show you how to clean it.” This, I was aware, was a bribe. I knew about those. Sometimes Mother had to bribe the gardeners with banana beer to work harder.

I was about to put my caterpillar farm on the kitchen table, when I saw the buddleia girl standing at the sink. I tugged at Fabrice's trousers and shot a look in her direction.

“Eh, Arthur,” he said, laughing, “it's OK. This is Benitha.” The girl turned towards me: water from her hands dripped onto the floor. “Beni is my granddaughter.”

We stared at each other – Fabrice busied himself, seeming not to notice our unease. I looked at Beni in her red dress, her skinny limbs, beaded hair and buddleia flower tucked behind her ear. Her eyes, which were bright like her face, were the shape and colour of almonds and, as she smiled, I noticed her new front teeth formed an upside-down V.

“What is it?” she asked shyly, looking at my farm. Before I could stop myself I placed the farm on the table for her to see.

“It's his caterpillar farm,” said Fabrice.

I pointed to the leaf where my newly hatched caterpillars were clambering. She craned her neck and took a step away from the sink. I took a pace back.

“OK, Arthur,” said Fabrice. “OK.”

Beni knelt down and peered into the juice container. She tapped her finger against the side. I frowned. She started to turn the farm around. I reached out to stop her. She flinched. The flower behind her ear fell to the table.

“Eh,” said Fabrice, as he finished washing the dishes Beni had abandoned. “Caterpillars have one job. It is what?” he asked triumphantly. The answer was “eating”. I wondered if Beni knew too.

I wondered if she went to the school with the saggy-eyed teacher where Mother had taken me when I was five – and, if so, why she was here on Friday with Fabrice.

“To eat,” said Fabrice, wiping his hands on the tea towel that hung from his belt. “And when they eat, then what?” he asked.

Beni giggled, covering her mouth with her fingers.

“What?” smiled Fabrice. “What?”

Beni giggled again: too shy to answer.

“Waste,” said Fabrice. “Waste, waste, waste.”

I wanted to tell them that caterpillar poop was called frass. I knew that because I had read it in my book, but I couldn't think of how to communicate it to them, so I just listened instead.

“We must clean every day. Every day,” repeated Fabrice, stepping out of the kitchen. “Every day,” I heard him say again in the pantry.

I knew that mould could grow if I didn't keep the farm clean. Did Beni know too? Had the teacher taught her that in school? She giggled as I pretended to study the caterpillars, but really I was studying her. I looked up – she looked down. She looked up – I looked down. I slipped the buddleia flower from across the table and into my pocket: I thought it would be nice to press.

Fabrice returned with Father's old newspapers, which he'd brought back from the city.

“Et voilà,” he said, tearing off a sheet. “Put this on the bottom and change it every day. This will keep it clean. Now go and find a light space to keep them, but not in direct sunlight,” he warned. “Caterpillars can die from too much heat.”

* * *

Beni started to come to the house every Friday to help Fabrice. She'd wash dishes, peel potatoes and sift the rice while I studied English grammar with Mother. As the weeks passed and the dry season turned to wet, I grew to accept Beni with her almond eyes, V-shaped front teeth and twig-like legs. I got used to her dripping water over the kitchen floor, leaving potato peel in the yard and sitting with her legs wide open when sifting rice, so that I could see her underwear.

Beni always smiled. She skipped and ran everywhere, her beaded cornrows bouncing from side to side. When she first arrived I'd listen to her talk with Fabrice, whom she called Sogokuru, from the safety of the living room. I spent more time with my cars on the rug than I'd ever done in the past. It drove Mother crazy. I made more frequent trips to the pantry in search of food I didn't need, so that I might see what Beni was doing. And when I was feeling brave I'd go as far as the kitchen and stand in the door and watch her wash dishes from behind, her head swaying as she hummed a tune and played with the bubbles.

Of course, as soon as she turned around I'd run to the safety of my bedroom, where I knew she was not allowed to go. Beni had to remain in the kitchen, pantry and back lobby: the rest of the house was out of bounds.

But one day when I ran to my bedroom Beni didn't remain in the kitchen, the pantry or the back lobby: Beni crept through the living room and up the red-concrete corridor to my bedroom door.

She stared at me sitting on the floor with my caterpillar farm. But she didn't stare at me the way most people did – as if I were a ghoul, as if they might catch something. Beni stared at me as if my pale skin and straight hair were something nice, not ugly.

“Can I help?” she asked. I was placing new host leaves into the farm. The caterpillars were now fully grown, plump and greedy eaters. I had to give them food twice a day – and sometimes even that was not enough. They had grown so big they'd shed their old skins and eaten them, just as they'd eaten their eggs when they'd first hatched.

It was important to have clean hands when handling them – African Butterflies said so: caterpillars could easily become ill and die. I couldn't risk that. I looked at Beni's hands. Her fingers were like prunes, so I knew they were clean – clean from all the washing-up liquid and scrubbing.

Reaching under my bed I found a paintbrush and held it up to her. She checked over her shoulder and crossed my bedroom, took the brush from me and sat cross-legged on the floor. I tried hard not to look at her pale-yellow underpants.

African Butterflies was lying open at the page where I'd pressed the buddleia flower she'd been wearing the day we met. The page was stained with a sticky purple-and-yellow residue. She looked at the book and the flower. I closed it, avoiding her gaze.

I placed my paintbrush inside the farm and waited patiently for a caterpillar to move up and explore it. Beni watched what I did and copied me. She didn't ask questions, and I liked that. Silently we transferred all eleven caterpillars onto their new leaves. Then I removed the old leaves and placed them in the bin.

I'd turned my back on Beni for only a moment when she let out a squeal. She was squeezing the tip of her finger so hard it had turned purple. She reached it out to me, her eyes even wider than usual.

Beni had been pricked by a caterpillar spine. I knew it was harmless, but she didn't, so I took my tweezers from my bug kit and moved closer. I kept an arm's length away, but was close enough to smell her sweet milky breath, which reminded me of rice pudding. I took her pricked finger between my finger and thumb and brought it close to my face, examined the spine, clamped the tweezers around it and tugged. It came away effortlessly.

Beni examined her swollen finger, which wept a pinhead of blood. Our eyes met. I parted my lips, wanting to say something, but not sure what or how. For the first time in my life my fear of talking irked me. Before I could think of what to do she broke into a smile and left.