Abstract butterfly and teal shapes on a side rib

You will not believe what happened at the Harvest Supper, so I am writing it down before Mother can tell it wrong. The butterfly was already in the hall when I arrived, a big blue thing with black-edged wings, bumping against the high windows as if it had an appointment elsewhere. Mr Pargeter from the chapel said it was a swallowtail gone astray from the coast, and Mrs Oakes swore it was a sign about the new reservoir. I said nothing, because I was busy holding the trestle table steady while Dot Lacey tried to fix the cloth with two drawing pins.

We had tall grasses from the allotments standing in jam jars along the sills, pale feathery stuff that rattled whenever the door opened. Jim Finch brought his dead father's blue enamel cups, the ones with the chipped rims, and set them out beside the teapot like little moons. Somebody had strung paper lanterns from the rafters, and a few swung low enough to knock against the butterfly's wing every time it dipped.

Here is the part I cannot make sense of. When the lamps were lit at eight, the creature went quiet and settled on the lantern nearest the piano, and every person in that hall stopped talking at once. Nothing but the grass rustling. Then Jim said, "There you are, then," as though he had been expecting it, and the room started breathing again.

I walked home along the canal with my shoes in my hand. The reservoir water was as blue as those cups under the moon, and I thought about you in Leeds, too far off to see any of this. Write back and tell me whether the city has anything half as strange.

Love, Vi