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Authors: Fiona Shaw
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driveway with gravel that wouldnât last a minute if it was on his street. Butterflies kicked up a storm in Charlieâs stomach. What if she didnât remember him? What if she didnât really mean it?
He nearly turned around and went, except that a big lady saw him and marched at him like a tank and so he froze instead of running. She wore a thin coat like Auntie Pam did, over the top of everything else, so he could see her dress peeping out at the top and from underneath. You could get an electric shock off Auntie Pamâs and when she stood under the electric light, the coat shone like plastic. This ladyâs had a pattern on it that looked like tongues in blue and red that swirled and flipped about in the wind.
âItâs not anyone thatâs ill,â he said. âItâs about the bees. She said I could see the bees.â
And Mrs Sandringham got him by the collar and took him round the side of the house and shouted for the doctor.
She was wearing old trousers and a pullover with holes and she had a scarf around her head. When she got nearer, he saw she was smiling.
âCharlie Weekes. Iâm glad youâre here,â she said. âCome and see whatâs going on.â
The bees had things to fear in the winter. Mice, whichcrept in at the door and ate their sweet food. Woodpeckers that could shred the hive to splinters. Canny blue tits that came tap-tapping at the entrance to snap up any curious bees. Dr Markham told Charlie how the warm February sun could lure them from the hive with a promise, like the ice queen, then freeze them to death. How they could lose their way home in the snow, bewildered by its brightness. He watched her heft each hive to know its weight, and she told him how careful you must be, when it was still wintry, not to disturb the bees or they might kill their queen, though she didnât know why.
She gave him a notebook with a red cover and a leather loop to hold the slender pencil.
âMight be useful,â she said.
He wrote down that a slice of onion was good for bee stings. He wrote down that bee stings were good for arthritis. He wrote down that honey was heavier than water. He wrote down that you could talk to the bees and tell them about important things. But you must do it quietly, else they might fly away.
Before he left that day, Charlie ran back to where the hives stood. The doctor hadnât told him how he should speak and he wasnât sure how near to be, or what he should say. So in the end he stood at one side and put his head close, as if listening at a door. Covering his mouth with his hand, he told the bees he would be back next weekend and that he was glad now about the fight at school. Then, very quietly, he told them that his mum was sad but he didnât know why.
8
Lydia cycled through the town with the noise of the wind in her ears and the sight of her son in her mindâs eye. The sun shone a thin light and the day promised to be warm, though it wasnât yet. Down the hill and over the criss-cross of streets, past men and women washed and combed and brushed for the day. Hair sliced into lines, scarves tight beneath the chin against the messy air, walking on and on, seeing and not seeing, ready and not ready for daylight business. Or queuing, checking watches, leaning and careful against a corner, rocking on heels still pink from between the sheets. Or heads ducked into newspapers to find a retreat from the rise of the day here and now in this place, these pavements, this weather, this town.
Sheâd been cross with Charlie this morning. Heâd had his breakfast in front of him for ten minutes and not started on it yet and she was impatient with his dreaminess.
âGet on and eat, otherwise â¦â
And sheâd turned with a shake of the head and gone for more water for the tea, so that Charlie had finished the sentence behind her back.
âOtherwise I wonât grow tall and strong like
He nearly turned around and went, except that a big lady saw him and marched at him like a tank and so he froze instead of running. She wore a thin coat like Auntie Pam did, over the top of everything else, so he could see her dress peeping out at the top and from underneath. You could get an electric shock off Auntie Pamâs and when she stood under the electric light, the coat shone like plastic. This ladyâs had a pattern on it that looked like tongues in blue and red that swirled and flipped about in the wind.
âItâs not anyone thatâs ill,â he said. âItâs about the bees. She said I could see the bees.â
And Mrs Sandringham got him by the collar and took him round the side of the house and shouted for the doctor.
She was wearing old trousers and a pullover with holes and she had a scarf around her head. When she got nearer, he saw she was smiling.
âCharlie Weekes. Iâm glad youâre here,â she said. âCome and see whatâs going on.â
The bees had things to fear in the winter. Mice, whichcrept in at the door and ate their sweet food. Woodpeckers that could shred the hive to splinters. Canny blue tits that came tap-tapping at the entrance to snap up any curious bees. Dr Markham told Charlie how the warm February sun could lure them from the hive with a promise, like the ice queen, then freeze them to death. How they could lose their way home in the snow, bewildered by its brightness. He watched her heft each hive to know its weight, and she told him how careful you must be, when it was still wintry, not to disturb the bees or they might kill their queen, though she didnât know why.
She gave him a notebook with a red cover and a leather loop to hold the slender pencil.
âMight be useful,â she said.
He wrote down that a slice of onion was good for bee stings. He wrote down that bee stings were good for arthritis. He wrote down that honey was heavier than water. He wrote down that you could talk to the bees and tell them about important things. But you must do it quietly, else they might fly away.
Before he left that day, Charlie ran back to where the hives stood. The doctor hadnât told him how he should speak and he wasnât sure how near to be, or what he should say. So in the end he stood at one side and put his head close, as if listening at a door. Covering his mouth with his hand, he told the bees he would be back next weekend and that he was glad now about the fight at school. Then, very quietly, he told them that his mum was sad but he didnât know why.
8
Lydia cycled through the town with the noise of the wind in her ears and the sight of her son in her mindâs eye. The sun shone a thin light and the day promised to be warm, though it wasnât yet. Down the hill and over the criss-cross of streets, past men and women washed and combed and brushed for the day. Hair sliced into lines, scarves tight beneath the chin against the messy air, walking on and on, seeing and not seeing, ready and not ready for daylight business. Or queuing, checking watches, leaning and careful against a corner, rocking on heels still pink from between the sheets. Or heads ducked into newspapers to find a retreat from the rise of the day here and now in this place, these pavements, this weather, this town.
Sheâd been cross with Charlie this morning. Heâd had his breakfast in front of him for ten minutes and not started on it yet and she was impatient with his dreaminess.
âGet on and eat, otherwise â¦â
And sheâd turned with a shake of the head and gone for more water for the tea, so that Charlie had finished the sentence behind her back.
âOtherwise I wonât grow tall and strong like
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