‘Oh, Mother, you are so old-fashioned! Don’t worry about me,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll be exemplary!’ She grinned mischievously and skipped out of the house, leaving the screen door to bang behind her.
Grace put the chicken pie in the oven then took off her apron and hung it on the back of the door. She poured a glass of wine and went out onto the veranda to watch the sunset.
It was a golden evening and the light was soft and dusty, except when it caught the waves and gleamed a brilliant white. She took a deep breath and savoured the fresh sea air that never ceased to give her pleasure, even after all these years living by a beach.
She sipped her wine and felt herself relax. Freddie was in his study and likely to remain there until supper. She had time to sit on the swing chair and enjoy the solitude. She watched the bees humming about the pots of hydrangeas beside her, and slowly, but with the greatest pleasure, she allowed their gentle buzzing to transport her back to the past.
Chapter 4
Walbridge, England, 1933
A fat bumblebee crawled up Grace’s arm. She lay on the grass in the churchyard, dressed in her best Sunday frock, white ankle socks and freshly polished brown shoes, and watched the bee in fascination. It had a large bottom and its stripes were bright and furry. She wanted to run her finger down its abdomen but thought it might take exception and fly off, so she remained perfectly still as the summer sunshine warmed her back and bare legs, waiting for her father to finish chatting to the other parishioners who gathered outside the church.
‘I hope that bee doesn’t sting you,’ came a deep voice from behind her. She could tell from the clipped upper-class accent that he wasn’t one of her father’s friends, and she felt herself stiffen with self-consciousness.
‘Bees only sting to protect the hive,’ she replied, without daring to look at the stranger. ‘This bee won’t sting me. I’m no threat, you see.’
He laughed. ‘You must be Mr Hamblin’s daughter.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Thought so.’ He crouched down to take a closer look at the bee. ‘You’re a brave girl. Most children are afraid of bees.’
‘That’s because they don’t know them like I do. Dad says people are always afraid of what they don’t know. Fear is the root of all prejudice, he says.’
‘Your father is very wise. Do you think the bee might be encouraged to crawl up
my
arm?’
‘We can give it a try, if you like,’ she said, forgetting her embarrassment and sitting up slowly. The young man had taken off his jacket and was rolling up his sleeve. Grace took the opportunity to glance at his face. She recognized him at once, for he had sat in the front pew in church beside her father’s employers, the Marquess and Marchioness of Penselwood. She concluded that he must be their eldest son, Rufus, Lord Melville, and her hands began to tremble, not because he was handsome but because he was an earl and she had never spoken to one of his sort before.
‘The trick is not to let it know you’re afraid,’ she told him, searching for confidence in the subject she knew better than any other.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said with a smile. Grace sensed he was teasing her, for a man of his age was surely not afraid of a little bee. He took her thin arm in his hand and rested it on top of his. Against his brown one hers looked very white and fragile. She strained every muscle to stop herself from shaking. They remained with their arms touching for what seemed like a very long time, during which Grace tried to remember to breathe. At last the bee wandered down her arm and onto his. As it stepped lightly onto his skin, he flinched.
Grace forgot her nervousness and took his wrist in her hand to steady him. ‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t sting you, I promise. Bumblebees rarely sting, only the worker bees and queens. I’m not sure which this one is – a worker bee, I think. Certainly not a queen; you can tell those immediately as they’re bigger. Anyway, if it does sting you, it’s no bad thing. Dad lets his bees sting him on purpose.’
‘Why would he do a silly thing like that?’
‘He says bee stings cure his arthritis.’
‘Really? Is that true?’
‘I think it is. He swears by it.’
‘My grandmother has terrible arthritis. Perhaps I should bring her down to your cottage for a sting or two.’
Grace chuckled. ‘I’m not sure she’d thank you. A bee sting really hurts.’ They watched the insect crawl up his arm. Grace let go of his hand.
‘What’s your name, Miss Hamblin?’
Furious with herself for blushing, she lowered her eyes. ‘Grace.’
‘I’m Rufus. I’d forgotten how boring Reverend Dibben is. He does go on.’ Grace giggled timidly. She was quite happy talking about bees, but she didn’t know what to say about Reverend Dibben, except to agree stupidly – he
was
an exceedingly dull man. ‘You know, I’ve been up at Oxford for a year and it’s been a pleasure not having to listen to the old bore every Sunday. Sadly, he’s coming to lunch so I’m going to have to suffer him through three courses.’ He sighed. She glanced at him again and he beamed a wide, mischievous smile. ‘Well, Grace, you’ve been a fine teacher. Tell me, do you help your father with the hives?’
‘Yes, I do, I love everything about bees.’
He looked at her steadily and frowned. ‘So, you’ll be a beekeeper when you grow up?’
‘I hope so.’ She smiled back shyly.
‘And you’ll invent a cure for arthritis that will make you rich.’
‘I don’t think anyone would pay to be stung by a bee.’
‘Then you’ll have to find a way to bottle it.’
‘That could prove difficult.’
‘Not for a clever girl like you.’ His dark chocolate eyes twinkled warmly. ‘You’d better take back your bee or I’ll be late for lunch.’ He looked across the churchyard to where his parents were graciously extracting themselves from the crowd of townspeople. The Marchioness was wearing the most magnificent fox stole, even though it was summer. It was so intact the creature could easily have been asleep and not dead. Her husband’s face was hidden behind a thick grey beard. He resembled the King. Rufus watched them a moment, as if reluctant to join them any sooner than necessary. ‘Can’t be late for the vicar!’ he sighed.
Grace gently lifted the bee with her fingers and placed it back on her arm. Rufus stood up and unrolled his sleeve. ‘I’ll tell my grandmother about your father’s remedy for arthritis,’ he said, threading the cufflink through the hole in his cuff. ‘I think the idea is a capital one.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t!’ she protested.
‘Oh, but I must. She’s an eccentric old bat. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she doesn’t come knocking on your door.’ He shrugged on his jacket. ‘Don’t worry, if it doesn’t work we won’t burn you at the stake for witchcraft. Bye now.’
Grace watched him saunter off. He was tall and athletic with the bearing of a young man for whom life had been generous and kind. He walked with his shoulders back and his head high, and everyone who saw him smiled with admiration, for he was indeed attractive and charismatic. Grace’s heart began to beat at a regular pace again but her hands were still damp with sweat. She felt very hot. She was flattered that he had bothered to talk to a fourteen-year-old.
Before she could dwell on it any further she was startled by Freddie, springing upon her from behind. The bee took fright and flew into the air. She rounded on him crossly. ‘Really, Freddie! You’ve scared her away!’
‘You and your silly bees,’ he retorted, sitting on the grass beside her. ‘What did
he
want?’ He nodded in the direction of the grown-ups, who were now beginning to disperse like homing pigeons. Rufus walked with his mother down the gravel path towards the waiting motor cars. Grace didn’t think she’d ever seen a more glamorous woman, even at the flicks.
‘He wanted the bee to walk up his arm,’ she replied.
Freddie swept his auburn hair off his forehead. His skin was damp with sweat. ‘Strange man.’
‘He was nice.’
‘You’re a soft touch for anyone who shows an interest in your bees.’ He grinned at her mischievously. ‘Fancy a swim in the river after lunch? It’s boiling!’
‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you are man enough to let a bee walk up your arm like Rufus.’
‘So he’s Rufus now, is he?’ He elbowed her playfully – and a little jealously.
‘He said his name is Rufus.’
‘He’s the Earl of Melville. Lord Melville to you and don’t you forget it.’
‘Then I’m Miss Hamblin to you, Mr Valentine, and don’t
you
forget it.’
Freddie laughed and stood up. ‘Find me a bee,’ he demanded, keen to show that he was as brave as Lord Melville.
‘All right. Let’s see.’ She ran her eyes over the daisies and buttercups that grew among the grass and spotted what could easily be the same fat bee which had only a moment ago walked up her arm. She bent down and picked it up as if it were as innocuous as a bird’s egg.
‘Come on, Freddie, don’t be a big girl!’ she teased. Gently, she placed the bee on Freddie’s arm. He trembled. She held his wrist as she had held Rufus’s but it didn’t excite her as Rufus’s had, for Freddie’s skin was almost as familiar as her own. Ever since her mother died and
his
mother May, a distant cousin and her mother’s best friend, had stepped in to help her father raise her, Freddie had been like a brother to her. In the beginning, her grandmother had come up from Cornwall to live with them, but mother and son had soon clashed and Mrs Hamblin had been unceremoniously sent home on the train. After that her aunt had attempted to fill her mother’s shoes but she had only lasted six months before
she
was packed off back to Cornwall, too. That was years ago. Grace couldn’t remember her grandmother or her aunt; only May and Michael Valentine and her father had been constants in her life. She couldn’t remember a moment when Freddie hadn’t been around, either.
‘How does that feel? Not scared, are you, Freddie?’ she asked.
‘No!’ he exclaimed through gritted teeth. His face had gone very red, enhancing the indigo colour of his eyes.
‘You know, without bees to pollinate our world, humans would die out in four years.’
‘Fascinating,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘And bees have been around for thirty million years. Just imagine that!’
‘Can you take it off now? It’s going to crawl into my shirt.’ Freddie began to pant in panic.
‘Am I boring you?’ She laughed. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve earned a swim in the river now.’
Just as she was about to lift it off his arm, the little bee must have sensed his fear for it lowered its abdomen and stung him. Grace paled. Not because Freddie gave out a yelp of pain, but because the sting had lodged itself in Freddie’s skin and as the bee pulled away, half of its insides were left behind. She stared at it in anguish. The insect tried to fly away, but it was too weak. It fell onto the grass where it made a pathetic attempt to crawl. Grace’s eyes filled with tears. She bent down and picked the creature up and placed it in the palm of her hand where she stared at it helplessly.
Freddie was appalled. ‘You don’t care about me! You only care about your silly bees!’ he accused, his voice rising as the pain throbbed and his skin turned pink.
‘You’re not going to die, Freddie,’ she retorted crossly. ‘You shouldn’t have let her know that you were afraid!’
‘I wasn’t afraid. Bees sting and that’s all there is to it.’ He nursed his arm and tried to hold back the tears. ‘You and your silly game!’
She glanced at his glistening eyes and softened. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie. I didn’t think it would sting you.’
‘That’s the last time I go anywhere near a bee, do you understand?’ He grimaced. ‘It bloody hurts, Grace. I hope you’re satisfied. I heard of a man who died of a bee sting!’
Grace took a look at his arm. He had wiped the sting away, but the venom was making his arm swell. ‘Come, I’ll get you home and Auntie May can put some garlic on it.’
‘Garlic?’
‘Or baking soda.’
He looked horrified. ‘You really are a witch!’
‘They both work a treat. Come on.’
They hurried down the path into the lane. Freddie bore the pain bravely. He was determined not to cry in front of Grace. He didn’t imagine Lord Melville would have cried had he been stung.
Freddie’s house wasn’t far from the church. It was down a narrow lane near the river and the Fox and Goose Inn, where his father went every evening after work to drink beer with his friends. They found his mother, whom Grace had always called Auntie May, in the kitchen, peeling potatoes at the sink. ‘Oh dear, what have you done to yourself, Freddie?’ she asked, taking his arm and looking at it closely.
‘A bee stung him, Auntie May,’ Grace told her. ‘Do you have any garlic?’
‘Garlic?’
‘To put on the sting. It’ll make it better quicker than any fancy ointment from the chemist.’
May smiled. ‘You’re just like your father, Grace,’ she said, going to the cupboard to find some. ‘I bet it’s sore, Freddie. You’re being very brave.’ May squashed the clove on her chopping board and pressed it onto the sting. ‘Does that hurt?’ she asked softly.
‘A little,’ said Freddie.
Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve never known so much fuss!’ she chided. ‘Boys are big babies.’
‘Boys fight wars, Grace. They’re courageous when it matters,’ said May quietly.
‘Not Freddie,’ Grace laughed. ‘Freddie’s a big girl!’
‘He’s only fifteen. One day he’ll be a man and think nothing of a bee sting.’ May kissed his forehead affectionately. ‘All done now.’
‘You have to come swimming with me this afternoon, Grace. You made a promise,’ said Freddie.
‘I did, and I will honour my word.’
‘Will you come by after lunch, then?’
‘As soon as Dad lets me go.’
‘I’ll make you sandwiches for tea if you like,’ May suggested, picking up a potato to peel.
‘Thank you, we’d love that, wouldn’t we, Freddie? We can eat them on the river bank. It’ll be fun.’
‘Don’t tell your sister, Freddie. I won’t be making sandwiches for her.’ May shook her ginger curls. ‘If your father knew how much I spoil you, he’d have words to say. Now off you both go. I’ve got to cook lunch. We’ve got company.’