Freddie walked Grace back to the church where she had left her bicycle. It was a short ride home if she took the shortcut along the farm tracks through the wood. ‘How’s your sting?’ she asked.
‘Better,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you were right about the garlic’
‘I’m a witch, after all,’ she laughed.
‘But I stink.’
‘You can wash it off in the river.’
‘The fish will love that!’
‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean for the bee to hurt you.’
‘I know. It’s OK. It’s feeling better now.’
‘Still, I feel sorrier for the bee.’ She picked up her bicycle, which she had leaned against the church wall. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, climbing on.
Grace pedalled through the village until she came to the farm entrance of Walbridge Hall. She cycled in, past a cluster of pretty farm cottages where chickens wandered freely, pecking at the earth, and where barns were swept clean in preparation for the harvest. It was quiet, being a Sunday. She pedalled hard up the track towards the wood. The grass had grown long and was thick with clover. On her left the hedges were high and bushy with cow parsley and blackthorn. Small birds darted in and out and hares lolloped up ahead, disappearing into the undergrowth when she got too close for comfort. As she was about to cut through the wood, she felt the desire to take a look at the big house. She’d seen it lots of times before with her father, but now she had met Rufus, it took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer just very fine bricks but Rufus’s home.
She changed direction and walked her bike along the field at the foot of the wood. From there she could see Walbridge Hall nestled in the valley, protected by sturdy plane trees and surrounded by acres of gardens, lovingly managed by her father who had held the position of head gardener for over twenty years. His knowledge and skill were said to be unmatched by anyone else in Dorset. She remembered with a smile how he’d stop and admire the house and say: ‘That’s a mighty fine building, that is.’ And being a man who loved history and read a great deal, he’d tell her about it without caring that she’d heard it a dozen times already.
Arthur Hamblin was right. It was a magnificent seventeenth-century stately home built in the soft, pale-yellow stone of Dorset. With three floors, tall gables, large imposing-looking windows and chimneys set in pairs, it was undeniably grand yet not at all formidable. Perhaps it was due to the gentle colour of the stone, or the prettiness of the bay windows and gables, or the general harmony of the design, but Walbridge Hall seemed to welcome the onlooker with a silent salutation.
Grace thought of Rufus at lunch with the vicar and smiled to herself, thrilled to have been taken into his confidence. She could see a number of motor cars on the gravel in front of the house. There was a sleek black Bentley which belonged to the Marquess, with its long bonnet and exquisite leather interior. She had seen that vehicle many times, parked outside the church and motoring through the village carrying the Marchioness off to London. A little red Austin was parked beside it, which belonged to the vicar, but outshining both was a sleek racing-green Alfa Romeo. She imagined that one belonged to Rufus. It seemed to be a motor car worthy of a dashing young man like the Earl of Melville.
She remained there a long while, watching. Before, she had barely noticed the house. Her father’s fascination with the place had rather baffled her. How was it possible for someone to be so fixated on a pile of bricks and mortar, however well constructed? Gardens she could understand, because flora and fauna had always held her in wonder, but houses had never held such appeal. Walbridge Hall certainly hadn’t warranted more than a glance. But now it seemed to breathe with life. She imagined the people inside it and wondered what they were all doing. She fantasized about knocking on that great door. She couldn’t imagine what it looked like inside because she had no experience to draw on. But she knew it would be superb.
After a while her stomach began to rumble and she turned her thoughts to dinner. Her father would expect his meal on time. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from her vigil and cut through the middle of the wood, along a track where the grass was kept short because the Penselwoods liked to ride there. She loved this part of the forest with its ancient oak trees, whose gnarled and twisted branches reminded her of fairy tales she had read as a child. In spring the ground was a sea of bluebells, but now, being July, bracken and ferns had grown dense and strong – perfect cover for pheasants and rabbits.
She reached the other side of the wood and pushed her bike out into the field. From there she could see the thatched roof of the cottage she had lived in all her life. It didn’t belong to her father; it was part of the estate, but it was his for as long as he was head gardener and beekeeper. Its official name was Cottage Number 3, but because of the hives it had become known as Beekeeper’s Cottage, and Grace thought the name suited it well.
Perfect in symmetry, with white walls and a grey thatched roof, it was a harmonious little house with a great deal of charm. Two windows peeped out from beneath a fringe of thatch and seemed to survey the surrounding countryside with a constant look of wonder, as if the magic of those green fields and ancient woods never lost its power to enchant. A trio of chimneys made perfect perches for pigeons grown fat on the bounty of wheat and barley from the surrounding fields. They settled in up there and cooed softly until the winter fires sent them into the trees, where they cooed grudgingly instead.
Grace found her father on his knees in the garden, pulling out weeds. He never stopped. When he wasn’t working at the Hall he was toiling in his own garden or at the hives. The only thing that brought him inside was the dark, and then he’d sink into his favourite armchair with his loyal spaniel, Pepper, at his feet, light a pipe and read. For an ill-educated man Arthur Hamblin was extremely well read, with a natural intelligence and an enquiring mind. He devoured history books and biographies and reread his favourite classics in fiction so that the pages were dog-eared and the hard covers shabby. Recognizing the same curiosity in his daughter, he had set about teaching her with love and patience everything he had learned. They shared books and discussed the great mysteries of the world, but the knowledge Grace most treasured was the wisdom of bees. Father and daughter were never closer than when they were looking after the hives and pouring honey into jars to take up to the Hall.
‘Ah, Gracey,’ he said, looking up from the border. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Freddie got stung by a bee.’
Arthur chuckled, pulling out a handful of bindweed. His greying hair curled beneath his cap like old man’s beard. ‘Bet he made a fuss.’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Did you put garlic on it?’
‘Yes, although Auntie May thought I was mad to suggest it.’
‘What’s she up to, then?’
‘Cooking dinner. They have company.’
‘Oh, they do, do they? Well, what shall we have for dinner then, you and I?’ he asked, always eager for the next meal.
‘I don’t know. What do you feel like?’
He stood up and walked across the grass towards her. ‘Let’s go and see what’s in the icebox,’ he said jovially. ‘I’m sure we can cook up a feast as good as any at May’s!’
Chapter 5
That afternoon, after a simple meal of cold lamb and mashed potatoes, Grace cycled to Freddie’s house, where they both continued on foot to the river to bathe. It was hot. Dragonflies hovered over the water with mayflies and pond skaters. Swallows dived gracefully to drink and, below, fish swam in and out of the shadows. They changed into their bathing suits beneath their towels and left the sandwiches May had made them against a tree with their clothes. The water was cold and they squealed in delight as they slowly waded in.
‘This is lovely!’ Grace sighed, relishing the feeling of the slimy riverbed beneath her feet.
Freddie plunged under the water then shot up like a torpedo. ‘Cold!’ he exclaimed, throwing himself in again up to his neck. He swam further out to where the limpid water gleamed in the sunlight.
‘How’s your arm?’ she asked.
‘Better.’ He didn’t seem to want to dwell on that embarrassing episode. Instead, he showed off his front crawl, cutting smoothly through the water. Freddie might have been afraid of a bee sting, but he was brave and adept at swimming. Grace preferred to loll about near the edge and watch him. She’d find a frog or toad to inspect, or forage about for snails.
‘Why don’t you dive off the bridge?’ she shouted across the water.
‘All right,’ he replied. Delighted to be given the opportunity to impress her, he swam over to the bank and climbed out. He was strongly built and athletic, on the brink of manhood. She watched him run around to the bridge. It was a pretty stone bridge, built of the same pale-yellow Dorset stone as the houses in the town. Freddie climbed up onto the edge and stood tall. His father had told him on many occasions not to dive, in case his head hit the bottom. But Freddie was a good diver and knew how to keep it shallow. He put his hands in the air, checked that Grace was watching, then bent his legs and sprang off. His dive was straight, his body stiff, his head between his arms. Grace caught her breath as he sliced through the water, just below the surface. A moment later his head appeared like a duck and she clapped wildly.
‘No one dives better than you, Freddie!’ she cried.
He swam over to join her. ‘No one applauds louder than you, Grace!’ He waded out and went to sit on the bank in the sun to dry. She followed and laid her towel on the grass beside him.
‘You’re brave in the water,’ she said, sitting down.
Her comment pleased him and he grinned at her broadly. The sun had made his freckles come up and he was a little red across the bridge of his nose. ‘So, not a big girl then, after all!’ he joked.
She nudged him playfully. ‘Of course not. I was only teasing. You
did
make a fuss about the sting, though.’
He laughed and held her eyes for an extended moment. A sudden shyness crept over them and they both felt strangely awkward. He turned to look out over the river.
‘Hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not really. I’ve just had my dinner.’
‘Me too.’ She lay on her back and closed her eyes. ‘Ah, this is nice.’
He lay back as well. The heat spread over his body and dried the water that had collected in drops in the dip of his belly. ‘Nothing nicer than a lazy afternoon,’ he said. They lay a while in silence. Grace found her mind wandering back to the morning at the church and the thought of Rufus made her feel warm inside.
‘Freddie, what are you going to be when you’re a grownup?’ she asked after a while.
‘Work on the land. As long as I’m not inside doing a boring desk job like Dad, I don’t really mind. Why?’
‘Rufus asked me this morning. He asked me whether I was going to be a beekeeper.’
Freddie’s mood deflated at the mention of Rufus Melville. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes. I think it’s a nice life looking after bees.’
‘It doesn’t really matter what you do, because you’re a girl. With any luck you’ll marry a rich man to keep you,’ he said grudgingly.
Grace rolled onto her stomach. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! Girls like me don’t marry rich men, Freddie!’ She laughed carelessly and plucked a daisy.
Freddie sat up. ‘I’ll look after you, Grace,’ he said in a rush of enthusiasm. Grace looked surprised. ‘I know I’m only fifteen. But one day, when we’re older, I’ll look after you.’ She frowned; she had never thought she’d need looking after. At fourteen she hadn’t ever contemplated life beyond the present where she lived very contentedly with her father, and as for being looked after, she would say she cared for her father as much as he cared for her.
She smiled softly and twirled the daisy between her finger and thumb. ‘You’re adorable, Freddie.’
‘I’ll work hard, make lots of money, and buy you anything you like,’ he said, warming to his subject.
Although Grace was younger than Freddie, she sometimes felt older. Being motherless, she had had to grow up faster than other girls in order to look after her father. She now smiled at Freddie in the indulgent way adults do when children share impossible dreams. ‘That’s nice,’ she replied. ‘I’d like a red dress, then.’
‘A red dress? Why red?’
‘Because there’s something wild about red, don’t you think? It’s a wicked colour. Nice girls like me don’t wear red.’
He grinned. ‘Then I’ll buy you a red dress.’
‘Good.’ She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. ‘You’d better think of doing something other than working on the land, then, because Dad works on the land and he doesn’t earn much.’
‘Your father doesn’t care to be rich. Mum says he’s content just to be. But I’m ambitious. I’ll run the entire estate one day, you’ll see.’
‘That
is
ambitious.’
‘If you don’t aim high in life you won’t get anywhere.’
She giggled. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Dad.’
‘Well, he’s right, I suppose. Anyway, by the time you’re old enough to get a job, Mr Garner might be dead so there’ll be space for you.’
‘Old Peg Leg.’ He closed his eyes and thought of Mr Garner who had lost his leg at Ypres. ‘I suspect an old walrus like him will go on for ever.’
‘Do you think you’d be brave in war, Freddie?’ she asked, thinking of the war her father had fought in but never spoke of.
‘I don’t know.’
She laughed, remembering his bee sting. She didn’t imagine he’d be brave at all. ‘I suppose it’s hard to tell until you’re there,’ she said tactfully.
‘I hope I’d be brave,’ he said.
‘God willing, we’ll never know,’ said Grace, and she pushed the talk of Hitler’s menacing manoeuvres that she heard on the wireless and read about in the papers to the back of her mind.
They ate their sandwiches as the early evening light grew mellow. Grace suggested she’d better be getting home to help her father in the garden. She felt guilty lying about all day like a lady of leisure, even though it was Sunday. They slowly made their way back through the village with their wet bathing suits rolled up in their towels. Grace’s hair had dried into thick curls that tumbled down her back and the sun had bronzed her arms and chest to a warm honey colour and turned her cheeks pink. When they reached Freddie’s house she put her towel in her bicycle basket and made to leave. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ she asked.