The Beekeeper’s Cottage: An absolutely unputdownable feel-good summer read

by Emma Davies

  ‘So, this is where we were going to put the students,’ said Flora, her hand on the solid oak door to one of the cottages. ‘As you’ll see, it’s very much work in progress. Which is short for, we haven’t the time or the money to finish it right now. But we had envisaged the students would take their meals with us, in the main house, so it’s just a place to sleep really. And have a little privacy.’ She lifted the catch and pushed open the door. ‘It’s rather basic though, I’m sorry.’

  Amos smiled at her concern. The fact that it hadn’t even occurred to her this was far better than he was used to made him like her even more. He didn’t tell her that the state of the cottage mattered little to him, and that his creature comforts were not to be found inside a house at all, because a kindness was a kindness and Amos was very fond of the phrase you reap what you sow. It had stood him in good stead over the years.

  ‘It's no problem. I'll be working all day so I just need a place to come inside if it's wet.’ He looked around the room that he guessed, in time, would become the kitchen but for now contained no more than an old fridge and a small table pushed up against one wall with a kettle, a toaster, a tray of cutlery and a collection of mugs and glasses on top. Another table stood in the middle of the room along with two mismatched chairs. ‘Would it help if I fixed this place up for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Can you even do that?’ asked Flora, astonished.

  Amos smiled, deducing that now might be a good time to explain a little more about himself.

  ‘You asked me earlier if I was homeless,’ he said. ‘And, strictly speaking, that’s not true. I do have a home, I just choose to let someone else live there and instead I travel… I meet amazing people, who have amazing stories, and mostly I find that they need help of one sort or another, and so I fix things… buildings mostly—’ He broke off. He’d almost said ‘and people too’, but stopped himself just in time. ‘Or I do odd jobs, whatever is required. But, like I said before, I can turn my hand to most things. I’d be happy to have a chat about anything you’d like doing.’

  Flora took her time looking around her as she weighed up Amos’s offer.

  ‘It sounds as if you’re prepared to stick around for a while then?’ she said eventually, dropping her gaze to the floor before lifting it again and meeting Amos’s look square on. ‘Only, we can’t afford to pay anyone,’ she added. ‘We’d like to, and work like this should be paid for, but the simple fact of the matter is that board and lodging is about it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s all I ever ask for,’ replied Amos. ‘And I can stay for as long as you need me.’

  ‘What, like Mary Poppins?’ quipped Flora.

  Amos smiled and said nothing.

  She was watching him again and, as a gentle smile slowly transformed her face, she shook her head. ‘Do you believe in fate, Amos?’ she asked. ‘Only it was just this morning that our students let us down and I was wondering how on earth we were going to manage. And then you turn up out of the blue! Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  Amos ran a finger along the grain of the wooden table. ‘Don’t ever stop wondering, Flora. Life would be very dull if we didn’t.’

  He straightened up, drawing in a breath, and shrugging his rucksack from his shoulders, placed it onto a chair. ‘Right, I’ll pop my stuff here for the minute and then I think you mentioned something about some watering that needed doing.’

  Flora smiled. ‘Come with me,’ she said, beckoning with her finger.

  Amos followed her out of the cottage and back towards the main house, turning off onto a path that led through to the gardens. The evening air was soft and still balmy from the heat of the day, insects darting here and there as Amos and Flora walked through an area of longer grass towards a patio surrounded by flower beds and bright with huge tubs of flowers. Beyond the patio was a line of bigger bushes and trees, and it was towards a ranch fence among them that Flora was headed. Amos reached out a hand to push aside a low-hanging willow branch which bordered the edge of the garden, and felt his heartbeat began to quicken. All of a sudden it became very obvious what Flora had brought him down here to see.

  In front of him, and stretching out both to the left and the right, was a field filled with more colour than Amos thought he had ever seen in his life before. Flowers, massed in rows – pinks, purples, reds, yellows, vivid oranges, soft blues and heathery purples, all laid out in riotous glory before him. He turned to Flora open-mouthed.

  ‘You’d better get used to eating honey, our local bees have had somewhat of a party,’ she said, grinning.

  He struggled to find his words as a swell of emotion washed over him. He had never expected to find such beauty so close at hand, and he was utterly unable to speak.

  ‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘It fair takes your breath away, doesn’t it?’

  Amos could only nod.

  ‘Hope Blooms,’ she added, in case any further information was necessary.

  It took a few moments for Amos to gather his wits, his eyes sweeping from side to side. ‘And you planted all these?’ he asked. ‘By hand?’ He scratched his chin. ‘I’m no expert on flowers but, from what I do know, these grow mostly from seed, would that be right?’

  It was Flora’s turn to nod. ‘Grown from seed, pricked out, and planted out, every single last one of them. Weeks and weeks of back-breaking work… We must be mad…’

  Amos shook his head. ‘And that’s your reward,’ he said, turning to look at her. ‘No wonder you’d do it all again in a heartbeat.’

  He saw a slow smile spread across her face as she acknowledged the truth in his words. And he could see just how she was feeling; her pride in what they had achieved, her awe and profound love of the flowers that had grown as if from her own fingertips.

  ‘And now of course, they need to be watered, and cared for, plant by plant…’ he added.

  ‘Yep.’ Flora breathed out in an excited rush. ‘And picked… ready for our brides, our shops, our birthday bouquets, our anniversary surprises. You wouldn’t think, would you, that at the beginning of the year Hope Corner was a dairy farm?’

  Amos stared around him. ‘A dairy farm?’

  ‘Yep, wall-to-wall cattle…’

  ‘So how did you…?’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘That’s quite some transformation.’

  ‘It had to be. We’d reached a point in time where things needed to change; dairy farming wasn’t working for us, so we had to have a sharp rethink. And the flowers were it.’

  ‘And let me guess… this was your idea, Flora. Ha! Even your name fits!’

  ‘Yes, well… but you’re right, I am to blame – quite how much remains to be seen. But so far so good.’

  It made absolute sense. Amos could see how much work was involved and his arrival would seem to have been perfectly well timed but, still, there was something missing… Something buzzed at the back of his mind and he thought back to Flora’s earlier words, suddenly coming to full alert.

  ‘So, the bees?’

  ‘Ah, yes…’ She angled her body slightly, and pointed to her left, up high, to the hill which swept up from the edge of the fields. ‘That’s where they live,’ she said. ‘Our neighbour keeps them.’

  Amos laughed. ‘I would imagine they feel like they’ve died and gone to heaven with all these flowers,’ he remarked.

  ‘I should imagine they do,’ replied Flora. ‘Grace will know. She talks to her bees all the time. She says they know everything,’ she added, laughing.

  Do they now, thought Amos. Do they indeed.

  He glanced up at the sky. ‘You mentioned before about the watering…’ He trailed off, staring out across the field and wondering quite what he had let himself in for.

  There was a peal of laughter from beside him. ‘Oh, don’t worry, not these flowers… Blimey, I wouldn’t want to water this lot by hand. No, it's just the ones in pots up around the house, although that’s bad enough.’ She looked at him, shaking her head in amusement. ‘I still don’t quite believe
this… you… but I’m not going to argue. Come on, I’ll show you what’s what.’

  It didn’t take too long with them both working at it, but Amos could see that, without his help, the task of watering all the flower pots and troughs that lined the walls of the courtyard and stood outside gates and doorways all over the farm would have taken Flora quite some time. It was her last task of the day and Amos was glad that she would now have the opportunity to go and enjoy the rest of the evening with her family.

  He wandered back out into the courtyard once they were done, staring up at the sky. Dusk was still an hour or so away yet and, having checked first with Flora that it was okay for him to take a walk and get a feel for the lie of the land, he began to stroll towards the fields where they had been earlier. The reason why he was really here would come to him, it always did. And if by some rarity his intuition had let him down, well then, there was still plenty to keep him occupied on the farm. Surely there was no nicer place to be for the summer. Reaching the gate into the field, he eyed the foxgloves which lined the hedges to his left and then he followed the hum of the bees.

  2

  Grace added two spoons of sugar to the mug of tea she was making and stirred it thoroughly before passing it to her husband. ‘Paul, please keep your voice down, people will hear.’

  Paul glared at her for a moment before snatching the cup away sulkily. ‘Is that all you're worried about, that people will hear? Well, so what? This is my house, my kitchen, and if I want to shout then I bloody well will. In fact, I think I'll shout some more… Who’s going to hear anyway? We’re in the middle of nowhere and those country bumpkins next door are probably glued to The Archers by now, sucking their rich tea biscuits and sipping their cocoa.’

  ‘Those “country bumpkins” are my friends, Paul. Besides, I really don’t think calling them names is going to make any difference to the situation.’

  ‘Hah!’ snorted Paul, his face twisting. ‘Is that what you call it – “a situation”? You tell me you want a divorce and then call it a situation. Well, that's not the word I'd use, honey. “Betrayal”, now there's a word, or how about “ungrateful cow”, or are you going to get all pedantic on me and say that's two words?’ He took a slug of tea, his jaw working as he thought up his next missile.

  Grace eyed him calmly, noting that he was still quite happy to drink the tea she had made him. ‘I am neither ungrateful, nor a cow, Paul. Before you throw your next insult at me, let me just tell you yet again why I want a divorce.’ She took in another steadying breath.

  ‘Firstly, let me tell you that making a marriage work usually involves a little effort, and it certainly involves a little monogamy! Your protests would go down a lot better if you hadn’t just come home from entertaining your latest fling. Secondly, I have today, as most days, washed and ironed and cleaned and cooked for you without so much as a thank you or a helping hand. I have also entertained your countless slimy colleagues and their gossipy wives over the years in the name of your career and, as well you know, have done all these things without question, as your wife. Yet not once do I recall you ever asking me what would help me or make me happy.’

  Grace could feel the heat rising up the back of her neck as she summoned up a steely glare that she hadn’t even known she was capable of. Her voice sank even lower as she continued.

  ‘Today though, Paul, you reached a new low, even for you. Earlier this morning I received this email from your assistant, Barbara, and would be very grateful if you could explain to me just how you thought you were going to get away with this.’ She handed over a single sheet of paper with a shaking hand, willing it to stay steady.

  Paul snatched the paper from her. His eyes, which had narrowed further and further over the last few minutes, were now mere slits. She drew no pleasure from the fact that his face, usually a perma-tanned mahogany, was becoming paler by the minute. A colour that usually meant only one thing; she readied herself for the explosion.

  ‘The stupid cow,’ spat Paul. ‘She is so fired!’

  ‘Yes, I thought she might be,’ Grace replied calmly. ‘Incidentally, so did she. Which is why, while you were busy cavorting with the TV station’s weather girl this afternoon, she cleared out her desk in preparation for a new job that starts tomorrow. As you know, PAs of her calibre are very hard to come by. So, now I know that Barbara is out of harm’s way, I'll ask you again: just how did you think you were going to sell this house out from under me?’

  Paul’s fist was white at the knuckle around his mug of tea. ‘Oh clever, very clever,’ he snarled. ‘But the house is in my name, it's mine to do with what I please. I've always hated it; it's so horrifically twee, like everything in this godforsaken village. So while you're in your twee little shop tomorrow, with your twee little pots of honey, having twee little conversations, I will arrange for an estate agent to value it and tell me just how much I can sell this heap for. You can have your divorce, darling, but you'll be looking for a new place to live too.’

  Grace gulped down the ball of anxiety that had lodged itself in her throat. She had known for a long time that the end was coming, that one of these days Paul would present her with the final straw, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. It was time to play her final card.

  ‘You might think me many things, Paul, but I'm not a fool. I know about the money you have stashed away in accounts you thought I never knew existed. I know about the flat too, your little bolthole in London. So, you need to listen to me very carefully now. I am not leaving this house, Paul. It's my home, and I have loved and cared for it over many years, just as I have you. Living here is the only thing that has kept me sane in this sham of a marriage and you owe me this one courtesy after everything I’ve done for you.’

  She paused, taking a big breath to steel her nerves. ‘I will make no claim on any of your assets if you walk away now and leave me the house. If not, then I will be forced to use select pieces of information given to me by Barbara to take my rightful share of everything you have.’

  ‘You wouldn't bloody dare, Grace. Not little Grace who wouldn't say boo to a goose. Why do you think I married you, sweetheart? Because you knew on what side your bread was buttered, and you still do. You won't create the kind of fuss you're talking about, you don't have it in you. Nice try, darling, but you're fooling no one.’ He handed the mug back to her. ‘See you tomorrow, Grace.’

  ‘It’s with my solicitor,’ she blurted at his retreating back, her resolve almost gone.

  Paul turned slowly towards her once again. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The information from your PA. It's with my solicitor in a sealed letter addressed to Dominic, your Head of Programming. If I don't call my solicitor by five p.m. tomorrow he will email Dominic with the contents that evening and have the letter couriered over the following morning.’ She held her breath. Dominic was the last person she wanted to contact, especially given what had happened, but she really needed Paul to believe her.

  A nerve twitched in the side of Paul’s jaw. He shook his head slowly. ‘Well, well, Grace. If I'd have known you had this much fight in you, I would have made much more of an effort, especially in the bedroom… Wouldn't that have been fun? You’ll be hearing from me, Grace. Me and my solicitor. Don’t think this is over.’ And with that he stalked from the room.

  Grace waited until she heard the spin of gravel on the driveway before letting out her breath, slowly at first and then in great gulping gasps. By the time her legs had buckled from underneath her and she’d sunk to the floor, her breaths had given way to choking sobs. It was tempting to stay that way but the minute the thought entered her head she realised she could not. A sudden revulsion swept over her and she held a hand over her mouth for a moment before rushing up the stairs and into their bedroom. She stared at the bed, a place she had often slept alone, assailed by memories of the past few years. And then she pulled off every stitch of clothing she was wearing and stuffed it all in the laundry basket. She had never felt more dirty than sh
e did now.

  She stood in the shower for quite some time, scrubbing furiously at her skin and her hair, washing herself repeatedly as she sought to remove the poison of her words before they sank so deep they could never be cleansed. But then, as her breathing eased, she let the silky coolness of the water mingle with her tears and wash it all away. The tears were not about the end of her marriage, not really – she had shed enough of those over recent years to know that her grieving process was almost at an end – but rather they were a reaction to the depths to which she’d had to sink to protect herself, and her home.

  It had taken her a long time to plan what to say to ensure she only had to say it once. She had rehearsed her lines over and over, until it had become a part that she could play just like an actor; convincing, but not real. Not her words, not the real Grace, just the mantle she’d had to assume to get her through the evening.

  She switched off the water and stepped from the shower, wrapping herself in a plain white towel before walking back through to the peace and tranquillity of the room she had designed for exactly that purpose. The window overlooked the garden and she stood looking down on it, just as she had on countless other occasions, except that tonight she felt just a tiny bit closer to making the peace absolute. Who knew what tomorrow would bring, but she had spent a long time preparing herself for what was to come. Tonight she just wanted to enjoy her garden without worrying what mood her husband would be in when he got home. Even this small pleasure was enough to lift her spirits as relief settled gently around her like the soft evening air.