Alexandre, the handsome hunter, who worked at the garden centre, offered to take a look at the leaking roof when I asked him if he could recommend someone for the reparations. He arrived with his stepfather Jacky, who always referred to me as ‘Madame’, to estimate the damage. I knew both these men, had taken a hunting trip with them, and I had visited Jacky’s home in the mountains where he lived with Alexandre’s mother. They shook their heads as workers do here when they are about to quote an extortionate figure, but these two would never cheat me because we were, if not friends, then certainly more than passing acquaintances.
‘The entire roof will need to be removed and replaced’ was their diagnosis.
‘But it is only a few cracked tiles!’ was my retort.
‘No, the damage is deceptive. The fabric of the ceiling has been destroyed by the incessant infiltration of water.’
If I had not known them, had not trusted them, I would have taken this for another example of local escroquerie, swindling, but the quote they returned struck us both as extremely reasonable. They requested access to our account at the builders’ yard, to ‘save troubling me every time they needed materials’. This provided, they set to, ripping, stripping, sawing planks, constructing a small scaffolding. Fortunately, the cottage was sufficient distance from the main house for us and our guests not to be disturbed by yet another round of construction hostilities. Jacky and stepson ripped off the old roof and laid the new one. They decided against putting down any lining; it reduced the expenditure and, in their humble opinions, the old Provençal method was perfectly adequate for such simple living quarters.
‘Oh, but it must be watertight and lagged throughout,’ I insisted.
‘Oui, Madame, oui.’
We left them to it. The work was serious, elbow-grease fast and industrious; none of the cork-popping antics of our Latinos. Alexandre and Jacky completed the cottage within ten days: new roof tiles, freshly insulated, painted white, clean and neat throughout. We handed over the cash without question, grateful that this labour had been negotiated within record time, inexpensively and without hassle. Empty until the return of dear Quashia. His attempt to contact us had given me hope.
Two brief but intense mistrals swept through our broiling midsummer, but they failed to shift our mettlesome fruits. The olives were holding and there were still no tell-tale signs of female-fly penetration. Whatever we were doing right – I hoped it was the whole, the encompassing philosophy, but I could not be sure – it appeared to be working. The flies were not blighting and the fruits were winning. There was little else to do, aside from holding the fort without our man, keeping the grounds tidy and the monumental watering sessions; pool cleaning was Michel’s task!
It was holiday time, time to take pleasure in summer, and the commencement of the non-stop traffic of guests. While they sunbathed or played around the pool, M and I remained in the sailed shade of the Bedouin Bar. I was engrossed in my Olive Heritage Trail, but I had discovered new reading, a young science: land management, stewardship of the earth, the creation of flower-rich habitats, environmental planning. I was in my element, trawling through science journals, blogs written by amateur enthusiasts, essays, programmes from agricultural institutes, learning of the natural balances that were set up among the various insect communities, the nesting sites of bumblebees, the plants they required – vetch, clovers, trefoils – understanding the vital necessity of hedgerows …
Armed with a large magnifying glass, I began happily rooting through envelopes of land, bent on the identification of one insect or another. Guests’ offspring trailed behind me, the Pied Piper’s Aunt. An unruly mob they were, screeching at a yellow and black ‘flapping thing’ or a ‘green-armoured bug’, but of all my companions of discovery, none took to the role quite like Marley. Vanessa and family were unable to visit, the same story with Clarisse, but Michel had persuaded his daughter to send her eldest son. This was his first experience of the Olive Farm and it had got off to a rocky start. The cluster of people round the pool, diving, jumping, squealing, sent him into overactivity, irrepressible weeping and wailing. One evening, his second with us, I think, I encouraged him along on a mammoth watering session, tears and torment blotching his sun-torched skin, introducing him to plants, pointing out the ballooning watermelons, where, to my horror, he jumped up and down and deliberately squidged one, but the scratchy call of the cicadas silenced him and he listened mesmerised as I explained the life cycle of these rarely visible little critters who did not stridulate but were always ‘singing’. The owls’ hootings, too, entranced him.
‘You are right,’ I said to Michel that night as we were drifting to sleep. ‘He has a fascination with creatures.’
We assembled for lunches, dinners; an endless carousel of eating, laying tables, dishwasher-packing. Into raucous preparations while I was elsewhere on bumblebee detection with Marley and a gentle cousin of his from Cologne, a ringing telephone. Marie-Gabrielle.
‘How is François?’ I feared the worst.
‘Poorly, but fighting, but I have delightful news to impart,’ she exclaimed. ‘We have a friend, Robert, who would be interested in placing a few hives with you. Are you still looking?’
‘Indeed we are!’ Bees, yaay!
Blue globes, Marley’s eyes, bored into me.
The proposed beekeeper lived in St Paul de Vence, a destination not a million miles from our homestead, and more convenient than the mountain residence of our dear friends.
‘We will be lunching with him at the end of the week. What say we drop in afterwards and introduce you?’
As soon as I learned the news, I was recceing the garden, seeking suitable spots, preparing for our future flying guests. I drove back to the garden centre to buy yet more plants, because, as François had accurately pointed out some time back, lavenders only feed the bees for one season and they were at their tail end now. Diversify!
Late that Friday afternoon, I was alone at the house – Michel had driven his sister, her two sons and Marley to the beach – when I heard the diesel engine approach and park. The apiarists were later than promised, unusual for them. I ran downstairs to greet them, shocked when they stepped from the car, Marie-Gabrielle at the wheel, François, bent and curled as a drifting leaf with a visible hand tremor and consistent head shake. His confidence, optimism, had seeped out of him, evident from his uncertain steps. Marie-Gabrielle led her love by the arm, assuredly, generously, to the table beneath the magnolia tree while I hurried inside for coffee, water and the uncorking of a bottle or two of rosé.
Robert and I left them to early evening refreshments, an amicable get-together in anticipation of a magnificent sunset, while we set off, strangers comfortable in one another’s company, strolling through the dried tussocky grasses, the dogs running freely, looping in and around our steps. He rejected the citrus spot where François had placed his hives, so I led him up behind the recently established Lavandula bed, the spot Quashia had suggested months back. These terraces, I displayed proudly with their handsomely reconstructed walls, were where Michel intended to reinstate vineyards.
‘Let’s set the hives here, then.’
And so it was decided.
Robert oozed confidence. He must have been very handsome when he was younger, with the calm, weathered features of a yachting man, and bragged with a modest grin that he was the proprietor of several vineyards within the Bellet region in the hills behind Nice. His wine carried its badge of honour, its certificate of agricultural excellence, its Appellation Bellet Contrôlée. Seated back at the table, the conversation then turned, inevitably, to bees. French honey output was suffering, they said, particularly in the intensively farmed sunflower regions.
‘But not,’ butted in François, marginally revived, ‘in the mountainous zones where chestnuts are farmed. If we had new hives and kept them at home—’
Marie-Gabrielle rested a caring hand over his, posed, shaking on the table. ‘Hush, my love,’ she said. ‘We’re fine as we
are.’
I was disappointed that Michel had not yet returned and I tried to persuade our guests to stay for dinner but Marie-Gabrielle was concerned about the long drive home. Robert agreed to return with the first two hives after the weekend. Although no business arrangement had been discussed between us, I did not doubt that a few jars of honey would be offered and I hoped that he might also encourage Michel to get to work on the revitalisation of our long-defunct vineyard.
Monday dawned, steamy and humid. It had been raining all night. One of those dramatic midsummer storms that light up the sky and beat frenziedly against the earth, drenching the crumbling sods. The church bells in the village were chiming eight as Robert chugged up in a forest-green four-wheeler. In the rear were two hives, one half-sized, the other the full quota. Sixty thousand honeybees making their debut at the Olive Farm. The dogs were running in excited circles around the Landrover while, in the house, Marley slept on. Out stepped Robert in bright yellow boots, ruffled hair and tanned, creased face. He looked as though he had just got out of bed.
‘Bit late, sorry. I took the back lanes. Didn’t want to transport bees on the motorway.’
‘You’re right on time. Welcome.’ We embraced like old friends. ‘Michel has taken his sister and nephews to the market in Nice and then the airport. He sends apologies, is sorry to miss you yet again. Yesterday, we levelled the earth and raked off the small stones on the chosen section of terrace. It’ll make it easier to place the boxes.’
Robert was unlocking the boot. A quartet of stray bees were circling the car’s interior and buzzing round the hives. To my amazement our new beekeeper squashed and killed three with his fingers. One was still crawling up the interior leather.
‘Please don’t!’
He looked my way, laughed. ‘There’s another sixty thousand in there.’
‘Even so.’
He shrugged, began to unload the lighter of a pair of flat silver boxes. ‘If Michel is not here, I’ll need you to lend me a hand.’
Robert pulled out a carrier, containing wine. ‘Try these. Two bottles produced from our vineyards up behind Nice. If you like our juice, there’s plenty more.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Between us, after the chapeau, the outer lid of the hive, had been lifted off, we carried the box of honeybees across the tiled terraces alongside the pool to the Second Plot, situating them above the extended lavender bed. Two metal stands were placed on the ground. Robert pressed them firmly into the earth until they sat at an almost indiscernible angle. One for each hive. Their slope allowed for the rain to run off. The dogs followed, tails erect and wagging. What could they sense, I wondered. Life, movement within, the ambrosial scent?
We returned for the forty-thousander and positioned it a healthy distance from its neighbour. Before he could release the bees, Robert needed to ‘suit up’ and he disappeared off, yellow boots softly sinking into the long golden stalks of dried-out grasses. How delighted Quashia would be to find these hives here. I was taking photographs, hearing his imaginary words: ‘Has he brought honey? How much does he want for it? Will he give us some?’
Robert, masked and hooded, returned. Still snapping pictures, I maintained a wary distance while the flight paths were opened. I knew the bees, as they left their pads, would be agitated, prone to sting. Our new beekeeper ceremoniously, cautiously, slid open the hatches then rose from his haunches and crept stealthily backwards. The girls began to exit immediately, circling above their hutches, reorientating themselves, calculating their new location. Robert brought to mind a cartoon figure with his head orbited by dancing insects. He moved slowly, stepping twenty metres back, leaving the hives clear. Those that were already with him stayed buzzing round his head. The dogs started leaping and jumping. I called Homer to heel, fearing he might have been stung because he was snapping his teeth, trying to capture a bee in his mouth, but all was fine. I withdrew several more metres, backing up towards the tiled terraces away from the grassed areas, signalling the dogs to accompany me. Our new beekeeper had retreated in the opposite direction and was leaning tranquilly against one of the repaired walls up near the ruin, the ancient goatherd’s hut. His girls began their inaugural flights about the land, zipping beneath the oak and olive trees, cautious of venturing too far from base.
Lola was charging endlessly round an outdoor dining table as though she had gone berserk. Suddenly, I saw Marley in pyjamas, standing at the far end of the table watching us, stepping to one side as the dog shot by him. I signalled him to keep his distance.
‘Calme-toi,’ I whispered to Lola and then a bee landed on my throat. I was in a V-neck T-shirt. The honey girl was treading across my bare flesh. I had purposely chosen pale blue, knowing that honeybees are disturbed by black. I stood stock still, letting the camera hang loosely at my side, knowing that if I remained calm, motionless, the bee would eventually fly off, but I miscalculated. Something spooked her. My breathing? The dogs’ loony behaviour? Marley nudging closer? I remembered then that I had sprayed on perfume after my morning swim and shower.
I was not afraid. She stung me just the same. I felt the pain penetrate deep into my neck, but I stood my ground. If I flapped and knocked her away, her barbed stinger would remain buried in my flesh, and she would be defenceless and die. The same result if she panicked and tore herself away. Leaving the stinger results in the bee’s demise. Better to let her extract it in her own time, which she did.
Eventually, we returned to the car and Robert disrobed himself of the apiarist’s suit. Marley was at our sides.
‘Why is he wearing those clothes?’ the boy asked.
‘We have bees, Marley.’ And then to Robert, ‘Coffee?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll be upstairs when you’re ready.’
‘Are you fine?’
I nodded. ‘I got stung.’
‘Steep some cotton wool in vinegar and place it over the wound.’
‘Can I see the bees?’ begged my grandson.
‘I’ll walk you over there a little later, sweetheart, and we’ll watch them flying in and out of their houses, but we cannot go too close or we’ll frighten them.’ At my behest, he hurried off to dress, thrilled by the prospect of a bee adventure.
Upstairs, I sat with Robert at the oak dining table, mugs in hand. It began to rain again and was falling fast and hard outside. One of our house guests must have filched the cotton wool from the bathroom and not replaced it. I was now wearing a crêpe bandage like a kerchief round my neck, soaked in cider vinegar, and probably smelt disgusting. We watched the heavy drops through the window for a moment, sliding against the panes leaving filmy snails’ trails. Robert turned to me and smiled.
‘Our weather patterns are becoming almost tropical, don’t you think?’
I nodded.
‘Sure you’re OK?’
I gestured my reassurance though my neck was stiffening up.
He was talking in thickly accented English, apologising for the fact that he was hoping to use me as his ‘practising partner’. I felt completely at ease in his company even though we were strangers. We had François in common as well as our mutual love for bees. He was seventy-six, which took me by surprise. I would have guessed mid-sixties. Returning to French, he began to tell me about himself, about the great famine that had driven his grandparents to the city.
‘A great famine like the Irish Potato Famine of the 1840s?’
More recent. The famine of Savoie. Early twentieth century. I knew nothing about it. His grandfather with parents had moved west and settled in Lyon. The grandfather had started a small grain business. It became so successful he was not obliged to serve in the Great War of 1914. Instead, it was his duty to supply the troops with rations. Robert, the youngest of five siblings by almost two decades, was born and educated in Lyon. His three sisters and a brother had brought him up. After university in Paris, he travelled south to work as a marine engineer. Here he met his wife, a local girl from St Paul de Vence,
which was where they resided to this day.
It was the tradition that every member of the local families up behind Nice owned a plot of land where they grew vines, the Bellet label. His in-laws farmed their allotment but without great industry or skill. No one took interest in it. They judged labouring demeaning. So Robert, while still building his career as an engineer, took over the reins of the family vineyards, buying up tracts from cousins and others who preferred banking to the sullying of hands. Today, his vignoble remained modest – 1.8 hectares – producing between five and six thousand litres annually. His son had caught ‘le virus’, the bug, and intended to take over the business. Between them they had expanded it into an award-winning, full-time occupation.
I reminded Robert that the terrace where he had settled the hives, as well as several others encircling the ruin, had once produced wine.
‘Michel is very keen to reinstate a vineyard there.’ This was a tiny moment of dissemblance on my part. I hoped my new friend would offer advice, would guide Michel in choosing the appropriate pieds, vine stock.
‘Five thousand plants will be required to plant up a hectare and that will possibly deliver three thousand bottles of wine.’
Far in excess of our needs!
‘Do you spray your vines?’
He shook his head. Although the vineyards were not situated by his home, being further inland and higher up the mountain, he was conscious of the dangers to man and pollinators.
‘We won’t be spraying the olives so, given that our neighbours are not farmers, the bees should be safe.’
‘Who knows?’ he said as he kissed me au revoir on both cheeks. ‘Today there is always risk. Who knows what any neighbour is up to? Few are mindful of their responsibilities towards the flora and fauna. Most of us abrogate responsibility.’
After Robert had driven off, when the rain had eased, I returned with Marley to the terraced grove where the bees were settling in. The hives that had been left with us had both been swarms. The first had separated from one of Robert’s own colonies the previous year, while the second had been a wild swarm. Robert had discovered it in the springtime, housed in the crook of a tree trunk on his land. I remembered our discovered girls and wondered how the fireman’s father was getting on with them.
Return to the Olive Farm (The Olive Series Book 4) Page 31
