Chapter 3
3
POPPY
I wasn’t sure why I bothered setting an alarm anymore as I was always awake well before it sounded. That said, it served as a good reminder that I actually needed to rise and face the challenging day ahead when all I really wanted to do was hide under the duvet and wake up in the past where my daily ‘challenges’ were trivial.
My morning routine was always the same now – feeling the silence in the house screaming at me as I padded down the hallway to the bathroom. Glancing into my parents’ empty bedroom and thinking how it would make more sense to have the larger room with the en suite, but knowing I’d never move in there. Remembering the happy days when the house was full of laughter, but recalling the tears more vividly. Some days those thoughts were fleeting, but sometimes they stopped me in my tracks. Like today. I sank back against the wall opposite their bedroom, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of the empty bed, an intense wave of loss pulling me down onto the carpet.
It had been five years since Mum died and eighteen months since Dad moved into The Larks. During that time, I hadn’t changed a single thing in the house despite me being the legal owner. I still expected to go downstairs and find them having breakfast together, a mug of coffee waiting for me. Would I ever get used to it being only me here?
I wrapped my arms round my legs for comfort and sat there for a while, trying to gather the strength to brave the day. Mum had a favourite quote from Eleanor Roosevelt, the first lady of the USA at the time Mum was born – Do one thing every day that scares you. She’d often said it to me when I was at school and afraid to step out of my comfort zone, and I’d found it opened doors and presented opportunities that would never have come my way if I hadn’t faced my fears. It had become a mantra for a life well lived but it was now the soundtrack to my existence because getting up every day scared me. Visiting Dad at The Larks scared me. And knowing that, one day soon, I’d be the only remaining member of my small family absolutely terrified me.
As I left the house a little later, my next-door neighbour, Wilf, was returning from the village shop. He had his newspaper tucked under his arm and his Yorkshire terrier, Benji was trotting alongside him, his favourite soft toy pig wedged in his mouth.
‘Morning, Wilf!’ I called.
‘Good morning, Poppy! Beautiful day.’
Our drives ran side by side, only separated by a low-barred wooden fence. Benji dropped his pig on Wilf’s drive, scooted under the bottom bar and ran to me, tail wagging. He flopped onto his back, legs in the air, demanding a tummy rub.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I said, crouching down and stroking his soft belly. ‘Who’s a good boy?’
‘I am!’ Wilf joked. ‘Although Benji says I’m stingy with the biscuits and he prefers his Aunt Poppy because she spoils him rotten.’
I couldn’t help it. Benji was the most gorgeous, friendly and snuggly dog who’d had me under his spell from the moment Wilf’s daughter turned up with him three years ago, shortly after Wilf’s wife, Vera, passed away. A Yorkshire terrier like Benji was perfect for Wilf, not needing the same level of exercise that the large dogs had required in his former life as a police dog handler. Not that he’d have struggled with doing the exercise. At eighty-two years young, Wilf still regularly hiked for miles each week and was up early on weekday mornings to swim a mile at the local leisure centre. Benji stayed home and slept while Wilf went swimming but I often looked after him when Wilf went shopping or anywhere else dogs couldn’t go. Most of the time, Benji would have been fine on his own in Wilf’s house but, as I worked from home and enjoyed the company, Benji had become a regular visitor, bringing me so much comfort, just as he’d done for Wilf.
‘Are you still okay to have Benji this afternoon?’
Wilf had plans to visit a friend who loved dogs but had allergies so Benji could only accompany him in the summer when it was warm enough for them to sit outside.
‘Definitely.’ I straightened up and Benji gave me a disappointed look before poddling back onto Wilf’s drive to retrieve his pet pig. ‘I’m off to the farm now and I’ll visit Dad straight from there. Should be back by one at the latest, so any time after that.’
‘Great. Give your dad my best.’
Wilf winced, presumably realising what he’d just said. I could absolutely do that, but it wouldn’t mean anything to Dad anymore, so I smiled and nodded before getting into my van and pulling off the drive.
I glanced back at Dove Cottage with a heavy heart. Situated at the edge of the village of Winchcote, north-east of Cheltenham, it had been my childhood home. I’d loved growing up here and had missed the house and village so much when I went away to university and even more so when I married Phil eleven years ago and officially moved out. When we split up five years later and I moved back home, I was sad that my marriage had ended but happy to be back in my favourite place. If I’d needed to heal, Dove Cottage would have healed me, but Phil and I had parted amicably and remained good friends ever since.
But then Mum fell ill and the place I’d always thought of as my home, my sanctuary, my happy place, gradually became a place of sadness. The hurt over Mum’s loss had run too deep for Dove Cottage to heal and now sometimes that beautiful house felt more like my prison than my home. I dined on my own off a tray in front of the television, watching programmes where people relocated for a new life in the country or overseas and I imagined doing the same. Where would I go? Anywhere but here. Except I couldn’t leave Dad, so I couldn’t leave the house and I couldn’t move on.
I’d been a regular visitor to Saltersbeck Farm – a small dairy farm owned by Sharon and Ian Maynard – since the age of ten when I used to accompany my dad on weekends after he took over as the beekeeper. While he tended to the bees, I played on the farm with Sharon and Ian’s sons, Phil and Bertie, who were a year older and a year younger than me respectively, or I spent time in the kitchen with Sharon baking cakes, biscuits and scones. Back then, I’d have laughed if someone had told me that, twenty-two years later, I’d be the beekeeper and one of my playmates would be my ex-husband.
The pretty cream farmhouse was set way back from the road, nestled in a low valley and surrounded by stunning countryside. I always felt at peace when it came into view. Away from traffic noise, the only sounds were the moos of the herd, the rustle of the crops swaying in the wind and birdsong. As I child, I’d appreciated the space to play but it was the tranquillity of the farm which captured my heart as an adult. Now, I needed my regular Friday visits as, no matter how stressed I was, I always felt the tension easing from my body as I drove along the farm track.
It had been a fortnight since I’d seen Sharon and Ian. Last weekend they’d been to East Yorkshire, staying in a holiday cottage owned by an old friend of theirs. It was rare I could stop and chat for long, but I hadn’t appreciated how important even a five-minute catch-up was to me until I couldn’t have one.
As I pulled into the yard, Ian was refuelling his quad bike and Sharon was pegging washing on the line but, as soon as I got out of the van, she abandoned the clothes to cross the yard, arms outstretched. I held on for longer than I normally would and was grateful to her for tightening her hold, evidently recognising that today was a tough day and I needed comfort.
‘How are you holding up, honey?’ Sharon asked when I finally released her, her soft grey eyes full of concern.
‘Oh, you know.’ I swallowed down the lump in my throat. ‘Taking it a day at a time.’
‘That’s all you can do.’
There was a wooden bench nearby so we sat down on it.
‘I had a bit of a moment this morning,’ I admitted. ‘Walked past their empty bedroom and bam ! It still doesn’t feel right being there without them.’
‘That’s understandable. So many memories for you there, good and bad. It’s bound to take time.’
‘How much time?’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about what Dad said before he moved into The Larks – that I mustn’t stay at Dove Cottage out of misguided sentimentality and I should either rip everything out and make it mine or sell up and start afresh. I told him I loved the house and wouldn’t be going anywhere, but now I’m starting to think he might be right. I know it’s my home, but it doesn’t feel like my home, if that makes any sense.’
‘It does. Gutting it or moving are both major decisions. Is there one which?—’
But she didn’t get to finish the question as Ian joined us. I jumped up to hug him but he backed away, indicating some black mess down his overalls.
‘As you can see, I lost a fight with the oil can so best not to hug you unless you want to be covered in it.’
‘Quad bike playing up again?’ I asked, sitting back down.
‘It’s on its last legs, but I’m determined it’ll see me through to R-day.’
R-day was Ian’s term for retirement day when he and Sharon would pass Saltersbeck Farm on to Bertie, who’d worked alongside his dad since he was a small boy. Phil had also helped out as a youngster but had never been interested in making a career of it, which had made for a straightforward transfer of ownership.
‘R-day’s getting so close,’ I said to Ian.
‘Aye. It’ll be reet strange letting go after thirty-five years.’
The phrase made me smile. Despite living in Gloucestershire for most of their lives, the couple had never lost their Yorkshire accents, although Sharon’s was much milder than Ian’s.
‘Taking it in stages’ll make it easier,’ Sharon said, smiling at her husband before turning her gaze to me. ‘We’ve agreed that Ian’ll gradually drop days until the end of the summer and then… drum roll… in mid-September we’re off to Canada for a month.’
‘A month? Wow! Big holiday.’
I was thrilled for them both as they so rarely got away. I wished I could pack my bags and escape somewhere for a month. A fortnight. A week. Heck, even a couple of days to switch off would be wonderful.
‘We’ve never been away for that long,’ Ian said, ‘but we decided a big break would be best to give us a proper separation from the farm and Bertie a chance to make it his own.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve booked a holiday. Can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.’
Sharon raised her eyebrows at me. ‘I can, and I’m looking right at her. You look shattered, honey. Are you sure you won’t reconsider taking a break, even if only for a few days? I can visit your dad if that’s what’s stopping you. I popped in to see him yesterday, by the way. I must have just missed you.’
I had to ask, even though I knew what the answer would be. ‘Did he recognise you?’
She slowly shook her head. ‘We had a lovely chat about the birds, though.’
‘That’s what we usually talk about. If I hadn’t already been an expert, I would be now.’
Sharon gave me a gentle smile. ‘So, what about that break?’
‘I can’t. It’s not just Dad. I’ve got the bees to see to, my clients, the garden…’ I tailed off shrugging, aware that the reasons were valid, but my voice lacked conviction. I so badly needed a break. I’d been running on empty for several months, perhaps even years, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Moments like this morning had become far too frequent. It was as though my emotions had been captured in a reservoir across which I’d built a dam when Mum fell ill. Then, when Dad received his Alzheimer’s diagnosis, a storm of tears had filled the reservoir and it was now so full that it was lapping against the edge of the dam. Every so often, the wind sent ripples across the water, spilling over that dam – a cascade of apprehension for the future, worry about Dad, anxiety that I had far too much on my plate and that something was going to have to give, and fear that the something might be me.
‘I know you love coming here every week,’ Sharon said, her voice gentle, ‘but the bees don’t need full weekly inspections until spring arrives and the garden won’t need attention until then either. So the next fortnight is the perfect window of opportunity to get away.’
‘And you could always get a gardener in,’ Ian added. ‘Can’t Damon do it?’
‘Damon only mows lawns. He’s not safe around plants – can’t tell a weed from a wisteria.’
Bertie drove into the yard on his quad bike and parked it beside Ian’s. Their bearded collie Barnum jumped down from the back and ran over to us, tail wagging. I bent forward to stroke his head.
‘Did you see the sunrise this morning?’ Bertie asked as he joined us. ‘I took this photo of the hives.’
He handed me his phone, showing the silhouetted hives backed by a stunning violet and gold sunrise and it instantly soothed me.
‘That’s beautiful. Can you send me it?’
‘Already done it. Got to run. Catch you later.’ He gave a low whistle to call Barnum and the pair of them raced towards the farmhouse.
‘I’d best get to the bees and let you two get on,’ I said.
‘Think about taking that break,’ Sharon said. ‘And don’t let the short notice put you off because I know for a fact that Mary’s holiday cottage is available.’
I raised my eyebrows as I glanced from her to Ian. ‘That’s very convenient. Did you two plan this?’
She laughed. ‘No. I wouldn’t be that presumptuous. Mary’s selling the house, but she wants to give it a lick of paint and do a few small repairs first, so it’s available for friends and family until the decorators can fit her in. We loved it, didn’t we, Ian? We think you will too.’
‘It was great,’ Ian agreed. ‘We’d have been tempted to make it our home, but we don’t want to be that far away, especially now.’
He put his arm around Sharon’s shoulders and they exchanged smiles, making me wonder what was going on.
‘Bertie and Cheryl are having a baby,’ Sharon said, her voice full of excitement.
‘Aw, that’s fantastic news. Please tell them congratulations from me.’
A shadow fell over us and I glanced upwards. It was unseasonably warm this morning with a pale blue sky and gentle sunshine, but the forecast was for a temperature drop this afternoon with strong winds moving down from the north. The gathering clouds certainly supported that. Hive inspections were best avoided in cold, windy and wet weather. Bad weather could make the bees ill-tempered and there was also potential for harming the colony so I only ever did my checks when it was pleasant.
‘Time to check on the bees before the weather turns,’ I said, standing up.
‘Promise me you’ll consider taking a break before spring arrives,’ Sharon said as she hugged me once more. ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
I returned to the van and set off along the track, deeper into the farm towards Honey Bee Croft – the name Mum had given to the field where the hives were kept. As I passed the adjacent wildflower meadow, Sharon’s suggestion about taking a break nudged at me. I’d love that so much but where would I find the time to even squeeze in a weekend away? I ran through a list in my head of my many tasks for today and across the weekend, trying not to feel overwhelmed by how much work I had on. How much work I always seemed to have on.
I worked from home as a freelance accountant. I’d started out at a small company in Cheltenham but, after it was confirmed that Mum had a rapidly progressing type of motor neurone disease with short life expectancy, I made the decision to set up on my own so that I could be at home as Mum’s condition deteriorated. Now, with Mum gone and Dad in a care home, I was struggling to find enough hours in the day to keep on top of my job, look after the house, see to the bees and visit Dad in The Larks, and it was only going to get worse. The approach of spring meant more time with the bees and, before I knew it, I’d have the garden at Dove Cottage to attend to. With a large lawn to the front, one five times the size out the back, shrubs, flower borders, planters and hanging baskets, keeping my dad’s pride and joy in tiptop condition was no mean feat. Cutting the lawn had been Damon Speight’s job so, in theory, that was one less task for me, but I’d prefer he didn’t do it. He’d likely be in touch very soon, confirming the date for the first cut of the season. Could I tell him no? He wouldn’t be happy, I’d feel bad about taking my business away from him and the last thing I needed was to add to my task list, but I couldn’t be doing with a repeat of the back end of last year so maybe it was best to sever those ties.
A few months after I’d moved back home, Damon had turned up to mow the lawn for the first time that year. I’d recognised him from school and I knew our mums were friends – former nurses who’d worked on the same hospital ward together – so I’d said hello. If I was around any time he visited, I passed the time of day with him and he used to say We should go out for a drink sometime and catch up properly. I’d fobbed him off at first – I’m just settling back in, I’m busy building my business, Mum’s poorly and I don’t like to leave her – but he never stopped asking. Mum used to wind me up that he had a little crush on me but I laughed that off, telling her he barely knew me and he was just an old acquaintance curious to catch up on the years that had passed. Turned out she’d been right about him.
I parked by the entrance to Honey Bee Croft, opened the double doors at the back of the van and pulled on my protective clothing – a white all-in-one beesuit tucked into wellington boots and a pair of gloves – before picking up my smoker and the large cleaning caddy containing my tools, matches and some additional smoker fuel. I’d cleaned everything I needed before coming out this morning and had added fuel to my smoker – wood chips, broken pieces of pinecones and scraps of paper – saving me a couple of tasks on site, although I’d only need the smoker if I opened the hives, which was probably unnecessary today.
My winter visits were fairly quick, the purpose being to make sure the bees were safely overwintering. There were two main tasks. The first was hefting, which meant lifting the hive off the ground to check the weight. A heavy hive I could barely lift meant the supers – the boxes which housed the honey stores in frames – were full, giving the colony plenty of food for energy. If I could lift the hive easily, I’d need to feed the hive with sugar syrup.
The second task was to clear the hive entrances of any dead bees. Most people who were unfamiliar with beekeeping knew that hives had queens and worker bees but what they usually didn’t realise was that there was a hierarchy of jobs for the worker bees which they gradually worked their way up with age, moving from hive to field. Although, as life expectancy was up to six weeks in a busy summer, it was a speedy progression through the ranks. One of the hive jobs was undertaker bee, responsible for removing dead larvae and bees to prevent disease. In the winter, when flying time was extremely limited, the undertaker bees might only travel as far as the hive entrance with the dead and the bodies could build up and cause blockages. A poke with a stick soon cleared it but it could lead to an encounter with an angry guard bee, hence the need for the beesuit.
When I’d completed my checks, I returned to the van, loaded up my equipment and removed my beesuit.
Mum had never joined us at the hives when we were working – hated being enclosed within a beesuit – but she sometimes accompanied us to Honey Bee Croft and sat on the wooden bench at the edge of the field. She often came on her own too, loving simply being at one with nature, taking in the spectacular views across the hives and surrounding fields. Whenever I looked at the bench, I pictured her there, smiling contentedly. When she died, we’d had a plaque made, playing with her name.
The bees gave her joy. She gave us joy. She was Joy
I returned to the field, ran my fingers over the plaque and whispered, ‘Hi, Mum,’ before sitting down and breathing in the fresh country air. In contrast to Dove Cottage, Honey Bee Croft only held happy memories for me, spanning back over twenty-two years.
Dad became a beekeeper by accident. Carter, an old friend of his, had kept ten hives at the farm and Dad, a retired journalist, was writing an article about beekeeping for a magazine. He visited the hives to find out more and take photos and, by the end of that session, he’d got what he needed for his article and he’d found himself a new hobby. He regularly helped out after that and, when Carter moved out of the area when I was ten, Dad took on full ownership. Over time he’d replaced the original hives and added another ten. He’d never been particularly interested in doing anything with the honey – it was the art of beekeeping he loved – so Mum had taken on that aspect, supplying jars of honey and delicious goodies baked with it to a local farm shop before passing that responsibility to me when she fell ill. Although I enjoyed the baking, my real passion had been using beeswax to create skincare products – something I’d been working on for a little over a year at that point. I’d imagined adding more hives and waving goodbye to accountancy as my business took off, but life had other plans for me and I’d needed to cast that dream aside.
Beekeeping had made my dad so happy and I loved how he’d shared that passion with Mum and me. My favourite photos back at Dove Cottage were one of Dad in his beesuit with a ten-year-old me beside him in a custom-made miniature version and another of us in our suits taken eight years ago when I was twenty-four. Back then, I’d been happily married, Mum was in good health and Dad’s memory was intact. I was so glad I had those photographs because those happy days often felt like another life, so very long ago.
When Dad went into The Larks eighteen months ago, Ian and Sharon had been concerned that it might be too much for me to keep the hives running, but there was no way I could hang up my beesuit. It wasn’t just because beekeeping held a strong connection to my dad. It was because I loved it as much as he had. I loved the bees and the incredible work they did, the sounds, the smells, being outdoors and doing my bit for the environment. And the truth was that I needed it. Without the bees to look after, my life was in danger of being nothing but a never-ending pattern of work, visit Dad, work some more, sleep, repeat. Tending to the hives was my escapism and this beautiful field peppered with wildflowers was my sanctuary. Without it, I feared I’d break.