Honeybee, page 3
I realise my life isn’t exactly the greatest success story of all time, but I dread to think the state I’d be in if Aunty Jo hadn’t taken me in. It’s amazing how just one person loving you with all their heart can stop you from giving up on yourself. She isn’t annoyed that I’m back here after all these years; she doesn’t ask me how long I’ll be staying. She just looks after me, offers solutions, tells me not to worry and that everything will work out. She’s so good at being an adult and I want to be like her one day. Just another twenty-four years until I reach her age and have everything completely sorted. What scares me the most is that I can’t rely on Aunty Jo to be this person forever. The quest to relieve her of that burden keeps me awake at night.
‘FUCK!’ she screams, making me jump and splash hot tea into my face. ‘I burnt the twatting toast AGAIN.’ She pulls it out of the toaster with her fingers, despite me getting her wooden tongs last Christmas. ‘More for the geese, I suppose.’ She puts another two slices in the toaster. ‘Third time lucky.’
She places a massive fry-up down in front of me. ‘I’ll do Flo’s eggs when she’s up. I can’t remember how she likes them.’
‘Hard,’ I tell her, remembering Flo’s aversion to runny egg yolk. ‘And you have to spread the yellow around with a fork so it’s not all in one lump. But you’re right, wait. Maybe Flo likes her eggs differently now. She’s really changed.’
‘She has? How?’ Aunty Jo asks, sitting opposite me, eating a piece of discarded burnt toast without a plate.
‘I’m not sure. Last night she seemed a bit … a bit wild. Like, she used to have this stop button that she’d press before she got out of control, and now it’s more like an accelerator. It’s kind of amazing, I just never imagined it. She’s Flo, but different.’
‘We all change, love. Thank goodness.’
Something suddenly catches my eye. ‘Aunty Jo, get down, WASP!’ I scream, throwing a sausage across the room and ducking underneath the table. She immediately jumps up and waves a tea towel around. Then she looks horrified with herself and drops the tea towel on the floor. ‘God, I thought it was a man-eating bird the way you reacted. That’s not a wasp, Renée. It’s one of my bees.’
The bee settles on the corner of my plate. I still have suspicions that bees and wasps are in cahoots and plan to destroy us all. Aunty Jo can see that I’m scared. ‘I don’t get why you’d want them as pets, all three hundred thousand of them,’ I say. The one negative thing about coming back to live with her is the five beehives she now keeps in the garden. I’ve hardly been out there for fear of being attacked by them. ‘He might sting me,’ I say, backing away.
‘No, she won’t. A bee will only hurt you if it feels threatened. You’re right though, a wasp is quite different. They can sting you a hundred times and be OK. This little lady will die if she stings you, she knows that. She’s just out and about working hard, aren’t you my little worker bee?’
Aunty Jo lays her finger in front of the bee, and it hops on as if it’s been waiting for a taxi and managed to wave one down. She walks slowly over to the back door, holds her finger up to the sky and the little bee flies away. I’m sure we’d have heard her say ‘thank you’ if we’d listened hard enough.
‘There, no need to panic, just a little bee,’ Aunty Jo says, picking up a frying pan and pouring the warm fat into the bin.
‘See? That’s what being a grown-up is,’ I say, retrieving my sausage from under the table. ‘Saving bees without hysteria. I’d have squashed it with my fork. I’m a terrible human.’
‘I’d probably have done the same at your age, Renée. You learn these things, you realise not everything is out to get you. Come out with me to the hives, will you? They’re nothing to be scared of, I promise.’
‘OK, I will. But I’m taking the fly swat.’
We wander through the garden together, past Billy and Carol, the goats. Past Trudy and Tim, the geese. Past Brenda, Susan and Gloria, the chickens, and finally we reach the beehives. It’s a sunny summer’s day, the bees are busy. The collective sound of their wings flapping is creating a very loud buzz. Aunty Jo walks right up to the hives.
‘Come on, Renée. Come closer. They won’t hurt you, I promise. They’re far too busy to worry about what you’re doing.’
I take another brave step closer to the hives. I see hundreds of bees, thousands even. Some are flying out, some are returning. Aunty Jo is right, none of them seem bothered that we’re here at all.
‘You know, in the bee world, the only purpose of a male, a drone as they are called, is to mate with the queen. Other than that, he is totally useless. It’s the females that collect the nectar and make the honey. It’s not that different in the human world, the amount we women have to do and deal with to survive.’
She looks upset, for a second. Not something I notice very often.
‘Is everything OK with you and James?’
‘Oh yeah, we’re fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just, you know, it seems a woman’s work is never done. One thing after the other, bloody relentless. And it seems behind every busy woman who is trying to hold it together, there is a man in an armchair reading a newspaper with a hot cup of tea that he didn’t make. I love coming down here and watching the bees get on with it. They’re not bitter, they’re not resentful, they’re just getting on with what they have to do. They inspire me to keep busy.’
I’m not entirely sure what she’s talking about, but there is definitely something on her mind. She walks up to one of the hives and gently lifts off the lid. ‘Look inside,’ she tells me, ‘it’s amazing, really.’
I crane my neck. Inside are what looks like thousands and thousands of bees, all scuttling over the honeycomb which is bursting and oozing in places.
‘It’s nearly time to extract the honey. You can help me, if you like, in the next few days. They’ve done this all by themselves. They’ve gone from being eggs, to larvae, to pupae then adults. And all through that process, they just knew what to do and what was needed from them. Imagine having that conditioning, born knowing exactly what your purpose is.’
‘No, I can’t imagine it. My “purpose” is like a mythological goblet that’s totally out of reach. I hope the bees know how lucky they are.’
‘They do, I’m sure of it. This is what happens when females stick together, look at what they can achieve. I swear, if the world were run by women it would be a better place. We know instinctively how to get the job done. Nature fires us with challenges and we power on regardless. Amazing, really.’
She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand; she looks very hot.
‘I wish I felt that way. I don’t know if I have any instinct, I’m like the bee that flew into the kitchen. Totally lost.’
She shuts the hive and loops her arm through mine. We start to walk back towards the house.
‘What you don’t realise, dear Renée, is that experience is as valuable as success. You’ve been through a lot. You lost your mum, your dad wasn’t around. You’ve moved from home to home. I know it seems boring to you now, but Guernsey is an extraordinary place. All your life, when you tell people you grew up on an island that’s six by three miles, they will think it’s fascinating. On top of that, you spent years in Spain, battling for your dad’s affection and being self-assured enough to leave. These are huge, interesting things. Without even realising it, you’ve added so much to the story of your life. Think about it, if someone was to sit down and read a book, would they choose the one about the kid who left school, went to uni and got a job? Or would they choose the one about the kid who flew by the seat of her pants, making maverick decisions in the quest of her true self? I know which one I’d choose. You’re an interesting person, Renée. You have perspective and resilience and a shit-load of personality. You’re doing great, OK?’
‘I love you, thank you.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Are you where you want to be?’ I ask her, sitting down to finish my cold fry-up. Aunty Jo puts some oil in a pan because the sound of footsteps upstairs tells us that Flo has finally woken up.
‘It’s an interesting question. I never landed where I thought I was going to land but I just went at things and gave them everything I had. And now, look at me, back on Guernsey, married to James, a lovely man who could do the washing up sometimes but seemingly accepts all of the strange things about me, and a farmyard of smelly animals who I love like the children I could never have. If you’d told me this would be me when I was your age, I’d have laughed in your face. I was certain I would marry a rock star and live a life on the road. What I have is the exact opposite, and honestly, other than missing my sister every single day, I’m really happy. And I have you.’
I stop eating and go over to her. I put my arms around her waist and rest my head on her shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry your sister died,’ I say, gently.
‘I’m sorry your mummy died. But always remember: she’d be so proud of you.’
She pats my arm, and we stand still for a moment. She breaks the silence with another nugget of wisdom. ‘And Renée, if you shroud yourself in negative, anxious thoughts, then they will eventually take over. You’re healthy. You have this beautiful island to come back to whenever you want. You always have me, and now it looks like you have your best friend back too. Just don’t fuck it up this time, OK?’ She laughs and breaks an egg into the pan.
‘I won’t,’ I say, sitting back down. ‘I really, really won’t.’
‘I feel like someone shat in my mouth,’ says Flo, coming into the kitchen then noticing Aunty Jo. ‘Oh, sorry Jo, I …’
‘Don’t worry Flo, I’ve got two goats, two geese, three chickens, two cats, three hundred thousand bees and a husband. I deal with an unprecedented amount of shit before nine a.m. You still like your eggs hard?’
‘Yes please.’ Flo sits down. She looks as if there is no blood in her head and her skin is made of paper.
‘So what are you up to these days, Flo?’ asks Aunty Jo.
‘She’s got a job in marketing,’ I say, like she’s all lah-di-dah.
‘Ooooh, I used to work in marketing back in the day.’
I have no idea what they are talking about. Is marketing like advertising?
‘It seems like a really nice company,’ Flo says. ‘I worked in their London office for a bit, and when I said I was from Guernsey they said they have a branch here and that there was a job here too, if I wanted it.’
‘Wow, what chance,’ Aunty Jo says. ‘What kinds of brands do they look after?’
‘All sorts. Some alcohol, a few clothing brands and Island Cheese.’
I burst out laughing. Flo shoots me a look.
‘Cheese?’ I gasp.
‘Yes, cheese. They’re working on a campaign to get Guernsey cheese to the mainland. Maybe even into the global market.’
‘The global cheese market?’ How is no one else finding this funny?
‘Yes Renée, just because you don’t know something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.’
‘OK, you go market your cheese,’ I say, sarcastically.
‘I’ll be office manager, actually,’ she says, proudly. Her cheeks filling with more colour with every mouthful of her fry-up.
‘Office manager? Check you out,’ I say, totally intimidated by her success. We didn’t actually get on to her job title yesterday. Or maybe we did; I have pockets of memory.
‘This is wonderful, congratulations Flo.’ Aunty Jo pours three glasses of orange juice and we all cheers. ‘And where will you be living? With Mum?’
‘Errr, no way. She’s not made any gestures and I’ve certainly not asked. I’ll be … I’ll be living in Julian’s flat, in Mill Street. He’s gone to live in India for a year or two, with his wife.’
I spit my orange juice out across the table. ‘Julian’s wife?’ I ask.
Julian is Flo’s older brother. I lost my virginity to him when we were fifteen, then lied to her about it before Sally de Putron wrote it on the blackboard in front of the entire class and ruined our lives. Talking about Julian is not something Flo and I do with ease.
‘Yes, Renée. He’s in his mid-twenties now. Adults get married sometimes, it’s not that weird.’
‘Adult? Jesus.’ Suddenly I feel way too young for any of this. ‘Sorry, he never seemed like the marrying kind.’
‘What? You mean when he was a seventeen-year-old boy?’
‘Who is his wife?’ I ask, unable to look Flo in the eye but needing details.
‘He married a woman called India. She’s five years older than him and they have moved to India.’
‘She is called India, and she lives in India? Isn’t that a bit awkward?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Apparently, her parents are very wealthy. Her dad does something to do with importing fabric. They conceived her in India, so that’s why she is called that. They have a house out there too. She’s cool, I like her. She’s travelled loads, she’s pretty. Julian did well for himself in the end.’
Ouch.
‘Well look at you, all grown up with your own flat on Mill Street. Fair fucks to you,’ I say, raising my glass again. I am so jealous. So horribly and desperately jealous.
‘Thanks, I mean I’ll have to get a flatmate, but I’ll just put an ad in the Guernsey press. India has said I should find a “young professional”.’
‘Flo?’ I say, downing my cutlery.
‘Yeah?’
Surely, she isn’t this stupid. I do a hard, forced smile and jazz hands.
‘Eat your own,’ she says, presuming I want some of her bacon because I’ve finished mine.
‘No, Flo. Me?’
‘You what?’
‘Me, you massive dipshit. Why don’t I come and live with you?’
Aunty Jo spins around and squeals like a fifteen-year-old from the Fifties who just got asked to dance by the boy she fancies.
‘What?’ says Flo, looking cornered.
‘Come on, it’s perfect. You need a flatmate, I need a flat. No offence, Aunty Jo.’
‘None taken,’ she says, leaving the room.
‘It’s perfect, no?’
‘Renée, we haven’t seen each other for three years; we can’t just move in with each other.’
‘Why not? It’s us, Flo. It will be fine, and if it isn’t, I’ll move out. I can always come back to Aunty Jo’s. But she and James don’t want me crashing here forever; I’m twenty-two, for Christ’s sake. Can’t we at least try?’
‘You told me you haven’t got any money. You said last night, you’ve got about a hundred quid. That’s it.’
‘I can give you a loan!’ shouts Aunty Jo from the next room. Flo stares firmly at her egg.
‘Flo, come on. Don’t make me beg you.’
‘Renée, living with a friend can go really wrong. I’ve just been dealing with … what if it goes really wrong?’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
She gets up and walks over to the kitchen window. She gazes out of it like a forlorn wife waiting for her husband to come home. She doesn’t move for ages. And then …
‘OK.’
‘OK, yes?’
‘OK, YES, Jesus, not that you gave me a choice.’
I stand up and run into the middle of the kitchen where I do some sexy thrusty moves and scream, ‘WE’RE ROOMIES!’ I feel so happy. I refuse to stop moving until I get at least a little smile out of her. Eventually, she breaks.
‘OK, I suppose if it goes wrong it doesn’t have to be forever.’
‘That’s the spirit, Flo!’
Aunty Jo comes in too and we all, even Flo, start to laugh.
‘We should have a drink to celebrate,’ she says.
‘Jesus, Flo. It’s nine a.m.!’
This is going to be GREAT!
3
Flo
I hear Renée beep the horn outside. I’m all packed up, everything I currently own in two suitcases. One contains all the stuff I brought from London, the other is full of bits and bobs from Mum’s house. A cushion, my favourite pillow. A couple of stuffed toys that I’ve held on to all these years, some bed sheets and a towel. I have also stolen a few pieces of crockery and cutlery that I like. I don’t know if Mum will notice or not, but I’ve used them since I was tiny, and it feels right that they come with me as I start my new life here in Guernsey. I take comfort from the small things from my past. The big things are mostly awful.
My sister Abi comes to say goodbye to me; she looks sad that I’m leaving. As much as I don’t want her to be upset, her sadness somehow validates my existence in this family because Mum has barely acknowledged my moving out at all. ‘Will you sometimes come over to make me that Marmite-and-cheese-on-toast thingy for me?’ Abi says, hugging me around my waist.
‘Of course I will. That will always be our special dish and you will always be my special sister.’ Of course we have lived apart before, but somehow living separately in Guernsey feels even more far apart than when I went to uni or lived in London. ‘And you can come for sleepovers at the flat, OK? Now go tidy your room,’ I say cheekily, not wanting her to be there as I drive away, because this isn’t a huge deal even though it feels like it is.
Mum is upstairs when Renée arrives. She knows I’m leaving and would have heard the horn. I’m not going to tell her I’m off: a little test to see if she can step up to motherhood without being prompted. I head out to the van.
‘Today is the day!’ Renée says, jumping out. ‘The first day of the rest of our lives.’
