The Hive (26 page)

“Do you know,” she began, “that after the hurricane of 1987, this beech tree was the only living thing left standing for miles around?”

Heather didn’t quite bother to stifle a yawn. Rachel felt a new, sharper stab of loneliness. Tom Orchard would have loved that little gem. She looked over towards the school office. She could just make out the shape of him, bent over his desk. That was just the sort of thing she would have rushed in there with, and he would have fallen on with delight. And they could have talked about for hours…

She collected herself, and as she did so saw for the first time that Heather looked completely different. Altered. Radiant. Like she’d spent the afternoon in bed with a toy-boy or…

“So how was your day?”

“Me?” Heather looked around her. “You’re asking me?” She blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then smiled broadly. “It’s been absolutely fantastic. We had the COSTA meeting at lunchtime—which was completely and utterly amazing—and then, this afternoon I’ve been round at your mum’s.”

“Well aren’t you the crazy funster— Hang on…You’ve been round to my
mother’s?
”

That was kind of world-rocking, albeit in a very minor way. God, it was only Heather and her mum, after all. But still, she had no idea that they even saw each other. That had bypassed Rachel completely. Perhaps she wasn’t even hanging around in the right one of life’s lay-bys…

“Mmm. Well, Guy was round there anyway, putting up her fruit cage, and she wanted a bit of help with her bees.”

Rachel groaned. “I haven’t been round for weeks. Did she say anything?”

“She did mention it. Once or twice. She has got a lot to look after there, on her own.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have taken it on, should she? Honestly. The dramas about those bees…All for a few jars of honey.”

“I get mine from Lidl.” Jo had joined them. “Nothing wrong with it.”

“Exactly,” said Rachel firmly. “Why does she have to do it, eh?”

“Well,” put in Melissa, just back from the hospital, “it is important, you know, beekeeping. It’s not just for the honey. They do happen to be keeping the planet going while they’re at it…”

“I know. She was telling me.” Heather’s eyes were alight. “I thought they were amazing.”

“‘Without bees, mankind could only survive for another four years,’” quoted Georgie, walking in holding Hamish. “Einstein, innit?”

“Is it?” said Jo, bored, cross. “Who does he play for?”

“Science United,” shot back Melissa. Rachel watched as they high-fived each other and laughed together. Yet another relationship that had crept up on Rachel’s blind side. Jo was tamed. Utterly tamed.

“Oh yes, very funny I’m sure,” said Georgie impatiently. “Gosh, aren’t we the hilarious anti-intellectuals? Now listen here, you lot. This is not the attitude that is going to win us The Quiz. Enough already. None of you is going to let this team down. From now on, no more pretending to be dumb.”

“But Georgie,” protested Heather. “I haven’t been pretending to be dumb.”

And then the bell rang.

B
ubba parked her Range Rover next to Georgie’s God-knows-what. Was it a utility vehicle of some kind? Certainly not top of the range, whatever its range might be. She held Martha’s hand and waited as the Martin children poured out of every door and all over their wretched, utterly knackered-looking mother.

“Hi.” Georgie sounded quite cheerful, though it was hard to see quite what she had to be cheerful about. “No Milo today?”

They walked together towards the school.

“He’s with the ed psych at ten, so no point bringing him in really.”

“Golly. Didn’t he go quite recently? Hamish—don’t run off.”

“We literally
live
in consulting rooms of ed psychs. I can
not
tell you. This must be the fifth. It’s a full-time job having a boy like mine.” Bubba smiled broadly, as if she was enjoying all this Parenting the Gifted Child, although the truth was that she was starting to find it a little
wearing
… “That last one was a Tom Orchard recommendation. He has been terrific, actually. Very patient. He sorted out that silly bullying business so brilliantly—
God,
he was brave the way he just took on Scary Scarlett like that! We’re all just
slaves
now in our family. He’s still very keen to do the right thing and get the right stuff in place so that Milo can actually start to flourish here instead of being frightened witless. But the woman he sent me to was a total. Waste. Of. Time.”

“Oh dear—Lucy, grab him. Why?”

Bubba laughed. You had to laugh really, otherwise it got to you. “Very nice report. Looked all professional. Cost a fortune, thank you very much. And it said, basically, just summing up in layman’s terms”—Bubba stopped to face Georgie, to fully emphasize the utter lunacy of the ed psycho’s conclusion—“Milo is
neither special needs nor gifted.
”

But even as Bubba started the guffaw in which she expected—was just waiting for—Georgie to join her, she realized that all the Martins were disappearing through the main school door.

“Thanks for coming, love.” Rachel and her mum pottered together, side by side, up the garden towards the hive.

“No problem,” said Rachel, holding open the gate. “I really want to have a look, too, actually.”

“I just need to check what’s going on in here.” Her mum checked the netting over her face before opening the top of the hive. Rachel, keeping close, peered in. Her mum took out a frame and bent over to inspect it.

“Yes. Look. There they are.”

“There what are?” Rachel studied the frame full of honeycomb. Nearly all the cells were full.

“This is the brood,” explained her mother. “The queen has come in here and laid her eggs, and the workers are feeding them with honey. But see here.” Her finger pointed to four cells on the outside—twice the size of the others, sealed off at the top, large and somehow important-looking. “These are new queen cells they’re bringing on here. As I thought, they’re thinking of requeening.”

“Who are? The workers?”

“That’s the thing, you see.” She put that frame back and slid out another. “The workers decide. When they reckon the old queen’s a bit past it, they choose a few cells, feed them royal jelly instead of honey, and make some new ones.”

“They make the queens themselves?”

“Told you they were fascinating. The only living example of a democratically elected monarchy.” She took out a metal tray, like a grille or a fence. “This is the queen excluder. Keeps her one side only. She should be here somewhere. Aha!” She pointed into the throng at what even Rachel had to admit was a very superior insect indeed.

“But what’s going to happen to her, when they’ve got the new ones?” Rachel felt a twinge of sympathy, looking at her there. Confident. Busy. Little knowing that she was about to be flung over for a new model. It can happen to any of us…

“Well, either she’ll take a little gang of bees and go off to start a new hive somewhere else—that’s when they swarm…”

Her mum fitted the last frame back in and clipped the roof back on the hive.

“Or what?” Rachel followed her back through the gate. “What are the other options?”

They were back in the garden, plodding down to the house.

“Mmm?” Her mum peeled off her gloves and unzipped her hood. “That’s better,” she said, shaking her head in the fresh air. “Oh. Otherwise she just gets stung to death.”

Rachel gazed back at the hives with a sense of awe. She shook her head. “Amazing.” And then peeled herself out of her overalls. “Thank you. So much. Oh, by the way.” This was going to go down well. Exactly the sort of thing her mum loved to hear. She’d be pleased with this. “Yeah. Anyway. Um. So.” But Rachel was surprised to find that she still had to choke up the words like a cat with a fur ball. “I’m going to The Quiz tonight at school.”

Her mum stopped what she was doing and snapped her head round.

“
Such
a fun get-together.”

Okeydokey, thought Rachel, time to be off.

“I’ll be doing the marking—over at the marking table—with Pamela.”

Rachel slung the suit over the back of the garden chair and picked up her denim jacket.

“Be sure you listen to the questions prop…”

She slipped her feet into her ballerinas as she put the jacket over her shoulders.

“…take the time to check your paper over before you hand…”

Picked up her bag and pulled out her keys.

“…can’t ask for more than…”

And headed out for the car.

“Bye then, Mum.”

“…that you just do your best.”

Georgie parked, leapt out of the car and thrust towards the hall. Her heart was pumping, her brain electric with pre-match tension, her whole body taut with expectation. She burst through the door, Henry V to the battlefield…to find a handful of people moving tables around.

“Georgina Martin,” brayed Clover. “Of all people. What on earth are you doing here? You’re half an hour early.”

Oh.

“Lolz,” laughed Colette. “It’s only the people doing the table setup here now! Don’t tell me that’s you.”

Sharon and Jasmine were either end of a tablecloth and stretching it smooth. Bubba and Kazia were busy erecting what looked like the set of
Heidi.
Bea wafted about while Pamela was drawing out the scoreboard with a ruler.

“Got the time wrong,” she mumbled as she backed out of the door. “Christ. Not helping you lot.” She turned, displaying her small bump in profile. “Good. Time for a cigarette. Might have two.” And she fell back out into the car park.

She took out packet and lighter from her bag. What on earth was the matter with her tonight? She was getting quite carried away.

She leaned against the fence and watched the smoke curl gracefully from the end of her cigarette, up and off into the clear evening, and determined to stay out here until the rest of her table arrived. She flicked her ash back onto the tarmac, and became aware of someone emerging from the dusk.

It was Melissa, arms full of a large tray of lavender and herbs in little pots.

“Oh, Georgie.” Her smile was warm and winning. She didn’t break her step. “Look at you. Do your kids know you don’t really smoke?”

“Eh?” Georgie didn’t quite believe what she had heard. Melissa’s voice was so casual, so everyday. As if she was saying “Hi” and “Nice evening.” And yet it had sounded like…She flicked her ash again, mostly so that she could look down and away.

“What? Dunno wot you’re on about.” Oh dear. Was that her grumpy-teen impersonation? How did that get there?

“I’ve been watching.” Melissa was level with her now, but still walking, still sounding mildly disengaged, her mind on other things. “You light them. You flick them. You throw them away. But you never actually smoke.”

“You’re nuts, you are. Totally nuts.”

“So what’s it about? Are you hiding behind the smoke?” She had now got to the door but her voice was still soft, like she was just thinking aloud.

“Typical shrink—”

“Psychotherapist.” She turned round to push it open with her neat bottom.

“—mad as a snake.”

“Or do you use it just to keep people away?” She was now into the hall, yet still clearly audible. How did she do that? The woman was spooky.

“Don’t tell me,” Georgie shouted after her, “you actually get paid for spouting this kind of nonsense?”

But the door had already closed.

Rachel had been to several functions in the Coronation Hall in her time, each one more moribund than the one before. So she was taken aback to walk through the solid-oak door and find the place throbbing with life. How sweet, she thought. The losers and no-mates, all excited for their big night out—one mustn’t begrudge them. She checked her watch. Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long. The best possible outcome to this evening would be ten-thirty, tucked up,
Newsnight.

She stood close to the entrance and scanned the room. Her mum and Pamela were over by the scoreboard. Pamela was sporting the very headset that Bea had worn to the Car Boot Sale, if she was not mistaken. They were either side of—oh Christ, she hadn’t seen him for weeks—Tom Orchard. Rachel had heard that he wasn’t on anyone’s table yet. He was just going to fill in wherever he was needed. And right then he was just standing there while the two old biddies carried out a tug-of-love battle over his person. Obviously, they each had very firm ideas of where he should be placed. Right, Rachel thought: whatever was going on over there was to be avoided.

She swiveled to the tables, and was startled by the sight before her. Rachel’s definition of “picnic” was “cheese and tomato sandwiches and a packet of crisps.” She’d been quite looking forward to it—might have thrown in a Twix—until Bubba had told her not to bother, that she and Kazia had it all in hand. Now, it was revealed that there was a whole other meaning to the word.

Bea’s table was laid with white linen, gleaming silver and a range of candelabra. Bea herself was in a fuchsia strappy number, with the added adornment of a tiara that Rachel knew belonged to Scarlett; Tony the Perv—even fatter and redder than he had been at Christmas—was squeezed into his DJ; their guests were clustered around them, sipping champagne. The name of their team—
THE REIGNING CHAMPS
—wedged in a floral arrangement, was sticking up like a middle finger to the rest of the room.

Clover, wearing a sombrero, sat at a table decked out with cacti, surrounded by teachers. Oh dear, thought Rachel. Mexican food, cooked by Clover: all the staff will be off tomorrow, puking. Melissa’s table looked the prettiest from here. A checked green tablecloth, with little pots of spring flowers and homegrown vegetables: The Constant Gardeners, they were called.

And then Bubba, in full Tyrolean costume, her hair in plaits, waved her over to an Alpine scene. “What do you think?” she beamed. “Fondue!” She gave a quick yodel. Georgie, already sitting down, rolled her eyes. “Tell you what, it was a bugger getting hold of the edelweiss.” Jo sat slightly apart, with crossed arms and a cross face. Guy Carpenter looked pale and abject. “Trouble is,” Heather muttered to Rachel, “he’s not supposed to have bread or cheese.” Mark Green poured Rachel a glass of glühwein. “Don’t worry, my love. It’ll all be over before we know it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ve taken the precaution of booking a work crisis for nine.”

Rachel stole another look at Tom Orchard. The fight between the mothers over his person was still going on.

“So who’s the secret weapon going to be then?” Georgie looked over to Bea’s table. “We should lay bets.”

“My money’s on Wittgenstein,” said Rachel.

“Oh,” Heather began, “is he loc—” She caught Georgie’s look. “Sorry. Doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Heth, after thirty years of stasis I think I can finally say: you’re coming on,” said Georgie. “I’m going Melvyn Bragg.”

“What about that bloke off
Eggheads
with the dodgy shirts?” suggested Jo. “Someone once saw him in our Waitrose…”

The door opened and in walked Chris. He stood at the threshold, looked around, spotted Rachel and gave her a friendly wave. What on earth, thought Rachel, is he doing here? She felt cold all over. Has something happened to the children? Josh has burned the house down. He’s dead in a ditch…And then she saw Bea stand up and beckon him over. No, she said to herself. He cannot be her secret weapon. Not Chris. She wouldn’t do that. Nor would he. They couldn’t join up against her like this. They weren’t that awful…

She watched as Bea kissed him warmly on both cheeks, Tony the Perv slapped him on the back and he shook hands with the rest of the Reigning Champs.

How dared they? This was Rachel’s territory now, not his. He had, as she understood it, sought pastures new and he could bugger off back to them. Rage was building in her. She was almost on her feet when she felt a kind and steady gaze coming at her from the next table. She turned, looked in Melissa’s eyes and, even as she did so, the completely other point of view swam up before her: Actually, isn’t it a good thing that Chris is here? she asked herself. After all, he is a parent too. And she sat down again.

“This is fantastic!” Georgie cackled, giving Jo a high-five.

“Could not be better.” Jo was, unusually, laughing.

“Well, of course, I can see it’s definitely a good thing,” said Rachel, who felt sick, physically sick. “Obviously. But I don’t think it’s funny.”

“Don’t you really?” asked Georgie, wiping away the tears of laughter. “No, you probably don’t.” She coughed, collected herself, straightened her own face. “Listen, love, at some time you should know the truth and now is as good a time as any. The thing is, Chris—” She stopped. She gulped. She tried again. “You see, Chris…is…Well, Chris…”

“I’ve already told her,” said Jo, firmly. “Chris is an arse.”

“Yes. Thank you, Jo. Needed to be said. Good to have that cleared up. It’s high time you realized, Rachel, that you were the brains in that marriage.”

“And Chris,” reiterated Jo, “was the arse.”

“Indeed. And of course, what that means is: if that is who we are up against, if that really is her deadly secret weapon, then we are in with a shout.”