The Hive (30 page)

The new St. Ambrose library was simply one of the loveliest spaces that Bubba had ever been in. And Bubba knew a thing or two about lovely spaces. The old sheds and outhouses thrown up by those earnest old Victorians seemed to have the most incredible feng shui. Who knew they did feng shui back then? Knocking down all the internal walls had created a hexagonal space with books on every wall, and benches arranged like the petals of a flower. It was all painted in a deep warm yellow and Rachel’s time line, which she’d been fantastically boring about, quite frankly—old people, poor people, wounded people, dead people; the thing was Bubba was always much more of a
here
and
now
sort of person—anyway, here was the thing: it turned out it was absolutely, completely charming.

As Bubba looked at it in a bit more detail, she even got the feeling that she was actually learning something. Or certainly thinking about things almost for the first time. Fancy that, the boys and girls used to have to troop in through separate entrances…Not a bad idea. Milo would probably have been
much
happier then—separated from the brutal Scarlett. Something that was actually quite sweet, moving really, was to see the beech tree all the way through: almost a sapling hung with bunting for Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, and then building and growing—gosh! Look at the Concorde flying over in that one, so clever—until it became the majestic, towering thing it was now. And Bubba couldn’t help but notice, when she came to the end, that Rachel had left a space to fill with the future. She approved of that—Bubba was very much a
future
sort of person, too. And then she couldn’t help but have a little fantasy of an image of Milo in that space, one day—collecting his Oscar, walking through the door of 10 Downing Street…She did long to know: where would his special gifts, his
genius
if you will, lead him?

Her reverie was interrupted by Pamela the Monobosom, who marched up to the little piece of cloth that was hiding the plaque, preparing to reveal all. Bubba felt quite emotional. Because, really, how extraordinary that out of all those dreadful lunches, and nasty little sales, and that hellish fun run when she was pretty sure she did something ghastly to her metatarsal (Jo said she may never play professional football again) and the—well, she’d rather gloss over the whole Paradise Ball nonsense…Anyway. Here was what they were really doing all that time: they were building this library. And they were building it for everybody. Tom Orchard was standing by the wall, smiling with pride. It really was his big day. Bless. Bubba, Bea, Colette and Clover took up position in the front row. She wasn’t sure who else was in the room, or if they could even see…

And then Pamela the Monobosom reached up, yanked at the cloth, and revealed the plaque that may well have had upon it a quote in Latin, which Freddie might well be able to translate. But all Bubba or anyone else in the front row could immediately see was a bright flash of orange paint. And the legend:

“Who’s winning?” asked Rachel, sitting down on the bench. She had missed most of the races: she and her mum had somehow ended up being the ones to have to clean up the plaque, before any of the children got near it and clocked what it said. Really, Milo ought to have been made to do it himself, but Mark Green swept him off the premises before anybody could collar him. And that was probably for the best: there was no saying what exotic form of corporal punishment Pamela might inflict on him, given half the chance. She was still rampaging around the corridors, bellowing, “Special needs?
Special needs?
I’ll give him special needs…”

“Ashley’s coming first in everything,” replied Heather. “She’s amazing. Unbeatable.”

“God knows how.” Clover was cross. Of course, Clover was often cross, but nothing made her crosser than the subject of grumpy Ashley’s fat mum having produced a sporting legend. “Look at her,” she spat. “Hasn’t stopped eating all afternoon. Every time Ashley wins she cracks open another packet of crisps.” Neither nature nor nurture seemed to have made any discernible contribution, and yet grumpy Ashley just sped on, regardless. It was in direct violation of all Clover’s strongly held child-rearing beliefs.

“Come on, Ashley,” hollered Rachel.

“There. She’s done it.” Heather bent over her program and added the result to a lengthy list.

“Heth…” began Rachel.

“Mmmm?” She had, Rachel saw, separate columns for
1st, 2nd
and
3rd.
And a subsection for
School Records.

“What. You. Doing?”

“Just marking them all down. Else I can never keep track.”

“Of what exactly?”

Heather looked up. She was still glowing, still pink. “Why, of which house is ahead!” She smiled. “Silly…”

“Ooh!” Colette jumped up. “Mothers’ race now! Come on, girls. We’ll let you off this year, Georgie.”

“Good of you,” scowled Georgie, who had never taken part anyway. “Er, Rachel? You may not be aware of this but you appear to be standing up? By mistake?”

“Um,” said Rachel, chewing her lip. “Er.” She slipped off her shoes. “I was sort of thinking, I might just, I could kind of, you know…um…possibly…join in?” And she turned and jogged gently over to the start.

“Rachel!” called her mum happily.

“Joining in, Mum!” she sang as she passed. “Just joining in!”

“ARE WE READY?” asked Tom, holding his whistle. Rachel liked him with a whistle. Whistles, she realized, were sexy too. Like announcements. And jokes about SpongeBob SquarePants. It turned out there was all sorts of sexy stuff around. Once you knew what you were looking for.

“Where’s Bea?” someone was asking.

“Well we can’t start without her,” added another.

“ARE WE STEADY?”

There was a lot of jostling for position on the line. There were those still in their normal clothes who had bare feet, like Rachel. They found themselves giving way to those in their normal clothes but who just so happened to have brought their trainers. Colette, Sharon and Jasmine were all, of course, shod for action. And so was Melissa.

“HANG ON, MR. ORCHARD. WE’RE NOT ALL HERE YET.”

Rachel felt a sharp elbow in her side and Bubba squeezing in next to her. She was astonished. Bubba had obviously hung around to support Martha, which was sort of fair enough. But still, Rachel would have thought that, after her child had pulled off quite such a spectacular public disaster, an ordinary person would have chosen to keep a lower profile. Yet here was Bubba, out in the throng, parading herself around for all to see. And she had changed into full running gear.

“Are you OK?” Rachel murmured into her ear, sympathetically, as she stretched. Surely, deep down, Bubba must be going through hell.

“Hmm. Got a
bit
of an issue with my metatarsal, but I’m going to give it a go…”

OK. It’s official, thought Rachel. The woman is deranged.

“NOW. ARE WE READY?”

“Oh look. Here she is.”

Bea came jogging in: running shorts, ponytail, sweatband, Reeboks. “Sorry to keep you all. Thanks for waiting. I’ll come back here.” She signaled to the next lineup. “Give my traditional head start.” And ran backwards behind them.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Melissa called, with a genuine, warm concern.

“ARE WE STEADY?”

“Yes, thank you.” Bea’s voice sounded quite sharp in comparison. “I always do. It’s only fair. Everyone else knows that.”

“GO!”

Rachel neither flew ahead with the front-runners nor disgraced herself at the back, but remained firmly at the center of the cluster in the middle of the field for the length of the race. Where she found, to her surprise, that she was enjoying herself. The afternoon was lovely. The sports field looked pretty much like paradise. The wind was in her hair, the grass beneath her toes. Her head was clear. Her mind was sharp. And she was perfectly placed to notice three very important things, one after another.

The first was: someone, at the halfway point, stuck out their foot and cropped Bubba. She fell, spectacularly, gracelessly, and lay sprawled across the track in front of the whole school.

The second: Melissa won by miles, and was already swigging water out of a bottle before the rest of them got anywhere near the finish.

And the third was: Hang on. Bloody hell. Bea’s puffing and sweating away on her own back there. She’s been left behind by us all.

There was quite a crowd already congratulating Melissa. Rachel was waiting her turn when her mum rushed by in a panic: “Well done, darling. Got to zoom off. The bees! Swarming!”

“Eek. Do you want some help with that?”

“Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder on the way to the car park. “Tom’s coming over when he’s finished here.”

Is he now? Rachel smiled to herself as she wiped the sweat from her face and took some water.

Then Bubba was there. “I’m going. I’m finished. It’s over.” She was gabbling, distraught, limping. “Please. Bring Martha back for me. I simply can’t take anymore.” And without waiting for a reply, she too hobbled off to the car park.

The crowd around Melissa was thinning, and Rachel went over to join her. “So we have a new champion.” Melissa gave an aw-shucks flick of the hand. “We’ll have to ask Heather if you’ve set a new school record.”

At that moment there was a crash, a screech, a horrible scrape of metal and a terrible scream.

“What was that?”

“Oh, Christ.”

They ran towards the noise. Bubba’s Range Rover was out at an angle. The back of Rachel’s mum’s Fiat was smashed in. They must have reversed at the same time, smack, right into each other. And—oh—it looked like they might have hit someone…

Yes. There was Bea, lying on the gravel. Her hair was in the dirt, her huge bunch of keys had been thrown to one side. Her polo shirt had ridden up, and her midriff was exposed. Only Clover knelt by her side. Everyone else was holding back.

“Oh my
God,
” Rachel heard one person whisper.

“I
know!
She’s
fat,
” hissed another in reply.

For a moment, they just stood there together. Frozen. Immobile. Not sure quite what they should do. Then the crowd came apart. Melissa stepped forward. And quietly and calmly, she took charge.

“Is that it?” asked Clover. “All that fuss and bother to get her here and that’s it? I tell you,” she hoisted Bea up out of her chair and onto her frame, “I would not wish the life of a carer on anyone. It is sheer, living hell.” She steered Bea through the doors, still talking. “That was a shocker, wasn’t it, you being voted out just like that?” And was clearly audible as they plodded down the hall. “They all voted for you last year, I seem to remember.” They heard the latch being opened. “And yet, this year, they all voted against…Every single one. What did you do to them, do you think?” The door closed.

“I do love what you’ve done in here, Tom,” said Sharon, looking around.

“We were right, weren’t we?” added Jasmine. “With the knocking through…”

“After all, it turned out you did need the space.”

And then the headmaster’s wife put her head round the door. “Meeting finished already?” She smiled. “Well, don’t rush off all at once. Let me get you something. Hands up who wants a tea? Coffee? Lesbian?”

So they all said, “Go on, then.” And stayed, chatting happily, for hours.

First and foremost, I must thank Rosalind Wiseman for her insights into female social behavior and its parallels with the beehive. Her book
Queen Bees and Wannabes
is an essential handbook for parents worried about their daughters. The later work
Queen Bee Moms and Kingpin Dads,
by Rosalind Wiseman with Elizabeth Rapoport, is just as useful for any parents worried about themselves.

John Corne and Elise Payne of the Newbury and District Beekeepers’ Association opened up their hives to me and were extremely generous with their time, their knowledge and their honey. Any misrepresentations of the apian world are entirely my own.

I am enormously grateful to my wonderful agent, Caroline Wood, for her sharp eye and passionate support—this book would not exist without her. And to the teams at Little, Brown on both sides of the Atlantic. Antonia Hodgson and Reagan Arthur have been enthusiastic, kind and clever editors.

So many friends have helped in so many different ways and I thank them all, but particularly Catherine Bennett, Belinda Giles, Jo Love and Amanda Posey.

And finally to Margaret Hornby and Holly, Charlie, Matilda, Sam and Robert Harris: thank you, for everything.