She stared, eyes wide, andIthought for a second thatI’dactually broken her.Thenshe let out a low, grudging laugh. “Youdid your homework.”
I glowed a little, even asItried to play it cool. “Ipayattention.Iamactually interested in all this, you know.Ididn’t just take the job for the aesthetics, despite what you seem to think.”
She watched me for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me or not.Iwilled her to give in; this summer would be a lot easier ifIdidn’t have to jump through hoops to keep her happy.
Suddenly, she put the sample and the hydrometer down and strode out of the warehouse.Istruggled yet again to keep up, running after her, abandoning my bag this time.
“Good.Becausetoday, you’re on weed whacker duty.”
I blinked. “Isthat a euphemism?”
She turned at the entrance to the barn and gave me a sad, pitying look. “No, it’s a chore.Ithink you call it a strimmer?Probablythe least aesthetic farm job possible.”Shereached her hand in through the door and pulled out a … well, a strimmer.Ihadn’t known what it was called until now, butI’dseen people use them, of course.Mostlyin those videos online of people clearing unruly lawns inAmericafor free.
She shoved the apparatus towards me, andItook it, the heft of it surprising me as she released it.I’dbeen joking earlier about being hazed– had she taken it as a personal challenge?
“The back paths are overgrown,”Teddysaid, pointing back behind her towards the flower garden, “andIalmost tripped on my way to check the hives this morning.You’llfind gloves in the bin if you want them.Earand eye protection is by the door.Batteriesshould be on the charger next toMaggie’sdesk.”
I peered inside the barn, and indeed, there was a battery pack plugged into the wall.
“Where doIstart?”Iasked, trying not to sound likeIwas already in over my head.
“Just work on the garden paths for now,” she said. “Idoubt you’ll get much more than that done today; not with the brambles that are spilling out.”Thenshe pushed past me and vanished around the corner of the barn as quickly as we’d come.Istood there, the strimmer threatening to topple out of my arms, as a raindrop plopped onto the bridge of my nose.
* * *
Unfortunately, the “weed whacker”was even harder to use thanI’dfeared.I’dimagined it as a sort of outdoor hoover– a little whine, a little dust and debris, maybe the occasional pebble ricocheting off your shin– but instead, the momentIthumbed the switch, the whole thing shuddered like it was possessed, andInearly took my foot off on the first go.
For the first ten minutes,Iwas spectacularly bad at it.Thecord snagged on every rock and tangled itself in the very weedsIwas trying to whack, and within sixty seconds,I’dmanaged to pepper the lower half of my legs with a fine mist of sheep dung and pulverised nettle that the rain turned immediately to mud.ButIwas dressed far more sensibly today in a pair of dungarees– also borrowed offMorgan– and after a while,Istarted to get into a rhythm, moving my phone around on the tripod as needed to capture a time lapse.Everythingwas content, right?
It was mindless work– the kind that left enough space in your head for thinking.AsIstrimmed my way up the main path in the rain,Ilet my brain chew on the real project: the event.Thefestival.ThethingI’dbeen hired to help make possible, and the thingJenhad staked her grant– and maybe the whole next year for the farm– on getting right.
She’d said the council wanted something that was simultaneously a celebration of local culture and attractive to people from the wider area.I’dpitched half a dozen smaller concepts toJen, some of them straight off myPinterestmood board (flower crown workshops, wood-fired pizza nights, a “WellnessWeekend”), but the one that had litJenup was the big one.Wewanted to combine the essences of a food festival and an arts festival: local produce, live music, a gallery, guest makers and artisans, arts and crafts for the kids … something that celebrated the honey and the mead as well as the local community.Assoon asI’dpitched it, we’d both known that it was the right choice.Itwas also the hardest one, soIhad my work cut out for me this summer.
Now, asIcarved out the paths through the flower garden,Ilet myself imagine it: bunting strung up between the buildings, kids chasing each other with painted faces,Jen’sart hung up with others from local artists for a silent auction, and a pop-up bar where the mead flowed freely, all set to the soundtrack of live local folk music, playing from a small stage in the space between the house and the barn.
I wanted it to be more than just cute and aesthetic, no matter whatTeddythought.Iwanted it to feel, even for a day, like a little pocket of the world where everybody felt at home.Likethey were exactly where they were supposed to be.Whereeverything tasted and smelled like it belonged to the moment.
The wayI’dfelt whenIfirst came toGwenynen, and the wayIstill felt now, despiteTeddy’sbest attempts to scare me off.
AsIzig-zagged through the garden,Iadded to the running list in my head of people to contact about partnering together– local bakeries, farm shops, the pottery studio in the next town over, maybe the woodworker who made the nice benches at the bus stop in town … we could all work together to put on the best damn festival this town had ever seen, or something cheesy like that.Somethingofthe community andforthe community, but that could be shared widely, too.Hell, ifIdid it right, maybe the whole thing would become an annual tradition.
And if it worked– really worked, not just as a fun day, but as a means to grow the farm, too– maybeIcould get the job permanently.MaybeIwouldn’t have to go back to flitting through life likeTeddyhad said.Itwas early days, but, weed-whacking aside,Iwas already more excited about my work thanIhad ever been in my life, and that waswithhaving to work alongside my nemesis.Whoknew– maybe, if things went well enough, we could both get what we wanted.Whateverthat was inTeddy’scase.
The strimmer died suddenly with a mechanical whine, just asI’dtamed the last stretch of bramble.Istood there, winded, looking over the surprisingly clean linesI’dcarved out along the paths.Myhands were vibrating with that weird post-power tool numbness that made it feel likeI’dborrowed someone else’s body for the day.Idumped the gear back in the barn and plugged the battery back in, rinsed my face at the hosepipe now that the rain had stopped, and made a slow victory lap to findTeddyand show off my handiwork.
I caught a glimpse of movement up ahead– the flash of white mesh against the grey sky; the top ofTeddy’shead in her bee veil as she knelt near the apiary.
I came up behind her, careful not to crunch any gravel asIdid.Shewas crouched low, elbows on her knees, hands cupped and still.Icould see a little dark blur moving in her palm– a bee,Iassumed, but it wasn’t moving right;Icould tell that even from here.Igot as close asIdared, just a few feet behind her, then took out my phone and zoomed in with my phone’s camera to get a better look.Oneof the bee’s wings was bent at a bad angle, and it sort of shuddered in place, legs splaying like it had forgotten how to stand.
Teddy was talking to it.Notin a weird baby-talk voice, but calm and low, like she was convincing a child to breathe through a panic attack.
“It’s okay,” she was saying. “It’sjust the rain.You’llget there.That’sit.”
After a minute,Teddylooked up and saw me.
“What’s wrong with the little guy?”Iasked quietly.
“Probably ran into something.Theyget dopey after bad weather.”Shegestured for me to come closer. “Youever nursed a bee back to health?”
