AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thank God, this plateau has been cleared; the ground under and around the hives is hard packed. I scuff my boots to clear some of the caked mud; to my surprise the earth rubs away to reveal stone paving. It looks very old, as if it’s been here for centuries.
Doris studies me from head to foot then points to the gap between my jacket collar and my hood. I pull it up and make sure the net veil is secure around my face before we approach the hives.
If I thought taking on Grandad’s shop was just about selling, the internet put me right very quickly. Our new telephone line and Wi-Fi router that Myles promised were installed yesterday morning. That’s fast; even the paid premium service Andrew had installed in our apartment in Manchester took a week. Something tells me it was Myles pushing on my behalf. Thanks to him, my phone and I spent most of yesterday reading about beekeeping, honey harvesting, and a million other things. I am determined to arm myself with knowledge, so I don’t make mistakes. If the new honey shop is going to be a success, I must learn all I can about my new business. After a night of reading a hundred beekeeping facts, the only thing I learnt is how ignorant I am. So, this morning I took Grandad’s offer to let Doris show me the hives.
Doris loves everything about this forest of deadly thorns, she points out plants the way schoolgirls point out their favourite pop idols. I have to remind myself she’s nearly forty. “Hawthorn.” She indicates one side of the path then lays a careful hand on a tangle of bare twigs and small orange berries. “Orange glow.” A little further down, on the edge of the plateau, the tangled branches have purple-black berries and vicious spines long enough to pierce right through my gloves. But Doris doesn’t seem worried, she actually goes right up to them to pull away a curling bindweed. “Sloe,” she says.
“Sloe, as in gin?” I ask.
“Sloe,” Doris repeats. Now she’s a bit more relaxed around me, she does speak but mostly in single words or short truncated phrases as if she’s recovering from a speech disorder.
“They’re a bit scary,” I tell her, keeping a healthy distance.
Doris looks almost offended, as if I’ve insulted her. “Wait,” she says. “End o’ February. March…” She smiles and waves her arms around in wide circles. “Flowers. Flowers.” For a minute she looks happy and carefree. She may not speak much but her dreamy face tells me to expect a magical transformation here, and I start to really look forward to spring.
We check the hives; there are three of them on this plateau, wooden boxes like chests of drawers on legs. Doris lifts the lid off the first one very gently. A few bees fly around, but when I approach, she holds a hand up to stop me.
“If you’re nervous, you make the bees nervous.”
It’s the longest sentence I’ve heard her speak. In fact, working with bees seems to have taken her out of herself and washed away her awkwardness. Now, she explains how the bees bring nectar and fill the cells; she shows me how to lift the frames and inspect the combs and how to check if they’re ready for harvesting.
I write all this down in my notebook and video some of her demonstrations with my phone. They’ll be good to watch later to make sure the information sticks.
“So, all this is honey from the sloe berries?” It looks like a lot of honey to me; each hive has three levels, and each level seems to hold about ten frames for the combs.
“No. Mixed with Hawthorn and Orange Glow. It makes the taste better.” She closes the final hive and leads me way down the hill.
All in all, we visit eleven locations, making a total of twenty-nine hives. I’m hopeless with measurements like acres and furlongs, but we’ve been walking for hours in all directions. There are no boundaries to partition the hill, and I doubt the bees would respect anything as simple as a fence. “Do the bees ever fly up to the houses on the lane and sting people?”
Doris gives me an incredulous look as if I’ve asked if bees also dress up in tuxedos and attend gala dinners. “Catcher Hill is very special. These flowers don’t grow anywhere else in the world.” She says this with such conviction, I fight to keep a straight face.
“But surely hawthorn and orange glow are not unique, they grow in England too,” I can’t help pointing out, hoping this doesn’t offend her.
“Not the same,” is all she says, climbing down a particularly steep footpath.
How can she walk so fast? The footing is treacherous, and I keep sliding. Sure enough, before long, I stumble and land on my knees.
“Owww!” There are prickly weeds on the ground, and they get through my trousers like needles.
Doris, all concern, rushes over and bends down – not to check on my bleeding knee but on the broken stems. “Not weeds! Canada thistle.”
“What’s it doing in the English Channel?” I snap. “Don’t tell me the bees eat this too?” I am tired and my hands are scratched and bleeding.
Her eyes widen at my ignorance. “Of course, thistle honey is the best.”
I supress a sigh and find a tissue to wipe the blood from my hands. Then, reminding myself this is important, I take out my phone yet again to snap a picture of the lilac and green thistle and write the explanation in my notebook. Please let this be the end of the tour because I’m running out of pages. Who knew there was so much to learn about weeds and brambles? My brain, like my notebook, has run out of empty space.
It’s one thing to arm myself with knowledge, another to take on a mountain of facts. And every fact is like a bush with branches all tangled up with other facts. The job suddenly looks impossible. Have I made the right decision taking this on?
Maybe my brother’s idea was better, advertising for someone with experience in beekeeping? Or at least someone who knows how to run a business.
It’s a different person who trudges back up the hill and drags her weary legs and wilting soul into the house. I’m deeply grateful for Doris’s silence; my self-doubt is loud enough. In the kitchen, Grandad is dozing in his chair by the AGA. It gives me a little time before dinner. Time which I put to good use by dropping into a chair and laying my head over my folded arms on the table.
A little later, a gentle hand pats my shoulder.
Doris slides a mug of steaming tea in front of me. She waits for me to drink half of it before offering me a small plate with a pool of pale honey in the middle. “Thistle honey.”
My painful knee and scrapped hands wake up and remind me of the hateful weed. She looks at me, her face eager; it makes it impossible to disappoint her. So, I take the spoon she offers me, dip it in the honey and take a taste.
