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“Of course, that’ll be a real draw. Hedge is a real authority,” Myles says. “Now, what do you want to call the shop?”
I haven’t even thought about that. Of course, we need a name. “I don’t know,” I admit
“How about we just call it the Honey Shop for now because we need to make the printing deadline,” he says.
“Okay, then finish with something like: Come and see if you can guess your favourite flavour. Games and Prizes.”
“Sounds incredible,” Myles says enthusiastically. “Can I come?”
“You can be the guest of honour.” I laugh, forgetting my fear for a moment, but when he hangs up, I feel very scared and very alone.
Don’t think.
Work, don’t scare yourself stupid.
First things first, I rip out the dirty carpet. Then I wish I hadn’t because the underlying floorboards are in a terrible state. Mismatched, different shades of wood, all of them are rough and in dire need of sanding and polishing.
Work. Don’t think.
With a playlist for company, I get on my hands and knees to rub the floor with sandpaper and try not to think about the other essential things I need.
By one o’clock, Granddad needs his lunch, and my knees are starting to scream at me. So, I take a break.
He’s in his chair by the window. The sun streaming in makes his white hair shine. The nurse came last night and gave him another bath. Despite all my worry, the fact that Grandad finally has some decent personal care is a real blessing. Nurse Ann, a no-nonsense Irish woman in her fifties, won my grandfather’s trust because she’s plain speaking and doesn’t mollycoddle him. We both look forward to her visits: him because they can gossip about people I don’t know; I, because of the basket of wonderful foods she brings with her, fresh bread, delicious pies, and pastries baked in the Du Montfort kitchen.
I open the fridge and take out the game pie she brought yesterday; thank God, because who has time to go shopping and cooking today? I slide it into the oven and have to shut the little door repeatedly until it catches. The AGA is another thing that needs replacing in the house.
“Elodie?” Grandad yawns. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“Nah. I was just bored. Nothing good on the radio.”
“Lunch should be ready soon, in the meantime, how would you like to help me label the jars?”
He cups a hand to his ear. “I’m not able what?”
“LABEL the honey,” I repeat louder. “I don’t know which is which?”
“Why?”
“Because, unlike you, I can’t tell just by looking.”
He doesn’t see the point, but he agrees. Armed with a fat marker pen, I drag in one cardboard box after another. He only has to glance inside to name the honey. Very occasionally he double checks by unscrewing the lid and dipping a clean spoon to taste. But it always turns out he was right. He might be forgetful and hard of hearing, but when it comes to honey, Grandad is razor-sharp.
Unlike me who starts to lose track very quickly. “Canada Thistle,” I write on the side of the umpteenth box.
“Holy!” he corrects me. “Holy Thistle. It’s darker.”
“I thought that was the Blue Sage that’s darker.”
He scowls at me. “Blue Sage honey is much darker than this, it’s almost black.”
How am I going to know what’s what in three days if I can’t even get it straight in my own head after thirty minutes? To be fair to my poor over-stuffed head, it is also trying to count the jobs needed before the shop can open. It’s one thing labelling the boxes, but once the jars are out of the box, they all look the same to my ignorant eyes.
The solution, or at least one solution, comes to me a little later when Doris arrives.
“Help?” She tugs on her ponytail. She’s wearing a forest-green ribbon in her hair today. Doris loves ribbons; she has a different one every time I see her.
