Forget Me Not (20 page)

‘I’d never do that,’ I said as I put down the magazine. ‘I’ve just been too busy to come.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ She put her head on one side as she assessed me. ‘But you need a good trim, poppet.’

‘I need a vigorous prune. Could you layer it?’

‘Sure.’ She weighed the hair in her hands. ‘It’ll give it more body.’

‘That’s just what it needs – it’s positively anorexic.’

‘It’s very fine,’ she corrected me as she wrapped me in a shiny black gown. ‘So how’ve you been?’ she asked as she led me past the other clients to the row of white basins.

‘I’ve been OK, thanks. In fact, good.’

‘The business is going well then?’ I put my head back as she began washing my hair. ‘You were great on GMTV by the way. Now I know where to stick my polyanthus!’ She giggled. ‘Will you be on it again?’

‘Yes – in June.’ I enjoyed the soothing flood of warm water on my hairline. ‘They’ve asked me to do it every three months.’

‘So how did that come about?’

‘The producer phoned my old tutor for some recommendations and he kindly suggested me.’

Sandra began to work the shampoo into my scalp and I sighed with relief as my stress flooded away beneath her strong fingertips.

‘So you’re busy, then.’

‘I am. I’ve got a big project on in The Boltons.’

‘Very fancy …’

‘Then I’ve got two small courtyard gardens to do as well.’

‘Final rinse now. And how’s Milly?’ she asked as we walked over to the mirror.

‘She’s good, thanks.’ I rubbed a drip of water out of my ear. ‘She’s just started at Sweet Peas.’

‘And what about you?’ Sandra asked as she combed my wet hair. ‘Have you met anyone yet?’ I looked into the mirror and Sandra wagged the comb at me in an admonitory manner. ‘Baby or not, you’ve a right to a life.’ Sandra, having been a single mother to her daughter Lydia, now sixteen, likes to give me the benefit of her experience as a lone parent.

‘Well …’ I hesitated for a moment, because I know that Sandra can be a gossip. On the other hand I had nothing to hide. Why shouldn’t I tell her about Patrick? I reasoned. I felt myself slip into confessional mode. ‘There
is
someone, actually.’ I looked into the mirror. ‘In fact, I’ve got a date tonight.’

Sandra smiled at me. ‘Good.’ She pulled up a section of hair, flipped the ends over the comb, then snipped across them with the tips of her scissors. ‘So tell me about him.’

‘Well,’ I began as one of the trainees brought me a cup of coffee. ‘He’s polite, decent, handsome and enterprising.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘I haven’t known him that long but I like him,’ I said happily.

‘I’m delighted,’ Sandra said as the ducktails of damp hair fell to the floor. ‘So how did you meet him?’ I told her about the episode with Milly’s shoe. ‘Very romantic,’ she said approvingly. Then I told her what had happened at the church fund-raiser. ‘Even more romantic,’ she said. ‘It was fate.’

‘Er, no,’ I said, giggling. ‘Because I then discovered that he’d manipulated fate by buying nearly all the tickets.’

‘Wow! Well, he’s clearly smitten – and he must be well off. What does he do?’

‘Not that much at the moment – he sold his Internet company last year and is looking for a new project. He loves gardening, though,’ I went on. ‘So that’s something we have in common. Plus he keeps bees.’

Sandra stopped cutting. ‘Bees?’ she echoed, looking at me in the mirror.

‘Yes – he’s got three hives in his garden.’

‘And where does he live?’

‘In St Peter’s Square.’

‘And he lived in Brook Green before that? In Caithness Road?’

‘How do you know?’ I looked at her, but this time she didn’t meet my gaze.

‘You’re talking about Patrick Gilchrist,’ she said as she carried on snipping.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. Do you know him?’

‘Not … well.’ She combed up another section of hair. ‘But I knew his ex.’

‘Oh.’ I wished I’d followed my instincts and kept quiet. ‘How?’

‘She was a customer of mine for the four years that she was with him. I still get the occasional e-mail from her. She’s nice.’

‘Really? To be honest I don’t think it’s nice to take your child to live in New Zealand when the father of your child lives in the UK.’

‘Well… it doesn’t look good,’ Sandra agreed. ‘But then from her point of view,’ she murmured. ‘She had her… reasons … I don’t know …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Anyway,’ I said, trying to wrest the conversation back to a more comfortable footing. ‘I haven’t known Patrick that long, but he’s very attractive.’

‘Oh yes,’ she interrupted. ‘And he’s certainly charming.’

‘And he’s nice,’ I said conclusively. ‘I have a good feeling about him.’

‘Could you put your head up, please?’ Sandra said.

‘Can you come a bit earlier so that I can show you the bees?’ Patrick asked me over the phone as I walked back home. ‘Say at half past five?’

‘OK. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.’

‘Bring your wellies and wear trousers, preferably in a light colour, a long-sleeved top, ditto – and whatever you do, don’t wear perfume, hairspray, wool, or chew garlic. Got that?’

‘Got it,’ I said, disappointed not to be able to wear the slinky cashmere dress I’d had in mind. Plus I’d have to wash my hair again, because of the spray.

As I opened the front door, I heard singing.

‘
Las ruedas del autobús giran i giran, giran i giran, giran
i giran
…’ Luisa and Milly were oblivious to me as I stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘
Las ruedas del autobús giran i giran
– TODO el DÍA!! Los bebés del autobús
…’

‘LUISA!’ I yelled. They stopped singing, Milly turned round and ran up to me for a kiss.

‘Hi, my little girlie! I’ll be leaving at five,’ I told Luisa as I put on the kettle. ‘But I’ll be back by ten.’

‘Iss fine.’

‘You look nice,’ I added, with an admiring glance at her oyster-pink silk shirt. ‘Is it new?’

Luisa seemed to blush. ‘Yes.’

I got the milk out of the fridge. ‘By the way, Luisa, I did ask you not to give Milly any more presents – the music box is lovely, but it must have cost at least twenty pounds.’

‘Oh, but Milly – she see it in shop – she like it bery much. I gib it her for Easter.’

‘But you really mustn’t buy her things. In any case I’m sure you don’t have enough money,’ I added disingenuously. ‘Not on seventy pounds a week.’

Luisa blushed again. ‘Iss … OK, Anna.’

‘Well, I’d like to pay you for it,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel that it’s right.’

‘No, you
no
pay,’ Luisa insisted. ‘I
lob
Milly.’ Her big brown eyes were suddenly shining. ‘And it make Milly happy so
my
happy.’

‘Well,’ I sighed. ‘That’s very kind of you, but please don’t buy her anything else. And if you’re ever short of money I’ll try and help you, OK?’

‘Oh … but I hab enough. You bery kind at me, Anna,’ she added, guiltily I thought, as I went upstairs for my shower.

When I arrived at Patrick’s house he kissed me on the cheek and I felt a sudden charge at his touch. The last man I’d slept with had been Xan. In the intervening years I’d been too protective of Milly, too busy and too sad about Xan to forge a new relationship. But now, like Patrick’s wintering bees, I felt ready to emerge.

‘I’ve been inspecting the hives this afternoon,’ he said as he showed me in. ‘I’ve left the third one until now as I thought you might find it interesting to see them.’

‘I would,’ I said anxiously. ‘As long as they don’t sting me.’

‘I can honestly say that not a single visitor, friend, or neighbour has ever been stung by one of my bees.’

‘Have you?’ I asked as we went into the kitchen.

‘Of course – it happens maybe three or four times a year, but usually as a result of my own carelessness. Now we’ll need to get togged up,’ he said as he opened the back door.

On the terrace he put on some white overalls and a pair of rubber gloves into which he tucked his cuffs, then he stepped into his gumboots. ‘You need to have everything well inside,’ he explained, ‘so they can’t get into your clothing.’ I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought. ‘Now,’ he said as I tucked my white trousers inside my green wellies and stuffed my cotton jumper into the waistband. ‘I’ve got this half-suit for you. Here …’ I put it on, then he passed me the beekeeper’s hat. As I looked at him through the veil, I felt like a bride. He zipped it all the way round the shoulders, tucked my sleeves into my gloves, then looked at me appraisingly, turning me round to check that everything was covered. ‘Good … you’re bee-proof.’ Now he put on his own hat, zipped it up, then picked up his toolbox and smoker. ‘Let’s go. If a bee does land on you, don’t swat at it – it’s only investigating.’

‘What do you actually do with the hives?’ I asked as we walked to the end of the garden. The
Magnolia grandiflora
was in full, waxy, pink flower, along with the
Kerria japonica
with its exuberant sprays of apricot pom-poms. The apple trees were creamy with blossom.

‘At this time of year it’s basic hygiene and spring cleaning – brushing out any dead bees and checking for mites or disease. I also give them a spray of sugar syrup to get them going after the winter as their store of honey has almost gone.’

He stopped by a wooden trestle table, where he stuffed the smoker with shredded paper and coarse string, then put a match to it. ‘Now,’ he said as the air filled with an acrid aroma. ‘It’s best if you sit on the bench while I open up the hives – I’ll call you over when there’s something to see.’

As I retreated, Patrick puffed the smoker into the entrance.

‘What does that do?’

‘It calms them because it makes them think that there’s a fire somewhere, which makes them prepare to leave – but first they go and eat some honey to give them energy.’

‘How odd. If I thought there was a fire in the vicinity, I don’t think I’d stop to make myself a sandwich.’

‘Well, bees move in mysterious ways.’ Patrick now lifted off the top of the hive – it seemed to require some effort – then, with a flat steel tool, he removed the inner wooden tray. ‘These trays are called supers,’ he said. ‘Inside them are a number of frames’ – he gently prised one out with a cracking sound – ‘which is where the honey’s made. How are you doing over there?’

‘OK,’ I said anxiously. The air was vibrant with angry buzzing. ‘But you’ve got a swarm of bees round your head.’ It looked like a black halo.

‘Oh – they’re just a bit pissed off because I’ve disturbed them. Cut it out, ladies!’ he said, as they flew at his veil like tiny Spitfires. ‘It’s only me, girls!’

‘Are they female, then?’

‘Yes. The drones – they’re the males – make up only ten per cent of the hive and their sole job is to mate with the queen. After they’ve done that they’re kicked out of the hive, with their wings pulled off. I know how they feel,’ he added with mock bitterness.

A few bees began to fly close to my head. ‘Oooooh,’ I moaned as they dive-bombed my veil. ‘Uuhhhh.’ More and more seemed to have appeared, flying straight at me, bombarding me, buzzing angrily in my ear, crawling over my sleeves, making my flesh creep. I tried to shake them off. ‘Oh God …’ I whimpered, my pulse racing. I flapped my hand at them, but back they came. I couldn’t bear it. I stood up and walked away.

‘Keep STILL!’ Patrick yelled. ‘DON’T walk about like that! Sorry,’ he added. ‘I … didn’t mean … to shout. But please don’t make any sudden moves or they might sting you through the veil.’ I decided that beekeeping wasn’t for me. ‘They’re simply curious,’ he added, soothingly now, as I tentatively sat down again, my heart still beating wildly. ‘They want to know all about you – just like I do.’

I began to feel calmer. The bees, perhaps sensing this, seemed to retreat.

‘Don’t your neighbours mind you keeping bees next door to them?’ I asked after a few moments.

‘It’s been fine,’ he said. ‘The main thing is to place the hives next to a fence or a tree so that they’re forced to fly straight up when they leave. It’s also important to give them a water supply’ – he nodded at the pond – ‘so that they don’t go looking for it in other gardens. Plus I don’t open the hives at weekends and I give my neighbours honey – that always goes down well on the PR front.’

‘Can I confess something?’

‘Yes – as long as it’s not that you’re seeing someone.’

‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I’m not. But … the thing is I don’t … really … like honey.’

He turned and looked at me. ‘Why not? It’s the food of the gods!’

‘Becau-se … I just don’t. Sorry. I never have.’

‘Oh dear – you might like my honey, though, if I’m not flattering myself. You could come and help me extract it later in the summer. Now, come and have a look.’ I hung back for a moment. ‘Come on,’ he added coaxingly. ‘They won’t hurt you.’

I stepped forward and peered nervously into the hive. Several hundred bees crawled over a large honeycomb, buzzing loudly.

‘
Apis melifera melifera
,’ Patrick said. ‘At home. These are the workers,’ he explained. ‘They flog themselves to death in three weeks, poor little things, collecting nectar from dawn to dusk.’

‘How far do they go?’

‘About three miles. Could you puff the smoker for me? They visit six hundred flowers a day. It takes a million flowers to make just one pot of honey. Now, look at those ones down there.’

I peered at the front of the hive where three or four bees were standing at the entrance, their abdomens raised, beating the air with their wings.

‘What are they doing? Mooning?’

‘They’re sending out a scent, fanning it on to the air, to tell the other bees to rush back and help them guard the hive.’

‘Don’t bees dance?’

‘Yes – they do a waggle dance – a shivering side-to-side motion – and the number of times it’s repeated, its direction and the sound the bee makes all communicate precisely where the pollen is.’

‘How brilliant.’

‘Bees are. Brilliant and industrious. An example to us all.’

Now Patrick sprayed the frame with sugar syrup, slid it back into the super, then pulled out the next one. ‘Ah. There she is,’ he said happily. ‘HM The Queen. Don’t worry – you don’t have to curtsy.’ I peered at her. She was a good two inches long – and surrounded by attendants. ‘Good,’ Patrick murmured. ‘She’s fine. She’s survived the winter and has started laying.’ He lifted the frame up to the light. ‘Can you see the tiny egg in each cell? At the moment she lays about two hundred a day, but by June it’ll be two thousand a day.’