The Hive (29 page)

“WHICH POEM, CELEBRATING THE BEAUTY OF ENGLAND, WAS WRITTEN IN AND ABOUT STOKE POGES?”

She watched him write its title, in his long, loose script, with her best Cherry Red. Until her hair fell across her face and she could no longer see the page. She needed to raise her hand, hook it back around her ear, but she knew that if she did that her closeness to him would be lost, that physical connection would be broken. And she wasn’t sure that she could bear it. And then, very carefully, he laid down the crayon. And he turned towards her. His fingers were tender as they felt for the wayward strand, brushed it over her shoulder and smoothed it down her back.

“Geeks seemed to have got that one,” Georgie reported from her lookout.

“IN WHICH FICTIONAL TOWN DOES INSPECTOR WEXFORD FIGHT CRIME?”

Rachel moved even closer as she softly told Tom that which he already knew. His foot brushed hers, moved on; and she wanted to call to it: Stop. Come back. But then she felt it. Coming back again anyway. Of its own free will. Traveling slowly, tantalizin
gly
, around the back of her shoe, and settling just there, between her legs. She stifled a gasp. She was blushing, she knew she was blushing. Had anybody noticed? Did she care?

“WHAT WAS THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF THE BRONTË BROTHER?”

Of course. Some things were simply beyond words.

“WHICH SHOP HAD ITS PREMISES IN PORTSMOUTH STREET, KINGSWAY?”

They were now at that rare, exquisite point—in a literature round, in a quiz, in an evening, in a lifetime—when the mundane becomes the sublime. When a relationship suddenly takes flight, transcending all ordinary expression, and hands over the controls to just the skin, the nerve endings, the meeting of minds. When communication needs to be nothing more than a look…

“Get in,” said Georgie.

“WHAT WAS INSCRIBED ON THE BROOCH WORN BY CHAUCER’S PRIORESS?”

…a touch…

“Oh yes,” said Georgie.

“IN
THE END OF THE AFFAIR,
AT WHICH RESTAURANT DO THE LOVERS SHARE FRIED ONIONS?”

…or a smile.

“Yessss.”

“WHAT, IN FULL, IS THE LAST LINE OF THE NOVEL
JANE EYRE
?”

Until they reached that moment, at the end, when neither could hold back any longer. And in that urgent, irresistible desire to give the final correct answer to the final question of the final round of the night, they both, in a single moment, fell upon the paper. Together. Triumphant. Fulfilled.

“YES!” Georgie hit the table. “YES!” She leapt to her feet. “YES. YES. YESSSSSS!”

“AND THAT,” announced Martyn Pryce, “IS THE END. CAN YOU PLEASE CHECK YOUR ANSWERS AND HAND IN YOUR SHEETS FOR THE LAST TIME.”

Rachel flung herself back into her own seat, Tom into his. She exhaled deeply. Had she even been breathing at all for the last ten minutes? She couldn’t say. Tom wrestled with his tie, undid the top button on his shirt and threw the crayon on the table. “Well.” He thrust his hands into his pockets as he stretched out his legs. “There we are. We’ve given it our best shot.”

“It felt pretty good to me,” said Rachel, blowing her hair from her face.

“Yup,” agreed Mr. Orchard Tom. “In fact, it felt amazing.”

Georgie and Jo still had their hands held high in a victory clasp. Guy and Heather were still locked in the remains of a passionate victory clinch. In the heat of the moment, Mr. Orchard had put his arm around Rachel’s shoulders in a polite victory half-hug. And Georgie noticed that, although the moment was over now, his arm was still in place.

The Outsiders’ table was swamped with well-wishers, and they would not be going home in a hurry. Mrs. Wright was delighted, Rachel’s mum was wiping away tears. Melissa, Sharon and Jasmine—thrilled themselves to have won Best Picnic—were generous in defeat. Chris, who seemed to have swapped allegiance altogether, was sitting down in Bubba’s vacant chair, gracefully receiving congratulations on behalf of the whole team. Georgie wanted to smack him.

Only Bea was separate and alone. Her geeks had scuttled off back under the stone where she had found them. Tony was drinking at another table with Colette’s latest man. Pamela was clearing the scoreboard; her back was to the room; its very set screamed her displeasure.

“I’m thinking,” announced Georgie, loud enough for Bea to hear, “victory wristbands? Something including the words ‘Outsiders’ and ‘champions.’ What do you say, team?”

Bea was blowing out her candles, but her eyebrow was raised.

“Brilliant evening,” said Chris, rising to his feet. “But I’d love to get home and see if Josh is still up. Rachel? Shall we go?”

The well-wishers melted away. Georgie, Jo and Heather watched openmouthed. There was a minute’s silence before Rachel said, “Of course.” She stood up and out of Tom Orchard’s embrace. “You must,” she said, “see the children.” Her voice was robotic, her stride slow and deliberate as she walked away from the table and out through the door.

“Excuse me?” asked Georgie. “What just happened there?”

“I don’t know,” said Jo, “but I don’t like it.”

“It’s sweet, isn’t it?” said Heather happily. “Such a great dad. So brilliant with the children now everything’s settled down. Anyway,” she was hugging herself with delight, “are we really getting wristbands, Georgie?”

“Course we’re—”

“—bloody not,” finished Jo.

“Don’t—” Georgie tried again.

“—be such an arse.”

Rachel stood at the open fridge, searching vainly for something white and sweet lurking in there that might just pass as a “nightcap,” when Chris came back down into the kitchen.

“All fast asleep,” he said.

“Yes, well, it is a school night.” She shut the fridge door again, as Chris would be going now. “Never mind. You’ll see them at the weekend.”

Chris opened it again. “What you got in here? Not much by the look of it. I thought,” he said, not to Rachel but straight into the dairy compartment, “perhaps I might stay the night? See them in the morning? They’d like that.”

“Sorry. Excuse me. But aren’t you that bloke I got divorced from the other day…”

“Well, you know.” He turned now, looking, and heading, straight at her. She had to hand it to him: there was no hint of sheepishness or shame. “There’s still something there, you know. Even now.”

“Seems a shame to waste it, you mean?”

“Ex-actly.”

“What?” She stepped forward and shut the fridge in what she hoped was a final gesture. “Like I’m a sodding pork chop?”

“Rach, Rach.” He put his hands on her hips. “You’re always too hard on yourself—” The doorbell rang. “Who’s that at this hour?”

“Another number nineteen bus, I presume.” She struggled out of his grasp and swung to the door. “Golly.” Through the peephole she could see the back of a navy linen jacket. “It is too.” She opened the door a crack. Tom Orchard turned around and looked her straight, deep in the eye. The one, small detached and sane part of her brain registered that if she flexed her knees back, hard, it did help to stop them buckling altogether, but also noticed that it did require a considerable effort.

“Hi.” He stepped forward, leaned against the doorjamb. She didn’t pull back. His face was close. Right up close. With his forefinger, he tipped her chin up towards him. She parted her lips. And Chris came into the hall.

“What sort of establishment are you running here, Rach?” He was quite jovial. “Perhaps I should think about moving back in if—” His expression changed. “Oi!”

He stuck his head over her shoulder so that the three of them were crammed against each other, like three teens in a photo booth wanting to capture the moment.

“Hang on. Hold your horses.” Chris’s face was now right in Tom’s. “Here. You. You’re the headmaster.”

“I think he already knows that, Chris.” Rachel pushed him away. “Thanks anyway.”

But Chris moved back in again. “Oh no you don’t, Mr. Chips. You don’t go around doing that kind of stuff. Not if you’re the headmaster.” He was shaking his head, jabbing the other man in the chest. Rachel ducked behind him, grabbed her bag, pulled her key off the radiator shelf. “That, matey, is way above your pay grade. That kind of behavior is off the Chips Scale.” He was shouting now. “The great British taxpayer, the decent hardworking families that live in this decent honest town, are not paying you far too much so that you can turn up on the doorstep of married women…”

Rachel reached behind Chris and lifted her jacket off a peg. “OK, you can spare us the cheap politics.” Her heart was banging against her ribs. “And actually, Chris, I’m no longer married. Remember?”

She guided Tom off her doorstep, followed him out and turned back. “Oh. And you’re right. About staying the night. You should. The kids will really appreciate it.”

She pulled the door in. Smiling, she stuck her head sideways through the crack.

“So we’ll just leave you to it. I’ll be back first thing, OK?”

And shut it in Chris’s face.

Out in the warm night, Rachel and Tom stood on the front path and looked at one another.

“So. Er. Hi.” Her giggle sounded small and awkward.

“Um. Hi.” Tom held up his right hand. “I just popped by to give you these.” He was holding her crayons. Her favorite crayons. “You left them on the table.”

Oh no, she thought. No no no. This is not happening.

“You said they were special. Otherwise, of course,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t have bothered…”

She had just walked out on the kids for some bloke who was dropping off her crayons. He wasn’t a number 19 bus. He wasn’t even in service. And she’d just gone and jumped on him anyway. Jeez Louise, she made Colette look like a nun.

“I thought you might need them in the morning.”

She felt faint. Actually, she was willing herself to faint; then she wouldn’t have to speak. Although the best course of action was, at that moment, suicide. She looked around the sparse front garden for something handy—hemlock, say, or a convenient asp.

“I hope my popping by didn’t create any—you know—issues in there.”

“Uh…”

“I mean, I’d hate to…”

She looked up at him. He was grinning.

“Hang on. Is that it? Is that the celebrated Headmaster’s Sense of Humor in action? Was that an actual, genuine Headmaster’s Funny Joke?”

He stepped forward and took her into his arms. “Glad you liked it. Was one of my better ones, I agree.”

“It was RUBBISH.” She had not been held for nearly a year. The shock of the closeness of it made her flesh feel like liquid. “You bastard.” But still, she managed to lean back a little, and hit him.

He kissed her. She had a taste of thyme. Garden mint. First strawberries. The promise of a future.

“You horrible, horrible, unfunny bastard.” She struggled in his arms, but could not have found the strength to extract herself had she wanted to. He kissed her again, for longer. She wondered if Chris was watching out of the window. She hoped he was. And that he could hear her say: “Come on. Let’s go.”

Rachel wrapped both her arms around his waist and held her own hands tightly. “But you’re still an unfunny bastard,” she grumbled into the cloth of his jacket.

“I don’t know how you can say that”—Tom’s left arm hugged her shoulders; his right hand stretched across—“after my recent triumph”—he cradled Rachel’s head towards his, kissed the top of her hair—“at the Bloody Funny Olympics.”

And with matching step, they set off down the hill towards the headmaster’s house. Joined up. Together. One solid shape against the pale summer night sky.

T
here was already warmth in the sun that poured through the gap in the ill-fitting curtains and spilled over Rachel’s face as she slept. She remonstrated with it, turned over onto her other side, stretched out her hand and realized, with a jolt, that there was no one beside her.

“Where…?” She propped herself up on one elbow, sheet over her chest, as Tom strode into the room.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He sat down on her side of the bed, kissed her on the mouth and put a mug on the bedside table.

“Blimey.” Rachel sank back onto the pillow, squinted at him through her hair. “The hour is unearthly and yet you appear to be dressed.” She took a sip of lemon-and-ginger and scowled. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Just
carp
ing the old
diem.
” He looped his tie round his neck. “A big
diem
for me, as it happens. The climax of my first year.”

“Humph.” She pouted.

He smiled as he kissed her again. “The professional climax of my first year.” He stood up. “I’ve got a speech to write so I’m going in early. Else you will get in my way.”

“Ooh. A speech. Get you. Full of the finest Headmaster’s Funny Jokes, I hope. What you going to say? Go on, give me a heads-up. I must be due some perks…”

He moved over to the chest of drawers and filled his pockets. “Well, quite a lot. About the library. And the amazing time line. Then I’ve got some announcements to make,” he mock-swaggered. “Actually.”

“Announcements?” She purred and crossed her legs beneath the sheets. “God, how sexy. Grrr. I love announcements.”

“Yes. About the new head boy and the new head girl.”

“Poppy, obviously.” She took another sip of tea. “I mean, what do you think I’ve been doing here? Not wasting my time, I trust.”

“Wow. Was that your idea of a Parent’s Funny Joke?” He whistled as he pulled a comb through his hair. “’Cause you are one sick, nasty—”

“Yeah. True. Everyone knows it’s going to be Scarlett.”

“Does everyone? And does everyone know who the new school secretary is too?”

“OMG. Not a new school secretary! It’s more than a body can bear. Tell me. Tell me. Before I simply burst,” she begged in her Southern-belle voice. “Headmaster. Please. Who is the new school secretary?”

“Nope.” He blew her a kiss. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

She listened to him clatter down the stairs, slam the front door and beat a retreat along the pavement. Then she smiled, stretched and soaked up the happy silence. Funny, she thought to herself as she finished her tea, that she used to dread Wednesday nights and every other weekend. Because she really rather loved them now.

Rachel turned the corner into Mead Avenue with a steady, thumping tread. It was all downhill from here to home. There was time for a shower and a bit more work before going into school for the big
diem.
She smiled at the thought of Tom—it was hard not to smile whenever she thought of Tom—as she breathed sharply in and puffed out-out-out. Almost immediately, she heard the hedge trimmer’s whine. Were they never silent, the trimmers of Mead Avenue? They ripped at the air around them like guns at the Somme. Did they never rest? Was there never a moment when the poor shrubs of the avenue were not being trumm? Breathe in and out-out-out…

Melissa’s place was just coming up on the left. And it sounded like it might be her trimmer, at it again…Rachel rounded the bend, and even as she did so the last stretch of Leylandii in the front of that garden fell down and away. The noise stopped. The pretty stone house was revealed, and in front of it, waving the wretched saw, wearing the ear mufflers, were Sharon and Jasmine.

“Hi, Rachel,” called one.

“The Gardening Biz in action!” trilled another.

“Out training for the mothers’ race?”

“Christ, no!” puffed Rachel, jogging on the spot. “Just out for a run!” Although, now she thought about it, she didn’t usually go out for a run. “Perfectly ordinary run!” Hadn’t for years. “Course I’m not in training!”

Melissa came walking down the lawn. “Wowser! That is
so
much better,” she cried, delighted. “Thank you, girls. Finally! Now I feel that I’m actually part of the neighborhood at last.”

“You’re so welcome,” said one.

“A pleasure,” sang the other.

They both put down their gardening clobber and took off their gloves.

“Now, what”

“can we get you?”

“That’s very kind.” Melissa pushed her hands into her pockets and smiled. “I’d love a coffee.”

Georgie stood in her spot, on the other side of the green fence, rhythmically rocking Hamish in his buggy. She could see the playground clearly enough, and the sheds that were now the library. So she would just stay and watch proceedings from here. The children were all being led out now by their teachers, already in their red shorts, white polo shirts, trainers and sun hats. They were so excited for Sports Day, she couldn’t see how they were going to contain themselves through an outdoor assembly with all their mums and dads, the governors, the vicar, the mayor…But she rather hoped, at least for nice Tom Orchard’s sake, that they did.

“So not actually smoking, but still stuck out here in your smoking spot…” said a voice at her elbow.

“Huh? Oh. You again.” Georgie had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed Melissa landing behind her. “Yeah. I’m here. And it’s deeply significant. Something to do with my mum? And the potty? In that sort of area, certainly.” Why was she being like this? She was in therapy for most of her twenties. “But mostly because Hamish here needs a nap.”

The ceremony was about to start. Mr. Orchard was taking to the microphone. Georgie waited for Melissa to glide off and join in. But she didn’t.

“Hmm. I know Hamish and his powers of sleep. He won’t be waking up in a hurry.”

The speeches were beginning. But Melissa still didn’t budge.

“Such a friendly school,” she murmured, looking on. “One big happy family.”

Georgie scoffed.

Melissa carried on. “Such nice people.”

“Yeah. OK,” Georgie conceded. “Individually they’re all right. Most of them. Few notable exceptions.”

“Not collectively?” That was Melissa’s vague, thinking-aloud voice.

“Yeah, small groups. Little cells. Split up. Subdivisions. Perfect.”

“But not all together?” she murmured. “The whole community?”

“All together?” Georgie cracked. “All together? Looking at them from the outside like this? That huge teeming mass of them? Christ, no. They’re bloody terrifying!”

“Then perhaps you should change your angle? Why not try looking out from the inside instead?” And before she knew what was happening, Melissa’s right hand was cupped around her elbow, her left taking the handle of the buggy. “Come on.” And she was speaking so softly, it was almost a hum. “Come on.” Together they moved across the tarmac. “Let’s go in.” And found places in the center of the crowd.

Quite how Mr. Orchard had come up with such a generous speech about the grumpy secretary, Heather did not know. Nor was she sure how he had raised enough money to get that lovely bench the children were presenting to her. He was such a nice guy he probably ended up buying it himself.

And here it comes, she thought. My big moment. Oh dear. It’s bound to go wrong.

“…and next year, there will be a new friendly face to greet you in the office.”

Heather had been to the Serenity Whatsit Spa this morning and was looking all groomed—threaded, tinted, waxed. But she was still so nervous. What if no one wanted her? Or something stole her thunder?

“After reviewing a great number of applicants…”

That was always happening—people stealing her thunder.

“…and giving it enormous consideration…”

Heather had never enjoyed a moment’s thunder in her life before someone or other came along and nicked it. Guy, beside her, sought out her hand and squeezed it.

“I am delighted to announce that Heather Carpenter has agreed to come and join us.”

And then, suddenly, everybody was clapping. And Rachel was cheering. Jo was wolf-whistling. Georgie was laughing, looking amazed. Heather didn’t think she had ever amazed Georgie before ever—at least, not in a good way. And she could see Maisie, in the Year 5 row, getting patted on the back and beaming and proud. And then she saw that the whole school was smiling at her. At last. This was it. Right here, right now, in the school, in the sunshine: her thunder. And it was going on and on and on.

“Very good news indeed,” resumed Mr. Orchard, back at the microphone. “And one last matter to attend to. This morning the staff had a meeting, before you even turned up to school. Lazy lot.” The children giggled. “Don’t worry, we know where you were: down on Bikini Bottom with SpongeBob SquarePants.” They laughed, hysterically. “And we talked about who we think should be our head boy and head girl next year.”

Heather switched off for a bit. Guy still had her hand in his, he hadn’t let go. She felt so safe, with him holding on to her like that, surrounded by her friends. Gosh, she thought, for the first time in years or possibly the first time ever: I’m so lucky.

“…we would like to ask Felix Spencer to be our head boy…”

Oh, that’s Melissa’s Felix. Heather approved of that. Lovely lad. A good balance to Scarlett, who might well be trouble…

“…and Maisie Carpenter to be our head girl.”

Maisie Carpenter? Was there another Maisie Carpenter? Which Maisie Carpenter?
OUR MAISIE CARPENTER?
And now everyone was cheering Maisie, and all the parents were looking at Heather again. And Guy. At Guy and Heather and Maisie. The three of them: they suddenly seemed to be in the very middle of the whole school.

“…before the vicar opens the new library building, let us all sing together number one-four-eight-three in your
Songs of Fellowship:
‘One More Step Along the World I Go.’”

Oh, thought Heather, panicking. Typical. Then the music started up on the portable electric piano, and the children stood up and shared their hymnbooks. And Maisie looked straight at her, grinning, before she started to sing. And Heather realized that, actually, she was OK.

She looked around her, at the families she would be dealing with day in, day out, in the next school year. And the staff she would be working for. The letters she would be typing, the reports she would be sending…Ooh. Her heart gave a bounce of joy. Reports! Would she get a sneaky look at them all first? And she thought, too, of the little ones who weren’t with them yet. Who were probably pottering about in a paddling pool somewhere, or snuggled down to an afternoon nap, but who in September would be putting on their scratchy uniforms and their stiff new shoes and coming to join them. They would all need Heather too, at some point, for something or other—little or big.

And, Yes, she thought, as they launched once more into the chorus. Carry on. Sing up. I can take it. It doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

So Mr. Orchard’s announcements were quite something, after all. You could say that on the small scale, in the limited scope, of this primary school they amounted to a revolution. Grr, Rachel thought to herself. I do love announcements.

She scanned the people around her as they sang. There was Heather, looking neither tragic nor mousey, but perfectly radiant. It was nothing short of a metamorphosis, what had happened to her this afternoon. Then her eyes found Georgie, uncharacteristically in the middle of things. And Jo, sticking close by, looking so much better. Not recovered, obviously—could one recover?—but she was better, definitely. And she looked comfortable here, safe in these numbers.

The crowd was large now: more parents had arrived. And dense—​everyone had to squash in together. It’s funny, thought Rachel: we’re all such quiet people, really. The adults and the children: well-mannered, nicely behaved, ordinary people leading quiet, polite, orderly lives. And yet we sound so strong out here this afternoon. Singing the same words, side by side. In the playground opened a century ago by the last Prince of Wales, standing on the very spot where Mr. Stanley spoke to the whole school, right where the old bomb shelters used to be. She turned her face towards the seasonally warm sun and watched an airplane draw a perfect curve upon the summer sky. They must be able to see us from up there, she thought: we’re such a solid mass of individuals, all doing the same thing and on the same side. Bound together by the same roots. They could hardly miss us. We’re quite a force to be reckoned with.

“There are two things I love about our new library. The first is: it’s got books in it.”

The children roared in uncontrollable mirth.

“And the second: every single person here contributed in some small way to making it happen. This really is our library. And that makes it one very special place. Now, there is a plaque in there, with a quote on it in Latin, which Freddie will translate for you”—he clicked his fingers—“in an instant.”

They all, Freddie included, roared again, even louder. Bubba was struggling to keep up. One could really do with subtitles when Mr. Orchard got going with the children.

“And our chair of governors—a very important lady—is going to unveil that for us now. Unfortunately, our library is a very small place as well as a special one, so we can’t all get in there at once. Just for the unveiling, I wonder if the governors and the committee would come through first.”

Bubba wished she hadn’t worn such a big hat for two reasons: the first was that nobody else was wearing one, and the second was that it was slightly too big to get through the library door. She ducked her way in, just behind Bea, in front of Colette, and was still busy cursing her sartorial decisions—so rarely did it happen, that Bubba did hate getting things wrong—when she stopped, looked up and registered what was around her.