Page 1 of The Beekeeper's Cottage
Prologue
Grace’s mother always joked that she should have christened her Grace Anne Decorum, not plain Grace Anne Jones as she was back then. It was a teasing reminder that a high-spirited child like her should practise Grace And Decorum at all times… or at least whenever possible. Now she was much older, Grace often wondered if this mantra was her mother’s way of helping her cope with all the blows that life had dealt her. She hoped so; Grace needed all the help she could get.
Her mother had taught her many things as a child: how to laugh, how to sit still for hours watching the baby rabbits on the lawn, how to creep out on a bright frosty morning to see the miracle of cobwebs in the hedgerow, the same hedgerows that a few months earlier had yielded bursting blackberries for her taste buds to explore. She’d taught her how to love hot buttered crumpets by the fire, and the feel of the wind in her hair, the tang of salt from the sea on her skin and the gentle caress of the sun-warmed air. Above all, she had taught Grace how to value each and every thing in her life, because one day they might not be there. Her mother had died when Grace was only twenty-two, and so many years had gone by now, some days it was a real struggle to remember her at all.
Not today though. Today, Grace could see her mother everywhere in the garden; in the tall Michaelmas daisies whose friendly heads bent gently in the breeze, in the tumble of leaves playing joyously along the patio, and in the air itself which enfolded her with the kindest of touches. And she was glad, because today she really needed her mother’s help. She needed someone to remind her what was important in her life.
Grace was sitting in her favourite spot, just under the apple tree, on a bench that had seen better days but which was still the most comfortable place to sit. With a cup of tea and a biscuit with her for moral support, she contemplated her options, although, in truth, there was only one. A friendly robin came to join her momentarily, and she wondered if it was these little things that she would remember most about this day in time to come, or whether they would pale under the enormity of what she was about to do.
Fortunately, she didn’t have too long to wait, and the sound of tyres on gravel soon cut through her thoughts. She drained the last of her tea and, rising, brushed the crumbs from her skirt. Then she began to walk slowly back inside the house where she would greet her husband and bring an end to their thirty-two years of marriage.
1
Amos clutched the loaf of bread to his chest with one hand, savouring its smell. In the other hand he lightly swung a carrier bag, trying not to snag it on the roses that lined the pathway from the village shop. Their scent was heady this late in the day, and he breathed it in, feeling the same sense of peace and contentment that had drawn him to the village in the first place. Finding the little shop had been a pleasant surprise, but discovering it was open until eight o’clock in the evening had been nothing short of miraculous. But then Amos had always believed in the miraculous.
Bill, the shopkeeper, had been very helpful. Not wary like some folk were when they first met Amos, who, with his dungarees and bright-red Doc Marten boots, would be the first to admit that his appearance wasn’t all that conventional for a man of his age. Listening carefully as Amos explained that he was looking for a place to camp in return for any kind of work he could offer as payment, Bill didn’t make any promises but suggested that Amos have a look around the shop for a few moments while he made a phone call; he knew someone who might be glad of an extra pair of hands.
Only when the deal was done had Bill given him a name and address and Amos had understood perfectly. You couldn’t be too careful, not in this day and age. He’d paid for his bread, a bottle of water and some apples before taking his leave. With any luck, he would soon be in a position to properly repay Bill his kindness. In Amos’s world, that was just the way things worked.
Taking the little lane up by the church, Amos followed Bill’s directions, enjoying the rustle of the wind in the big horse chestnut trees along the way. He would have liked to see them in the autumn too, but he knew he would be long gone by then. Stopping for a moment he looked up at the cloudless blue sky and frowned slightly, knowing from just the sound that the car coming towards him was driving far too fast. He stepped safely onto the wide verge in good time as a dark-blue Lexus roared past him, sending a shower of dust and noise up into the air. Amos stared after the car for quite some time, thankful that there was no one else walking the lane, someone whose reactions were a little slower than his. It must be sad, he thought, to be in that much of a hurry on such a beautiful day. He rubbed the back of his neck absent-mindedly.
After walking steadily downhill for some time, the sharp bend he had been told to look out for appeared ahead of him in the distance, but Hope Corner sounded like the kind of place that should be savoured and Amos was in no rush, so he decided to relax and enjoy his walk. It would be a few hours yet before the sun set, and it really was the most beautiful evening. The hedges that bordered the lane were thick with wild dog roses and honeysuckle, and their scent drifted along beside him.
Rounding the bend at last, Amos drew level with a red-brick wall. It was far too high to see over, so he could only imagine the kind of house that lay behind it. He trailed a hand along the wall’s rough surface, marvelling at the variety of foliage that had sprouted there, and waited to see what else his senses would pick up.
He stopped for a moment and placed the bag of apples inside his rucksack, tucking the bottle of water into a pocket on the side. His intuition told him he was not far from his final destination and, knowing from Bill’s directions that the sweep of wall would eventually give way to the lane up to the farm, he picked up his pace, his heart beating a little faster as he drew level with a sunny-yellow sign that read ‘Hope Blooms’. And he smiled. Whether the pun was intended or not, if that wasn’t an omen of good things to come, then he didn’t know what was.
A little further along was another board, which told him he had arrived at Hope Corner Farm and, as he walked through a double five-bar gate into a wide yard, a distant bark told him he had been spotted. Bracing himself, Amos prepared to be greeted by the elderly black Labrador that lumbered up to meet him, followed by a woman wearing a sky-blue dress underneath a red apron. She had flip-flops on her feet and her mass of curly black hair was left loose to cascade over her shoulders, but it was her smile, stretching from ear to ear, that truly caught Amos’s eye.
‘Hello!’ she called.
Amos waved and waited until they were within speaking distance, smiling down at the dog and offering a hand to meet its wet, inquisitive nose.
‘It would seem you’ve passed the test,’ said the woman, still smiling. ‘Although to be fair, Brodie makes friends first and asks questions later.’ She frowned. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you that…’
Amos lifted both hands in the air. ‘Friend, I promise… although to be fair I probablywouldsay that.’ He lowered his hands and smiled. ‘Are you Mrs Jamieson… Flora?’
‘I am. Hello. And you must be Amos?’
She smiled again, and Amos felt the subtle change in the air between them.
‘You found us all right then?’ she added. ‘Bill said he’d give you directions…’ She paused and Amos knew she was wondering how best to bring up the subject of exactly why Amos was there. Trying to be tactful. ‘And he explained that you were looking for some work in return for a place to stay for a while, is that right?’
Amos nodded.
‘So, are you… homeless then?’
Again, Amos nodded, waiting while she looked him up and down, taking in his appearance. It was a crucial moment, they both knew that, and there were a lot of things that Amos could say to make his way of life sound rather more appealing, but he often preferred to see how this particular piece of information was received before explaining anything further. Not a test exactly, but revealing nonetheless. It let Amos know where he stood.
Flora’s appraisal continued for a few more seconds, her face tilted against the evening sun. At fifty-two, Amos wore what he pleased and if his clothes or his wild black curly hair meant people judged him poorly, then so be it. But only time would tell whether Flora was prepared to see beyond a first impression or, better still, reserve judgement until she knew him better.
‘Right,’ she began. ‘Well, first, you’d have been welcome to come and camp here for free, unless you pitched tent in the middle of the flower field – then of course I would have had to shoot you. And second, I’ve just this morning been let down by a couple of university students who were going to come and give us a hand for the summer but got a better offer of a month in Greece. So, as far as you working for us in return, I’m only just stopping short of biting your arm off!’ She extended a hand towards him. ‘Welcome to Hope Corner, Amos.’
He grinned. They were going to get along like a house on fire.
‘Thank you. It’s very nice to be here.’ He let his gaze rest just over her shoulder where he could see a range of red-brick buildings and a patch of garden which was massed with summer flowers.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Hope Blooms.’
