The Hive (3 page)

“Great. Even better, actually. The committee got off to—er—a flying start the other night, but I’m not sure I quite managed to get across exactly what the fund-raising is for. These new cuts mean that, unfortunately, we are not going to get the planned extension after all. Which I’m afraid also means—”

“Oh no! No new library?” She hadn’t realized.

“Exactly.” He looked genuinely downcast.

“But that’s terrible.”

“I know. And I’m so glad to hear we’re of the same mind on this one. But I think we can still do something.” He shifted in his chair and looked at her straight on. “Not as smart, maybe, but not as costly either. And we can do it ourselves.” His eyes, Rachel noticed, started to shine. Just at that moment, for a brief flash, she thought he might not be quite as lame as all that. “Look. You know all the outbuildings off to the side over there?” He pointed across the playground to a small collection of sheds and storerooms with high windows and a brick-and-flint cladding. “We could raise the funds to knock those together and turn them into the library.”

“Oh, yes…” He was right, as well. Rachel could see it at once.

“It’s just not good enough to have the books crammed about all over the school. They deserve their own space, where the pupils can retreat for some quiet time. Where readers can be nurtured and books can be respected.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” This was encouraging. She had heard this new headmaster was just a money man. It was more than a bonus to hear he was actually a books man, too.

“And I would love it to be more inspirational than the rest of the school. No bare walls. Above the shelving, it can be a gallery. For the children’s work, and perhaps the adults’. And artists within the wider school community. Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” She might go so far as to describe him as a breath of fresh air…

“And I would love you, Mrs. Mason, to design a time line depicting the history of the school, to go around the cornicing. Would you like to do that?”

Eh? What? Whoa there. Where did that one suddenly come from? Extra work? By her? For nothing? Noooooo, she wanted to scream. She would not. She had neither the time nor the financial security anymore to be pissing around doing voluntary work to provide fripperies for the children that would make not a jot of difference to their educational experience. They came here to learn to read and write and do their bloody tables—and just to get out of everybody’s hair, frankly—and that was why they paid their taxes. And now she was broke. She was knackered. Drawing bloody pictures in a quite nice way was the only way she had, in the foreseeable future, of making things comfortable for her own kids at home. So why the hell should she waste one precious minute of her precious free time on meaningless nonsense to be ignored or unvalued by other people’s children?

But what she said was “Yes, of course.” And then added, in a casual don’t-mind-if-I-do-don’t-mind-if-I-don’t kind of way: “Does that, um, mean…” she paused, hooked her hair behind her ears, looked out of the window at the children throwing a ball into a net, “you want me on the committee?”

At the word “committee,” his body seemed to sink slightly. “You are more than welcome, Mrs. Mason. More than welcome. But, in a way, what I am asking you to do here is a little different from being just a member of a committee.”

“Oh?”

“I see yours as a more advisory role. Sort of artistic-adviser type of thing. The committee will raise the funds so that you can do the important stuff.”

“Ooh. So, you mean, it’s sort of, more important than being on the committee?” she squeaked. Damn—that was not just lame. That was superlame.

“Well.” He looked down, shuffled a few papers on his desk. “I can’t guarantee that the committee will see it that way, but that would be my view. Yes. Mrs. Mason.” He spluttered a bit and seemed to be struggling to control himself in some way. “You are more important than the committee.”

Was he laughing at her? Who knew, who cared? They thanked each other, and she left the office. This time, the grumpy secretary’s look of contempt couldn’t touch her.

She swung back down the corridor, her nostrils closed against the stale air of afternoon school, and out into the day. There was Georgie, hands in the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt, skinny little legs crossed in baggy jeans, watching all her own children and Poppy playing on the bars. Rachel rushed towards them, punching the air in ironic triumph, was actually on the brink of shouting a satirical “Yesssss!” when she became aware of
Geo
rgie’s expression and the atmosphere around her.

Bea was back under the tree again, and today the crowd around her was bigger: mothers, fathers, a lot of the older children too. And they were all silent.

“It’s Laura. You know, mum of the twins in Year Three, breast cancer,” Georgie whispered into Rachel’s ear. “Died last night. Bea just heard. And Dave took all his leave when she was sick, poor love, so he’s going to be all over the shop. Bea is just setting up a rota for the next few months—school runs, hot meals, lifts to Brownies. All that stuff.”

Rachel’s arm was still out, midpunch. She wrenched it back and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. No. She hugged herself. Nobody was looking at her. They were all locked into their mutual misery, looking up at Bea. Georgie put an arm around Rachel and said softly, “Come on.” Leaning in on each other, head propped against head, they walked together over to the tree and took up their places on the edge of the somber crowd.

I
t was a brittle, bright October morning. Their tins for harvest festival were clinking in the carrier bag and the cold air snapped in their faces as they walked up the hill. Rachel's head was thick with tiredness, but she had to muster from somewhere the energy to say something. The silence was driving her nuts.

“What's the story, morning glory? You're very quiet.” She knocked on the top of her daughter's head. “Anyone in?”

“I was just thinking about Scarlett,” said Poppy.

Bet you weren't, thought Rachel. “Scarlett? What's she up to? Still your best friend this term?”

“She's being a bit funny. There are these two new boys and she thinks she's just like the boss of them. And one of them she likes a lot and says we can't play with him. And the other one she doesn't like at all and she says we can't play with him either. She says he's a weirdo.”

“Excuse me. Do we use that charming word about our classmates? I think we do not.”

“I didn't!” Poppy's ponytail swung round with the force of her denial. “I said Scarlett did!”

“Well. Who is this boy? What's he like?”

“He's called Milo. And, OK, right…” Poppy stuck her ponytail in her mouth and chomped on it. “He's not a weirdo, but…he is a bit weird, Mummy.”

Rachel sighed. Was the real problem here Scarlett and the weirdo? Was that really what was bothering Poppy? Or was it actually Chris, and what happened last night, and all sorts of other stuff that was a lot harder to talk about…

Three o'clock the previous afternoon: Chris, out of the blue, announced that he'd blagged two tickets to the football for that very night, and whisked Josh off, just like that, with half an hour's notice. The whole evening had been chaotic, unsatisfactory and badly handled. Josh was clearly unsettled by suddenly finding himself going out with his dad again, Poppy was clearly struggling with the way she was just left out of it. And the stifling, ghastly silence had been there from the beginning of breakfast. That ghastly silence was becoming increasingly familiar to Rachel. She seemed to hear it on average twice a day, lately, and it was getting quite deafening. She knew what it was: the involuntary silence of the frustrated inarticulate; the silence of the disgruntled young who cannot begin to discuss the source of their own disgruntlement. So cheers, Christopher, she thought bitterly. Here's to yet another parenting triumph.

“Morning, all!”

Phew. Heather appeared, with a basket of harvest goodies wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow. It was always at this point, when they came to the corner of Beechfield Close, that Heather and Maisie joined them. Did Heather sit behind her curtains every morning, twitching, watching, stalking the Masons on their walk up the hill? Or was it mere coincidence? Rachel preferred not to think about that. And anyway, she didn't really mind. She rather liked the way they came together, changed partners and proceeded in pairs. It felt like a line dance. Or a porridge advert. And Poppy needed a change of subject.

“Hey, look at you, Sporty Spice. What's with the trackies?”

Heather blushed. “Oh, I'm working out with Bea and the gang again. It's a run this morning. Wednesday. We always run on a Wednesday.”

Poppy had been walking ahead with Maisie, but at that moment came back. “So should we say something?”

“Say what?” Heather froze, alert, strangled on the edge of panic. “What's happened?”

Oh Lord, thought Rachel. We don't want Heather getting wind of this silly nonsense—she'll turn it into something requiring a resolution from the UN. “Nothing. At all. Is that right? Do we indeed always run on a Wednesday?”

“Yes, generally. But just to confirm, Bea sends out a group text every evening telling us what we'll be doing next morning. Where to meet, what to wear and so on…”

“Gosh. There's a thing.” Rachel turned to Poppy. “Go on. Quick. Catch up with Maisie.”

“And then,” Heather was so pleased with herself today, “time for a quick change and round to Bea's to wash some stuff for the Car Boot Sale, and then it's the lunch! Not even a minute for the internet!”

A Range Rover thundered past. Through the tinted windows, they could just make out the murky shape of its driver waving maniacally.

“Who's that?”

“Not a clue.”

They reached the car park. Rachel got a glimpse of the promising newbie in the ballerinas heading off to her car. Drat. Missed her again. Around Bea's people carrier, four or five women in running gear were already warming up. One had her right foot in her left hand, another was tipping her left elbow over her right shoulder. The rest were gently jogging on the spot.

“There in a sec,” Heather called to them. No one looked up. “Don't go without me!” No one replied.

“Hey. Baby.” The walk was over; the girls were waiting by the gate. Rachel stopped, squatted and got her head down to Poppy's level. “Don't worry about it. Least said…It's bound to blow over. OK? Now.” She got up again. “In you go. And please. For once in your life. Can you Just. Try. And. Somehow. Be. Good?”

Rachel stood and watched her trotting off. She was officially the Goodest Girl in the world, her daughter. The champion of the Good Girls' League Table, gold medalist at the Good Girl Olympics, and she knew it. But she hadn't laughed at that, or even smiled.

The school door swallowed Poppy in, and spat out Georgie, who emerged towing a toddler and wearing a hunted look. “OK. This is weird. Total strangers keep coming up to me and saying, ‘See you later.' It's giving me the creeps.”

A woman in something resembling her pajamas bumped into them and swung round. “Oh! Hi! See you later.”

“What the—?”

“It's your lunch, Georgie!” giggled Heather. “Today! You can't have forgotten a thing like that?”

“I bloody have. And I don't blame me, either. God.” She pulled down her mouth, put on the voice of a sitcom grumpy teen: “What time is it, then, my lunch?”

“Twelve-thirty drinks, sit down at one. Everyone's looking forward to it…”

“Are they just? And where do you think you're going?” Rachel was tiptoeing away as subtly as she could. Georgie grabbed her by the collar and pulled her back. “Don't even think it. You're coming. If I've got to put up with it, you bloody well can.”

“Oh, Georgie, I can't face it. I'm not ready to—”

“Do you good,” butted in Georgie crisply. “Here…”

Amazing: she had clearly forgotten the lunch again already. It was one of the things Rachel loved about Georgie. You could actually see what she was thinking. You could look into those clear blue eyes and watch the lunch just fly out of her mind, like a trapped bluebottle out of a newly opened jam jar. And there was obviously something else—bigger, more important—worrying away in there now.

“Heth,” Georgie began. “No offense, but…You do know you're dressed like a complete and utter total arse?”

It was, Georgie reflected, like grief. She was reminded of those first few strange and cloudy months after her mum had died. She'd go pottering along, as if everything was normal, then, just as she was doing something routinely simple—plonking the baby in its cot, or forking the spuds out of the soggy ground—the truth would come and thump her right there, in the gut.

She'd been just like that this morning. Come home from dropping the children off, dumped the current baby in the playpen, put the kettle on, scraped the scraps into bowls—one for the pigs, one for the chicks—and then it hit: a different truth, but still hard, still right there, nearly winding her: she had all these bloody women coming round. And she was supposed to be bloody feeding them.

She stood, bottom against kitchen sink, and surveyed this morning's damage. She was perfectly well aware that her standards of domestic hygiene did not meet those that were generally upheld as the norm and, broadly speaking, she gave not a tinker's toss. She knew how much she did. She knew that she never stopped working from the minute she opened her eyes in the morning. She felt perfectly confident that the important things, the things that counted, always got done. The children were fed, the children were clothed, the animals lived their expected span. OK, so you could tell the difference between Martin's Farm and the Martha Stewart residence. But then Martha Stewart didn't have too many kids and a big, messy husband in the agricultural sector, did she? It's a darn sight easier being a perfect homemaker, Martha, if there's nobody actually at home.

Still, even she had to admit that today wasn't quite up to snuff. There was—she had noticed this for some time now—always something. Her household was like one of those biblical lands that never knew peace and order; that was always battling against some pestilence or elemental catastrophe sent by the Almighty to try it.

Today, He had sent shoes. There were so many shoes—and boots, and pumps, and trainers and wellies encrusted with hard, dried mud—scattered around that you could not actually see the dirt on the flagstone floor. “Proof,” she said to Hamish, “that there's always an upside.” Hamish reclined against the bars of his pen and sucked on his rusk.

“Of course, what we need, Hammy my boy, is a system.”

Hamish gurgled.

“We need a place for the footwear. That's what that Bea would do, you know: bet she's got a special Designated Footwear Place. And we could have that. What's to stop us? And, see, this would have an added advantage”—Hamish was riveted. His rusk had stopped, midair on the way to his mouth—“because then, when we go out again, we would know where to find our footwear. And then nobody would ever have to ask me the whereabouts of their footwear, as we would all know that our footwear would be in the footwear place.”

Georgie and Hamish both had a faraway look—their eyes focused on a distant parallel universe with a parallel home that ran smoothly on routine and order. Then Georgie took a sip of her coffee, shook herself and came round.

“Of course, it'll never happen.”

And Hamish went back to his rusk.

She did, though, need to come up with something now, if only to get her through lunch. And though she might be a stranger to the long-term strategy, Georgie was the unassailable mistress of the short-term domestic fix. Where could she stuff it all? A solution was lurking in the fluff beneath the skirting board of her mind, she just needed a brush-around to get it out…And there it was. Ha! The dishwasher! The dishwasher that had been broken for weeks, but about which she had done nothing. The baskets had disappeared off to Henry's bedroom days ago, commandeered by Action Man for the war effort. That left a nice spacious cupboard. Of sorts. It would do. For the meantime…

“Come on, babe. Work to do.”

Hamish got the hang of it immediately, bombing round the kitchen on all fours, hurling things into the dishwasher till it was packed full. Georgie had to force it, hard, shut. And then she noticed that the floor was filthy even by her spectacularly low standards.

Bubba headed back towards the house, two clinking mugs in one hand and a bunch of drying lavender in the other, smiling happily to herself. There's nothing wrong with it, she thought. She wasn't going to apologize. She just did love domesticity. It was as simple as that. She'd had Mark in absolute stitches over dinner last night, when she said the highlight of her day was the morning coffee break, but it was all true. The routine—the ritual—of it was just so reassuring…Every day, eleven sharp—you have, she told Mark, to run a tight ship, or the whole thing goes
completely
pear-shaped—she made three coffees. She left two on the Aga to keep warm, and took one into the laundry to Kazia. Hand on heart, she said to Mark, some of the coziest chats she'd had since they'd moved here had been in that laundry, with Kazia, while Kazia did the ironing. “You would not believe,” she'd said, “how many hours I spend in there, talking about the children's clothes and what we need next time they go to Waitrose.” Mark said he wouldn't believe it. And, she had added, she simply never got bored…

Anyway, then it was back to the Aga, collect the other two mugs and out into the garden. Tomasz was doing amazingly out there. The beds were going to be glorious and he'd got her plans for a veg patch well under way. He leaned on his fork while they chatted away—pruning, ground elder, yada yada yada, it was actually
hysterical
to listen to—and then she took a little turn around, drinking in the air, and the beauty, of her little corner of England. It was, she'd told Mark more than once, very heaven.

This morning's chat was all about the lake—or, to be more precise, what Tomasz called “the lake” but which she preferred to call “the pond.” True, the estate agent called it the lake, when he'd first showed them round at the beginning of the summer. And the previous owners—they were lake this, lake that, lake the other. But Bubba knew a lake when she saw one—like when she honeymooned on Como, or stayed with her granny in Windermere. She was no geographer—hands up, first to admit it—but, as she understood it, a lake was a big thing. And this, this body of water in her own back garden, was not a big thing. Not at all. This was something over which she and all geographers could unite and call, as one, a pond.

“Mrs. Green,” Tomasz had said. “About the lake.”

“The pond, Tomasz. We don't want to sound pretentious, do we?”

“Mrs. Green. About the pond…” Such a quick learner, Tomasz, thought Bubba. Which was no great surprise. He'd got about ten PhDs or something. She wasn't quite listening to the rest of it. Something about banks or borders or some such. What-
ever!

“Good point, Tomasz.” She'd taken the mug from his gloved hands. “Thank you for your input.” Always a useful phrase in meetings when her mind had wandered. “I'll talk to Mark this evening.” And she'd headed back to the house. As a general rule of thumb, Bubba was beginning to realize, while there was no such thing as too much Kazia—God, that girl was a gem—there was such a thing as quite enough Tomasz; and she'd had it, yet again.