The Hive (9 page)

And now she was taking control of the wider Mason family. “You can’t go over to her. She’s humiliated enough as it is. If you acknowledge it, she’ll feel even worse.” Her tone was calm and kind, her eyes on Poppy in the box.

“But I can’t leave her there, on her own. Who knows when the scumbag is finally going to show?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Sweetheart?” The newbie called over to another good-looking boy. “Look after the car for me, will you? I’ll just be at the entrance.”

Heather could not believe it. The cake stall—and, who knew, possibly even the whole wide beautiful world in which she lived—was suddenly a new and happy place. The terrible mood had lifted.

“Now you’re talking,” said one burly punter, eyeing up the Malteser cake. “Slice of that, please, and a cup of tea.”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” said another. “I’ll have two, please, love.”

It seemed like a miracle to Heather—a bit like the one at Cana. It was funny, but it had always got to her, that particular Bible scene. Those poor people, on their actual wedding day, not having enough for their guests. Imagine! Heather honestly could not think of anything worse. She did suffer so with catering anxiety. And then along comes Jesus and just sorts it. Lovely story, that one…

Well, she had no idea who had performed the Miracle of the Car Boot Sale, but she did know there was no more catering anxiety at the St. Ambrose Cake Stall on this Sunday morning, thank you very much. Just a polite and orderly collection of happy, satisfied customers.

“Two more slices, coming up!”

It did look scrummy. She would love to know who made it…

Rachel had reopened her boot and resumed business. She could see that Poppy was still waiting, but no longer alone. The visitor from the planet Skaro and the wearer of the ballerinas were chatting away merrily, the oldest of friends. Together they gave a personalized welcome to each new arrival—one with a wave, the other with a waggle of a sink plunger. And each new arrival smiled back, gratefully, in return. Ah, you could see them thinking, a Welcome-Dalek! At a car boot sale! How nice.

Bubba was baffled. Although these clothes were, technically speaking, castoffs they were damn good quality. And much better quality than any of the other tat on sale around her. Hanging here, under protective plastic, were all the outfits from her previous professional life. She, personally, wasn’t going to need them anymore. But that did not make all this “jumble.” Not at all. This was an exceptional pre-loved wardrobe up for grabs here. The pre-loved wardrobe of an
extremely
successful woman. This was a wardrobe that could smash you through any glass ceiling. Christ alive, you could win
The Apprentice
decked out in this lot. And yet none of these funny people wanted to buy a thing. She despaired sometimes, she honestly did. But there are some people who just don’t want to
get on.

Not only, thought Rachel, does a Dalek at a car boot sale suddenly not look quite so incongruous; it was starting to look perfectly normal.

“That’s seventy-five p altogether then.”

Indeed, she thought rather grandly, one might almost feel sorry for all future car boot sales that did not have a Welcome-Dalek.

“How much for that stuff on the backseat?”

“That’s not for sale,” said Rachel automatically, and then pulled herself up. Why on earth was she doing this? Why, when that bastard could not be bothered to turn up on time to see his own daughter, was she gathering up and cherishing and protecting his paltry possessions?

“Actually, excuse me?” she called to the back of a donkey jacket. “My mistake. How much are you offering?”

“These three boxes for a tenner, love?”

“Make it a fiver—love—and they’re yours.”

Heather tapped on the car window, interrupting Georgie’s snooze.

“Hello. You’ve been released from the tyranny of the cake stall, have you?”

“Rachel’s mum came and took it over. Bless her. She’s a brick, that one.”

“Indeed she is,” agreed Georgie. “The best. Unlike some I could mention.” She flicked her eyes over to the left. There, perched on the empty boot of a Passat, were Scarlett, Bea—with her headset back on, Heather noted—and Bea’s mother.

“Know what they remind me of?” asked Georgie. “Those posters we used to have in the science lab at school. With a small insect, and then a medium insect and then a big insect. And there were big red washed-out arrows going from one to the other. And it said ‘Life Cycle of Some Insect’ over the top. Those three are exactly the same: small, medium and old versions of the same horrible thing.”

“Oh really, Georgie.” Heather was quite shocked. “You are mean. Bea’s been fantastic today. So supportive. Pamela’s a brilliant chair of the governors, whatever you might think of her. And Scarlett is adorable. Maisie worships her. Are they doing good business over there? They seem to have sold out…”

“That’s the blissful thing,” sighed Georgie, who really had been having a lovely morning. When she wasn’t snoozing she was people-watching, and every prospect was pleasing. “She came with a completely empty car, and has been sitting there patiently in the boot all morning. She just seems to be waiting for nice little worker people to come up and sell her things. I may be wrong, but I rather fear that Bea’s mum might have failed to grasp the fundamental tenets of the car boot sale altogether.”

“Coo-ee! Heather!” called out Bea’s mum from her boot. “I was so hoping you’d drop by. I hear you’re doing teas?
Could
you be so kind as to bring me a nice cup?”

“Morning. How’s business?” Mr. Orchard was out of his off-the-peg suit. He was into his denims and his crewneck and his leather bomber jacket. And Rachel could not help but notice that he didn’t look quite such a—well—such a plonker as he normally looked in school.

She’d always been a sucker for that. Not now, of course. Not anymore. But back in the day, she had never really gone for the man-in-uniform thing. No. It was when the man in uniform turned up without his uniform, revealing his own self. That, in Rachel’s experience, was when something started to stir. In the gallery she used to work in, in another life in a different universe, there was a brilliant chef in the restaurant over whom everyone except Rachel used to swoon. She didn’t get it at all. Until the day she met him out in the street, being scruffy old him and not the brilliant chef. And she was suddenly—rather fittingly, under the circumstances, looking back on it—toast.

“Roaring, thank you very much. I’ve earned more this morning than I have all week.”

Mr. Orchard laughed. Which he probably wouldn’t, thought Rachel, if he knew it was actually true.

“Are you buying, then, not selling?” she asked casually.

“Very much so, I’m afraid. I need to gather possessions, not shed them. I’ve been doing a bit too much of that lately…”

Rachel thought, Oh yes?

“Where have you come from, Mr. Orchard?” Her tone was teasing, she hoped, rather than flirty. “Outer space?”

“It sometimes feels like it, I must admit.” The headmaster looked around him as he spoke.

Rachel saw it through his eyes: the rows of parked cars, the guffawing dads, the groups of kids charging around—they were all normal enough. Perhaps he was focusing more on the little oddities. Bubba could certainly pass as an alien, alone and shouting strange words in her own mysterious little language: “Moschino! Miu Miu! Acne! Roll up!”

And that Dalek at the entrance, climbing clumsily, unsteadily—finally—into a neat little blue saloon, catching its sink plunger on the window. She supposed you didn’t see that sort of thing every day.

“But no. Even further, really. Actually, I’ve come from Chelsea.”

No actual way, she thought. Wait till I pass that on. But before she could step neatly onto the topic of footballers, pop stars and that damned eternal triangle of lurve, he had moved his attentions to the backseat of her Volvo. “Are these books for sale too? Mind if I have a look?”

Heather’s whistle was idle around her neck. Cars, their boots now empty, were queuing up to leave. The cakes—well, most of them—were sold. Guy was counting the money over at the table, with Maisie. He was thrilled: he’d picked up some new bits for his Black & Decker and a whole pile of OS maps to add to his collection.

The sun was breaking through the clouds now and sweeping across the view like a searchlight, from the edges of the little town on one side to the lush country falling away on the other. It’s a beautiful place, thought Heather. Full of great people. It had been one of the best mornings she’d had for ages. She loved it when everyone was in the same boat, pulling together, all going in the same direction. And she loved it most when she was actually in there with them. Too often in her life, she’d had that feeling that everyone was indeed in the same boat but she, Heather, was clinging onto the edge at the back somewhere, not quite able to scramble on board, getting cold and wet.

And actually, she hadn’t just been in the boat this morning. She was its captain. And this whole success, it had all been down to Heather. All that worry, all that stress, all those lemons…Though everyone had done their bit on the day, this triumph she knew to be hers. Henceforth she was finally, indelibly, marked on the St. Ambrose map.

Clover came stomping over the grass on her short legs, her two children lurking behind her. “Oh, well,” she said, miserably. “Never mind.”

“Never mind? Never mind what?”

“Well, it was a hell of a lot of work for you, wasn’t it? Poor love. And for what, eh?” Clover looked about her, shook her head, dropped her voice to a mourner’s whisper. “For what?”

“Guy thinks we made over three thousand pounds! It might be more!”

“Ttttt. Oh dear. Is that all? After all that effort? It’s a shame.” Clover put her meaty little hand on Heather’s and shook her head. “Well. You must’ve learned one thing at least.”

“Must I? What? What have I learned?”

“Love-y. Come on. You’ve learned ‘never again,’ haven’t you, hmmnn? Never again.”

Georgie watched Mr. Orchard walking towards the exit, clutching his purchases:
The Secret History, The Accidental Tourist
and some old orange Penguin Graham Greenes. She gave a short sniff of approval. So he wasn’t just a number cruncher, then. “Well done, Mrs. Stuart,” she heard him call as he passed the Passat. Bea was back in her
THE BOSS
apron now, she noticed. “That was a triumph!”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Bea called back. “It seemed to go off well enough, I think.”

“Terrific. You can go home now, and relax.”

“You are sweet.” She disentangled her headset with a show of relief, shook out her long buttery locks, half closed her eyes, stroked the head of her youngest who was clinging to her long, long legs. “I must say,” she smiled a self-deprecating smile, “I know it’s awful but I just am
absolutely shattered.
”

Rachel didn’t have much packing up to do. She seemed to have sold pretty much everything, including—she giggled to herself—her very late husband’s personal effects. Oops. Soz. How did that happen? Never mind, she’d made him more than a fiver. Though, obviously, she did have to deduct her commission.

The newbie, five-star general, savior of the Mason girls came back to her car.

“Thank you. So much.” Rachel went over to her. “You brought us all in from emotional apocalypse there.”

“You’re welcome. And I enjoyed myself. Well, not the emotional-apocalypse part, obviously. But Poppy’s good company. We had fun. How’ve my boys been doing?”

“Made a fortune, I think, judging by the steady custom. What were you selling?” Rachel came round to her car for the first time, and saw the few remaining flowerpots, a couple with strong woody shrubs in, some holding no more than little green shoots.

“Wowser. They sold loads. It’s just all the things we grow from cuttings. We raise them all in the greenhouse at home. Roses, lavender, fruit bushes, that sort of thing. Can I interest you in anything?…Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Oh. Sorry. Rachel. Hi.”

“Hello, Rachel.” The two women shook hands. “I’m Melissa.”

“So how’s it going then, the self-sufficiency program?” Rachel asked her mother cheerfully. It was, after all, Be Nice to Mother Day. “How certain is your own personal survival in a post-nuclear world?”

“Ooh, it’s all coming along very nicely, thank you. Here, put this on before we go in.” Her mum handed Rachel her spare beekeeper’s outfit. “So well that I am expanding the veg patch. I’ve got Pamela’s Graham coming round next week to do the digging.”

As Rachel struggled to get into the charming beige gabardine onesie, an aroma drifted across the garden and hit her. It nearly knocked her over in fact—came at her like a playground bully. Roast lamb, if she was not mistaken. Roast lamb, rosemary, roast potatoes and—she sniffed again—a representative of the brassica family, broccoli possibly though she couldn’t be sure. Someone close by was doing exactly what she had done nearly every Sunday of her life from Josh’s birth up to the middle of July: they were about to sit down to a proper lunch. Mint sauce or redcurrant? she wondered. Personally she preferred the latter…

Not that she would be given the choice today. No, Rachel was instead enjoying—huh—the first of the alternative Sundays of the rest of her life. Which were, of course—look on the bright side—just a painful vaccine to prepare her for the worst that was yet to come. The every-other-Christmases—Christ. Her gut lurched. How was she supposed to survive them? And the weeks—and weeks and weeks—of separate holidays. When Chris and the kids and the bloody intern—she could picture her now, scrubbering away in her bloody intern’s string bloody bikini, scrubber—were off re-enacting Kodak moments in the sun. And she, Rachel, rattled around on her own at home, luxuriating in a bit of—what did that silly cow Clover call it?—yes, that’s right, me-time. Was that really what she was actually supposed to want? Me-time?