Five Boys (29 page)

J
ESSIE BRAINTREE’S
first impression when he stepped into Howard Kent’s cottage was that the contents weren’t likely to raise more than a couple of quid. The sunken sofa and the ancient dresser were barely standing, and all the rugs had paths worn through them from Howard’s daily routine.

Jessie went around all four rooms, making notes on the back of an envelope—turning the key on the wardrobe door, with some trepidation, and lifting the mattress on the old brass bed. He went out on the landing, opened his stepladder and popped his head up into the loft. Didn’t expect to find anything but a few old rags, but when he turned his torch on, saw a great glittering stash of treasure packed between the joists.

Miss Minter’s hinges and handles were there, along with Steere’s window latches. The letter boxes of Duncannon were piled up next to a stack of collection plates. It gave Jessie Braintree such a shock he nearly lost his footing—could easily have fallen and broken his neck. But as he told his wife that night just before they put the light out, “It was amazing—like a regular Aladdin’s cave.”

The day after the Boys returned to the village Aldred woke early. He dressed, crept out of the house and left his mother sleeping. Went and stood beside the war memorial. The
Captain’s house and the church seemed almost unfamiliar—seemed nowhere near as solid as they had done a few days before.

He walked up the hill to Askew Cottage, slipped down the alley and into the garden. The hives were all still there, the bees still went about their business, but the cottage was as quiet as the grave. Aldred crept over to the first hive the Bee King had introduced him to and bent beside it. Listened to all the tiny cogs turning inside.

“Howard dead,” he whispered. “The Bee King’s gone.”

He stayed and listened for a while, then went over to the next hive. Told them the news. And by the time he reached the last one it seemed to Aldred that the apiary was almost silent—almost still.

He sat on the steps. Took his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and picked out the tiny charm the Bee King had given him in the pillbox two nights before. It looked like something from a broken typewriter—a small metal tablet, smooth on one side, with a single letter on the other, reversed, standing proud of it.

“Perpetua,” he said out loud.

He placed it against his tongue. The metal was cold and he could taste the ink’s bitter residue. Then he put it on the back of his hand and pressed down hard, until he could feel the metal dig into the nerves and bones. When he pulled it away it left a distinct indentation, faintly inked, of the letter A.

The Reverend Bentley met the coffin at the church gates and led it slowly back up the path.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,” he
said. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live …”

The same four men carried Howard Kent on their shoulders as the day of the pig memorial. The rest of the village came shuffling along behind. A solitary bell tolled high above them and slowly drew the mourners in.

They carried the coffin into the church and laid it on the trestles. The Reverend Bentley climbed the steps to his pulpit and the mourners filed into the pews. When everyone was settled the reverend read a couple of psalms—one about how “man walketh in a vain shadow” and another all about destruction and “children of men”—then Aldred pumped out Mr. Mercer’s rendition of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” and the congregation groaned along.

The reverend cleared his throat. It was his belief, he said, that when we depart this world we each deserve a moment’s consideration, no matter what sort of life we have led. Then he said a few words in which he sought to draw attention to some of Howard’s finer qualities, without dwelling too long on all the rest.

After one or two prayers, the coffin was lifted back onto the pallbearers’ shoulders and the reverend led it out into the sun. And once the church was empty Aldred helped Mr. Mercer to his feet and they joined the stragglers making their way over to Howard’s grave, which was newly dug, with a clean, white headstone and a mound of earth at a respectful distance, waiting to go back in.

The hole itself was considerably deeper than Aldred had imagined and when the reverend nodded and the coffin was lowered into it he had to stand on his tiptoes to see where it ended up.

“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,” the reverend said, “and is full of misery …”

The villagers stood and stared into the pit. The reverend’s words were unrelenting and some of the mourners were beginning to wonder how many more were still to come, when the sky suddenly darkened and the bees came sweeping in.

They poured over the graveyard in one great wave. A bristling cloud, which rolled and turned above the treetops as if stirred by an Almighty hand.

An awful drone sawed through the air. An insect heat descended. And the graveyard rattled with a million wings.

As the villagers watched the bees began to settle—began to gather in the trees around the grave—until every inch of bark was coated and every branch was draped with them.

The sky was crystal clear. The drone receded. The bees shimmered on the trees. Nobody dared move—nobody except Will Henderson, the undertaker, who leaned over to the reverend.

“Forasmuch as …” he whispered.

The Reverend Bentley turned and stared blankly at him.

“Forasmuch as …” Will Henderson whispered again.

The reverend seemed to come to his senses. Lifted his book and tried to find his place.

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God,” he said, “of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed we therefore commit his body to the ground …”

Aldred stood with Mr. Mercer’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down and managed to find a clod of earth not
far from his foot. He got his toe behind it and nudged it forward. Heard it strike the coffin. Saw it spill across its lid.

The bees let out a great roar and rose up in a rapture. The sun was obscured again. Then the bees rolled and turned above the grave, drew themselves together and swept off down the lane.

Peter and Cathy Kiddle were my unpaid rural consultants on this book—an inexhaustible source of local knowledge and hospitality. Their home became my West Country HQ.

A one-day beekeeping workshop by Cathy Maund in the mid-90s first alerted me to the potential in the beehive. More recently, Stephen Kelly let me accompany him on his rounds, resisted my ignorance with grace and ultimately encouraged me in my own tentative efforts at keeping bees.

Charlie Bellingham, Len Collict, Jean Hadley, Stanbury Hocking, Jean Parnell, Robert Tucker, Bert Ward and Pam Wills were all generous, informative and hugely entertaining. My conversations with them were the highlight of the writing of this book.

Bill Sanders, Marion Huang and Carole Stevens know a thing or two about bell ringing. Any sense of authenticity in that department is to their credit; any flaws or inconsistencies are mine.

Thanks to the staff of the library and sound archive at the Imperial War Museum, to George Lovell for his religious instruction and Charles Boyle at Faber for his endless patience.

Most of all, heartfelt thanks to Derek Johns, Jon Riley and Cath Laing who, over the years, have given me more support, good advice and guidance than any writer has a right to expect.

M. J.

M
LCK
J
ACKSON
is the author of
The Underground Man
, which was short-listed for the Booker Prize and the Whitbread First Novel Award. He lives in Brighton, England.

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When Bobby is evacuated from London to a remote Devonshire village, a strange new chapter of his life begins. Empty of its menfolk, the village is given over to the “stay behinds”: the women, the old and young, and five terrifying boys who accuse Bobby of being a Nazi spy. Then, there is the enigmatic Bee King, a mysterious figure who exercises a powerful, hypnotic influence on the village, and especially the boys.

As the days wind down to the D-day invasion and the Allied soldiers crash the beaches along the French coast, the villagers will enact their own drama–a tense interplay of events that will engulf them all and ultimately reveal the truth about the Bee King.

Brilliantly captivating and thoroughly researched, Five Boys is the tale of the war’s impact on the home front, bringing to light a lost place and time with an expert touch.