The Beekeeper's Daughter (12 page)

When she appeared with long, dishevelled hair falling over eyes smudged with kohl and full of sleep, her father looked her over with displeasure. ‘Trixie, you’re a sorry sight this morning.’

Grace agreed. ‘Darling, go and wash your face and brush your hair. You can’t come down to breakfast like this!’

But Trixie flopped into a chair and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘I’m tired,’ she complained. ‘Come on, one morning without washing my face won’t kill anybody.’

‘It’s a matter of discipline,’ said her father, closing the newspaper.

‘Yeah, yeah, civilization is about standards. I’ve heard it a hundred times. Let’s just lower the standard this once, please.’ She added a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk to her tea and stirred it sleepily.

‘So, did you have a good time last night?’ Grace asked, placing a plate of eggs in front of her husband, in the knowledge that food, more than anything else, would distract him from his daughter’s lack of discipline.

‘It was really fun. Jasper played and we all danced. The grown-ups disappeared pretty quickly after that.’

Grace laughed. ‘I don’t suppose their music is for us.’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘I think you’d like it, actually, Mom. You’re never one to follow the crowd. In fact, I think you’d pretend to like it even if you didn’t, just to be different.’

Trixie sipped her tea thoughtfully. She wanted to tell them about Evelyn Durlacher coming for Lucy at three in the morning, but didn’t want them to know that
she
had been out at that time, too. After all, her curfew was midnight. Fortunately her father was a deep sleeper and she could rely on her mother, if she had heard her creep in, to turn a deaf ear. Trixie wondered how they’d take the news that she was going to go on tour with the boys in the fall.

She watched her father tuck into his breakfast. His face was serious, his back rigid, his shoulders straight – everything about him exuded discipline. Sometimes she wondered what he had been like before the war. She never noticed his eyepatch or the scar down his face, because she was so used to them. But now she looked at him with the eyes of a young woman in love for the first time and wondered what it was about her solemn, distant father that her mother had fallen for. What had he been like as a young man? Had he been playful like Jasper? Or had he always been so humourless and inflexible? She looked at her mother, making pancakes at the stove. She was a curvaceous, sensual woman with deep, dreamy eyes and a sweet, kind face. She loved novels, romantic movies, flowers and bees. Her father hated bees and cared little for flora and fauna. He loved golf and books on military history. He liked things to be neat and tidy. He liked routine. Her mother was by nature as carefree as a bird. As she drank her tea Trixie wondered how on earth they had lived together all these years, having so little in common.

‘Mom, what was it about Dad that you fell in love with?’ Trixie asked her mother when her father had left for work.

Grace sat down and put her elbows on the table. She rested her chin on her hands. ‘Your father was my best friend,’ she began softly. ‘We’d known each other all our lives.’

‘But what was he like?’ Trixie persisted.

‘He was very handsome. He was cheerful and mischievous and full of fun.’ She said those words with wistfulness, reflecting on what he had brought to the marriage and then taken away.

Trixie pulled a face. ‘Dad, cheerful and mischievous!’ She laughed sceptically. ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? So what changed?’

‘The war,’ her mother replied.

‘Really? Can a person change so much?’

‘He’s still my Freddie underneath,’ said Grace, a little defensively.

‘Does it make you sad?’ Trixie asked, trying to imagine how she’d feel if Jasper fought in a war and returned home a different man.

Grace stirred milk into her coffee. She didn’t want to answer Trixie’s question directly. It wasn’t right for children to know too much about their parents. ‘I’m not sad, darling. How can I be sad when I have you?’ Her smile was so tender that Trixie felt her heart flood with guilt. She smiled back and picked up the maple syrup.

Later Trixie went upstairs to change for work. She had to be at Captain Jack’s at eleven. Grace walked over to Big’s house with a basket of honey. It was not far from Sunset Slip if she took the path over the bluff. It had stopped raining and the sun had come out. Grace could make out the pointed gables of the house long before she reached it, like the sails of a massive ship in dock. So large and imposing was it that sailors used it as a guide for navigating their way to land. Being the first home to be built on the island, it enjoyed the very best location, on the eastern side, with a three-hundred-degree view of the ocean. It boasted the largest lawns and gardens of any house on Tekanasset, and was sheltered from the wind by tall trees as ancient as the house, and wild woodland where once they hunted boar, brought over from Europe for sport. Now there were no boar, just a pack of dogs, a giant cat called Mr Doorwood, a few exotic-looking hens and a cockerel that crowed on the henhouse every morning at dawn.

Grace rang the bell and spoke her name into the intercom. The grand gates opened in a suitably stately fashion and she stepped onto the gravel driveway with a sigh of pleasure. Through the trees she could see the bright-blue shutters and white porch of Big’s magnificent house. Grace had planted the hydrangeas, the climbing roses and shrubs that gave the house a somewhat Cornish appeal, and created herbaceous borders that lined the lawns on the other side because Big had wanted a quintessentially English garden. Grace had learned all about horticulture from her father. Working among the flowers and creatures he so loved kept her close to his memory.

She found Big playing croquet on the glistening lawn with a trio of ancient friends in tennis shoes and white hats. When she saw Grace, Big waved vigorously. ‘Grace, come and watch me win.’ She lined up her mallet and sent her opponent’s ball flying across the grass. ‘Sorry, Betty-Ann, needs must.’

‘I’ll accept defeat with good grace,’ Betty-Ann replied, walking over to stand by her ball. Grace sat beneath the veranda and watched them finish. She marvelled at the way Big managed to play croquet, using her mallet as a walking stick. The butler brought her a glass of lemon juice and she stroked Mr Doorwood, who had taken it upon himself to jump onto her lap. She swept her eyes over the garden in satisfaction. The borders were bright with the flowers she had planted. It was fortunate that Big had a couple of full-time gardeners to keep them all weeded and trimmed.

When the game was over, Big and Betty-Ann joined her at the table, while the two other friends shook hands briefly with Grace then left for some other pressing engagement. ‘If Mr Doorwood is a nuisance, just throw him off,’ said Big, sinking into a chair with a sigh.

‘I like him,’ Grace replied.

‘He’s enormous,’ said Betty-Ann. ‘You must have giant mice beneath your floorboards.’

‘He’s a terrible mouser,’ Big complained, pouring herself and Betty-Ann some juice. ‘The laziest cat on the island. Believe me, the mice have it good over here.’ She turned to Grace. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about Lucy Durlacher.’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything.’

Big smiled. ‘I hate to take pleasure in the misfortunes of others, but Evelyn’s had it coming for some time.’

‘Oh?’ Grace raised her eyebrows expectantly.

‘Evelyn dragged Lucy away from the party in her nightdress at three in the morning.’

Grace was astonished. ‘Really? In her nightdress?’

‘I kid you not. She went crazy. Lucy was canoodling with one of those boys and the place smelt strongly of marijuana. Poor Lucy, I doubt she’ll ever be let out again.’

‘But how do you know?’ Grace asked.

Betty-Ann grinned guiltily. ‘My maid’s sister works for Joe Hornby and heard them all talking about it over breakfast this morning. She came scuttling round under some pretence and relayed the gossip.’

‘The Island grapevine is well and truly working, then,’ said Grace.

‘It’s never been in better shape,’ Betty-Ann laughed.

‘I presume your Trixie was tucked up in bed by then,’ said Big.

‘I hope so,’ Grace replied, biting her lip. ‘But I couldn’t guarantee it. I didn’t hear her come in.’

‘You must tell her. She’ll be highly amused,’ said Betty-Ann.

‘Oh, she’ll know already. The island must be buzzing with it,’ Big added, waving her bejewelled fingers dismissively.

‘Fancy going out in your nightdress. I wouldn’t be seen dead in mine,’ Grace laughed.

‘You can bet Evelyn’s is made of the finest silk and lace,’ said Big. ‘I’m only surprised she didn’t send that husband of hers in her place. I’m sure his pyjamas are just as exquisite.’

‘He’s as perfect as a shop dummy,’ interjected Betty-Ann scornfully. ‘And just as shallow. I’ve never liked the man, he’s much too pleased with himself. Just like his father was.’

Big smiled in amusement. ‘What did
you
have for breakfast this morning, Betty-Ann? You’re on fire!’

‘Oh, nothing unusual. There’s just something about those two that gets my goat.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Big.

‘
Three
of us,’ Grace added. Then in response to Big’s astonished look, she picked up a jar from her basket and added: ‘Perhaps it’s something in the honey!’

Freddie worked hard all day making preparations for the harvest. There would be a wet harvest for berries used in juices and sauces, when they’d flood the bog so that the cranberries floated to the surface to be rounded up with brooms, and a dry harvest where the berries were hand-picked for the fresh fruit market. He threw himself into his job with enthusiasm, as he did every day, and forgot about Grace and the children. At the farm he was free of resentment. He liked who he was when he was there. At home he was aware of his shortcomings but unable to do anything about them. Grace was a constant reminder of his hurt, and the love he felt for her had been so heavily wrapped in self-defence that he was no longer sure if it still had a pulse. He didn’t like to think about it. It was better that he kept to his routine and didn’t raise all those old, unanswered questions. He had lost himself down the years and now it was too late to find himself again. He had created a bitter casing and imprisoned himself inside it. He might as well accept his life as it was, and himself as he had become.

It was at work that he overheard a couple of the men discussing Joe Hornby and the band he was busy promoting. ‘You know there’s no money there,’ said one.

‘Yes, but apparently one of the kids is very rich.’

‘Well, that explains it, then.’

‘I wouldn’t put my money on old Joe, though. You know what he’s like.’ They both laughed.

‘A flake.’

‘Yes, or a lot of hot air as my mother used to say.’ More laughter.

‘That Jasper Duncliffe is a talented boy, though. Great vocals. He could go far, if it wasn’t for that idiot. Someone should tell him.’

Freddie walked away, the blood rising to his temples. Jasper
Duncliffe
. Surely it must be another family? Duncliffe must be a very common name in England, he thought anxiously. He went into his office and closed the door. He wanted to telephone someone, but didn’t know who. He couldn’t share this with Grace. He couldn’t share it with anyone. He sat down and put his head in his hands. All the old feelings of jealousy, betrayal and hurt rose in a giant wave, invading the serenity of his workplace.
Discipline
, he told himself.
Discipline
. But the thought of his beloved daughter with a member of
that
family made him want to throw something against the wall.

Trixie finished her shift at four. People liked to linger over their lunches. They enjoyed sunbathing all morning and eating later, which meant she found herself working five hours, sometimes more. She thought about Jasper as she worked. The anticipation of seeing him that evening gave her step an extra bounce and her good mood was infectious, making the other waitresses smile with her.

She changed out of her uniform and put on a short, floral sundress that barely reached mid-thigh, and a pair of sandals. As she passed the bar, Jack put down the telephone.

‘Message for you, Trixie,’ said her boss. ‘Someone called Jasper needs to see you urgently.’

Trixie frowned. ‘Really? Did he say anything else?’

‘No, but he sounded serious.’

She felt uneasy. ‘OK. I’ll go now.’

He smiled. ‘So he’s called Jasper, is he?’

‘He’s called Jasper, Jack. I think there must be something special about the initial J, don’t you?’

‘Off you go, Trixie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

‘Leaves me more than I can handle!’ She laughed and left the restaurant, but as soon as she was on her way to Joe’s the uneasy feeling returned and she quickened her pace. It must be something important if Jasper had called Captain Jack’s. She hoped it wasn’t anything bad.

As soon as she opened the door of Joe’s home her fears were confirmed. It
was
something bad. Joe was puffing his cigar, talking on the telephone in a loud voice, explaining that the band wouldn’t be playing. She could see through the glass to where the boys were huddled around a table on the lawn looking grave. She felt the blood drop to her feet.

She strode outside and immediately registered Jasper’s ashen face. His eyes were red, his mouth set into a grimace as if his entire world had just imploded. When he saw her, he took a deep breath. ‘Trixie,’ he said.

‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’

His face grew taut as he strained every nerve to control his emotion. ‘My brother’s been killed in a car crash. I have to go back to England. I . . .’ His voice trailed off and he took a drag of his cigarette with trembling fingers. The ashtray and empty beer bottles in the middle of the table revealed an afternoon of chain-smoking and drinking.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried, falling onto her knees and wrapping her arms around him.

Embarrassed by her affection, he patted her then disentangled himself. ‘Life’s a bummer,’ he replied, and the leaden sound in his voice made her heart buckle.