“Ouch!” Hannah drops the bee smoker to the ground. The top flies open and burning fuel
spills out.
“Careful, child,” her father cries.
The bees buzz around her, she’s nervous about being stung, but the grass is catching light and she’s even more nervous of a blow from his large hand. She tries to stay calm as he has taught her, stamping the sparks with deliberate motions so as not to unsettle the swarm above her head. She is only partially successful. By the time the fire is out, her boots and bloomers are covered in soot, the grass is burnt black and her arms and legs are covered in red weals. But the bees are calming down and she is able to reach into the hive and collect the honeycomb.
Not wanting to admit to pain, she is grateful that in a rare moment of tenderness, he examines her body, takes some honey from the comb and rubs it on her wounds. “There, this will soothe the stings.” He pats her on the shoulder, “Stings are part of this life, but you kept your head, which is also part.”
It is unusual for him to praise her. She smiles through her pain.
“Now,” he adds, “We’re low on charcoal. Go to your uncle’s and come back straight away. No dawdling with your cousins.”
Hannah nods. She knows from experience the consequences of not doing as she is told, but also, that if she runs most of the way, she will have a little time with them while Uncle Alfred collects the charcoal. And, that her uncle, being softer than his brother, will probably give her a lift in the cart most of the way back. She waves goodbye, turning to the corner to the lane where the high hedges protect her from his sight and begins to run. It is wonderful to be alone, temporarily free, enjoying the warm sun and light breeze. A pair of yellowhammers fly in front of her, orange tips and cabbage whites flutter over the hedgerows. She flies with them. Down…down…down…she races till her journey comes to an abrupt halt as she runs straight into someone coming from the opposite direction.
“Whoa there, where are you in such a hurry young miss?” A familiar figure reels from the collision, just managing to stay upright.
“Sorry Dr Sykes,” she says.
“Just look where you are going next time?”
“Yes, sir.” She catches her breath as she notices his net. “What’s that?”
“It’s for catching butterflies.” He pulls a jar from the bag on his shoulder. “I take them home and preserve them.”
“Why?”
“So I can learn about them to teach future generations.”
She wants to ask how killing orange tips will help future generations, but it feels rude. Instead she smiles continuing on her way, across the bridge over the stream, past the common, to the woods where Uncle Alfred and Aunt Elsa live. She hasn’t seen them for a fortnight. She is eager to kiss the baby, chase Tom the toddler, and tell Jemima about feeding the new lambs that were born last week.
The smell of smoke tells her she is nearly there. She runs down through the elms and oaks to reach the glade to the cottage, excited to be here at last. But something is wrong. Usually, her uncle is outside, tending to the burner or gathering wood, Jemima and Tom in his wake. They are nowhere to be seen. Instead, she finds a group of neighbours huddled together, looking sombre.
“What’s the matter?”
“Who is this little maid?” says a man she doesn’t recognise.
“Gerald’s girl from down the way.” A tall dark-haired man says.
“I’ve come for charcoal,” she says. “Where’s my uncle?”
The men look at each other; the tall man says, “I’m afraid he’s sick.”
“I saw Dr Sykes in the lane, should we fetch him?” Again that look. “I think my dear, it might be too late,” he says. There is a wail from inside the house that confirms it. Hannah runs inside to find her aunt by the bed, holding her uncle’s hand. His body is already stiff. Jemima and Tom are standing to the side with a couple of women from the village, one of whom is carrying the baby. Jemima hugs her, wailing. “What is to become of us?” Hannah says nothing, as she watches the men enter, take their hats off and stand silently around the bedside. The baby begins to cry. Aunt Elsa lets go of her husband’s hand and carries him to the kitchen to nurse him. The women take charge, shooing the men out of the house so they can lay out the body. Hannah, Jemima and Tom go outside too.
“What is to become of us?” Jemima says again. Mr Townsend has been wanting to clear this part of the woods for years. Now Uncle Alfred is dead, they’ll be evicted and that will be that. Hannah hugs her, knowing there is nothing she can do.
Presently, the tall man, who identifies himself as Ernest West, offers to take Hannah home. She says goodbye to her cousins and climbs into the cart. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud and with it the warmth of the day. They journey back along the lane where she ran so freely a short time before. As they reach her home, she can see her father working on the fence near the hives.
Ernest pulls the horse to a halt. She thanks him as she steps down from the cart. Her stings are throbbing; she feels tired and very alone. She remembers what her father said earlier about keeping her nerve and being stung. She supposes this too, is part of life, something she will have to get used to.
Slowly she walks over to her father, steeling herself to give him the news about Uncle Alfred.
He will need her help to tell the bees