Here is the Beehive

by Sarah Crossan

  He’s fifteen for Christ’s sake.

  My brother’s staying with us for a few days.

  Man in the house. You know?’

  She sighs but does not sound distressed.

  She is cross, perhaps, that I have called

  to hound her about insurance documents,

  pension scheme papers.

  ‘Have you considered counselling?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve considered it.’

  Something beeps in the background.

  Rebecca’s shoes clack across the floor.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll keep looking.

  His office is a mess. I hate

  riffling through everything.

  Keep coming across cards and photos.

  Makes me … ’

  She searches for a feeling.

  Does not grab at sadness.

  ‘Makes me wish he’d been better organised.’

  He didn’t know he was leaving, I want to shout.

  Instead, ‘Would it save time if I came over?

  I’m happy to help you look.

  I’ve done it for other clients.

  I’ve measured up curtains for people actually.

  Ordered cosmetics.

  Taken dogs to the groomers.

  Kids to McDonalds.’

  I try for a laugh but it gets lost in my throat.

  I am wearing one of Ruth’s hairbands on my wrist.

  I snap it. Do it again so it hurts.

  ‘It’s an overwhelming time, Rebecca.’

  Only her breathing down the line.

  Relief? Suspicion?

  At last she says, ‘Would you really come and help?’

  I wish you had left me a relic.

  Your tartan shirt.

  You looked drop-dead in it with the sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Yes. I’d be delighted to come over.’

  So I wouldn’t be

  seduced by the sound of your voice, I messaged you.

  I had been jittery for days after you’d revealed you

  were still sleeping with Rebecca,

  my body electric, raw.

  I said,

  I can’t be with you when you’re sleeping with her.

  If this is all we are, I’m out.

  I have to find peace, Connor.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  I want more.

  You replied as I knew you would.

  OK. I love you.

  I’m sorry. I am.

  I deleted your number,

  made fairy cakes with the kids that evening.

  Then I paid the council tax,

  put the bins out and ordered some verruca socks for Ruth.

  Paul kissed my cheek and said,

  ‘You’re fit, you know that?’

  When everyone else was drunk

  and planning a gap year after graduation,

  Paul was researching ISAs and PGCEs.

  He wasn’t sure about teaching

  but he was sure he didn’t want to be unemployed.

  ‘You should apply to NatWest or something.

  They have graduate schemes,’ Tanya said,

  inhaling the last dregs of the joint I’d paid for.

  We were lying on her double bed

  in the flat her mother had rented

  after she’d left it too late to apply for third-year halls.

  Paul was in the middle.

  ‘You think I’d do well at interview?’

  Paul gestured to his boot-cut cords

  and hairy bare feet.

  Tanya grimaced.

  ‘Look, you didn’t do some bullshit degree like philosophy.

  You have skills.’ She thumped her chest and they high-fived.

  ‘I like kids. And I like long holidays,’ Paul said.

  Tanya stroked his arm. ‘What a catch.’

  ‘Indeed, he is,’ I whispered.

  Paul rolled on top of me,

  theatrically kissing my face, my neck, my chest.

  ‘Tanya’s just bitter because she hasn’t seen my huge cock.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ll need someone to tend to the kids

  when I’m busy being important,’ I said.

  Paul tickled me then and I shrieked. ‘Stop!’

  But he wouldn’t. He tickled and tickled

  until I confirmed to Tanya that, yes,

  his cock was truly immense.

  Mr Bray explains how his uncle haunts him.

  The uncle,

  who left Mr Bray a house in his will,

  visits nightly and

  stands at the foot

  of the bed, giving advice:

  where Mr Bray should watch the fireworks;

  when Mr Bray should plant a hyacinth;

  how Mr Bray can coax his wife into fellatio.

  ‘I need a restraining order,’ he says.

  ‘But your uncle is dead,’ I remind him.

  Mr Bray takes out a cheque book.

  ‘How much?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ll give back every penny if I have to.’

  He is waving a green pen at me.

  His eyes bulge.

  ‘I’ll pay court fees, lawyers. The lot.

  You were so good before, at sorting it all out. I trust you.’

  ‘It isn’t about cost,’ I say, glad the office is full.

  ‘I’m not a priest. I can’t stop a haunting.’

  Mr Bray sits back in the chair,

  appears to say a prayer, then stands.

  ‘I think he’ll visit you from now on,’ he tells me.

  ‘I’ve informed him you’ll be acting on my behalf.’

  He starts to back out of my office.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Ms Kelly.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say again. ‘Sit down.’

  But he will not.

  ‘Is it all meat?’ I complained,

  ensuring the waiter overheard.

  I don’t know why I whinged

  or what I was expecting,

  where I thought you were taking me

  or even what I wanted.

  No,

  that isn’t true.

  I always knew

  what I wanted.

  You wore the tartan shirt,

  seemed older,

  never more attractive.

  I wanted to tell you –

  wanted to say, You look beautiful,

  but didn’t.

  You said,

  ‘I’ve been broken without you.

  Rebecca and I have argued constantly.

  I stayed in a hotel for a few days.’

  I waited for more, looked concerned when really

  I was overjoyed.

  I hated Rebecca by then.

  I wanted her to die.

  I wanted you to want her to die.

  ‘We aren’t having sex, Ana.

  That was one time. A weird one-off.

  I have no idea why I told you.

  You know that I tell lies every single day.

  But I don’t lie to you.

  And maybe that’s part of our problem.’

  You had a sty,

  were struggling to see out of it.

  Still #x00A0; so beautiful.

  I was glad you had called,

  summoned my return.

  ‘I don’t abstain with Paul for you,’ I explained.

  ‘I abstain for myself.

  I don’t want to sleep with two men.’

  I cried in front of you for the first time.

  Instead of reaching out, you looked into your placemat.

  The waiter arrived with our drinks.

  After ham hock and steak

  we walked along the quayside,

  slippery from noncommittal rain,

  and made plans

  for next time,

  like the day was already done with us.

  And it was.

  It was done before we had parked the c
ar.

  I hated Cambridge

  to the same extent you loved it.

  We went so often and

  each time you pointed out your college,

  Magdalene,

  like I could forget your prestigious education.

  Back on the road

  we didn’t go through the same old stuff,

  but silently held hands,

  which helped with the goodbye –

  a brisk kiss by the boot

  in a KFC car park

  where I’d left my Nissan.

  I hurried away.

  Didn’t look back.

  I had decided that day to make

  a point of never looking back again.

  Mark is smoking a cigarillo,

  nipping the tip of his tongue

  between thumb and forefinger

  to be rid of a fleck of tobacco leaf.

  He is reading L’Étranger

  in what looks like

  the original French.

  ‘Aujourd’hui, maman est morte,’ I say,

  taking a seat opposite,

  facing the sun.

  ‘A-level French?’ he asks.

  ‘Law with French at uni,’ I tell him.

  ‘Spent a year in Marseille.’

  ‘Oxbridge reject?’

  ‘Naturally.’ I bow slightly.

  ‘Connor was Cambridge.’

  ‘He mentioned it once or twice.’

  Mark closes his book, raises a finger

  to call the waitress.

  I order wheat beer.

  ‘I’m looking to illustrate it,’ he says.

  ‘Just beginning some sketches.

  The beach. The funeral.’

  My beer arrives with a side of salted pumpkin seeds.

  The sun is in my eyes.

  I shift the folding metal chair,

  unbutton the top of my blouse.

  Mark recommends a film,

  two books,

  a chain of tapas restaurants

  and his optician.

  He doesn’t ask for advice,

  even when I explain why a will would be a good idea.

  ‘Why didn’t you call to tell me Connor had been in an accident?’

  I’m on my fourth drink. I wouldn’t be so accusing otherwise.

  Mark isn’t quite listening.

  He is looking at a girl’s arse in jeggings.

  It’s a nice arse. I admire it myself.

  ‘When he got taken into hospital, you could have called.

  I could have come. No one else knew to do that.

  I know he gave you my number.’

  He peels his eyes from the arse.

  ‘You couldn’t have come.

  You couldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I was the last person he spoke to. Did you know?

  I mean, probably.

  Fifteen minutes before the collision.

  We spoke.’

  And we argued. And I held my gut and

  squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

  I called you names, hated you, wished you dead.

  And then.

  Maybe it’s true:

  the universe is listening.

  I propose dinner, a treat for him agreeing to meet

  again,

  and he nods, knows

  he is doing me a kindness.

  On the walk to the Moroccan place

  with more outdoor seating, Mark says,

  ‘They have blankets if we’re cold.’

  ‘Are you cold?’ I ask him, stopping,

  putting my hand behind his head

  and pulling him to me.

  He smells of my father.

  And he knew you.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He pushes me

  into oncoming traffic.

  A scooter swerves, honks,

  shouting and swearing.

  ‘Are you insane?

  You thought I was interested?

  Are you actually insane?’

  On the kerb I cry

  and ask myself the same question.

  Are you actually insane?

  PART THREE

  Ruth and Jon pan for gold

  in a sandy man-made stream,

  up to their elbows in dirty water.

  Around us children scream

  delightedly,

  detecting fake golden nuggets in their pans.

  The parents are equally cheerful.

  I scan the farm for Paul,

  who is taking his time to find the toilets.

  Ruth cheers, opens her palm to unveil tiny pieces of treasure.

  ‘I got ten,’ she says. ‘I win a medal!’

  Another mother coos as though

  genuinely impressed. ‘Wow! Well done!’

  ‘Good girl. Help Jon now. He’s only got two pieces,’ I tell Ruth.

  ‘It’s so great here, isn’t it?’ the cooing mother says.

  She is carrying a rucksack,

  filled with sandwiches and fruit presumably,

  maybe a first-aid kit.

  ‘I prefer the pub,’ I tell her.

  She laughs. ‘Oh, yes. We all do.’

  I don’t believe her. She looks like she was born

  in those Sketchers.

  Paul taps my shoulder.

  ‘Shall we eat? The queues have died down.’

  Ruth and Jon collect enough nuggets and we

  swap them

  at the gift shop for medals.

  Ruth hands hers back.

  ‘Can I keep the gold instead?’

  The cashier is confused.

  ‘The medal is a prize for finding them.

  We put the gold back into the river later

  for other children to find.’

  ‘The gold is better,’ she says.

  ‘The medal is plastic.’

  I do not interfere as

  the cashier grudgingly hands over ten

  pieces of pyrite and takes back the medal.

  At lunch I tell Ruth, ‘You were right to keep the gold.’

  She rolls the pieces between her fingertips,

  eats a butterless ham sandwich. She has my eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t a fair swap,’ she says. ‘It was a cheat.’

  Paul showers,

  leaving the door to the en suite

  open so I can’t get

  even

  ten uninterrupted minutes

  to think of you and touch myself.

  He stands over me in his pants,

  drying his hair roughly.

  ‘That guy at the school – Nonno?’

  I look up from Anna Karenina.

  ‘What?’ I turn a page, though

  I have been reading the same paragraph for two weeks.

  ‘He’s a parent in Jon’s class.

  Italian or Portuguese or something.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  He throws the towel towards the radiator.

  Misses.

  ‘He’s always whistling. I can’t stand it.’

  The towel is a wet lump on the floor –

  on the carpet.

  ‘I don’t trust him.

  Pretty sure he’s on his second marriage.

  You see why that happened.’

  ‘Are you going to pick that up?’

  My phone bleeps.

  I close my book.

  A message from Mark:

  I won’t be meeting you again.

  Sorry it’s hard but I can’t.

  You need help. Get help.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed the weird whistling?’

  Paul checks his jawline in the bathroom mirror,

  runs the tap for a shave.

  ‘Please close that door,’ I say.

  I turn over in bed and switch out my light.

  By the time he is done,

  I could conceivably be asleep.

  I message Mark.

  What do we say<
br />
  when someone tells us it’s over?

  There is no reply to rejection

  except one word:

  OK.

  The clocks click back.

  An hour seized for sleeping.

  Time shifts.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  If only.

  I would be kinder.

  I would save you.

  It’s a minute I need.

  One.

  Someone else can have the other

  fifty-nine.

  Give them to Rebecca.

  Let Rebecca have fifty-nine minutes of you.

  One for me.

  One.

  That last one only.

  You flew home from a funeral:

  your cousin’s child in County Down,

  and we met in the Hilton, Stansted.

  ‘She was eighteen,’ you said.

  ‘Just got a place with Riverdance for the summer.

  You should have seen her in her hard shoes.

  She was unreal.

  Gorgeous too.’

  You traced circles on my cheeks with your finger.

  ‘She was my first niece.

  I planned to leave her money in my will.

  Kim. Remember?’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘She was political too.

  Painted these huge abstract canvases in acrylics

  using green, white and gold.’

  ‘She sounds incredible.’

  ‘She was incredible.

  Not that I can talk to Rebecca about all that stuff.

  She finds Anglo-Irish politics tedious.

  She finds me tedious most of the time.’

  I smoothed stray hair from your face,

  kissed your chin, your eyelids.

  This was a new melancholy, not about us,

  and I despised myself for enjoying it.

  ‘I can’t believe Kim’s gone.

  It doesn’t make sense. I just … ’

  You stood up, stretched,

  went to the bathroom to run the shower.

  ‘Why are you washing,’ I asked, ‘when we haven’t had sex?’

  ‘I’ve been travelling,’ you called out.

  I lay on the bed wishing you’d hurry up,

  resentful of the minutes you were wasting

  when we could have been holding one another.

  Steam wafted into the room, fogging up the full-length mirror.

  Bottled water on each bedside table. Mints too.

  Closed curtains the colour of nutmeg.

  Cushions I’d pushed straight on to the floor.

  You came back in, a towel around your waist. Hair wet.

  ‘Are you worried my perfume’s rubbed off on you? Is that it?’

  You looked offended.

  ‘I didn’t notice your perfume,’ you said.

  ‘But she might.’

  ‘How do you know she doesn’t wear the same one?’

  That day I had loved you for five hours