Grace blanched. “Don’t say that,” she said quietly. Of all the things that might afflict her daughter, a broken heart was surely the worst.
“I’m saying it now, for the record. You know I’m right.”
“Let’s meet him. Let’s at least find out what he’s like before we forbid her to see him.”
He stood up and tossed his stub into the garden. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ll think about it.”
Grace stood up, too. “Be kind, Freddie,” she said, and her voice sounded harder than it was meant to. “I don’t want her to resent you for preventing her from being with the man she loves.”
He stared at her. His eye, usually so aloof, looked suddenly wounded. “Is that what you think?”
“I only want her to be happy,” she replied, aware that her face had reddened.
“So do I. As her father, it’s my job to stand in the way of the potholes and direct her to safe ground. What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken pie,” she replied.
He nodded his satisfaction. In spite of having left England twenty-seven years before, Freddie still preferred quintessential English cooking. He disappeared inside to pick up his jacket, then left through the front door without another word.
Grace was left trembling on the veranda. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, but her insides felt like jelly. She was ready to defend Trixie like a lioness, but if Freddie really forbade her to see Jasper, she’d be terribly torn. But what if he was right and Jasper was simply enjoying a summer romance with a local girl to whom he had no intention of committing? She didn’t want marriage for Trixie: not now, she was much too young—if she hadn’t married so young she might never have got into the trouble she had—but she didn’t want her daughter’s first love to break her heart, either. Anything but that.
Grace sat on the steps and watched the bees buzzing about the lavender. Their low humming assuaged her anxiety. It lifted her spirits to watch them gathering pollen for the hive. Back in England her father had looked after twenty hives; here she kept only three. She didn’t have the time to keep more, and besides, it was a hobby; she was what they called a backyard beekeeper. She didn’t make any money from her crop, to Freddie’s chagrin, because anything she made from selling her honey in the local shops went straight into repairs, replacements, and equipment. Freddie had tried to persuade her to give them up, but as soft as Grace was about most things, when it came to bees, nothing and no one would convince her to dispense with them. She would sooner have ripped out her heart.
She wandered over to the lavender and snapped off one of the heads upon which a little bee was feasting. She smiled as it crawled busily over the tiny flowers, extracting nectar. It didn’t notice her, so intent was it on its mission. A moment later the bee was making its way up her arm, tickling her skin. She watched it for a while, forgetting all about Trixie and Jasper, feeling the pull of the past in the cracks in her broken heart that had never fully closed. Twenty-seven years sounded like a long time, and yet to the heart time means nothing. Love wasn’t something that wore out or disintegrated with the passing of the years, but something that glowed like an eternal sun. Grace was in her fifties now, and had certainly done her fair share of disintegrating, but only on the outside. The love she carried in her heart was as shiny as new and would remain so for as long as her memory clung onto its radiance. And remember she did, all the time, with every little bee that graced her garden.
• • •
Trixie finished her shift in Captain Jack’s at three and wandered over to Joe Hornby’s. It was just a short walk along the beach and a steep climb up a plank path to the gray-shingled house that sat regally on top of the bluff. She made her way to where the boys were lying by the pool, smoking spliffs and chatting in the sunshine. Old Joe was asleep in a wicker armchair, his hat placed over his eyes, his large belly rising and falling beneath his pink polo shirt as he slept off a large lunch. Jasper was in a pair of red swimming shorts, his lean body tanning easily in the afternoon sun. “Well, look who’s here,” he said, grinning at her. “Fancy a swim, beautiful?”
“It’s really hot today,” Trixie replied, putting her bag down on the grass. “I might have to cool off.”
“If you put on a swimsuit, we’ll all have to cool off,” said Ben, who played the drums in the band. He swept his unruly mop of hair off his forehead and took a swig of beer from the bottle.
“I see you’re working hard,” she retorted sarcastically.
“We were just praying for inspiration,” Jasper replied. “And here you are!”
“Where’s my inspiration, then?” asked George, stretching languidly on his lounger.
“Her mother won’t let her out, I imagine,” said Ben with a chuckle.
“She can bring her mother,” George replied. “I like a woman with experience.”
“Who’s this?” Trixie asked.
“Some bird George was chatting up in the diner this morning,” Ben informed her.
“Lucy in the sky with diamonds,” sang Jasper.
“Not Lucy Durlacher!” Trixie exclaimed in astonishment. “Believe me, you really wouldn’t want to meet her mother! Anyway, you’ll be lucky if she lets Lucy anywhere near you. I suspect she’d prefer it if her daughter caught the plague!”
George grinned and put his hand on his heart. “Forbidden fruit! Now she’s even more appealing than she was before. I’m dying of love for Lucy Durlacher.”
“Trust me, she’s not the one playing hard to get. Any fool can win her.”
“Miaow, claws like a cat!” Ben teased.
Jasper took Trixie’s hand and pulled her down so that he could kiss her. “I know all about your claws,” he whispered. “I wear the scratches down my back like badges of honor.”
Trixie laughed throatily. “I’ll see you in the pool, Mr. Duncliffe!”
• • •
She took her bikini into the house to change. The place was beautifully decorated and very tidy. She found the lavatory across the hall and slipped out of her clothes. As she stepped into her bikini she swept her eyes over black-and-white photographs of a younger, slimmer Joe with various musicians she didn’t recognize, hanging in a collage over the walls. He was smiling out from party scenes with dashing young men in tuxedos and glamorous women with the fifties updos her mother had managed to resist. Then she spotted a photo of Joe with Elvis Presley. She took a closer look. It was most definitely Elvis. She was immediately impressed. Perhaps Joe was going to turn Jasper and his band into a global success like Elvis. A shiver of excitement rippled through her body. It was all desperately thrilling. She thought of Marianne Faithfull, and the idea of being the girlfriend of a rock star was very appealing. Trixie skipped back through the house to the pool with an extra bounce in her step.
They spent the afternoon swimming and sunbathing. Joe woke up and Trixie discovered that he was a jovial old man with a fruity Boston drawl and a wealth of entertaining stories about his past in the music business. He sat like a lazy toad in his chair, smoking a cigar and holding forth, clearly enjoying his young and admiring audience. “I haven’t been so excited about a band since I first heard John and Paul,” he told them importantly, as if it had been he who had discovered the Beatles. “These boys are going to go far. You heard it here first. The music world is looking to England. The timing couldn’t be better.” He flicked ash onto the grass. “We’re going to hit the road in the fall and I’m going to open my address book, which is one of the finest in the business, and we’re not stopping until we’ve reached the top.”
Trixie grinned at Jasper and he smiled back. At that moment the future looked as bright as a gold coin.
• • •
Later, when Trixie returned home, her excitement was duly dampened by her father, who was waiting to speak to her in his study. Immediately irritated that she was made to feel like a schoolgirl again, she d
ropped her beach bag onto the hall floor and marched in. Sometimes it felt as if he had never left the army. He still wore his trousers high, sat with his back straight, had a mania for orderliness and a habit of speaking to her in formal tones more suitable for an officer with his men than a father with his daughter, and he was so terribly serious. Freddie Valentine was a man to whom laughter did not come easily. Trixie wanted to laugh all the time, except now, of course. Right now she wanted to shout at him in fury.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, standing in the doorway.
“Come in, Beatrix,” he said. Her father only ever used her real name when he was cross with her. “Sit down,” he commanded. Trixie was baffled. She was sure her mother had said the episode was over. She did as she was told and sat on the sofa, silently wishing she was old enough to be free of her father’s control. She stared at the coffee table, which was neatly piled with big, shiny books on history and war, and braced herself for a severe scolding. “I’m very disappointed in you,” he said quietly.
That was a bad start. Her heart sank. “I’ve said I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“I’ve spoken to your mother.”
“She’s grounded me,” she added, hoping that being grounded would be enough.
“I’m aware of that. But I’m not happy that you lied, Beatrix.”
“I won’t do it again, I promise.”
He sighed. “I don’t know why you feel the need to break the rules all the time. Rules are there for a reason. To keep you safe. To prevent you from getting hurt. If rules are broken in the field, men die.” He sighed again, irritably. “If you want to make a success of your life, Beatrix, you have to be disciplined. Everything requires discipline. I don’t think you understand that.”
“Oh, I do,” she replied quickly. She had learned from the past that trying to fight her father was only a waste of energy and always unproductive.
“I’ve been thinking of this young man you’ve been seeing. What are his plans?”
“Plans?”
“Yes, what’s he going to do when the summer comes to an end?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Joe says he’s going to make them into superstars, like the Beatles.”
Freddie rolled his eyes. “Joe Hornby’s a big talker. I wouldn’t put my money on him.”
Trixie felt deflated. “He knew Elvis Presley,” she said defensively.
“I’m sure he did. I met Marlon Brando once, but that doesn’t make me a film producer.”
Trixie huffed crossly. “Are you going to tell me I can’t see Jasper?”
“I’m trying to warn you, you foolish girl.” Freddie stood up and began to pace the room. “Do you think he’s going to remain faithful to you while he forges his career as a musician? No, he’s going to leave at the end of the summer and you’re going to be left here, brokenhearted. What sort of father would I be if I didn’t warn you?”
“How many times have you told me that my life is a learning curve? Surely it’s my choice if I want to run the risk of being brokenhearted?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “You don’t even know him,” she mumbled.
“I know his sort.”
“I don’t think you do, Daddy. You just know the stereotype.”
He took a swig of gin and tonic from the crystal glass on his desk. “I don’t want you seeing him,” he said, but there was a weakness in his voice that Trixie seized upon hopefully.
“But you’re not going to stop me.”
“You’re a young woman. Your mother was married at your age.”
“Why don’t you meet him?”
“Yes, I think that would be a sensible idea.”
“I know you’ll like him.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Trixie.”
She smiled, encouraged by the fact that he was now calling her Trixie. “He’s a nice man, I promise you, and he’s gallant.”
“I suppose there’s every chance he’ll ditch his plans and go into business.”
“That would be a terrible waste of talent, Daddy.”
“But a better prospect for you.”
• • •
Trixie hurried upstairs to change. There was a party at Captain Jack’s beach club that evening and she was going to meet Jasper there with the boys. Perhaps they would even play, then everyone would see how talented they were. Barely able to contain her excitement, she showered, then slipped into a miniskirt and white camisole top embroidered with flowers. She left her hair loose but picked a rose from the front of the house and clipped it behind her ear. She found her mother in the kitchen in a cooking apron. “I’m off to the party,” she said.
“Don’t be too late back,” Grace replied, glancing at the short skirt and biting her tongue. Trixie’s legs were too long for a skirt so tiny. She imagined Evelyn Durlacher would have a lot to say about that. “Have a good time,” she said instead.
“I will, Mom. Are you sure you don’t want to come? It’s a party for everyone.”
“I know, darling. But your father’s tired. He’s worked all weekend. I’m going to stay here and give him a good dinner.”
Trixie shrugged. “All right, but it’s going to be fun.”
“You enjoy yourself, and be good.” Grace attempted to inject a little firmness into her voice, but if she’d succeeded, Trixie hadn’t heard her.
“How do I look?” She swiveled round like a dancer. “Like it?”
Grace couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s exuberance. “You look lovely, darling, though you’d look just as pretty in a longer skirt.”
“Oh, Mother, you are so old-fashioned! Don’t worry about me,” she laughed. “I’ll be exemplary!” She grinned mischievously and skipped out of the house, leaving the screen door to bang behind her.
Grace put the chicken pie in the oven, then took off her apron and hung it on the back of the door. She poured a glass of wine and went out onto the veranda to watch the sunset. It was a golden evening and the light was soft and dusty, except when it caught the waves and gleamed a brilliant white. She took a deep breath and savored the fresh sea air that never ceased to give her pleasure, even after all these years living by a beach.
She sipped her wine and felt herself relax. Freddie was in his study and likely to remain there until supper. She had time to sit on the swing chair and enjoy the solitude. She watched the bees humming about the pots of hydrangeas beside her, and slowly, but with the greatest pleasure, she allowed their gentle buzzing to transport her back to the past.
Chapter 4
Walbridge, England, 1933
A fat bumblebee crawled up Grace’s arm. She lay on the grass in the churchyard, dressed in her best Sunday frock, white ankle socks, and freshly polished brown shoes, and watched the bee in fascination. It had a large bottom and its stripes were bright and furry. She wanted to run her finger down its abdomen but thought it might take exception and fly off, so she remained perfectly still as the summer sunshine warmed her back and bare legs, waiting for her father to finish chatting to the other parishioners who gathered outside the church.
“I hope that bee doesn’t sting you,” came a deep voice from behind her. She could tell from the clipped upper-class accent that he wasn’t one of her father’s friends, and she felt herself stiffen with self-consciousness.
“Bees only sting to protect the hive,” she replied, without daring to look at the stranger. “This bee won’t sting me. I’m no threat, you see.”
He laughed. “You must be Mr. Hamblin’s daughter.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Thought so.” He crouched down to take a closer look at the bee. “You’re a brave girl. Most children are afraid of bees.”
“That’s because they don’t know them like I do. Dad says people are always afraid of what they don’t know. Fear is the root of all prejudice, he says.”<
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“Your father is very wise. Do you think the bee might be encouraged to crawl up my arm?”
“We can give it a try, if you like,” she said, forgetting her embarrassment and sitting up slowly. The young man had taken off his jacket and was rolling up his sleeve. Grace took the opportunity to glance at his face. She recognized him at once, for he had sat in the front pew in church beside her father’s employers, the Marquess and Marchioness of Penselwood. She concluded that he must be their eldest son, Rufus, Lord Melville, and her hands began to tremble, not because he was handsome but because he was an earl and she had never spoken to one of his sort before.
“The trick is not to let it know you’re afraid,” she told him, searching for confidence in the subject she knew better than any other.
“I’ll do my best,” he said with a smile. Grace sensed he was teasing her, for a man of his age was surely not afraid of a little bee. He took her thin arm in his hand and rested it on top of his. Against his brown one hers looked very white and fragile. She strained every muscle to stop herself from shaking. They remained with their arms touching for what seemed like a very long time, during which Grace tried to remember to breathe. At last the bee wandered down her arm and onto his. As it stepped lightly onto his skin, he flinched.
Grace forgot her nervousness and took his wrist in her hand to steady him. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “It won’t sting you, I promise. Bumblebees rarely sting, only the worker bees and queens. I’m not sure which this one is—a worker bee, I think. Certainly not a queen; you can tell those immediately as they’re bigger. Anyway, if it does sting you, it’s no bad thing. Dad lets his bees sting him on purpose.”
“Why would he do a silly thing like that?”
“He says beestings cure his arthritis.”
“Really? Is that true?”
“I think it is. He swears by it.”
“My grandmother has terrible arthritis. Perhaps I should bring her down to your cottage for a sting or two.”
Grace chuckled. “I’m not sure she’d thank you. A beesting really hurts.” They watched the insect crawl up his arm. Grace let go of his hand.
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