The Beloved Girls

by Harriet Evans

‘You will though. I can like what I like. Janey says so.’

  ‘She’s right.’ I sat down next to her. ‘Who’s best in Neighbours, then?’

  ‘Well, Scott, obviously.’ She looked at me, furiously, but I said nothing. ‘I liked Clive, too, but he’s gone, and Lucy Robinson, but my favourite is Scott. And, of course, Charlene.’

  ‘Is that Kylie?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She rolled her eyes, too embarrassed to look at me. ‘She’s amazing. She can mend a car, and she can marry Scott. And she can sing.’

  ‘Well, that does sound amazing,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d left though.’

  Merry sat up. She said, in an important voice: ‘She has, in Australia. But our transmission of programmes is about a year behind. She hasn’t left in the UK yet.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I bit the side of my thumb cuticle. The nail had torn, that night, and I kept tearing the skin further and further down the thumb. ‘A delay.’

  ‘Yep.’ Merry was arranging her box of Neighbours memorabilia, the annuals, the album sleeves, all together. There was a copy of Smash Hits! with Jason Donovan on the front. The cover was folded over. I smoothed it down, and handed it to her. She put the box away, pushing it under the bed, her hands brushing my legs, but she didn’t ask me to move or, still, meet my eye. She folded her arms and sat back down. There was a short silence.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been a cow lately,’ I said, slowly. ‘I’ve had a strange summer.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘You like Janey, don’t you?’

  Merry nodded. ‘I really do.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I know. I knew you’d get on, if you could only just . . . just put yourself away.’

  I laughed. ‘What a funny expression.’ I saw her blush again, and I felt a lurch of guilt. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it’s silly funny. It’s just so spot on.’ She stood up, and started arranging her ballet books, slamming them against the shelf. ‘I’m sorry, Merry.’

  She gave a small shrug. ‘ ’S’fine. Don’t worry. Look, I’ve got to cycle to Gemma’s. I’ll see you later, OK?’

  ‘Why? Oh. Of course.’

  ‘You wouldn’t forget the Collecting, would you!’ She laughed, a bit too loudly. ‘Even you. PF says he wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t turn up, if you were off somewhere, but I know you wouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ I said carefully, and I got up, slowly, too. ‘Look, Merry, darling. Whatever happens, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better big sister. I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer to you. You’re great. Just remember that.’

  She was staring at me as though I was completely mad. ‘What on earth are you on about?’

  ‘I mean soon – I’ll be gone, and I won’t see you as much, and I want you to remember, I –’ I breathed out. ‘We take too much from the bees every year. We leave them with less and less. You know that. We shouldn’t. Don’t let them.’ I leaned against the bookcase. She looked at me with alarm.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine! I’m just tired.’ I pushed myself away. ‘And feeling sentimental, that’s all. Just that I’m glad you’re my sister. And I love you. Goodbye.’

  I left the hot little room, pausing outside, and went back to my room, down below. I could hear Mummy getting lunch ready, Joss strumming his guitar and humming along, some poems. I could hear Ros, striding across the lawn, circling around and about, and, in the distance, beyond the grounds, I could hear the bees, louder than ever.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The air was heavy and dull on the evening of our eighteenth birthday, when we all finally assembled at 6 p.m.: Joss in his new dark blazer, Merry in a neon-pink and yellow ruffled skirt and white netting top, a ponytail asymmetrically perched atop her head and then, at the end, Janey and I, in our green dresses, walking slowly down the curving stairs.

  In the austere panelled dining room, food was laid out on long tables and dressers: wine in silver ice buckets, jugs of Pimm’s in the fridge, globe crystal champagne glasses upside down on the long dining table. There were vast platters of smoked salmon, prawn cocktails in little crisp pastry shells, mini-quiches. There was Shloer, otherwise only ever served at Christmas. Mrs Dawson down in Larcombe had brought it up this morning. Of course, most important of all were the little fingers of toast, and bread, for those who wanted to taste the honey, and most people did. Later, we would come into the dining room, there would be drinks, and loud, relieved chatter, spilling out onto the terrace and across the lawn, as the village came together for the end of summer. Everyone was always tense with pride and then, afterwards, mawkish with sentiment. When I was younger I alternately loved it and was repelled by it, like the Last Night of the Proms: I always cried at Pomp and Circumstance but loathed the naked jingoism of ‘Rule, Britannia’.

  Mummy and Daddy were ‘upstairs’ again, for the first time in a while. We could hear them. I listened, idly; normally I blocked it out but tonight for some reason I wanted to take note. It was so rushed, so intense, so urgent. You could hear Daddy, muttering something, but it was Mummy, as always, animal-like. The yelps grew louder and louder, a huge, distressing scream, and then silence.

  I picked a piece of dead skin from my finger. Janey caught my eye. We smiled, mirthlessly.

  It was dark in the hallway. There was a murky light to the evening, and once or twice I heard thunder, gathering way out to sea. On the edge of the terrace and across the lawn was a diagonal line of hazel switches leading towards the gate, each crowned with a smoking beeswax candle from last year’s bounty. There was no wind.

  ‘There should be quite a crowd this year,’ said Joss, fiddling with his collar.

  I gave him a small, private smile. This is weird. I twisted the little diamond studs I’d got for my sixteenth birthday, then ran my hand over the back of my neck; sweat was pooling at the nape. My bare skin was warm, but I was shivering slightly. The dress Mummy had given me was one she’d made in the sixties – printed Indian green cotton, falling to the ground, trimmed with cream lace. My uneven hair was prickling in places, catching in the lace collar. I felt, in short, like a lamb trussed up for slaughter, but before that on display for a good stare by as many as cared to. The advantage of the long dress was it hid the bruises on my legs and arms.

  I touched the back of my neck again. ‘Don’t,’ said a quiet voice behind me. ‘You look glorious. Like a goddess. Really.’

  And Janey’s arm slid around my waist. I snatched at her fingers, held them tight. The strength I felt at that moment, knowing she was there with me, caught me by surprise.

  Then we could hear them, hear them singing the Collecting Carol, the same song sung for hundreds of years.

  ‘I’ll sing you one, O,

  Green come for the comb, O!

  What is your one, O?

  One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.

  I’ll sing you two, O,

  Green come for the comb, O!’

  It always started softly, as they came up through the woods from the village, climbing to the top of the grassland, walking along the breast of the hill, ringing the handbells to call out the lepers who might be in the woods, following the ancient boundary wall that led to Vanes. There, they processed along the driveway, under the arch onto the terrace, where they greeted us, and we joined them.

  ‘Nine for the nine bright shiners . . .’

  ‘I’m scared,’ said Janey, into my ear. ‘Kitty – are you ready?’

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing to be scared about, OK?’ I said. ‘The bags are in the car. Everything’s ready.’

  The Hunters had been practising. There was a swagger to their singing.

  ‘We’re doing this, aren’t we?’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, into her ear. ‘We are.’

  ‘Eight, eight here we come say eight for the Spring Collectors . . .’

  My parents had joined us by now, my father’s hair neatly combed and gleaming, Mummy in a love
ly silk dress of midnight blue, smelling of her delicious Givenchy perfume. Her hair was plaited, and twisted around her head, her face aglow. She and my father stood apart, on the doorstep, heads slightly bowed, the lord and lady of the manor.

  ‘Seven for the seven stars in the sky,

  Six for the six-sides of the comb.’

  Our hands touched. The procession was approaching. As ever, I could feel the hairs on my neck rising slowly, the ghastly anticipation, the stifling terror of the flames, the sound of the bells, jangling too loud. Lack of sleep made me stare unblinking, wired.

  I could see the lines of villagers and friends, coming closer. Tradition was they didn’t look at us on the doorstep. We joined at the end, holding our beeswax candles, and our smoke.

  ‘Five for the five proud walkers,

  Four for the honey makers . . .’

  The half-sung, half-spoken lilting way they talked was hypnotic. I looked out and I could see faces I’d known all my life: Mrs Red, Pete the landlord, Gracie and Sam, who I’d been at infants with, and the Reverend Thompson, frowning heavily – he was something of a happy-clappy trendy vicar, not at all keen on obscure pagan ancient English customs, but he dared not miss the occasion. Then there were the second-home owners, the holiday-makers who came every year, and the many retirees from all around here who loved the custom, because it made them all feel something. There were more than ever this year, over fifty, I’d have guessed, and as they passed, I felt their presence, that final time.

  Then the roar came for the last three verses:

  ‘Three, three, the rivals,

  Two, two, the beloved girls,

  Clothed all in green, O . . .’

  At the rear was Giles Leigh-Smith, dressed almost identically to Joss: navy blazer, blue shirt and chinos, brown leather deck shoes. His parents followed him. I watched him walk past, as always thinking how strange it was that on special occasions like this, women get to dress in bright colours and different styles and men are in uniform, identikit versions of each other.

  I saw Mummy was breathing quickly, her face pale, a tightness about the mouth. Joss and I followed them, then Janey and Merry. Usually, Rory tottered along behind. I thought I heard something, a pattering, a quick movement of feet, but when I turned, there was nothing, and Merry frowned at me.

  The singing grew louder the closer we got, then to morph into something else, a jangling, too-loud reality. The whole procession didn’t file into the chapel – there wasn’t room. Instead they formed a ring around the abandoned old building, chanting, singing, and even from a distance the humming from inside was so loud it got into your head, your chest, your heart. The bees knew we were coming. In the distance, thunder rolled down towards the hills.

  Daddy’s line was the same, every year. He stepped forward to the door of the chapel, turning the key, then sliding back the long, black bolt. To us he said:

  ‘Half for us and half for them,

  Else the Devil take us all.’

  Then, as he opened the chapel door:

  ‘Half for you, and half for me,

  It was ever so and thus shall be.’

  Again, I thought I heard something, the shuffling of feet, an animal cry. I turned, again, and caught Janey’s eye. She mouthed to me. I’m here.

  Joss and I were surrounded, and propelled towards the chapel. My skin was crawling with fear, at the closeness, the heat, the noise. I hesitated, but Joss pushed me inside. ‘Come on, Kits.’

  My father followed us in; and Merry. ‘Come on, Janey,’ she said, smiling, and Janey was dragged in, too. I looked round for Mummy but couldn’t see her. Then I remembered. She was the Outsider. She had to stay without us, all alone.

  Inside the small space, the beeswax candles had been lit, but it was still dark and close, the air cloying with honeyed wax, even with the hole in the ceiling. Daddy squeezed the bee smoker, and the scent of dead leaves and fuel filled the place. My eyes stung. We could barely hear the singing outside, the noise inside was so loud. A new moon shone overhead; I had not noticed it, so slender was it, so precise, cutting through the pale lavender blue above.

  ‘One is one . . .’

  It was just us now, us and them.

  The humming was so loud, you felt certain they must know something was happening. Did they remember, some hereditary memory handed down from queen bee to worker to queen bee? Did they know the song, what the footsteps across the lawn at the end of summer meant?

  I was shaking. I could barely keep a lid on my terror. Ros stepped to the front as Daddy pumped the bee smoker behind her. I jumped as Janey put her hand on my back again, and I felt her trembling, and then I knew how scared she was and somehow that gave me some strength.

  ‘Loud today, aren’t they?’ I heard old Mrs Red saying from the doorway. ‘He needs to smoke ’em a bit more.’

  I knew Daddy would have heard this.

  Suddenly Mummy appeared, next to her. Normally, she was silent throughout, taking as little part in the ceremony as she could. She advanced a little way into the chapel, then spread her hands apart and said, in a low, compelling voice:

  ‘We’ve come to take our share tonight, on our children Jocelyn and Catherine’s eighteenth birthday. We thank you for it. We thank you for them and for the life you have given us.’

  Who was she talking to? I always wondered. My father made a shooing motion to Mummy. I knew what he meant. The Outsider has to stay outside.

  But Mummy hadn’t finished. ‘We thank you for Janey, for bringing her to us this summer, and all she has given us, every one of us. We thank you for her father, Simon, and all he did in his life. May he rest in peace. We thank you.’

  My father paused, staring at her in astonishment. He hissed something at her but she ignored him. So he began hacking away at the mud around one of the tombs, with a chisel. Sometimes he got it wrong and had to open up a few before we found where the bees had made their honeycomb that year.

  Outside, the others carried on singing the Carol, softly now. Over and over again the same verses came, and I wanted to scream. I glanced at the open door as my father tried one sealed-up tomb after another, the sound swelling and ebbing as he did.

  ‘There’s no honey,’ my father hissed.

  ‘There’s always the ones in the roof,’ said Aunty Ros. ‘Keep trying, Charles. Keep trying. More smoke.’

  My father kicked the can towards Joss. ‘Do it,’ he said, shortly.

  Joss picked up the smoker, staring at it in panic. ‘Of course,’ he said, tucking his hair behind his ears.

  ‘Here,’ said Aunty Ros, bustling forward. She grabbed it from him. ‘I’ll smoke them. As you were, Charles. As you were.’

  Gradually, the seal of mud that had been applied back in January on the fourth tomb down cracked away. ‘At last,’ my father said, and reached a hand in.

  He was never stung; they knew him. He was calm, and confident, king of his world, certain about what to do. His withdrew, and we could see he was clutching a torn-off section of golden-yellow-brown comb.

  ‘Got it,’ someone yelled outside. ‘He’s got it!’

  He sliced it in two, as honey started dripping onto the ground, and the bees made more noise. The Three Rivals banged their silver spoons against their glasses; the Hunters cheered. I shrank against the wall of the chapel. I felt the back of Janey’s hand, the knuckles brushing mine.

  ‘Half for them and half for us!’ my father called, his voice trembling. ‘Joss, come forward. Joss, my son – take the comb, taste it first – ’ He turned to me. ‘Kitty. Here, taste some.’

  And then it happened. Someone outside shouted. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘They’re in the roof,’ someone else called. ‘Look at them.’

  I froze. ‘What?’ said Daddy, sharply. He looked up, we all did, apart from Mummy, still hovering on the threshold.

  In addition to the combs kept in the tombs lining the walls of the chapel, there were the rows of comb nestled in what remained of
the roof. The bees had been there for ten years or so now. And they were leaving.

  Where the chapel was open to the sky was a black cloud, like a cloak, floating across the whole of the roof to the edge of a broken buttress. As we watched, it rose up into the air.

  ‘I said so,’ Mrs Red called. ‘Good Lord, he was right. They’re really leaving.’

  I ignored her, snatching the ivy headdress from my head. ‘It’s fine,’ said Mummy, in a soft, sing-song voice as she carefully put half of the first piece of comb, dripping, oozing, amber gold, into the bucket. ‘There’s more here. They’re still here.’ And even after all of it, even knowing what a single sting could do to me, as I saw the honey, a drop of golden light, sliding from the comb, my mouth watered, as it did every year.

  My father’s eyes were bulging. ‘It’s not fine, Sylvia. Do shut up. Why – why are they swarming now, for God’s sake?’

  Mummy was still awfully calm. Her eyes downcast, her movements slow, gently she prised the comb from Charles, put the other half of it back in the tomb. ‘They’re not swarming. They’re leaving. Stop the Collecting, stop it now. They’re angry with you. Half for us and half for them. You’ve always taken more than half, Charles. You take too much. You always do.’

  Someone started to scream. ‘No! No, don’t!’

  ‘Move away! Get away!’

  ‘Tell them to be quiet,’ said my father, sharply now. ‘Don’t aggravate the others.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Aunty Ros furiously prising open another tomb, thin fingers white at the knuckles with the pressure. ‘Carry on. Tell them for God’s sake to shut up. Sing. Sing something. Dammit, sing them something.’

  But we were silent, inside, as outside, then came another scream. ‘I’ve been stung!’ The noise was indescribable, a vibrating, roaring rush, it wasn’t a hum. It grew louder every minute.

  All summer we had known there were too many bees and that they hadn’t built enough comb. All summer they’d been making too much noise, and for years we knew these were bad-tempered bees, aggressive. They didn’t like the people, the light from the candles and, of course, the heat.