smooth. If he could only get a bit closer.
âYouâve got some nasty bruising, Charlie. Now, this might hurt a bit.â
Charlie wondered about the wooden comb. He wondered whether he could touch it. It would be a bit like touching the real thing, only he could fit his finger in these wooden cells. The man who made this, heâd have chisels and sandpaper, and tools to measure with. But the bees did it with their mouths. They made the wax out of their own bodies and then built their perfect shapes. Thatâs what his mum had told him.
âIt might hurt a bit, Charlie,â the doctorâs voice said, and then a pain scorched its way through his chest, so that his sight went blue and silver and he cried out.
Her voice was soft in its wake.
âMust have been quite a fall.â
And in the quiet, his fatherâs voice.
âLeast itâs not another one with measles.â
Charlie heard his fatherâs rough laugh, and after it silence. Then the doctorâs voice, very low, and sounding like the word had been dragged out of her.
âNo.â
Charlie opened his eyes.
âThat hurt a lot, didnât it?â
The doctor was still crouched beside him. He wouldnât look at her. He looked across the room at the burnished comb.
âYou looking at the honeycomb?â she said.
He nodded.
âStop staring.â His fatherâs voice was impatient. âCome on and get dressed. Youâre wasting the doctorâs time.â
âItâs all right, Mr Weekes. Go and take a closer look, Charlie, if you want to.â
Charlie took a step, and then paused. How did she know what he was looking at?
âIf you pick it up, youâll feel itâs quite heavy. Very different from the real thing.â
Charlie walked across and picked it up. He heard the doctor say something to his father, and his father reply. He counted the cells â seven wide and five deep. Behind him, they went on talking, but he didnât hear. He wasnât listening. He traced the contours with his finger, then the doctorâs voice cut in.
âItâs modelled on a piece of comb from wild bees,â she said.
âSo, do they make wild honey?â he said.
âCharlie, will you tell me how you got these hurt ribs?â she said.
He put the comb back on the mantelpiece and began to button up his shirt. He didnât turn and he didnât reply.
âAnswer the doctor,â Robert said, and Charlie turned then, his face tight, and picked up his sweater.
âYouâll be in more trouble once youâre out of here if you donât answer,â his father said, but Charlie knew he only said it to sound proper to the doctor, not because he really cared how Charlie had got hurt.
The doctor was leaning back against her big desk, arms folded.
âA friend made it for me, because I keep bees,â she said, nodding towards the mantelpiece.
Despite himself, Charlie turned to her, his eyes alive with questions. The doctor smiled, not at him, quite, but more as if she understood something.
âHave you ever seen a hive?â she said, her face serious again.
Charlie shook his head.
âThe bees wake up about now, with the weather getting warmer. Iâll be doing a first inspection soon. You could come and have a look.â
Charlie looked from the doctor to his father, his face a shock of anticipation.
She turned to Robert. âWith your fatherâs permission.â
Robert stared at Jean, his expression shifting like water. Charlie knew better than to say anything, or make any move. He stood where he was, his sweater still in his hands, waiting.
Robert got to his feet and shook down his jacket, adjusted his scarf, put on his hat. Motioning to Charlie to follow, he walked to the door.
âAll right then. About the bees.â
7
The doctorâs house was huge. Big as a ship. Big as a castle. All on its own, with its own hedge around and a
âYouâve got some nasty bruising, Charlie. Now, this might hurt a bit.â
Charlie wondered about the wooden comb. He wondered whether he could touch it. It would be a bit like touching the real thing, only he could fit his finger in these wooden cells. The man who made this, heâd have chisels and sandpaper, and tools to measure with. But the bees did it with their mouths. They made the wax out of their own bodies and then built their perfect shapes. Thatâs what his mum had told him.
âIt might hurt a bit, Charlie,â the doctorâs voice said, and then a pain scorched its way through his chest, so that his sight went blue and silver and he cried out.
Her voice was soft in its wake.
âMust have been quite a fall.â
And in the quiet, his fatherâs voice.
âLeast itâs not another one with measles.â
Charlie heard his fatherâs rough laugh, and after it silence. Then the doctorâs voice, very low, and sounding like the word had been dragged out of her.
âNo.â
Charlie opened his eyes.
âThat hurt a lot, didnât it?â
The doctor was still crouched beside him. He wouldnât look at her. He looked across the room at the burnished comb.
âYou looking at the honeycomb?â she said.
He nodded.
âStop staring.â His fatherâs voice was impatient. âCome on and get dressed. Youâre wasting the doctorâs time.â
âItâs all right, Mr Weekes. Go and take a closer look, Charlie, if you want to.â
Charlie took a step, and then paused. How did she know what he was looking at?
âIf you pick it up, youâll feel itâs quite heavy. Very different from the real thing.â
Charlie walked across and picked it up. He heard the doctor say something to his father, and his father reply. He counted the cells â seven wide and five deep. Behind him, they went on talking, but he didnât hear. He wasnât listening. He traced the contours with his finger, then the doctorâs voice cut in.
âItâs modelled on a piece of comb from wild bees,â she said.
âSo, do they make wild honey?â he said.
âCharlie, will you tell me how you got these hurt ribs?â she said.
He put the comb back on the mantelpiece and began to button up his shirt. He didnât turn and he didnât reply.
âAnswer the doctor,â Robert said, and Charlie turned then, his face tight, and picked up his sweater.
âYouâll be in more trouble once youâre out of here if you donât answer,â his father said, but Charlie knew he only said it to sound proper to the doctor, not because he really cared how Charlie had got hurt.
The doctor was leaning back against her big desk, arms folded.
âA friend made it for me, because I keep bees,â she said, nodding towards the mantelpiece.
Despite himself, Charlie turned to her, his eyes alive with questions. The doctor smiled, not at him, quite, but more as if she understood something.
âHave you ever seen a hive?â she said, her face serious again.
Charlie shook his head.
âThe bees wake up about now, with the weather getting warmer. Iâll be doing a first inspection soon. You could come and have a look.â
Charlie looked from the doctor to his father, his face a shock of anticipation.
She turned to Robert. âWith your fatherâs permission.â
Robert stared at Jean, his expression shifting like water. Charlie knew better than to say anything, or make any move. He stood where he was, his sweater still in his hands, waiting.
Robert got to his feet and shook down his jacket, adjusted his scarf, put on his hat. Motioning to Charlie to follow, he walked to the door.
âAll right then. About the bees.â
7
The doctorâs house was huge. Big as a ship. Big as a castle. All on its own, with its own hedge around and a
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