Read Online Tell it to the Bees by Fiona Shaw - Free Book Online Page B

my dad.’
    She hadn’t been sure, from the way he said it, whether she was meant to hear him, or not. It was what she used to tell him when he was little, and it was true that she hadn’t found the new thing to say now he was bigger. But therewas something in Charlie’s tone that sounded bitter, not amused or jokey, and Lydia didn’t know how to respond to that. So she’d sat down with the tea and settled on something else instead.
    â€˜Charlie, you’re not making yourself a nuisance over the bees, are you?’
    Which had got Charlie’s head up from the threads of jam he was patterning over his bread. He’d stared at her, his mouth slightly open, in something that looked like alarm.
    â€˜She hasn’t said that? She hasn’t said it to you?’
    â€˜No, she hasn’t. I haven’t spoken with her. Haven’t clapped eyes on her yet. But you’re there every week almost,’ Lydia said, and then, trying to make light: ‘I barely see you weekends, these days.’
    â€˜She’s said I can go after school today. If I want.’
    He waited, eyes down again on his plate till he caught her nod, then he started eating his bread and jam, taking large bites and swallowing fast.
    â€˜Perhaps I better go and get ill,’ Lydia said, smiling, watching him, ‘so at least I could meet her. Thank her for her trouble.’
    â€˜It’s not trouble,’ Charlie said. ‘She likes me being there. I like the bees. I can help her,’ and he pushed back his chair to leave the table.
    In that way parents have when they need to have the last word, Lydia called as he left the room, ‘Wash your face before you go, and don’t forget your dinner money.’
    Afterwards, cycling, the early morning wind forced tears from her eyes. They scudded across her cheekbones, reluctant messengers from some unexamined pool. In her bag were a Thermos of tea, a clean pinafore and the square, clean corners of a book. She’d take it out at lunchtime if she could, and dip in like dipping in a stream, let the words carry her somewhere else, anywhere.
    â€˜Where’d you get the habit from?’ her friend Dot asked once, as if reading was a bit like picking your nose.
    â€˜I had an uncle used to read to me.’
    She looked down at her shoes, remembering, but not wanting Dot to ask about it.
    Sitting side by side at the end of the vegetables, leaning against the shed. She used to put one hand behind her and snag at the splintery wood with her thumb, pressing just hard enough to feel the thread of nerve, and with the other hand she’d turn the pages, watching for her uncle’s nod. She remembered how she’d liked to think nobody could see them, hidden behind the rhubarb leaves and ornamental thistles.
    â€˜So you got it from him, then.’
    â€˜Must have done.’
    â€˜What about his own kids?’
    â€˜He never married. Don’t even remember any girlfriends. Then he was killed in the war. Ship got torpedoed.’
    â€˜Sounds like you were very fond of him.’
    â€˜He used to read me Sherlock Holmes.’ Lydia laughed. ‘Got me scared out of my wits.’
    Dot rolled her eyes, as though it explained everything, that it was Sherlock Holmes, though Lydia knew she’d never read a book in her life.
    â€˜He promised to marry me when I was bigger. By the time he was killed I’d got old enough to know that you couldn’t marry your uncle, but still …’ Lydia shrugged.
    She tailed off, and Dot nodded her understanding, not about the reading, but maybe about the rest.
    When she could, Lydia got to work ahead of time. That way, she could find a good spot in one of the vast bike sheds and get away quick at the end of the day, pedal like fury back to her boy.
    She was nearly in the factory door when the five-minute hooter sounded. You could hear it all the way across town,and Charlie used it as his signal to