Page 93 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

We go out to sit on a log in the morning sun and drink our coffee. Birds hop around picking at seeds or whatever’s in the grass. Tree leaves rustle in the warm breeze.

“Have you noticed that winter turns to spring so suddenly here? You’d never guess that a month ago we had the heating on, and the ground was soggy with mud and rain.”

She sips her coffee, eyes half closed, but she must sense the argument going on inside my head because a little later she opens her eyes.

“Talk to me.” she says, her voice quiet and gentle.

I let my eyes roam over the treetops below us, down to where the sea is invisible behind the bushes. How will my mum take this? What about my sister and what the added income will mean for her? And most of all what about the thousands of pounds, tens of thousands, that the solar panels and the landscaping will cost. It would mean another business loan, a huge one.

“Hal?” Elodie gives my thigh a soft nudge with her knee.

“I need to be sure that Hedge LeFevre is onboard. 100% on board. Which means, I have to show him maps and diagrams, measurements and calculations to prove I’m not taking advantage not by a single inch. Because most of the hives are on my side, so I’m getting a lot more land on your side than mine. He would need to understand this and not be in any doubt that he’s not been cheated.”

“Iknowhe’s not being cheated.” She assures me.

“Elodie… it’s not enough that you know.Heneeds to know. Otherwise, if there is trouble in future, you’ll be caught in the middle. We need a solicitor to write a proper agreement to make sure it is solid. It will need to last for as long as the land lease lasts, so that’s 150 years. And I’ll have to apply for the additional business loan first because if my bank manager says no, it’ll be the end of it.”

“My God.” Elodie laughs. “What a lot of process and paperwork to delay you coming to actually talk to Grandad.”

I have to laugh too. “Come on, give me a break. I’m doing my best.” And I still haven’t told my mother who is going to hit the roof.

“But let’s not wait too long because you have to start landscaping,” Elodie says getting up and handing me the empty coffee mug. “As soon as you’ve heard from the bank.”

The last possible hurdle is my bank manager. If he won’t agree the additional loan, nothing can happen. Which leaves us exactly where we were before with Nigel the dilemma.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Elodie

There are two kinds of gossip on the island, I’ve discovered. The general‘you’ll never guess who did what…’.At its best, it’s idle flow of information, the way everyone seems to know everything about everyone, just as they knew I was coming to stay with my grandfather even before I sailed from Southampton. But it’s also that gossip that must have plagued the Hemingway family since the war. No doubt there’s been a bit more of that since Sweeny’s mini tirade in my shop. I want to do something about that, and I hope my grandfather is the key, If I could just get him to talk.

The other kind of gossip is the more specifically targeted message system. The kind that results in action, and I have just become the subject of it.

The day starts simply enough. Just before opening the shop, I go to check if Grandad has finished his breakfast.

Leaving him resting alone is the worst thing I can do according to Doctor Adam Mortimer. Since Grandad feels strong enough to leave his bed, I’m determined not to let him sit in the kitchen staring at the walls. I drag an armchair into the shop and place it by the window so he can keep an eye on the cash till if I need to walk away to replenish stock or deal with customer’s questions. This way, people will be able to say hello and chat as they come in.

The window is south facing, so the sun streams in all morning until after lunch when he goes for his nap anyway. I bring him his footstool and blanket and make sure he’s comfortable.

The last time I ever saw him get excited about a topic was on opening day when he got talking about the war.

Taking advantage of the midmorning lull, I ask, “What was it like here during the war?”

He looks up as if startled. “What’d ye want te ask for? You’re lucky not to know.”

But I do want to know. I want to understand this old man who seems to have been old forever. And to be honest, there’s a small part of me that hopes he’ll reveal the root of his conflict with the Hemingways.

Of course, I do believe Hal; there was no mistaking the ring of truth in his story, the pain in his eyes. Yet, everything about my grandfather tells me he could never have been this hating spiteful man. There has to have been something else there.

“You were very young at the time, weren’t you?” I ask as I rearrange one of the baskets and straighten the damask cloth lining, making it ruffle over the edge.

He considers my words before answering. “Fourteen, when the occupation started. But we dint feel young. None of us was young after we saw the tanks roll over our beautiful island. They dint care we ’ad no cars, they just drove up, ploughing through peat walls and verges.”

“What did people do?”

“Do?” He gives me an incredulous look. “They stood in front of their houses and watched. One man, Micky Martins, stood in their way and they arrested him and shipped him off to some prison camp. Then him, that Oberleutnant Von Bausch took over Du Montfort Hall, even the seigneur had to move into a side wing and watch Nazis tread their boots on his floors. That was the worst of it.”

“Why? Because they took over the seigneur’s house?”

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