Page 66 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

Grandad’s face is white, and his lips are pressed into a thin line.

“Let’s not get into gossip.” Pierre’s voice is sweet like a balm. “The war was a long time ago and we don’t know—”

“We do know.” Morris squares his shoulders and addresses an old man standing next to Grandad. “People were starving on short rations, but Hector Hemingway made money selling bread to the enemy. Louis’ father refused to work for them, and he was shot.”

“And his neighbours, the Wheatleys, their father was shot too.” Alastair adds. “Many a family here suffered.”

There must be a way to stop them, but short of manhandling them, how? Pierre and I share a troubled look as the scene escalates, and new customers coming in drift over to listen.

“But he was arrested and shipped over to a prison camp in Germany,” an older woman says. “So, that should be the end of it.”

“Too good for him if you ask me,” Sweeny’s tall friend says. “His family stayed here. An outrage if ever there was one.”

“Thank you,” I say firmly. “Let’s get back to the demonstration. Grandad was about to show us the difference between wild and cultivated nectar.”

But Grandad doesn’t even seem to have heard me. All the vigour and purpose has drained out of him. He just stares at his own hands mumbling something under his breath.

I push people out of my way. “Let me take you inside to rest.”

Grandad is now pale and his hands tremble. He can barely stand up and his movements are too uncoordinated. Pierre, seeing this, hurries to us and takes his other arm. Between us we walk him through the doors into the house.

“It’s nearly time for your lunch,” I tell him, hoping the promise of a hot meal might cheer him up.

“No, no,” he says in a voice so shaky I can barely recognise it for his usual rough tone. “Take me to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” Pierre says sympathetically as we go through to the house. “We’ll get rid of them.”

Once in bed, he just lies down and turns his face to the wall. We hover around him hoping there is something we can do but he doesn’t respond.

“I’ve never seen Hedge so upset,” Pierre says when we close his bedroom door quietly so he can sleep. “Who are those two men? They’re vile.”

“Alastair Sweeny is a debt collector. Nasty piece of work.” I want to tell her about the loan agreement with Grandad, but something stops me. Would he want me to disclose the true state of his finances? What could Pierre do about it? Nothing. It would just diminish him in her eyes.

“Let’s hope they’re gone now,” She says

Unfortunately, when we go back to the shop, both vile men are still talking, and the discussion is even more animated.

“Come on, you can’t blame the whole family,” a man is saying. “Tim Morris, isn’t it?” he asks Alastair’s friend. “Surely of all people you understand, we forget and forgive.”

Tim Morris is far from discouraged. “We did try to forgive and forget, but in some families, the rot runs deep. You can’t trust the Hemingways.”

“We’ll have to ask them to leave.” I whisper to Pierre and we both walk towards the men.

“Take Harrison next door.” Sweeny is saying. “His father never paid his debts.” He gives me a meaningful glance.

Heat rushes up to my face. “I think it’s time for a change of subject,” I say loudly.

He ignores me. “And young Harrison himself, was a right rascal stealing from people’s farms and shops. Even got thrown out of school for stealing from his friends. Ask Myles.”

Myles?I open my mouth but can’t remember what I’d been about to say.

Myles looks very uncomfortable. Was that why he wanted to warn me?

“You were at the same school; you remember when he stole your brother's watch?” Alastair throws the words like branches onto a bonfire. “The poor kid, his Christmas present, only had it a couple of weeks when Harrison nicked it and climbed the school wall to run and give it to his father to pawn.”

There’s a heavy awkward silence as people shift their feet. No one can say anything as the stream of allegations flows.

Myles is clearly unhappy about being dragged into this public denunciation. I was right, he’s not the gossiping kind. Now, as Alastair Sweeny tries to enlist him as a witness, Myles gives me a vague nod as if to say sorry, then leaves the shop.

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