Page 90 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

I get up to put my empty cup and plate in the sink. “I can name them anything you like, but luxury holiday cottages are worthless without gardens and a sea view. And.” I turn to face her for this confession. “It must be a luxury development, something special and unique because I need the revenue.”

I may have enjoyed this honeymoon week with Elodie, but my financial worries, the need for this to be a real success are always just under the surface of my thoughts.

She gets it. “And you think they wouldn’t be unique or special if they’re just like any other holiday homes with a tiny, shared backyard.”

She twirls a section of hair round her fingers. So, I know she’s thinking, really thinking. “You need the added value, the wow factor.”

Exactly.

“You do understand that my grandfather set up hives all over Catcher Hill because for years, decades, no one ever went there. As far as anyone was concerned it was unused wasteland.”

I know. And she knows I know. It’s been the biggest problem between us. and as far as I can see, without a solution that won’t upset at least one of us. And I can’t afford for this ‘one of us’ to be me. Because it’s not just me. There’s also my family, to whom I owe a debt.

“Discovering and nurturing these unique plants is a life-long passion for him.” Elodie is still talking. “And it’s becoming a passion for me too after the last two months. I wish you could see the new flowers coming out, the bees flying from one to another gathering nectar.” She recrosses her legs in a semi lotus position and grabs her ankles, leaning forward, her face full of enthusiasm. “Did you know they carry clumps of pollen on their legs? There’s actually an attachment on the hive’s entrance to collect the pollen. It’s a wonderful food, and, and…” She looks at me and tails off, self-conscious.

I love this about her, this passion that makes her forget herself. “Believe me if I had access to any other part of the hill which didn’t have your special plants, I’d create my gardens there. There’s nothing wrong with letting holidaymakers walk the long way around.”

Her eyes widen. Almost in slow motion her legs unfold and drop down to the floor. “Hal. Oh my God, Hal.”

“What?”

She doesn’t wait for me but springs up and finds her wellies, hopping on one foot then the other as she pulls them on before rushing out into the night. The door of the pod swings back and almost hits me in the face as I try to follow her. But she’s running home, wearing my shirt and little else.

Has she left the oven on? I’d follow but perhaps Hedge LeFevre and Doris don’t need to see me in my boxer briefs.

My jeans are on the floor where I’d kicked them off earlier. Should I take her clothes with me or is this more incriminating? A minute later, the question becomes moot because she returns with an A4 notebook.

My shirt doesn’t really hide much on her. “Did your grandfather see you?”

She looks up from leafing through the notebook. “What?” Then understands. “Oh no, he’s asleep.” And she goes back to flipping pages.

“Look at this.” She shows me a diagram that looks like Snakes and Ladders. “See here, this is Orange Glow.” She points to an oval shape. “And this is Hawthorn. But all around…” She traces her finger over crisscrossed wiggly lines. “These are just briars.” She flips another page, reads through it then flips a couple more. “Okay, these are all berries, but they are not rare, they’re fairly common. It’s only this line here.” She points. “That’s blue boragina. It’s very precious.”

She grins up at me, a wide shining grin, and I swear her eyes have stars in them. “Don’t you see?”

I stand behind her to look over her shoulder into the pages. Now I know what the squiggles mean, it’s clear these are diagrams of Catcher Hill. They’re not to scale but she’s marked the locations of all the beehives and the various plants with different-coloured pens. And what is painfully clear is that there are lots of beehives and lots of rare, precious plants scattered all over the hill. Even if I give up half my land, I’d still have a handful of them in my way.

“I think I know how to solve this,” she says excitedly. “In a way that neither of us has to compromise, we both win.”

I have no idea how this could possibly work, but the stars are still shining in her eyes. “Tell me.” I sit back down beside her.

“Do you mind if your garden isn’t oblong all the way down…” She starts to trace a finger round the page and suddenly the idea is clear to me too.

“You mean we can ringfence the bushes that need to be preserved but cut the rest?”

It could work. As long as I don’t lose too much of the land, I can landscape round the protected plants. “We’ll need a proper survey to see the actual size of what would be left for me—”

“No, no. You don’t understand. This isn’t your garden.” She spreads her fingers over the page. “This is our side. If you don’t mind your garden not being in one area.”

She can’t mean this.

“If we combine both your land and ours, you can create your garden as an irregular route that curves around the beehives and plants from our side to yours and back around. It should still give you the same total area, but it’ll be, you know, meandering.”

“You’re suggesting …” Then I stop to think. “Merging properties, at least over the slope of the Hill.”

“Of course.”

She gives me the notebook, and I flip back and forth across the five pages of diagrams. What she’s suggesting would mean what I lose on my side, I gain from her side. A long, winding back and forth across both lands in a gradual incline towards the bottom. It might work.

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