The Summer of Bees

By Gabrielle Hill-Smith

That was the summer of bees, at least that was how she remembered it.

It was a summer of the heady stench of orange blossom, of endless blue skies, of the insects’ discordant harmonies that filled the hot sticky air as boats bobbed in the azure bay, and solitary cars laden with suitcases sped round corners, throwing dust up into the air like confetti.

Nothing happened on those long summer days. The days on unending blue skies, of sunshine that pooled in the doorways of houses, curled like lazy cats on door mats or among the leafy flowerbeds late into the evening. The days of markets with colourful piles of spices, and bunches of herbs tied with brown string, the vials and bottles stoppered with cork, or fish hung from hooks above the stalls, and the bittersweet stench of beer, or half empty glasses of wine. It was the summer of postcards home, stained with tea-cup rings from where they were abandoned half-finished on the old wooden kitchen table.

They remembered that summer differently. The summer of the ocean, of hospital beds and beeping machines, of the transparent shell incasing her, her breathing slow and steady, her lifeline fractured. She was the tails side of a tossed coin in a wishing well.

Later, she remembered the drowsy white noise of the bees, as they made their bumbling pathways between the honey-suckles and roses, among the blooming heather. She remembered the olive groves and chasing the dog in the orchard, peals of laughter erupting from the children as he chased his own tail round and round in circles.

She remembered the tire swing, hold on tight whispered into her ear as they both swung out over the river, the soft moss blanket underfoot, the fresh breath of the forest. She remembered pressing flowers in the pages of the dusty books in the unused library, staining their yellowing pages brown and green.

She remembered getting her bike and cycling all day, whistling some half-remembered tune of a marching band, and coming home with fresh bread and flowers in her basket, but forgetting her shoes at the beach. And the thunder of rain on the tin roof of the summer house, the sweet smell of the dew-heavy grass in the dawn. She remembered stolen glances between her and the boy who couldn’t speak her language, but who gave her a posey of daisies and smelt of leather and hay.

She remembered long days lying stretched out in the sun, rocking on a boat, watching the ripples of the water around her fingertips, and the sun drawing freckles on her skin, as her cousins threw their fishing lines out on the lake.

Then in the evening the sweet smell of smoke and her cousin’s calloused fingers, stroking the songs out of his guitar, and falling asleep in the lap of her grandmother. Her skirt that looked like stardust, worn thin and smelling of bread.

 But that night there were no bees and no rain. The air ached with the stillness of death.

Their sheets were cold, her palms sweaty. The rose-tinted glow of dawn was sneaking up on the horizon, the shadows of night fading into the sea. 

Already dressed, their welly-boots were wet when they crept out through the creaky garden gate. The cat slunk out into the dawn, frightening the birds away. A tinny radio was playing in the church on top of the cliff, hallelujah they were singing, as the priest nodded himself to sleep, missing the strike of seven o’clock when he was supposed to ring the bells.

She doesn’t remember what happened after that. Only the cold that soaked through her bones and the radio that could be heard over the deafening roar of the waves.

That was the last time they went to the summer house, with its whitewashed walls and red terracotta tiles that warmed in the sun like lizards. It just wouldn’t be the same without her, said her uncle tearfully. The ivy grew up around the roses, and weeds grew through the stone path. The letters lay pock-marked by damp in the postbox. She left one yellow welly-boot on the doorstep, and her cousin left his guitar by the fireplace. The neighbours sometimes walked by, and missed the music and the laughter, for every summer since then it was only the bees who hummed among the rosemary and thyme.

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