The Beekeeper at Elderflower Grove by Jaimie Admans

Author:Jaimie Admans [Admans, Jaimie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-05-25T12:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Romans used honey instead of gold to pay their taxes.

‘Great tits.’

I know he means the birds, but I nod towards his Morph T-shirt anyway. ‘Yours look particularly fetching today too.’

Carey laughs loudly, scaring away the birds that were eating from one of the many feeders he refills every day. ‘I’ve just realised what that sounds like out of context. Great tits – the bird with a name that you’re never sure is a species, a compliment, or a sleazy observation.’

I giggle because there’s something eternally good-natured about Carey, and he isn’t one for lewd comments like that. We’ve stopped to watch the birds at the side of the house, where there’s a collection of hanging feeders on the way towards the maze.

‘I assure you, I only meant the birds in this case.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Oh, wait. That wasn’t meant to sound like you have not-great tits. I’m sure they’re very nice tits.’ His eyes drift downwards towards my chest and quickly back up again. ‘And not blue tits. Or crested tits. Or bearded tits, for that matter.’

‘Or long-tailed tits?’ I suggest, laughing.

We’re standing too close, the sun-warmed skin of his arm touching mine, and I’m laughing so hard that I’m almost leaning against him.

He snorts. ‘I’m going to shut up now. For someone who was trying not to insult you, I’ve spent and inordinate amount of time going on about tits. Even if they are great tits.’ He nods to the birds again, but leaves the innuendo hanging in the air, and it feels nice to be a little bit flirty with someone. It’s been a long time since flirting was on my radar.

‘No, they’re blue tits.’ I nod to a little blue tit leading a family of fluffy lemon-coloured babies from the sunflower heart feeder to the peanut feeder.

This area is on the far side of the house, completely out of sight from the road, which is good considering Carey seems to be on a one-man mission to feed every bird in the Hampshire area.

I’ve been slightly wary of him since his objections to the bank statements, but there’s something infinitely good about a man who’s got more bird food than people food in his kitchen cupboards, and I can’t help glancing up at the soft look on his face as he watches sparrows and robins bickering over the tastiest mealworms.

He lifts his arm and drops it around my shoulders, briefly surrounding me with the scent of his tart apple aftershave, and then he pulls away and we carry on walking.

‘Careful, stinging nettles.’ Carey puts an arm out to stop me, whips out the bottle of weedkiller that’s hanging from one of the belt loops of his jeans, and gives them a good dousing with it.

It seems like much longer than seven years since anyone was out this way. Once you get past the bird feeding area, the ground disappears, lost to masses of cow parsley, thistles, and willowherb. Carey’s got the machete again and he’s slicing a path for us.

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