The Hive by Jane Holland

Author:Jane Holland [Holland, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thimblerig Books
Published: 2019-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Early Saturday morning and my mother’s silver Mercedes is eating up the miles on the long journey to the West Country, an old model but fast and comfortable, the acceleration effortless. I have to drive the whole way, because Alex doesn’t have a driving licence. But that’s not a problem. I have always enjoyed driving and rarely get a chance to get behind the wheel these days. My mother insisted I got a licence back when Dad first started to get unwell, in case she was out and I needed to take him to the hospital in an emergency. Though in fact we ended up taking taxis for short trips, mostly, as driving and parking in London is so expensive.

Of course, Mum always refused to sell the car. We needed it ‘just in case,’ she would say superstitiously.

I suppose this is one of those ‘just in case’ moments she had in mind.

We reach Black St Mary in the afternoon, the sun already low on the horizon. The roads are getting icier as the sky thickens. A few desultory snowflakes spin past the window at intervals, reminding me of the white-out in London recently. But it doesn’t look like they’ve had much snow here yet.

Looking at the houses, my data analysis brain kicks in. Retired folk, rural workers, a few young families with local ties, almost no single professionals. I’m willing to bet the broadband isn’t great, so there won’t be many people working from home here.

We have the postcode for a local pub keyed into the Sat Nav unit, and Alex rang ahead to book a double room for tonight. But as we drive slowly through the village, I look out for any likely candidates for Bee Hive Cottage. A detached residence with an established garden. Some buildings are thatched. Some look suitably old and ramshackle. But none of them look anything like the cosy little house in my father’s photograph.

There are two main roads in the village, one cutting south through the village on its way to the wide, pale-grey waters of the estuary, the other crossing east to west, with a staggered junction built around the White Hart, the pub where we’ll be staying tonight. There’s a rundown garage fronted by an ancient sign stating SORRY, NO FUEL. And a couple of shops, one that seems permanently closed, the other a kind of mini-supermarket with a post slot in the wall and an old-fashioned red phone box outside.

Not a very happening place.

Reaching the White Hart, I pull into the tiny car park and park in the last available space. I’m surprised to see the pub so busy, coloured lights on inside, music blaring out of the lounge bar door as a man exits, heading past us with a curious expression.

The pub sign hangs above the door to the saloon bar, depicting a pale-skinned deer in a formal garden, like something from the Tudor era. The white hart, presumably. The animal has a studded black collar and a mournful expression.

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