Orchard Cottage
17/12/11 11:21
A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS
There had been a few nods and winks when Harold had moved in with Brian at
Orchard Cottage, forty-odd years ago. Now it was simply accepted - nothing strange about two men living together. For most of the people in the nearbvillage it was assumed, quite wrongly, that they were gay.
In the early days there was speculation that they might be brothers and although they were both tall and as thin as rakes, “Like two yards of pump ‘watter’” as the landlord at the Nags Head described them, the idea was dismissed by the women of the village. Vera Hardcastle at the grocers shop summed it up by saying “Unless their mother has been up to no good, I can’t see her having a blue eyed blond one with a face like the back end of our bulldog and a black haired one with a nose like Charlie Bergerac, or whatever his name was”.
However, the two men kept themselves to themselves, only visiting the village to use the shops and to sell their honey to Vera. They hardly spoke and didn’t get involved in the village gossip. The veiled questions they were asked in the early days were responded to with polite but noncommittal answers.
People had long since stopped walking by the cottage to see what they were up to. Nothing seemed to be ‘Going on’ and as far as anyone could see, they spent most of their time tending what could only be described as a small holding. Tidy vegetable patches, a well cared for orchard and the bees. These were in an area at the back of the orchard and consisted of twenty or thirty hives.
Occasionally the two men could be seen tending the hives but they never wore the white bee suits and veils that other beekeepers used almost as a badge of office. A beekeeper from over Westbury way once called on them when they were working at the hives. He called out to them from the gate and they left what they were doing and came over to him. He was expecting to be invited in to look at the apiary and spend an hour or so talking bees. Harold and Brian were quite friendly, or at least polite, but didn’t invite the beekeeper in, explaining that the bees were a bit lively this morning and were better left alone. After a few minutes desultory conversation the beekeeper left and the two of them returned to the bees.
Had the beekeeper, or anyone else for that matter, been able to observe them for any length of time they would have seen two men working together in a quite normal manner but with something just a bit odd. They hardly ever spoke and both of them had the odd habit of tunelessly humming all the time.
Hive parts and various tools were passed between them without a word being spoken. They were surrounded by clouds of bees but they worked in their everyday clothes and the smoker, such an essential part of any beekeeper’s kit, was nowhere to be seen.
Even with so many hives, they never took more than a hundred pounds of honey in a year. The main concern was the care of the bees. Sugar was never used as a feed as the bees were always left with sufficient honey to see them through even the hardest Winter.
More and more over recent months they had to share the job of lifting a hive. Where they could easily have lifted the heaviest of hive single handed, they now turned, wordlessly, to one another and shared the heavy loads between them. They were both in their late seventies and Brian in particular was beginning to feel his age.
It was coming up to Christmas, Harold and Brian would pay little attention to the holiday and would spend the evening, as usual, sitting in the respective arm chairs, quietly humming and reading. On Christmas day they would go out to the bees, place a few crumbs of cake at the entrance to each hive. They would hum to themselves as they listened to the buzz of the bees. They firmly believed that the bees celebrated the Nativity by waking from their winter sleep and humming a song of praise to Christ. It is said that only those who have led a blameless life could hope to hear their song, the 100th psalm:
“Sing joyfully to the Lord, all you lands;
serve the Lord with gladness;
come before him with joyful song.
Know that the Lord is God...”
Perhaps Harold and Brian joined in the song with their humming.
This Christmas day was cold and Wintery, with a light covering of snow and Brian was obviously feeling the cold and returned to the house whilst Harold spent the next hour or so making sure the hives were secure and all was tidy.
He then went back to the house to make breakfast for Brian. He found him laid back in his chair with eyes closed. Harold realised that Brian was no longer humming. He touched his cold face and realised that his old friend had died.
Neither of them had ever showed emotions and Harold merely stood looking at his old friend for a few moments. He went out to the bees and touched each hive in turn as he hummed to himself, he felt it necessary to tell the bees of the passing of Brian.
He took a last look round, returned to the kitchen, sat in his own arm chair, closed his eyes and joined his friend.
There had been a few nods and winks when Harold had moved in with Brian at
In the early days there was speculation that they might be brothers and although they were both tall and as thin as rakes, “Like two yards of pump ‘watter’” as the landlord at the Nags Head described them, the idea was dismissed by the women of the village. Vera Hardcastle at the grocers shop summed it up by saying “Unless their mother has been up to no good, I can’t see her having a blue eyed blond one with a face like the back end of our bulldog and a black haired one with a nose like Charlie Bergerac, or whatever his name was”.
However, the two men kept themselves to themselves, only visiting the village to use the shops and to sell their honey to Vera. They hardly spoke and didn’t get involved in the village gossip. The veiled questions they were asked in the early days were responded to with polite but noncommittal answers.
People had long since stopped walking by the cottage to see what they were up to. Nothing seemed to be ‘Going on’ and as far as anyone could see, they spent most of their time tending what could only be described as a small holding. Tidy vegetable patches, a well cared for orchard and the bees. These were in an area at the back of the orchard and consisted of twenty or thirty hives.
Occasionally the two men could be seen tending the hives but they never wore the white bee suits and veils that other beekeepers used almost as a badge of office. A beekeeper from over Westbury way once called on them when they were working at the hives. He called out to them from the gate and they left what they were doing and came over to him. He was expecting to be invited in to look at the apiary and spend an hour or so talking bees. Harold and Brian were quite friendly, or at least polite, but didn’t invite the beekeeper in, explaining that the bees were a bit lively this morning and were better left alone. After a few minutes desultory conversation the beekeeper left and the two of them returned to the bees.
Had the beekeeper, or anyone else for that matter, been able to observe them for any length of time they would have seen two men working together in a quite normal manner but with something just a bit odd. They hardly ever spoke and both of them had the odd habit of tunelessly humming all the time.
Hive parts and various tools were passed between them without a word being spoken. They were surrounded by clouds of bees but they worked in their everyday clothes and the smoker, such an essential part of any beekeeper’s kit, was nowhere to be seen.
Even with so many hives, they never took more than a hundred pounds of honey in a year. The main concern was the care of the bees. Sugar was never used as a feed as the bees were always left with sufficient honey to see them through even the hardest Winter.
More and more over recent months they had to share the job of lifting a hive. Where they could easily have lifted the heaviest of hive single handed, they now turned, wordlessly, to one another and shared the heavy loads between them. They were both in their late seventies and Brian in particular was beginning to feel his age.
It was coming up to Christmas, Harold and Brian would pay little attention to the holiday and would spend the evening, as usual, sitting in the respective arm chairs, quietly humming and reading. On Christmas day they would go out to the bees, place a few crumbs of cake at the entrance to each hive. They would hum to themselves as they listened to the buzz of the bees. They firmly believed that the bees celebrated the Nativity by waking from their winter sleep and humming a song of praise to Christ. It is said that only those who have led a blameless life could hope to hear their song, the 100th psalm:
“Sing joyfully to the Lord, all you lands;
serve the Lord with gladness;
come before him with joyful song.
Know that the Lord is God...”
Perhaps Harold and Brian joined in the song with their humming.
This Christmas day was cold and Wintery, with a light covering of snow and Brian was obviously feeling the cold and returned to the house whilst Harold spent the next hour or so making sure the hives were secure and all was tidy.
He then went back to the house to make breakfast for Brian. He found him laid back in his chair with eyes closed. Harold realised that Brian was no longer humming. He touched his cold face and realised that his old friend had died.
Neither of them had ever showed emotions and Harold merely stood looking at his old friend for a few moments. He went out to the bees and touched each hive in turn as he hummed to himself, he felt it necessary to tell the bees of the passing of Brian.
He took a last look round, returned to the kitchen, sat in his own arm chair, closed his eyes and joined his friend.
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