Bee and leaf sprig tattoo on upper arm

The swarm came over the churchyard wall on Tuesday, just as Mr Pryce was reading the banns, and it settled on the lych gate in a brown cloud that nobody in Ledbury Row would go near. Dad stood in his veil with the skep upturned and talked to them the way he always does, low and steady, telling them about the weather and the price of sugar. I held the sheet. You would have laughed. Half the choir was on the path in their Sunday hats, and I was the only one not running.

Once they were in, he carried the skep up the lane to the orchard, and I walked behind with a sprig of rosemary tucked in my cardigan pocket, because he says bees go mad for the smell of anything green crushed in the hand. Mother thinks it is superstition. Perhaps it is. But the queen went down into the box as quiet as a bead of honey, and that was all the proof I needed.

Here is the part I have not told anyone. Last month the telegram came about Teddy, and I did not cry, not once. I went out to the hives instead and stood still until the bees forgot I was there, and something in me unclenched the way the comb does when it is finally capped. I think that is what he meant all those years, telling me to hum when I was frightened.

Come home at Michaelmas. The clover is wild this year and I have saved you the best hive.

Your loving sister, June