Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

all the things that he could not. He found a cook to prepare his meals, and nannies for each of his children. He paid an army of gardeners to care for his beautiful garden, and servants to clean and care for his house. There was a housekeeper to make all the domestic arrangements, a butler to oversee the staff, and even a special sommelier, whose only duty was to look after the wine in his cellar; to turn the bottles and to make sure none of the staff helped themselves. But still there was no time, and the man was forced to hire even more servants.

There were servants to walk his dogs and servants to ride his horses. There were servants to drive his cars and to keep the engines in perfect condition. There were servants to wind his watches; to choose his clothes; and to break in his shoes. But still, for all his money, the man never seemed to have any time.

And so he went to his butler and told him to hire more servants. Now there were servants to manage his days; servants to play with his children; a paid companion for his wife, who was lonely in his absence; and finally, an army of servants to watch over the servants.

One day, on the way home from work, the rich man’s car broke down on the road. He immediately sacked his mechanic—the man was clearly incompetent—and sent his driver to fetch help. And while he waited for help to arrive, the man sat by the side of the road, and felt the sunshine on his face, and caught the fleeting scent from the fields and meadows in the distance. It was a strange sensation to be doing nothing; and the man smiled to himself, and shook his head in disbelief, and listened to the sounds of the bees and crickets in the long grass.

After a while, he realized that he was not alone there; a stranger was lying on the grass in the field beside him. The stranger was not a wealthy man; his boots were worn at the soles and his clothes were those of a labourer. And yet he was lying there in the field as if he had all the time in the world.

“What are you doing?” asked the man who had everything but time.

The stranger opened his eyes and sat up. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s a holiday.”

“A holiday?” repeated the man. “And what do you do on a holiday?”

The stranger shrugged. “I do nothing,” he said. “I walk my dog; tend my garden. I play with my children. I talk to my wife. And sometimes I just lie in the sun, quietly counting my blessings.”

The man who had everything was confused. “I have servants to count things,” he said. “And yet, I never have any time.” He looked more closely at the stranger, who seemed somewhat familiar. “For whom do you work?” he said at last.

“Sir, I work for you,” he said. “I’m a worker in one of your factories.”

“I see,” said the man who had everything.

For a few minutes longer, the two men talked. They spoke of their houses; their families; their gardens; and their working lives. The rich man learnt that the poor man had not a single servant—and yet, he seemed to have the time to do all their jobs as well as his own. He dug his own garden; helped cook his meals; shared the housework with his wife; played with his own children. He even broke in his own boots—although, to be fair, he did not keep horses, or motor-cars, or a wine cellar. Nevertheless, the rich man felt that this was all very suspicious.

Then, the driver re-appeared, bringing with him a second car and a team of mechanics to deal with the broken-down vehicle.

The man who had everything turned to them. “Have this man arrested,” he said, pointing at the stranger.

The stranger protested. “Why?” he said.

“Because you are a thief, of course,” said the man who had everything. “For years I have employed an army of servants to watch over my business; to look after my house and affairs; to guard my possessions; and manage my time. For years, I have suspected that someone was taking advantage of me. And here you are; a man with time—more time than even my money could buy—and you expect me to believe that it isn’t stolen?”

91

A

PPLES

There once was a famous painter who only painted apples. He painted apples so beautifully that they made the mouth water. He painted them so perfectly that folk could almost smell the scent. Even the birds were taken in, so that he had to work with his windows closed, in case they flew in to peck at the fruit. Everyone wanted a painting by the famous artist; and he was happy to oblige. He painted apples in the spring, small and bursting from the bud. He painted apples in summertime, crisp and green in the sunshine. He painted apples in autumn, rosy and heavy with sweetness. And he painted apples in wintertime; waxy, shrivelled and freckled with dark spots, but bursting at the heart with taste. Every apple was unique; every painting was different; and the artist was proud of his work; respected, happy, and fulfilled.

But the people around him soon became dissatisfied. Why paint nothing but apples, they said, and let his talent go unused? Why not paint pears, or apricots, or cherries, or melons, or peaches, or grapes?

The artist protested that he knew only apples. But so many people demanded a change that he promised to try something new. And so he tried his hand at painting other kinds of fruit: pomegranates; purple plums; ripe mangoes; pineapples. And all of these things were so perfectly represented on canvas that people came from all over the land, and returned once again hungry for more.

Time passed; and soon folk began to ask for other changes. Surely such a