Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees (8 page)

The room was round, as its name suggested, with a platform opposite the door and a series of curving benches occupying the space in front of it. The apiarists barely managed to fill a quarter of the benches. The majority of them were old, even older than the Deavers, who were sitting near the front. One of the apiarists noticed the three children come in, and he nudged another, who nudged another, and pretty soon the whole crowd was staring at them, as if the sight of a child at an apiarists' meeting was an event to be noted. Darius caught the Deavers' eye and smiled at them.

A man on the platform was speaking. He stopped for a moment. ‘You there at the back,' he said, ‘are you in the right place?'

‘Is this the meeting of the Society of Apiarists?' asked Darius.

‘It is. I'm Mr Heberden, president of the Society.'

‘Then we're in the right place.' Darius sat on one of the benches. Paul and Oliver sat beside him.

‘You're not members, I believe.'

Darius shook his head.

‘This is a meeting for members only, I'm afraid.'

‘We're considering becoming members,' said Darius.

‘That's not the same as being a member, is it?'

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Heberden!' called out one of the apiarists, a tall man with silver hair and a long, straight nose. ‘When was the last time we had a new member? Not to mention three! Let them sit in if they want to!'

‘Cuthbert's right!' called out another apiarist. ‘Don't be such a queen bee, Heberden.'

There were murmurs of agreement from the benches.

‘All right,' said Mr Heberden, ‘but this is irregular. Very irregular.' He glanced at another man on the platform who was sitting at a small desk taking notes. ‘Make a note, Mr Rose. Three non-members . . .' he paused, as if to emphasise the fact, ‘admitted to the meeting by popular acclaim.'

Mr Rose nodded solemnly and made his note.

‘Now,' said Mr Heberden, ‘as I was saying before I was interrupted . . .'

He proceeded to give a description of what had happened to his hives, which he kept, apparently, in the back yard of his house. He only had two, and a week previously he had found both of them empty but for a few dying bees crawling at the bottom. Over the next half hour, others at the meeting gave similar descriptions, all of which Mr Rose solemnly noted down. Darius, Paul and Oliver listened. From time to time the apiarists on the benches glanced around as if to reassure themselves that the children really existed.

It was all getting quite boring. Darius didn't see what was the point of hearing the same story over and over again – hives found to be virtually empty, with at most a few dying bees at the bottom. Besides, everyone seemed to have only one or two hives. The Deavers probably had as many hives as the rest of the apiarists put together.

At last Mr Deaver spoke. Everyone listened intently, hoping that the experience of the Bell beekeepers with their huge number of hives might shed further light on what had happened.

‘So they're all dead,' said the silver-haired apiarist with the long nose, ‘regardless of the type of flower they feed from?'

‘That's right, Mr Cuthbert,' said Mr Deaver. ‘It seems to make no difference.'

‘Nor whether the box is in the sun or the shade?'

‘No, Mr Cuthbert.'

‘Nor whether or not it's been moved recently?'

‘There's nothing, Mr Cuthbert. Nothing we can pinpoint as a cause.'

Mr Cuthbert nodded thoughtfully. Mr Deaver had nothing more to say. A few more apiarists told their stories. The tone of the meeting got more and more gloomy. Someone called Mrs Hoddle put up her hand and mentioned a bee blight that had happened in another part of the country almost half a century earlier and had gone on for six years. But that had been due to a certain kind of weevil that infested the hives, said someone else, and there was no sign of that in their hives. Mrs Hoddle shrugged darkly. ‘Doesn't mean that might not happen here as well.'

‘I think we've got quite enough happening, Mrs Hoddle, without conjuring up new disasters,' said Mr Heberden. ‘Now, is there anything else anyone would like to tell us?' Mr Heberden paused and the hand of one of the elderly gentlemen who had already spoken rose shakily into the air. ‘Not you, Mr Wrickle,' he said. ‘You've already had your turn.'

‘But I just want to add—'

‘Yes, I'm sure you do, Mr Wrickle. I'm sure we all want to add. You can add later. Before that, however, we're very lucky to have Dr Ingliss from the university with us. I believe some of you know Dr Ingliss, and for those who don't I can assure you that she is a true authority on all things apiaristical. Hopefully she can help us understand what's going on. Dr Ingliss?'

A large woman wearing matching grey jacket and trousers got up from the benches and went up to the platform.

‘Thank you, Mr Heberden,' she said. ‘For anyone who loves bees, the stories we've heard today are truly distressing. I have examined a number of the affected hives and I'm able to assure you categorically that I have never seen such an incident before. I have also examined a number of bees and I am able to state categorically the same thing again. Those I captured alive, unfortunately, died before I was able to observe them. So far we haven't been able to identify any viruses that might have infected them, but we will continue to try. At this stage, I can only conclude that they are the victims of a disease which we are as yet unable to identify. I can assure you that we are doing our best to find out what it is and what we can do about it.'

‘Thank you, Dr Ingliss,' said Mr Heberden. ‘That was very useful.'

‘No it wasn't,' whispered Paul. ‘That was useless. All it told us was that we don't know anything.'

‘While we have Dr Ingliss here,' said Mr Heberden, ignoring him, ‘I think we should discuss what we're going to do next.'

‘About time,' whispered Paul.

Mr Heberden glared at him for a moment. Then he looked back at the apiarists. ‘Any ideas?'

At first there was silence. Then someone piped up and said they should bring in new bees to rebuild their colonies, and someone else said those bees would probably die too, and a third person said they should burn all their hives in case they were contaminated, and asked what Dr Ingliss thought. Dr Ingliss thought that was a very good idea. She also said it was a very good idea when someone suggested they should wait until next year before they tried to do anything and hopefully the disease would have died out by then. Anything was a good idea in Dr Ingliss's opinion, it seemed to Darius, as long as it didn't involve her having to find out what had actually killed the bees in the city.

He glanced at the Deavers, who sat together glumly on their bench, listening to the suggestions from the people around them.

Darius realised something: this didn't really matter to the other people in this room. Not in the way it mattered to the Deavers. Not in the way it mattered to him. Mr Heberden might have been the president of the society, but he had a grand total of two hives in his back yard. Most of the other people had only one. They all lived in the city and had small city gardens. Beekeeping was a hobby for them. They probably produced half a dozen jars of honey, maybe a dozen in a good year, probably mixed up from all kinds of flowers. They probably gave it to their family and friends as gifts. They weren't going to suffer if they had no bees for a year.

It wasn't that they didn't care about their bees. They did. They enjoyed beekeeping and honey-making, you could see that by the way they talked. But they enjoyed it the way an amateur musician enjoys playing the piano now and again. Take away their piano for a while, and they'll miss it a bit. But the Deavers weren't amateurs. They were professionals. They were like concert pianists. Take away their piano, and they had barely enough to live on. Take it away from the Fishers, and they had even less.

Suddenly Darius stood up. ‘Excuse me!' he said.

The person who had been talking – someone else who was remarking on how important it was to do nothing until next year – stopped in mid-sentence.

‘Don't you think we should do something
this
year?'

Mr Heberden shook his head pointedly, as if to make sure that everyone saw why it was such a bad idea to allow non-members into the meeting. ‘There's nothing that can be done, young man. I think that's clear. Is that right, Dr Ingliss?'

Dr Ingliss nodded.

‘Then what's the point of this meeting?' asked Darius.

Mr Heberden opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, frowning, as if he was trying to come up with an answer.

‘Don't you think you're all being a bit selfish?'

‘Now, young man!' began Mr Heberden. ‘If you're going to speak like that, I'm going to have to ask you to—'

‘What about everyone who depends on you? People who have fruit trees in their gardens, or tomatoes or strawberries and anything else!'

‘What about them?' retorted Mr Heberden.

‘Even if you only have a hive or two, your bees must be important for them. They won't get pollinated without you.'

‘So what? Why should we worry about them? What about our honey?'

‘Why should they suffer just because you are?'

‘Who are you?' demanded Mr Heberden. His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been sent by the Society of Fruit-Culturers? Have you come here to spy for them?'

‘No, I'm Darius Bell. And this is Paul Klasky and Oliver Roberts. And we're just . . . we're just . . .'

‘Concerned citizens,' said Oliver.

‘That's right,' said Paul. ‘You know what they say – if not me, who?'

‘Who what?' demanded Mr Heberden.

‘Who,' said Paul. ‘You know – who!'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' said Mr Heberden.

‘It's all right,' said Oliver. ‘People rarely do.'

‘That's not nice,' said Paul.

‘It's true,' said Oliver.

‘Still, it's not nice.'

‘Look,' said Mr Heberden. ‘You three children, I don't know what you want here, I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're not members of this society and as the president I'm asking you to leave. I'm going to count to three and by the time I finish I want you to have got up and—'

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Heberden!' called out Mr Cuthbert. ‘The boy's right. We're apiarists! We're in a position of responsibility. It's not just about the honey. Without us, no one gets to grow anything. The lady next door to me has a little plot of tomatoes. Every year she grows them. It's the only thing that gives her any pleasure – that and her canary. What's going to happen to her this year?'

‘She won't have tomatoes, that's what's going to happen this year! She's still got her canary! What about us, Cuthbert? What about our honey? Does anyone care about that? Has the Society of Fruit-Culturers made any expression of regret? No. All they do is blame us. I should show you the letters I've had from them. As if it's our fault that our bees are dead! As if we wanted that! And do they ever thank us, even in a good year? No! Take us for granted, that's all they do. As long as their fruit grows each year, they don't want to know us. Well, let them know us! Let them finally understand! Serves them right that they should suffer with us this year.'

Mr Cuthbert shook his head. ‘You're worse than I thought, Heberden.'

‘Am I? Let them bring their own bees to do their pollination if they're so worried about missing out on their grubby little harvests. Well? Why not? Let the Fruit-Culturers do something for themselves for a change. Let them bring their own hives and let them—'

‘Wait,' said Darius. ‘What was that?'

Mr Heberden turned on him. ‘Let them bring their own hives, I said!'

‘From where?'

‘Who cares? What difference does it make?'

‘It does make a difference. Can they? Can they do that?'

There was silence.

‘Honey-makers will sometimes lend their hives to farmers if the flowers in their own region aren't sufficient,' explained Mr Cuthbert. ‘They get the honey that their bees produce and the farmers' flowers get pollinated. It works for everyone. I have a cousin who's a professional apiarist in Canada. He often does that.'

‘Enough about your apiarist cousin in Canada,' muttered Mr Heberden. ‘I'm sick of hearing about him.'

‘What about here?' asked Darius, ignoring Mr Heberden. ‘Are there beekeepers who would do it?'

‘I believe there are some,' replied Mr Cuthbert.

‘How would that help us?' demanded Mr Heberden. ‘They'd keep the honey. The Fruit-Culturers would get their pathetic two dozen tomatoes or three punnets of strawberries or whatever it is they're so worried about. What would we get?'

‘Mr Heberden,' said Oliver, shaking his head, ‘you really are a very selfish man.'