Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees (16 page)

One afternoon in the second week Darius asked Oliver and Paul to stay back, and they waited for Marguerite to come home from school and then they all went into the House where Darius's mother was waiting. Micheline showed them the special costumes she had been sewing for them. After that Marguerite stayed home from school and worked with them in the fields as well. Mr Beale didn't mind. He'd talk to anyone about science if they were prepared to listen.

And then, at the end of two weeks, it was finished. Mr Beale had taught more biology and geology and hydrology and meteorology than he would have taught in a year, and the children had learned it almost without realising what was happening, and Mrs Simpson had supplied them with the best cakes they had ever eaten, and Mr Fisher's crops – or three-quarters of them, anyway – were pollinated. But the most surprising thing – the thing that none of them had expected, not even Darius – was the sense of satisfaction they felt at what they had done. They had worked their way across the fields, doing the job of the bees, and they had finished what they had set out to do, and as a result, the flowers they had pollinated would turn into fruit and all over the city people would enjoy the results of their labour. And
they
would too – Mr Fisher had asked each of them to come back to receive a basket of fruit later in the summer. But that wasn't the reason. The reason was that they had worked together, not in a game, and not doing some kind of activity for school, but for real, and by working together, they had achieved something larger than any one of them could have achieved by themselves and which would have an effect on other people, people they didn't even necessarily know. Like the bees, in fact, that they had replaced.

It felt good. As the class crunched their way down the gravel drive for the last time, they realised they would miss coming back here. These two weeks they had spent together in the fields of Bell House were unlike anything they had ever done before. Even Stephen Pintel would miss it, although he would never have admitted it.

As for Darius, he knew that the problem had been solved only for this year. Crystal bees were only a temporary solution. If the bee disease came back next year and destroyed the hives that the Deavers recolon- ised, they would be in the same situation again. But at least the problem was solved for now, and they would have a year to work out how to prevent it happening again. He exchanged a glance with Mr Fisher as the children walked away, and Mr Fisher nodded silently. Darius smiled. Mr Fisher didn't need to say anything.

The next week, they were back at school. On Monday afternoon, Mrs Lightman drilled them for two hours in how they would have to march for the Mayor's Prize. On Tuesday, she did it again. On Wednesday, they put on their Bell costumes for the first time. On Thursday, they had a final practice.

On Friday morning, the day of the Prize, they arrived at school in their costumes, and a bus picked them up and took them to Founders Square.

The traffic around Founders Square had been brought to a stop. The street between the square and the Town Hall, which was normally full of buses and cars, was empty. On the pavement in front of the Town Hall a platform had been set up and on it sat the mayor on the mayoral throne, which had been brought out of the council chamber, with the town councillors sitting in rows on either side. George Podcock wore his blue ceremonial robe and his gold ceremonial chain of office, and on a table in front of him was the ceremonial mace that preceded him everywhere on official occasions. Beside the mace stood the trophy for the Mayor's Prize, a large silver cup with the names of the winning schools from previous years engraved on the side. Each year the winning school got to display the trophy until it had to be returned to the mayor the day before the next competition.

In the square itself, on the other side of the street, stood hundreds of spectators, mostly parents and teachers of the children in the twenty-eight schools that were about to march.

At ten o'clock, the Bell Bell, high in the spire above the square, began to chime. When its chimes had died away, an usher stepped forward to a microphone on the platform.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he announced in a booming voice, ‘His Worship the Mayor, the Right Honourable George C. Podcock!'

The mayor stood up and stepped forward to the microphone, waving the usher impatiently away. He paused to adjust the heavy gold links of the ceremonial chain around his shoulders, which was a habit he had, not because the chain needed adjusting, but because it drew people's attention to it, reminding everyone what an important position he held and how lucky everyone was – in his opinion, at least – that he was the one to hold it.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, among my many achievements as mayor, one of the finest, I like to think, is the marvellous schools that we have in our city. I can safely say that without exception, each one is extraordinary in its own way. And I think I can also safely say that there is no honour greater for them than to win my prize.' The mayor paused. ‘In the past, there have been many worthy winners. This year, I have asked our schools to present us with a costume parade. I shall be looking to see the inventiveness, care and creativity with which they approach this challenge. I shall be looking to see the style and character in which they carry it out. In short, I shall be looking to see which school most makes me and our city proud.' The mayor paused again. ‘And so, without further ado – let the competition begin!'

George Podcock waited until a smattering of applause broke out. Then he adjusted his chain of office and stepped backwards to his chair.

There was silence. On the platform, in the square, everyone waited. A warm spring breeze blew. Pigeons turned and wheeled in the sky.

Eventually the sound of marching feet was heard coming around the corner of the Town Hall opposite the statue of Cornelius Bell. Everyone turned and watched expectantly. The sound grew louder. From around the corner appeared a band of twenty-five children wearing shimmering purple togas, led by a teacher in a purple toga with a laurel wreath on her head.

‘The Haversham School,' announced the usher into the microphone, reading from a sheet of paper, ‘in the attire of ancient Rome.'

Loud applause broke out in one section of the square, where the parents and teachers of the Haversham School had congregated.

The young Romans marched proudly towards the platform. As they passed the mayor, the children in each row smartly turned their heads and clenched their right fists over their chests in the manner of ancient Romans saluting their emperor. The mayor nodded and smiled. They kept going along the front of the Town Hall and then turned onto the square near the Bell Fountain, where a section had been roped off for the participants to wait.

Another school soon made its entrance.

‘The Adam Williamson School for Gifted Children,' announced the usher, ‘dressed in the attire of eighteenth-century light opera.'

Applause broke out in one section of the square and a groan came from the rest of the crowd. Even the wealthier schools disliked the Adam Williamson School for Gifted Children, which considered itself a cut above everyone else. Not everyone who went there was really gifted – but they were invariably rich. Its class sizes were always small, and around the corner now walked a teacher and a dozen children dressed in magnificent embroidered coats, silk breeches and white stockings, with powdered white wigs on their hair. They stopped in front of the mayor and one of the children stepped forward, clasped her hands, and broke into song, singing an aria from what everyone assumed – since no one really knew – was an eighteenth-century light opera. Her voice was beautifully clear and sweet, and the words soared and echoed off the front of the Town Hall. As the singing ended, the Adam Williamson section of the crowd went wild. Everyone else stood in stony, envious silence. The Adam Williamson children marched off to the waiting area as their parents and teachers continued to cheer madly.

‘We should have had the children stop and declaim in Latin,' whispered one of the Haversham teachers to another. ‘Why didn't we think of that?'

‘It's a parade, not a performance,' muttered the other. ‘Typical Adam Williamson! What they did isn't fair!'

‘All's fair in love and war,' whispered the first. ‘That was brilliant. Look. Everyone else is going to do it.'

Teachers from the schools that hadn't yet appeared were running around the corner to the place where the schools were mustering to tell them what Adam Williamson had done. It was too late for the St Robius School, which was next up, to improvise anything. They came marching around the corner dressed half as crusaders and half as the Arab soldiers who had resisted them, and what they would have done anyway, beyond staging a pitched battle on the street in front of the mayor's platform, would have been difficult to say. The Grobber School, one of the poorer ones, turned up next, dressed in whatever costumes the kids had put together. They had no chance of winning so there was no point bothering with an improvisation. The next school that came around the corner, dressed as pirates of the Spanish Main, had one of the children stop and cry out, ‘Yo ho ho, me hearties! Off with his head!' – which was the best their teachers could think of in the time. The general feeling was that they would have had a better chance walking past in silence.

They continued to come, school after school, the wealthy ones in specially made costumes to embody a theme, the poorer ones in whatever their students had been able to pull together, some stopping for a hastily prepared speech or a song before moving on. With only four schools left, Darius's class made its appearance around the corner.

Normally the class teacher led the class, but this year Mrs Lightman herself was at the head, dressed in the crimson cloak that Darius had brought, a green velvet hat with an ostrich plume, and various other pieces selected from the best clothes in the Bell collection. The class marched behind her in four lines. They stopped in front of the mayor. Stephen Pintel stepped forward, wearing a black coat, top hat and shiny red waistcoat. The speech that he was about to make wasn't an improvisation. Mrs Lightman had written it as part of her plan for winning the Prize, and for the past four days Stephen had done virtually nothing but practise it.

‘We are not from far away, but from here!' he announced. ‘We are the city as it once was. We are not make-believe, but real! The clothes we wear were worn by those who came before us. Others may imitate far-off places, but we honour and commemorate
our
home, the most wonderful city in the world. Consider us, honourable mayor, and judge who is most deserving of your prize.'

The mayor stood up and approached the mace.

‘Don't move,' hissed Mrs Lightman. ‘Everyone stay still.'

George Podcock gazed down at them. All the other schools had chosen to imitate other people and other places –
this
one had chosen to pay homage to the city that bred them, the city that really was, in his opinion, the greatest in the world.

He scanned the faces of the children, all staring back up at him. He looked carefully at each one. They were all bright and hopeful, as the city itself should be.

‘What school is this again?' he whispered to the usher.

‘Viglen,' replied the usher.

The mayor's nose crinkled. ‘Viglen? That's not one of the . . . they don't normally do very well, do they?'

The usher shook his head. ‘Usually come about fifth last, Your Worship. Top of the bottom ten if they're lucky.'

‘You think those costumes are real?'

‘They look it,' replied the usher.

George Podcock frowned. Viglen School. He never thought he'd end up giving the Prize to a school like that. But then . . . why had every other school chosen to imitate something else? Who cared about ancient Rome, or the crusades, or eighteenth-century opera. Eighteenth-century opera! What an idea! Piffle! A self-made person didn't care about things like that. He cared about where he lived, what he could do, how he could advance. He cared about his city. And what was the Mayor's Prize for, if not to encourage self- made people?

Why had only Viglen chosen to show the city? Viglen, he thought. Could he
really
give the Prize to a school like Viglen?

He nodded in the direction of the class. ‘Very good,' he said, and he stepped back to his chair

Mrs Lightman smiled. ‘Let's go,' she whispered, and the class marched on.

But it wasn't quite the whole class. If you had counted, you would have found that it didn't reach its full complement of thirty-two. In fact, there were only twenty-nine.

Mrs Lightman had noticed they were missing. As the schools were mustering around the corner from the Town Hall, she had counted the children twice. Immediately she realised that Darius Bell was one of the ones who weren't there. She didn't know who the others were and frankly, she couldn't have cared less. She still had twenty-nine children, which was more than enough, and she had the Bell costumes, which was what really mattered. In fact, after the deal she had been forced to strike with Darius, she was quite pleased that he hadn't appeared. Let him miss out! In her mind, she could already imagine the glory of winning the prize, and she had no desire to share it with him.

She didn't stop to ask herself why he might be absent, and whether the two other missing children – whoever they were – might be with him.

The last few schools marched past. Mrs Lightman watched from Viglen's place in the waiting area. She looked around at the other schools that were already assembled. Some of the costumes were better, but all of them, in their quest for extravagance, showed one sort of foreign theme or another. She had bet everything on her hunch that the mayor wouldn't be able to resist a theme based on their own city. And he had stood up! He had stood up, nodded, and said, ‘Very good' before adjusting his chain and sitting down again. He hadn't done that for any of the others. That must mean something. Mrs Lightman noticed the looks other principals were giving her, looks of anger and envy. They filled her with delight. You didn't get looks like that unless people thought you had a chance of winning. Normally she was one of the principals giving them, not receiving them.

Finally, the parade was finished. The last class took its place in the waiting area. Mrs Lightman, surrounded by the children of Darius's class, gazed impatiently at the mayor. He conferred with the councillors on his right. Then he conferred with the councillors on his left.

Stop dragging it out, thought Mrs Lightman in frustration. Come on! Stand up! Give me the Prize!

At last George Podcock approached the microphone and adjusted the chain over his shoulders.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. ‘What a marvellous spectacle we have seen. Romans, pirates, eighteenth-century creatures of operetta . . . Marvellous! Let's give a round of applause to them all!'

He and the councillors clapped, and applause rang out across the square from the parents and teachers. Mrs Lightman could hardly bear it. Enough! Come on! Applaud
me
when I've won it!

‘But as they say, there can be only one winner. And today, for me, there was one clearly outstanding school.'

Podcock paused. Every eye in the square was on him, every ear was cocked to hear what he would say next. And no ears were more cocked then Mrs Lightman's.

‘They honoured our city, they honoured our ancest- ors, they honoured everything we have all laboured to build together over the years.'

‘Their costumes were pretty tatty!' yelled one of the teachers from the Adam Williamson School for Gifted Children, who could see where this was heading.

‘What about you?' shouted a teacher from another school. ‘Enrolling a midget opera star to sing and pretending she's one of your students!'

‘She is a student!'

‘If she's a student, I'm a cucumber!'

‘Your students looked like cucumbers!'

‘And yours looked like marshmallows!'

Insults flew. Various things were shouted by teachers from the rich schools. Mrs Lightman heard them but was too nervous to enjoy the sound of the other schools turning on each other. She wasn't sure yet of her victory. She wouldn't be sure of it until the unimagin- able moment arrived when the mayor uttered the name of Viglen, the moment she had dreamed about but still didn't really, truly believe would come.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said the mayor. ‘Please! Please!'

‘Silence!'
boomed the usher.
‘Silence for His Worship the Mayor!'

The microphone squeaked horribly. People covered their ears.

The mayor glared at the usher, who stepped away from the microphone to his place at the side of the platform.

There was silence.

The mayor adjusted his chain. ‘One school,' he continued, ‘paid homage to our city in a way no one else even thought of doing. And by the way, I thought their costumes were excellent.'

There were grumbles among the teachers from the wealthy schools. They couldn't believe this. It was wrong! It was unjust! Poor schools finished at the bottom, which was where they belonged. They didn't win the Mayor's Prize.

‘In short, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I award this years Mayor's Prize to . . .'

The mayor paused and adjusted his chain. Mrs Lightman was almost beside herself with impatience.

‘. . . Viglen School.'

‘Yes!'
shouted Mrs Lightman.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!'

The teachers from the other schools watched her in jealous disgust.

‘I invite the principal of the winning school to come forward and receive the Prize.'

Mrs Lightman needed no invitation. She was already pushing teachers and children out of the way.

‘Will the principal of Viglen School please make her way to the podium?'

‘I'm coming!' cried Mrs Lightman. ‘Get back,' she hissed at a child who wasn't quick enough to jump out of her way.

Finally she made it on to the street in front of the square, still wearing her costume of cloak and plumes. She headed for the steps to the podium. And then, suddenly, she stopped.

While the mayor had been announcing the winner, an old yellow car had appeared slowly around the corner of the Town Hall and had come to a halt in the street at the foot of the stairs to the Mayor's platform. Now a door opened and out stepped what appeared to be an enormous bee. And another. And another. And one more.

Everyone in the square watched, wondering if this was some kind of strange entertainment. Perhaps the bees were going to make the award on the mayor's behalf. But if so, why? And why
bees
?

George Podcock watched them angrily. This was supposed to be the high point of the ceremony, when all eyes were on him in his ceremonial robe and chain, and the winning teacher grovelled gratefully before him. Instead, these . . . 
things
were taking all the attention.

‘Who are you?' he shouted down at them.

The four bees started buzzing.

‘Stop that!'

The buzzing continued, enraging the mayor even more.

‘Stop it! Who are you?'

The bees ran up the stairs onto the platform, buzzing loudly. Once they were up there they ran in circles around the mayor, swerving and weaving. The mayor swayed, ducked, his robe flapping in one direction and the other.

Laughter broke out across the square. People craned their necks and stood on tiptoe to see. The usher on the platform stood by. The mayor always treated him badly, even when he was trying to help him. Well, the mayor could get out of this one by himself!

‘Stop it!' shouted Podcock. ‘Stop it!'

The bees stopped.

‘Who are you?'

A voice came from one of them. ‘We're the bees you tried to ban, Mr Podcock! You tried but you couldn't keep us away.'

‘Why, you . . .!' Podcock tried to grab him. The bee jumped back and the mayor fell over, then struggled to get up, entangled in his robe and chain. The laughter across the square grew louder. The councillors were laughing as well. The usher smirked, watching the mayor thrashing and flailing.

The bee who had spoken took off his mask.

Podcock stared. He stopped struggling. ‘Darius Bell . . .' he muttered.

Darius went to the microphone. ‘You thought you could keep the bees away, Mr Podcock, because you hate my family, but you were wrong! You abused your power as mayor, but your power wasn't enough. We're here!'

‘You little villain!' roared the mayor, and struggled to get up again. ‘How dare you say such a thing!'

The crowd watched him as he finally got to his feet. He grabbed at his robe and chain and tried to straighten them, but they were hopelessly disarranged. His chain had worked its way around backwards and his robe rode high up on one shoulder and low down on the other. Eventually he gave up in frustration.

He stood there red-faced, dishevelled. ‘Who are these?' he demanded.

A second bee took off his mask and stepped up to the microphone. ‘Oliver Roberts, Mr Podcock. Friend and fellow bee of Darius Bell.'

A third bee took off her mask. ‘Marguerite Fisher. Friend and fellow bee!'

‘You know what they say,' said the fourth bee. ‘What you don't know won't hurt you.'

‘Paul Klasky,' said Darius.

Paul took off his mask. ‘Friend and fellow bee!'

‘Well, if you four children think you can make a fool of me in front of all these people,' said the Mayor, ‘if you think—'

‘I think they've already done that, Mr Mayor!' called out a deep voice from among the spectators.

The crowd roared with laughter.

‘Stung by a bee, George Podcock!'

Laughter swirled around the square. George Podcock seethed in humiliation. His fists clenched and unclenched. ‘You little . . . you little . . . Someone will pay for this! What school are you from?'

Darius glanced down at the Mrs Lightman, who stood just below the podium where she had stopped in her rush to receive the Prize. She desperately shook her head.

He turned back to the mayor. ‘Viglen!'

‘Well, I'll make sure your school never—' He stopped. ‘What did you say?'

‘Viglen.'

The mayor looked from Darius to Mrs Lightman and back to Darius. Then back to Mrs Lightman. Suddenly a cruel smile curled his lips. ‘I take it back!'

‘You can't!' cried Mrs Lightman.

‘I take the Prize back!' shouted the mayor.

‘Technically, your worship,' said the usher, ‘you
have
awarded the Prize, and once it's awarded, you can't—'

‘Oh, can't I? It's my prize! I can do what I want!'

‘Technically, Your Worship, you can't—'

‘Oh, be quiet!' shouted the mayor. ‘I award the prize to . . . I don't know, the light operetta singers. There! They can have it!'

‘Yes!'
cried the teachers from the Adam Williamson School for Gifted Children, and in a moment all the children in their wigs and coats were jumping up and down. But just as quickly, other voices in the crowd were shouting, and half a dozen teachers blocked the way of the Adam Williamson principal. The square was in uproar. Mrs Lightman made a dash up the steps to the podium and grabbed hold of the prize cup. She held it aloft.

‘It's mine!'
she cried, keeping the four unmasked bees between her and the mayor. ‘It's Viglen's! The mayor said it and he can't take it back.'

‘Oh, can't I just?' demanded the mayor. ‘You just give that back—'

‘Is it true?' demanded the deep voice that had spoken earlier. ‘Do these four bees come from Viglen?'

The voice belonged to the principal of St Robius School, who had pushed his way forward and now climbed on the platform as well. His dislike of the mayor was widely known. George Podcock had robbed St Robius of the Mayor's Prize two years earlier when everyone agreed that St Robius should have won it, and awarded it to the class of the Cumberland School in which Mr Podcock's own son was appearing.

‘Is it true?' he demanded again.

‘Yes,' said Mrs Lightman hesitantly, wondering if the St Robius principal was somehow planning to get his hands on the cup. ‘It is.'

‘And is it true that the mayor banned bees because of his dislike of the Bells?'

‘Nonsense!' cried the mayor. ‘That's a lie. This child lies, like every other Bell. Have you ever seen such people? You can't trust one of them. What have they ever done for this city? What does the father do? Writes stories! Stories! Useless. If it was up to me, I'd take them out of that estate of theirs and . . .'

Suddenly Mr Podcock's mouth fell open and his eyes went wide as he realised what he had just said. Even as he tried to deny his hatred, it had forced its way out, like steam out of a boiling pot.

He looked down. Darius's parents had got out of the yellow car and stood below him on the street. Cyrus was with them as well.

‘What would you do to us, Mr Podcock?' asked Hector. ‘Tell everybody.'

Podcock stared at him.

There was silence. Every pair of eyes in the square watched, every pair of ears was cocked to hear what the mayor would say next.

But the mayor said nothing. Frozen, feeling just as he had felt a year earlier when Hector Bell had arrived with the sixth Bell Gift and he had somehow managed to humiliate himself by the words that came out of his own mouth.