Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees (4 page)

‘Come to the kitchen,' said Darius when they were crunching up the drive. ‘We'll see what Mrs Simpson's got.'

Marguerite hesitated for a moment.

‘Come on. She told me she's making apple tarts today.'

A dozen fresh apple tarts stood cooling on the kitchen bench. Mrs Simpson smiled when she saw Darius and Marguerite come in and she cut a slice each for them out of one of the tarts. ‘Wait a minute,' she said, and poured some cream into a bowl. She began to whip it, holding the bowl in the crook of her elbow and rapidly beating the cream, the muscles rippling in her powerful forearm. Darius knew how much strength that took, because he had tried a few times and always had to take a break before he managed to get the cream to stiffen. Mrs Simpson did it in one stretch. In front of their eyes, the cream turned from a liquid into a stiff, white foam, peaked in the middle. Mrs Simpson put a healthy dollop on each slice.

‘How is it?' she asked anxiously as they each took a bite.

‘Good!' said Darius.

Marguerite nodded enthusiastically, her mouth full.

‘I was a bit concerned,' said Mrs Simpson. ‘I left out the honey, you see. Normally I use a little to glaze the apples. But we have to be careful now. Can't afford to waste a drop.'

Darius looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘Haven't you heard?' said Mrs Simpson. ‘Mr Deaver told me when he came by today to give me some eggs. The beehives are empty.'

‘You mean the one in the pumpkin field,' said Darius. ‘The one that swarmed.'

‘No, all of them. Everywhere. Over the last couple of weeks they've all emptied. Mr Deaver says there'll be no honey at all this year. He'll need to rebuild the colonies over the winter.'

‘That's . . .' Darius frowned. ‘All the hives? They couldn't all have swarmed.'

‘They didn't. The bees have died, apparently.'

‘The bees are dead?' said Darius. ‘All of them?'

Mrs Simpson nodded.

Darius stared at her.

‘Something's killed them. Mr Deaver doesn't know what, but whatever it is, he says it's gone through all the hives. It must be some kind of disease. He's very depressed about it. Well, I told him, as long as he and Mrs Deaver can manage, we'll be all right. We can manage without honey for a year, can't we? It's not a disaster.'

‘I suppose so,' said Darius quietly. He frowned, breaking off another piece of pie with his fork, taking plenty of cream with it. As he chewed, he thought about the hive at the pumpkin field. He remembered the last few bees crawling sluggishly inside. They weren't the last to leave the hive, apparently. They were the last to die. It was sad to think that—

Darius heard a clink. He looked around. Marguerite had put her fork down.

‘Don't you like the tart, Marguerite?' asked Mrs Simpson.

Marguerite's face was pale. ‘Are you sure all the hives are empty?'

‘That's what Mr Deaver said.'

‘
All
the bees are dead?'

‘That's what he told me, Marguerite.'

‘Does my father know?'

‘I don't know,' said Mrs Simpson.

Marguerite stared at the cook for a moment. Then she jumped up and ran out.

Darius thought he knew what was wrong as soon as Marguerite ran out the door. It hit him straight away, the memory of something Mr Beale had said when they were studying bees a couple of weeks previously. As they go from flower to flower to collect nectar, bees carry pollen. The delivery of pollen is necessary for fruit to form. According to Mr Beale, humans depended on bees to an extent that most people didn't even begin to understand. Or as he put it: if you don't have bees, you don't have fruit.

In her rush, Marguerite had left her schoolbag. Darius took it and went after her.

He could see Marguerite running for the gardener's lodge. She disappeared behind it, where Mr Fisher had his various greenhouses and potting sheds. Darius went from one to the next. Finally he found her with her father.

Mr Fisher's face was pale. He was staring at Marguerite, half disbelieving, half in despair.

They looked around at him.

‘I . . . brought your bag,' murmured Darius, holding it out to Marguerite.

Marguerite took it from him wordlessly.

‘Is it true what Marguerite has just told me?' said Mr Fisher. ‘Are all the hives empty?'

Darius nodded. ‘That's what Mrs Simpson said.'

There was silence. Darius glanced at Marguerite. Her face was grim.

‘Mr Deaver hasn't told
me
,' muttered Mr Fisher to himself. Suddenly his tone changed. ‘What if she's wrong?'

‘Mrs Simpson?' asked Darius.

‘What if she misheard? What if she exaggerated?'

Darius frowned. Mrs Simpson wasn't one to exaggerate, not in his experience. Mr Fisher himself was more likely to do that.

‘Maybe Mr Deaver said it was a couple of hives here or there and Mrs Simpson took it to mean all of them.'

‘Why would she do that, Mr Fisher?'

‘Who knows?' cried the gardener excitedly. ‘That must be it!' He laughed. ‘It couldn't be right. It couldn't!'

‘Perhaps you should go and talk to Mr Deav—'

Before Darius could finish, Mr Fisher ran off to do exactly what Darius had been suggesting.

Darius glanced at Marguerite. ‘It didn't sound to me as though Mrs Simpson made it up.'

Marguerite looked at him for a moment, then went after her father. Darius went with her.

Mr Fisher ran ahead of them. He disappeared down the side of his pumpkin field. When they glimpsed him again, he was heading into the plum orchard. Darius had never imagined the gardener could move so fast.

They got to the buttery. There was no answer when they knocked. Darius pushed gently on the door.

‘Mr Deaver?' he said. ‘Mrs Deaver?'

They listened. They could hear voices from a room at the end of the corridor. One of them was Mr Fisher's.

They went down the corridor. The door at the end was slightly ajar. Mr Fisher's voice was raised in a way that Darius had never heard from him before. They hesitated to go in.

‘It's all right for you!' shouted Mr Fisher. ‘You'll be all right, won't you?'

‘Andrew,' replied Mr Deaver's voice, ‘I keep telling you, it's not our fault.'

‘Not your fault! Whose fault is it, then? Mine? Do I keep the bees? Do I look after them? Am
I
the one who does that?'

‘We don't know what's happened. We just . . . they're all dead.'

‘You've let them die.'

‘What could we do?'

‘Please, Andrew,' said Mrs Deaver's voice, ‘we've done everything we can. Don't speak to Herbert like that.'

‘How should I speak to him? It's my flowers that provide your honey! You'd be
nothing
without me!'

‘Andrew, to be fair, it's our bees that pollinate your fruit.'

‘Yes, but it's all right for you, isn't it? You can rebuild the colonies after the winter. You've still got your chickens and your eggs. That, and a little bit of money you've got put away, and no one else for you to look after. You'll be all right. What about me? I've got nothing in the bank. What about my family? What about my two children? What am I going to tell Margue—'

‘Daddy! Stop, please!' cried Marguerite, pushing the door open.

Mr Fisher turned, his face red, his eyes wide.

‘Daddy, it's not their fault. Why would they want their bees to die?'

Mr Fisher's mouth opened, as if he was searching for an answer, then suddenly he seemed to crumple. He hung his head. His shoulders sagged, his arms fell, his knees bent.

Marguerite looked at the Deavers. ‘So it's true? All the bees are dead?'

They nodded.

‘What happened?'

‘We don't know,' replied Mr Deaver. ‘It must be some kind of disease. They're all dead. Every single hive.'

Mr Fisher straightened himself up. He faced the two beekeepers and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry I shouted at you.'

‘It's all right,' said Mr Deaver. ‘It's a shock.'

‘It's a shock to us too,' said Mrs Deaver. ‘We've never seen anything like it, Andrew. You go to the hives and they're . . . empty. Just empty.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Mr Fisher. ‘That's horrible.' He took a deep breath. ‘When were you going to tell me? Did you want me to hear it from someone else?'

‘No. We were just about to come over. We thought we'd wait until you'd finished work.'

‘Work!' Mr Fisher laughed painfully. ‘What difference does any of that make now?'

‘I shouldn't have told Mrs Simpson,' said Mr Deaver. ‘You're right, Andrew, I should have told you first. You shouldn't have had to hear it from her.'

‘From my daughter,' said Mr Fisher.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Well . . .' Mr Fisher sighed. ‘I suppose it doesn't really matter who I heard it from. It's the same news, whether it's one person who tells you or another. It doesn't change the facts.'

‘Daddy,' said Marguerite, ‘perhaps bees from outside the estate will come and find the flowers.'

Mr Fisher glanced at the beekeepers.

Mr Deaver shook his head. ‘I've been speaking to other beekeepers. The same thing has happened to the bees all over the city. It's not our fault, Andrew. Everyone's hives are empty. It must be a disease, and whatever it is, it's affecting us all.'

‘Isn't there anything else you can do?'

The Deavers glanced at each other.

‘No,' said Mr Deaver. ‘Not until we rebuild the colonies for next year.'

Mr Fisher nodded slowly. He let out another long, despairing sigh. ‘Well, no bees – no fruit, no vegetables. Nothing.'

‘Surely there'll be something, Daddy?'

Mr Fisher shrugged. ‘Wheat and corn, Marguerite. Wheat and corn. The wind carries their pollen. But I didn't plant any. I never do, haven't for years. People love our fruits. You need bees for that. That's what they want, our fruit, that's what's special. Our wheat and corn were like anyone else's.' He shook his head. ‘If only I'd known. If only I'd
known
!
'

‘Is it too late to plant them now?'

‘Much too late.'

Darius frowned. ‘Is it really so bad, Mr Fisher? Will there really be nothing?'

‘No bees – no fruit, no vegetables,' murmured the gardener, as he had said before. ‘Nothing.'

Mr Beale had been right, thought Darius. For a moment, he tried to imagine what the world would be like if there were no bees anywhere. Would there really be no fruit at all? No vegetables? Humans depended on bees to an extent he hadn't understood. That particular lesson in science was real now, as real as Mr Beale could ever have wished.

He glanced at Marguerite. The Fishers lived from the crops they sold at the market. But this year there would be nothing. And from what he had overheard Mr Fisher saying when he and Marguerite arrived at the buttery, it didn't sound as if he had any money in the bank for them to live on. He wondered what the Fishers would do.

Darius looked around. He saw that Mr Fisher was watching him. So were the Deavers. Suddenly, from the way they were looking at him, Darius knew what they were thinking. The Bells got all their fruit and vegetables from Mr Fisher. All their honey came from the Deavers. If there were no bees, it wasn't only the Deavers and the Fishers who were in trouble!

For dessert that evening, Mrs Simpson served one of her apple tarts. Hector Bell, Darius's father, savoured it with an expert air, pausing thoughtfully after taking a bite and then turning to Darius's mother with an expression of deep satisfaction.

‘Excellent. Don't you think so, Micheline?'

Darius's mother nodded. She always said that her husband never used only one word when three would do, and she knew what was coming next. So did Darius and his brother, Cyrus.

‘The apples are tart, yet sweet,' continued Darius's father. ‘The pastry is buttery, but crisp. The cream is rich, yet refreshing. In sum, in conclusion, in total, the com- bination is a blend of exquisite textures that draws the eater into a sense of fulfilment unrivalled, unparalleled, unmatched, in short,
unexceeded
even by the most exotic desserts in Mrs Simpson's repertoire!'

‘It's just an apple tart,' muttered Cyrus.

‘But what a tart, Cyrus! That's the point.'

‘Is it?'

‘Show me a better one! Show me one more flavoursome, more delightful, more toothsome. Why, look at the colour of it! The golden pastry, the warm brown of the apple. Even the colours speak. And as for the flavour, as for the taste . . .' Hector shook one hand in the air expressively as he ate another mouthful. ‘As for the flavour, why, it's just . . . it's just . . .' Darius's father frowned. ‘It's different.' He looked at his wife. ‘There's something different about it. Micheline, don't you think so? Isn't there something different about it?'

Micheline took another bite. ‘I couldn't say, Hector.'

‘I'm sure there is.' Hector took a third bite, blinking quickly as he ate it. ‘What is it?' he said, his fingers twitching rapidly in the air. ‘Something's not there – or something else is. Something different. I'm not saying it's good, I'm not saying it's bad – I'm saying it's different.'

‘There's no honey,' said Darius.

‘No honey?' His father looked at him quizzically.

‘Mrs Simpson usually uses honey to glaze the apples, but she didn't this time.'

‘Really?' said Hector. ‘Honey? I didn't know that. He took another bite of the tart. ‘Well, that's interesting. Is it an improvement? Perhaps it is. It's somehow cleaner, I think. Less cloying. The apples come into their own a little more. They speak. They sing. What do you think, Micheline? Isn't the taste a little cleaner?'

Darius's mother took another bite. ‘I'm not sure I'd say that, Hector. I liked the previous recipe.'

‘So did I. I have nothing against the previous recipe, Micheline. It served us well for years. But Mrs Simpson must try new things from time to time, mustn't she? If she doesn't try new things, everything she makes will always be the same.'

‘I thought you liked the things she makes,' said Micheline.

‘I do! But she can try new things as well. Imagine if she didn't. We'd
always
have the same things. What would you think of that, boys?'

‘I don't suppose that would be very good,' said Darius, although he couldn't remember the last time Mrs Simpson had tried anything new. As far as he could remember, everything she cooked she had cooked before, and his father had never suggested that she do otherwise.

Cyrus didn't reply.

‘You can roll your eyes, Cyrus, but that's no answer to the question, and don't pretend that it is.'

‘I'm not pretending anything,' said Cyrus. ‘Unlike some people, I never pretend.'

Now Darius rolled his eyes. That was a big principle of Cyrus's, never to pretend. He refused to pretend that the Bell name was in some way important, for example, even if only pretending to believe it would have gone a long way towards pleasing his father. He was studying to be an engineer, and when he had finished his studies he was going to get a job, which would be the first time a Bell had done so in living memory and consequently was a cause of great distress to Hector. Cyrus didn't care about that – and in keeping with his principle of never pretending, he refused to pretend that he did.

Hector glanced at Micheline and then ate more of the tart. Eventually he finished his piece and sat back in satisfaction, hands on his stomach. ‘Think of all the tarts we'll be having over the next few months,' he murmured, gazing wistfully at the remaining tart on the table. ‘Plum, cherry, gooseberry, apricot, strawberry . . . Ah, the fruits that Fisher grows! Who knows how he manages to extract such marvels from the earth? And there's no one like Mrs Simpson for making tarts from them, is there, Micheline?'

‘No one,' said Darius's mother.

Hector sighed. ‘I can taste them now.'

Darius watched him for a moment, then looked away, biting his lip. Any moment now, he was sure, someone would ask why Mrs Simpson hadn't used honey in the tart. And he would be obliged to tell them.

But no one did.

‘I shouldn't have another slice,' murmured Hector eventually, still gazing at the remainder of the cake. ‘I really shouldn't.'

He reached for the plate and took one.

‘I need to talk to you,' said Darius to his brother after they left the table.

‘Why?' said Cyrus.

‘I need to.'

‘I'm busy.'

‘Cyrus! I'm not joking!'

Cyrus stopped and looked at him appraisingly. ‘All right,' he said. ‘But I'm busy, so this had better not take long.'

Cyrus turned and walked away. Darius followed him. Cyrus always said he was busy, as if he had such weighty things on his mind and was constantly engaged in work of monumental importance, but he always seemed to have time if he felt like it.

They went to the new library. It was a big, bare room on the first floor with three huge windows facing the back of the estate and bookcases lining the opposite wall. Most of the shelves in the bookcases were missing. Darius had no idea why the new library was called the new library, since it looked just as old as the old library, which was in another wing of the house. Neither of them had any books anyway. Presumably they had both housed books at some time in the past, when the Bells had possessed large and expensive collections that had since been sold. Or possibly they had been named libraries on the presumption that one day the Bells would possess such book collections, which they never had. In any case, Cyrus had brought in an old desk that he had found somewhere in the House and had taken over the new library once he had started studying engineering at the university. It was full of his engineering models, which stood on the desk and on the floor and on the few shelves that still remained.

Now he leaned against the edge of the desk and folded his arms. ‘Well?'

‘It's about the honey,' said Darius.

Cyrus raised an eyebrow.

‘I know why Mrs Simpson didn't use any in the apple tart.'

Cyrus stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Did I mention that I was busy?' He turned around and began to rummage through a couple of notebooks on his desk, as if to find the monument- ally important work from which Darius was keeping him. ‘Funny. I'm sure I did.'

‘Cyrus, if you'd just listen to me—'

‘Is there anything I said or did that even hinted that I cared why Mrs Simpson didn't use any honey? Tell me, Darius, because if there is, I'd like to know so I can be sure not to do it again.'

‘Cyrus, this is—'

‘I mean it, Darius.' Cyrus turned back to him. ‘Really! Why are you wasting my time?'

‘I'm not wasting your time.'

‘Telling me why Mrs Simpson didn't use any honey isn't wasting my time?'

‘Just listen—'

‘I've got better things to do,' said Cyrus.

‘Just let me—'

‘I've heard enough.'

‘No you haven't! Cyrus, just listen! Listen!'

Cyrus gave him an appraising look again. ‘All right,' he said eventually, and he looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Start talking.'

Darius took a deep breath. ‘The reason Mrs Simpson didn't use any honey is that there are no bees.'

Cyrus's eyes narrowed. ‘What does that mean?'

‘The hives are empty, Cyrus. The Deavers have checked every one. The bees are gone. They think they've died from some kind of disease.'

‘When did this happen?' asked Cyrus suspiciously.

‘In the last couple of weeks. The first empty hive they found was the one in the pumpkin field. They thought it must have swarmed. Since then they've found that every other hive is empty. Apparently other beekeepers in the city have lost their bees as well.'

Cyrus was silent. Darius could see that he still didn't know whether to believe him.

‘What are the Deavers going to do?' asked Cyrus at last.

‘Apparently they can rebuild the colonies, but not until next year. There won't be any honey this summer. That's why Mrs Simpson didn't use any on the apple tart. She's trying to make it last as long as she can.'

Cyrus shrugged. ‘So, even if what you say is true, what you're telling me is we won't have any honey this year. It's not a disaster. Might do us good to go without luxuries for once.'

Darius knew who Cyrus meant by ‘us'. Their father.

‘It's not just a luxury,' said Darius.

‘It's honey, Darius. It's not oxygen, it's not water. People can live without honey. I bet even Papa could.'

‘Very funny. Do you know what else bees do, Cyrus?'

‘No,' said Cyrus sarcastically, ‘tell me.'

‘Pollinate, Cyrus. Have you ever heard of pollination? Think about it. No honey – no fruit, no vegetables. Nothing. None of Mr Fisher's crops will pollinate without bees. That's what he said. Nothing but wheat and corn.'

‘Why them?'

‘They pollinate by wind.'

Cyrus looked at Darius carefully. He had to admit, Darius sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.

‘The rest require bees. And Mr Fisher didn't plant wheat or corn, and it's too late for that now.'

Cyrus hated to admit that anyone knew more than he did, or had thought of anything before he had – especially when it was his younger brother. But he wasn't one to argue with facts. As long as they were accurate, of course.

‘You're sure about this, are you? About there being no bees?'

‘I saw the pumpkin hive with my own eyes! And I heard the Deavers tell Mr Fisher about the rest.' Darius paused, remembering the terrible mixture of anger and despair he had seen on Mr Fisher's face. ‘There won't be anything this year, Cyrus. No fruit, no vegetables, nothing at all. We'll starve!'

‘Who said we'll starve?'

‘Won't we? How will we replace all the things Mr Fisher gives us? You don't have to try to protect me, Cyrus. I'm old enough to deal with the truth. We'll starve.'

‘No, Papa will have to . . .' Cyrus frowned. ‘I don't know what he'll do. He'll have to do something.'

‘And what about the Fishers? They'll starve too.'

‘They won't. They'll manage.'

‘How?'

‘They've probably got some savings. Unlike us, Darius, most people do. They can live from that until next year.'

Darius didn't think so. From the things he had heard Mr Fisher say, from the look he had seen on the gardener's face, it didn't seem as if it was going to be that easy for them. ‘What if they don't have any savings?'

‘Then . . . I don't know! It won't be as bad as you say.'

Darius shook his head. Cyrus had no reason to say that. There was no way he could know how bad it was going to be. For someone who prided himself on refusing to pretend, thought Darius, Cyrus seemed to be doing an awfully good job of doing just that.

Cyrus glanced at him self-consciously, as if he knew what Darius was thinking.

‘Why didn't you tell Papa at dinner?' he demanded suddenly.

‘He didn't ask.'

‘You were scared to.'

‘I wasn't scared to! He didn't ask.'

‘Neither did I,' said Cyrus. ‘And you're telling me now, aren't you?'

Darius didn't reply to that. Cyrus was right, or at least partly right. Darius had felt a huge sense of relief when neither of his parents asked why Mrs Simpson had decided to leave the honey out of her recipe. Yet even as he felt it, he had known the relief was tempor- ary. They would have to be told. Maybe he was hoping that Cyrus would do it for him.

But Cyrus showed no such inclination.

‘You said you're old enough to deal with the truth, Darius. If you're old enough to deal with the truth, then you're old enough to tell it.'