Telling the Bees – Chapter 9
Know Your Enemy
‘Are you okay?’ asked Lottie anxiously. ‘Many stings?’
Amélie coaxed the last of the bees from her fingers back into the hive. Held her bare arms out, turns the palms upward so Lottie could see.
‘None!’
‘Sometimes the bees will have a right go at Dad or Uncle Nick, if they’re in a mood. I’ve never seen anything like that, though. All over you! I couldn’t even see your face. Weren’t you scared?’
‘No, not at all. They meant me no harm.’
Lottie’s face was a picture.
They completed the rest of the inspection without incident. As she opened boxes, lifted frames, she made observations to her assistant, who summarised them into her phone and took photos as directed.
It was all a nonsense, really, Amélie reflected. Busywork to fulfil the requirements of bureaucratic souls at the Department of Agriculture. Bees were classed as livestock, like sheep or pigs, and must therefore be managed, checked, inspected. Reports on their progress filed.
The absurdity of treating a solitary woodland superorganism, wild and free, as if it were a placid domestic animal. Could they not see that this fundamental disrespect, this denial of nature, lay at the root of every pest outbreak, every epidemic that threatened honeybee populations worldwide?
She always tried to conceal her scepticism from Lottie. Although she fundamentally trusted the girl, she couldn’t expect her to keep everything from her father.
How will my bees manage without me?
Of course the bees would do just fine, she thought, as they headed homeward, down the Hill. Everything that a beekeeper did was for the convenience of humans, not for the bees. They needed nothing from her.
The question was rather this: How would her bees be treated by whoever came after her?
‘Lottie …’ she called out to the girl trudging ahead.
‘Yes?’ Lottie waited with a slightly anxious air. Had she done something wrong?
‘If something were to happen to me, how would you feel …’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, just something … would you look after my bees, please?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Don’t let your Dad take them. Treat them kindly. Look after them the way I would. You know how. Would you do that for me?’
Her companion looked at her, concern and puzzlement on her heavy features. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I would do that for you. I promise.’
‘Thank you.’
To Lottie’s evident astonishment, Amélie took her arm. They descended the rest of the way to the house arm-in-arm, the tall, big-boned girl and the slight, elderly woman in awkward camaraderie.
The afternoon’s labour had left her bone-weary and shaky. All she could do that evening was sit by the stove with a blanket over her knees, while Tom got the dinner ready.
As she rested and her husband bustled, she turned over in her mind what the bees had imparted. The specificity and clarity of the message astonished her.
Whatever it was, the new residents of the Homestead were not it. Pleasant, bland, pretty Louisa and her trim, non-committal Jason. It had been there long before their arrival in the valley. Yet they must somehow be a catalyst to its awakening. Were they themselves then evil? It seemed improbable.
Connaissez votre ennemi.1
Was it Napoléon perhaps who had said that? Maréchal Foch? De Gaulle? Whoever it was, that was what she must try to do.
She would not live the short span of her remaining life in timidity: a frightened little old lady. Putain de merde, non!2 She would get to the bottom of this – and leave her loved ones safe.
When Tom brought in her tray, she smiled up at him brightly.
‘Darling, I think we should hold a dinner party.’
‘A dinner party?! Are you sure you’re up to that?’
‘Of course I am! Just a small group.’
‘If that’s what you’d like, my love.’
He would deny her nothing – not now he knew. It really wasn’t fair.
Still, it was for a greater good.
‘And Tom?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Let’s invite our new neighbours, Louisa and Jason. It’s about time we got to know them properly.’
‘As you wish, my love.’
Next week in Telling the Bees:
Chapter 10: Bon Appétit
Amélie and Tom play host.
Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are based on real places.
Connaissez votre ennemi. – Know your enemy. (A paraphrase from Sun Tzu The Art of War, 5th century BCE)
Putain de merde, non! – Fucking shit, no!
"Putain" means "fucking" in French?
Better not let a certain Russian guy with a similar last name know about that....
So nice to get these in my inbox now!