Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees (7 page)

Why had he even
thought
his father would do something? Darius had imagined that once his father knew, once he understood how serious the situation was, something would . . . happen. But why? Why should it?

Darius gazed down from the top of the clock tower. He had always liked coming up here to think, although since the earth tremor last year, when the clock had started chiming unpredictably, you did run the danger of being deafened by a sudden peal that might stop after one chime or might go on for twenty minutes – starting, stopping, starting and stopping again – until the clock's hands finally jumped forward. But he still liked coming here to think – even though there was nothing to think about today but an unbearable sense of disappointment.

From the clock tower, you could see all the way over the fence of the estate and into the streets beyond. And of course you could see the estate itself – the wood far off in one corner, the pond where Mr Gardiner, the town fishmonger, cultivated fish in return for delivering a portion of his catch to Mrs Simpson. The various buildings of the estate were visible – the buttery where the Deavers lived, the dairy where they kept their chickens, the garages that Mr Bullwright, the builder, had converted into a luxury dwelling for his family, the gardener's lodge where the Fishers lived, surrounded by toolsheds and greenhouses. Everything was set against the fields and the orchards where Mr Fisher grew his crops. Normally, when he looked across the estate, Darius hardly noticed those. They were the background against which everything else stood out, like the tablecloth on a table when your eye is drawn to the fruitbowl and the lemonade jug and the dish of cakes standing on it. But today that was what Darius saw. The fields. The orchards.

Everything was in lines. That was the first thing you noticed. The low, earth-hugging vines of the pumpkin field, the green studs of lettuce plants, the beans strung up on long wooden frames, the trees of the peach and the plum and the apple orchards. They all looked so healthy, just as they looked every year. The first flowers were appearing, just as they always did. And yet this year those flowers would develop no fruit. There were no bees, and without bees, the flowers would blossom and wilt and leave nothing behind. There would be no bright orange balloons in the pumpkin field, no red baubles nestled in the strawberry field, no pink blush hidden behind the leaves in the peach trees.

Plants didn't naturally grow in lines, Darius knew. You only had to glance at the bright confusion of the wood in the corner of the estate to see how plants grew when left to themselves. The regularity, the order, the consistency everywhere else were testament to the work Mr Fisher had put in. For as long as Darius could remember, the gardener had been a presence in his life, always visible somewhere on the estate, glimpsed across a field or walking through the trees, hunched over a shrub or high on a ladder pruning a branch, beckoning to him, giving him a fruit to taste, showing him how to plant something or pick something, watching patiently to see that he did it properly. It was Mr Fisher who had made all of this happen, who had turned the dark earth of the Bell estate into a sea of fertility out of which came fruit that was fresher and more succulent than anyone else's – Fishers' fruit, for which people at the market would jostle and push.

Everywhere you looked from the clock tower, the results of his work were visible. It wasn't the background, Darius realised, but the very essence of the estate. The mark of Mr Fisher's hand was all across the landscape.

How could he leave all of that behind? Gazing at the fields and orchards, Darius remembered the pain he had seen in Mr Fisher's face. He had never seen such pain before, not in an adult anyway, not so openly, so naked. Yet now he thought he understood it. How could you bear to leave the place where you had done so much, a place where you had worked every piece of earth, which looked the way it looked only because of what you had done, which yielded the riches it yielded only because of the effort you had expended year after year?

Disappointment flooded over Darius again. Bitter, unyielding disappointment. Even now, as he stood up here on Saturday morning, two days after his father had confessed there was nothing he could do, it hadn't got any better.

Their family would be all right, just. Darius's mother had told him that it wouldn't be easy, but there was a little money that would help them get through the year, replacing the food that would normally have come from Mr Fisher's fields. They wouldn't have quite as much fresh fruit as normal, nor as many fresh veget- ables, and of course there would be no honey, but they would manage. But there wasn't enough left to help the Fishers. It was the gardener's entire livelihood for the year that was gone, and there was nowhere near enough money in the Bell account to replace that.

Darius rested his elbows on the parapet that ran around the top of the clock tower, gazing across the fields. A pigeon landed on the parapet not far away from him and stood, side on, twitching its head, watching Darius with one red eye. Darius watched it back. The pigeon took a couple of steps closer, stopped, and regarded Darius again. Darius wondered what it was thinking. But pigeons don't think, he thought. Yet there must have been a reason for what it was doing. Something made it fly down here and land, and watch him, and take a couple of steps and watch him again. But the pigeon wasn't aware of the reason. Or was it? Darius wondered how you could ever know. For that matter, he wondered how much a person could ever really tell about himself. Maybe you thought you knew the reasons for the things you did, but maybe there were reasons behind the reasons, and you didn't know them. It didn't feel like it, but then it probably didn't feel to a pigeon that it was missing anything it should have known, either.

Darius gazed at the pigeon, wondering. The pigeon looked back at him. Its head twitched a couple of times, and then, for some reason – which Darius didn't know, and nor did the pigeon, if he was right – it flapped its wings, rose into the air, and glided down towards the ground.

Darius watched it go. The bird had taken his mind off his disappointment but now it came flooding back. He noticed someone walking through the bean field. It was Marguerite. He watched her as she reached the drive. Suddenly, like the pigeon, not stopping to think about it, he left the parapet and headed down.

He found her behind the house, sitting on a bench facing the grass. It was just about the only patch of grass left on the estate, and beyond it was the strawberry field – or at least the field where the strawberries would normally grow.

‘Hello,' he said.

Marguerite looked up at him. ‘Hello.'

‘Do you mind if I sit down?'

She shook her head.

Darius sat on the bench. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Just sitting here.'

‘What are you thinking about?'

‘Nothing.'

There was silence. They sat together on the bench, staring across the grass.

Sometimes kids at school teased Darius and said Marguerite was his girlfriend. She was his friend, that was for sure. They had grown up together. Marguerite was always sensible and always said what she really believed, which was a good combination. And if you ever needed help, she was someone you could always rely on.

‘It's funny there are no bees,' murmured Marguerite, gazing across the grass. ‘You just think they're always going to be here – and then they're not.'

‘I never really thought about them before,' said Darius. ‘I wish I had. I wish I'd realised how important they are.'

Marguerite turned to him. ‘Why? What difference would it have made?'

‘I don't know. It just feels . . . it feels ridiculous that I never even thought about them and then suddenly they seem to be so important.'

‘I suppose you never know how much you miss something until it's gone.'

‘That's like something Paul would say.' Darius paused. ‘Except you actually used it when it made sense.'

‘He's not so bad.'

‘Marguerite, you should hear him. He's getting worse!'

‘And he hasn't used that saying about the bees? It's so obvious.'

‘Maybe he doesn't know it. I'll have to tell him. He loves new sayings.'

Marguerite smiled for a second. Then she turned back and gazed across the grass. ‘Daddy said he's going to keep us here until Maurice and I finish school for the year. Then we'll have to go.'

Darius stared at her. Six weeks. It was only six weeks until school finished.

‘Daddy will leave earlier if he finds a job.'

‘Is he looking for one? Already?'

Marguerite nodded.

Darius bit his lip. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't theoretical now, it wasn't just a possibility. It was going to happen. The Fishers were leaving.

‘Are you going far away?'

‘Daddy said it will probably be far. That's why we're going to wait for school to end. We'll have to change schools.'

‘But you'll come back next year when the bees are back, won't you? Everything will still be here.'

Marguerite didn't reply.

‘Do you want to go?'

She shook her head, lips tightly pressed.

‘I don't want you to go either.'

Marguerite didn't speak.

‘My mother says we can manage. We can cut back on things. We won't have any fruit but . . . we can manage for a year.' Darius paused. ‘I wish there was something I could do.'

Marguerite was silent.

‘I suppose . . . Well, our school's not so great, is it?'

She shook her head.

‘And Mrs Lightman . . . You couldn't get a worse principal, could you?
“You will do what I say.”'

Marguerite smiled.

‘
Disobedience is not an option
.'

‘“The consequences will be extreme,”'
said Marguerite, and laughed. Darius laughed as well.

But soon there was silence again.

Suddenly Marguerite burst into tears.

‘I'm sorry,' she said between sobs.

‘Don't be sorry,' said Darius.

‘I'm such a baby.'

‘No you're not.'

‘I'm normally . . . not like this.'

Darius felt like crying himself. He worked hard to keep back the tears. Suddenly he shook his head. ‘This is ridiculous!'

‘I know. I'm sorry!' Marguerite jumped up and ran off.

Darius ran after her. He caught up with her and grabbed her hand.

‘What?' demanded Marguerite. She turned back to him, her face red and wet with tears.

‘I wasn't talking about you, Marguerite. You're not ridiculous. I'm talking about this situation. It's ridiculous! There must be something we can do.'

‘What?'

‘I don't know.'

‘My parents don't know,' said Marguerite. ‘Nor do yours.'

‘My parents don't know anything.'

‘Well, mine do.'

‘They don't know everything!'

‘Nor do you, Darius Bell!'

Darius nodded. He remembered something his father had said. Experts. It was experts who would know what to do.

Then he remembered something else his father had said when he was reading out the article in the news- paper. Suddenly Darius had an idea. Maybe there were some people who could help him – and if he could find the newspaper again, maybe he would be able to find them!

‘I don't know everything,' he said. ‘That's true. But I know one thing, Marguerite. You're not leaving. I won't let it happen.'

The meeting was being held that afternoon. Darius had found the newspaper and checked. Saturday at three in the Round Room at the Town Hall.

Paul and Oliver were already coming over for the afternoon. Darius met them at the gate to Bell House.

‘Change of plan,' he said. ‘We're going somewhere.'

‘Where?' asked Oliver.

‘You'll see,' replied Darius, and headed out of the gate towards the bus stop.

Paul and Oliver glanced at each other. Oliver shrugged. ‘It's like the blind leading the blind,' said Paul.

They caught the bus to Founders Square. They all sat together on the back seat, Darius on one side of Paul and Oliver on the other to try to prevent him getting into an argument with anybody, which almost always happened when Paul was in public. He just couldn't help himself from making some kind of remark about something or other and then following it up with one of his sayings, which confused or alarmed or irritated whoever he was talking to. Two seats ahead of them sat a woman carrying a kitten in a shopping bag. The kitten had a purple bow around its neck.

‘Why would you put a bow on a kitten?' said Paul. ‘And purple, of all colours. It's just wrong.'

‘Shhhh!' said Darius.

The woman turned around. ‘Were you talking to me, young man?'

‘Not necessarily,' replied Paul. ‘But since you ask, why would you—
Ow!
' Darius had elbowed him in the ribs.

‘What did you say?'

‘Nothing,' said Darius. ‘He didn't say anything.'

‘Is that true?' asked the woman, gazing sternly at Paul.

Paul shook his head. The woman watched him for a moment longer and then turned around.

‘You know what they say,' whispered Paul. ‘There are none so blind as those who will not see.'

‘
What
did you say?' demanded the woman, swinging around.

‘I just said—
Ow!
'

This time it was Oliver. He smiled apologetically at the woman. ‘You shouldn't encourage him.'

‘It's like an illness,' added Darius.

‘What illness?' said Paul. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘We'll tell you later.'

‘Tell me now!'

‘Later.'

‘Tell me—
Ow!
'

The woman watched the three boys suspiciously, then finally turned back in her seat. She held the kitten tightly to her chest.

‘What's the illness?' whispered Paul. ‘Who's got it? Is it the kitten?'

The woman turned sharply again.

Darius and Oliver smiled at her.

‘Maybe that explains the bow,' whispered Paul after the woman turned around again. ‘After all, it's a sick kitten.'

‘What's that got to do with a bow?' whispered Darius.

‘How should I know? Let's ask—
Ow!'
cried Paul, as Darius and Oliver elbowed him together.

Somehow they managed to get to Founders Square without further altercations. The bus stopped on the opposite side of the square from the Town Hall and they got out. When the Bell estate had been given to the Bell family almost two hundred years earlier, the council had required that, in return, the Bells provide a gift to the city once in every generation. All around them were the Gifts that had been given: the stained-glass windows of the Town Hall, the massive bell hanging in the clock tower, the copper spire towering above it, the bell-shaped fountain that stood on one side of the square, and the marble statue on the other side that showed Cornelius Bell, Darius's illustrious great-great-great-great-grandfather, who had been the one who received the land of the Bell estate in the first place.

In the tower, the Bell Bell, as it was known, was striking three o'clock. ‘Come on!' said Darius, and they crossed the square.

They had to wait to get across the street in front of the Town Hall and then they went quickly up the steps. In the lobby stood a council usher in a purple uniform. Someone was asking him directions and another couple of people were waiting to speak to him.

‘His uniform's the exact same colour as the kitten's bow on the bus,' said Paul.

‘Shhhhhhh!'
said Darius and Oliver together.

They stopped in front of the usher and waited their turn.

‘Yes?' he said to them.

‘We're looking for the Round Room,' said Darius.

The usher glanced at each of the three boys. ‘It's not free today.'

‘I know it's not free,' said Darius. ‘There's a meeting there. That's where we're going.'

The man looked at each of them again. ‘It's for apiarists.'

Darius didn't reply. The usher had simply stated a fact that both of them already knew. It hardly required a comment.

‘You don't look like apiarists,' said the usher.

‘You'd be surprised,' said Darius.

The man looked at Paul. ‘Are you an apiarist?' he asked sarcastically.

Paul looked at him smugly. ‘You know what they say – don't judge a book by its cover.'

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘What about you?' he said to Oliver.

‘Very much so,' said Oliver. For a boy who was normally so serious, and who never wanted to be in any of the school plays, Oliver had an odd tendency to enjoy playing a part whenever the opportunity arose in real life, even when he didn't actually know what the part was. ‘I enjoy being an apiarist very much.'

‘Do you just?' said the man. A queue of people was building up behind the three boys, but he ignored them. ‘What do you enjoy most about it?'

‘Meetings like the one today,' said Oliver. ‘I enjoy meeting like-minded people. It's most rewarding.'

The man rubbed his chin. ‘I don't think you're apiarists. I think you're three young troublemakers who—'

‘Never mind!' said Darius, who had been looking around while the usher questioned them and had caught sight of a sign with arrows listing a number of the chambers in the Town Hall, including the Round Room. He headed straight for the corridor where the arrow pointed. Paul and Oliver ran after him.

The usher hesitated. The people who had been behind the three boys were glaring at him. There were close to a dozen people in the queue now, headed by a large man with a thick, red nose.

‘What's your name?' demanded the man.

‘Why?' said the usher.

‘Because if you don't help me right now, I'm going to make a complaint about you!'

The usher hesitated a moment longer. But the three boys had disappeared, and if he was going to stop them he would have to run after them, which hardly suited the dignity of his office. Not to mention the fact that running after people always made him hot and bothered, particularly when he was in his purple uniform. And of course, he told himself, it was possible that they really were apiarists, although very young ones.

He turned back to the man with the red nose. ‘How can I help you?'

Darius, Paul and Oliver found themselves in a wood-panelled corridor. They turned a corner and followed the signs into another corridor which came to an end at a big door. Over the top of the door were written the words: ‘Round Room'. A sign stuck on the door said: ‘Meeting of the Society of Apiarists, Saturday at 3 pm.'

Oliver looked at his watch. ‘It's eleven past.'

Darius shrugged. ‘I'm sure no one will mind.'

‘By the way, Darius, before we go in, you might want to tell us exactly what we're supposed to be.'

‘Apiarists,' said Darius.

‘Yes, and they are . . . ?'

‘Beekeepers.'