by Ashly Graham
Other birds who came to perch in Twig’s tree scolded him, when their wings and legs caught in the wool. It took Twig a long time to release them, which made him as bad-tempered as they were; and he told the birds that in future they should go and sit in other, ordinary, trees to do their preening and gossiping, and leave him alone instead of wasting his time when he had more important things to do.
The knitting that Twig did manage to complete was very untidy, and so full of holes that anyone who put it on would be no warmer than before. He knitted stitches when he should have purled, and he purled when he should have knitted; and he cast off for no reason at all, which is why the holes were there.
After Twig had knitted and unravelled a dozen jerseys, one came out sort of partly all right, if a bee didn’t mind that only one arm was, mostly, covered; and wasn’t concerned about the back, or lack of it; and if that bee had a shorter than average body that curved to the left. But at least it was better than the previous twelve, Twig thought, and because he’d made it himself it looked better to him than it was.
He looked around for someone to show it off to, but because he’d told the birds off for bothering him, the tree was empty; which was a pity, for now that Twig had done what he’d set out to do, by his own hand and not with magic, he would have welcomed an appreciative comment or two.
When he was sure that no one was coming, Twig flew to Humbert’s hive to deliver his gift. Along the way he managed to convince himself that he had it in him to become an expert knitter: one who would be able to teach Humbert’s family to knit for themselves, so that they’d never be dependent on the hive again for their children’s jerseys, once the hive Elders had seen the quality of their work and agreed that it was superior to that of the official hive outfitters, in looks, and in its property of keeping a bee warmer in winter and cooler in summer. When the bees had acquired Twig’s skill, being the industrious creatures that they were with six legs apiece, they could knit three jerseys at once if they wanted to. Or was it one jersey three times as fast?
Either way, the results would be impressive.
It was a good thing that there were no other bees in the little flat occupied by Humbert’s family to witness the scene, as Twig presented the jersey to his parents, for if there had been they would have laughed at it. Humbert himself knew nothing of what was going on, because as usual he was upstairs in bed; today he was studying for his Waggle Dance orienteering exams, boning up on the geometry theory that enables bees to communicate the direction of new sources of nectar and pollen to other bees.
Humbert’s mother and father accepted the jersey from Twig to give to their son. Although they didn’t notice that anything was amiss with it, even if they had they were too polite to reveal it. They were touched by the fairy’s generosity, and thanked him profusely, saying that they were sorry he didn’t have time to stay to tea.
The reason that Twig was in a hurry was that, in his newfound confidence, he had it in mind to go and call on the little girl fairy who lived in the red-apple tree, and give her a demonstration of his acquired skill. If she weren’t already proficient in the craft of knitting, Twig thought that perhaps she might be impressed enough by his handiwork to ask him to give her lessons.
Which, having conquered his shyness of her, he would be happy to do.
After Twig had left, and Humbert’s parents looked at the jersey more closely, they were dismayed. It wasn’t the untidiness that bothered them—though the Elders were sure to object as soon as it was inspected—but that the jersey’s yellow and black stripes were going in the wrong direction: instead of running crossways like rings around their bodies, Twig had knitted the stripes up and down.
Now this wouldn’t have mattered particularly, if bees had not been bees; but the awful thing was that to wear such a jersey would make Humbert look like—oh, calamity!—instead of an Apis mellifera, or bee: a wasp, Vespula vulgaris…with the emphasis upon vulgaris. Or worse, Vespa crabro, a hornet.
This was because, whereas on bees’ woolly jerseys the stripes circle their bodies, on wasps and hornets the stripes are vertical, and are painted on in waterproof paint; which is why if wasps and hornets are caught in the rain it doesn’t affect them—except that they hate baths and showers on principle. They don’t mind getting dirty, avoiding puddles and always keeping a weather eye on the sky.
Bees, on the other hand, dislike having to go out when it’s wet, because the wool of their jerseys absorbs the water and weighs them down, and that makes it difficult to fly. Also, a bedraggled bee does not waggle-dance well. Although bees are frequent groomers, they are modest creatures who clean themselves in the privacy of their apartments at the hive, where they can remove their jerseys and hang them up.
Also, the last thing a bee wants to be mistaken for is a wasp or hornet, because whereas bees are polite, peace-loving creatures who would never hurt a fly, wasps and hornets are irascible and unpleasant. While bees hum contentedly as they zoom around, wasps and hornets make a nasty high-pitched whine. But there’s a much more important reason: because a wasp or hornet can retract its sting, it can use it as many times as it wants, which is often; whereas a bee, which will only sting if it is attacked, can do so only once, and when it does its sting is left behind and the bee dies.
Fortunately this doesn’t happen very often. Bees are industrious creatures, and want nothing more than to be left alone to go about the business of making honey. They keep to themselves and avoid trouble, while wasps and hornets go in search of it. Bees are essential to the environment: as they fly from flower to flower they perform a vital service by cross-pollinating the anthers of those they settle upon, enabling the species to thrive and become more numerous. And whereas flowers depend upon the bees, and supply them with refreshing nectar in return for their services, they have no use for wasps and hornets because they are selfish creatures who offer no mutual benefit.
What concerned Humbert’s parents even more than the prospect of their son flying around looking like a wasp or hornet, or the wrath of the Elders that they would incur for tarnishing rather than varnishing the reputation of the hive, was that they didn’t want to appear ungrateful to Twig. Twig would be sure to be looking for Humbert flying around, and if he didn’t see him he’d be offended, thinking that Humbert’s parents did not like the jersey or were embarrassed by it.
Because so law-abiding an insect as a bee does not dare to cross a fairy, even one who was as nice and friendly as Twig, Humbert’s parents therefore decided that bee etiquette required they allow Humbert to try on the jersey. So they took it to their son’s room, just as he was finishing his geometry homework, and taking a sip of warm nectar to soothe his throat before switching to botany, and after that to geography.
Humbert loved the jersey; he was astonished that a fairy should have taken such an interest in him, and gone to so much trouble on his behalf, using fairy wool and making it by hand rather than by magic.
The moment that Humbert put the jersey on, and had twisted it around until it fitted as well as was possible, he started feeling better. The pounding in his head cleared, his throat felt better, strength surged into his limbs, his proboscis came alive, his abdomen pulsated, and his antennae, which had always hung limply, straightened and twitched in a very lively manner.
In a couple of days...less, really, but his parents insisted that their son not take things too fast, and stay in bed a while longer...Humbert was entirely well and ready to get up, bursting with energy and unable to restrain himself from running downstairs. He recovered his appetite, and ate everything his parents brought him, which was all there was in the flat. The young bee couldn’t wait to feel the sun and the breeze on his body and wings, to breathe the scented air, and to embark on the first adventure of his life.
When Humbert presented himself for duty the next day, to the sergeant-at-arms in charge of Field Dispatch, the sergeant told him, in what was for a bee a stentorian voice, how ’orrified he was at the sight of him, the ’orr
ible little bee, and where did he get the waspin’ gall to present himself in such condition. Pass muster ’e most certainly did not.
And the sergeant ordered Humbert to report himself to the Elders, in the big common room cell where they were eating their breakfast, and take what was coming to him.
Timidly Humbert knocked at the door to the elders’ common room, which was opened by an Elder whose mouth was full of pollen porridge mixed with clover honey.
As soon as Humbert had whispered why he was there, and had been told to come in, the Elders stared and dropped their spoons at the sight of him. They expostulated to each other about how this—what was his name—Humbert had offended against regulations, and was in contravention of bee statutes, and had blotted the hive’s escutcheon, and had dishonoured its reputation, and had ruined their breakfasts.
Suddenly the Elders fell silent. For Humbert’s ragged garment was glowing as if it were lit from within. To compound the strangeness, an excited drone rushed in without knocking and announced that the revered Dame Amelia Sixfeet, whose stuffed body had stood for the longest time in a glass case in the main hall of the hive, was showing signs of life. It looked as if, said the trembling drone, Amelia Sixfeet were trying to do a Waggle Dance, and the whole hive was in turmoil as all the bees tried to crowd into the hall to wonder at the miracle.
The Elders were very flustered, especially the oldest ones who had been privileged to be introduced to Amelia Sixfeet when they had come out into society, and who remembered what a termagant she was. For as grateful as the community had been for Amelia’s special recipe, which had kept them alive during the great freeze of 1963, there were many who had not mourned when eventually she went toes-up and feelers-down at a ripe old age.
Although these Elders were now venerable bees themselves, who struck awe into the hearts of the youngsters, they still couldn’t pass through the hall without feeling nervous when they saw Amelia. She seemed to follow them with her eyes, and even when they didn’t look in her direction they could sense her disapproval. It was most disconcerting.
Under the circumstances, the Elders decided to take the stirring of Dame Amelia Sixfeet as an omen that it would be unwise to take Humbert to task any further, for his unkempt wasp- or hornet-like appearance. The buzz was that, for some reason, and it was best not to enquire what it was, a fairy had taken an interest in Humbert’s condition, and that Amelia Sixfeet approved of this fairy’s intentions.
So, after a lot of humming and ha’ing, and clearing of throats, the Elders agreed that the sergeant-at-arms should be informed that Humbert might start work effective immediately, gathering nectar.
That the Elders were right in their decision was proved, when another drone came in to say that Dame Amelia Sixfeet had stopped her Waggle Dance, and was now quite still again. But there was now a smile of satisfaction on her wrinkled face, which had definitely not been there before; during her long life Amelia Sixfeet had never been known to smile.
The Elders were relieved, because none of them wanted to have to use the back stairs in and out of the hive all the time, to avoid having to confront a scowling Amelia.
Sometime on a bright summer’s day, when you’re out in the garden, or walking across the fields where there’s a patch of the kind of flowers that bees like, stop to look at them attentively from a distance. For bees ought not to be disturbed while they are working—we’re all familiar with the phrase, “As busy as a bee”—and you and I are only there to meander about enjoying the pleasant weather.
If you should happen to notice an insect that looks furry like a bee, and is especially busy; and who is wearing a jersey that not only fits very badly and is full of holes, but on which the stripes go downwards instead of across, as if it were a wasp or hornet, don’t be afraid: for it is Humbert.
These days Humbert works so hard that he collects as much nectar as ten ordinary bees. He is always the first to leave the hive in the morning, and the last back at night. Some of this is because of the fairy wool in his jersey, but not all; mostly it is Humbert’s way of thanking his parents for everything they had done in caring for him, and Twig for his great thoughtfulness.
Humbert also wants to show the hive that he is as good a bee as any, and to make up for lost time, and give notice that one day he has every intention of becoming an Elder; one who will be famous like Dame Amelia Sixfeet, but not so famous that anybody would want to stuff him and stand him next to her in the entrance hall of the hive.
As for Twig: when he went to see the little girl fairy in the red-apple tree, to present her with a rather fetching, though he said so himself, sleeveless, and backless, and somewhat see-through at the front, top that he had made for her, the girl fairy told Twig that he was a frightful knitter, and that he should never pick up another needle again unless it were for the purpose of sticking it in himself.
’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Ladybirds,’ said Suture, ‘you may not know, are the greatest readers of magazines, and they’re easily swayed into ordering many items from them for which they’ve no use. Ladybirds are an advertiser’s dream, and Ruby was no exception.
‘
Whenever you see ladybirds flying, it’s most likely that they’re on their way to the newsagent to buy yet another magazine, or hurrying back to read about what’s new in gloves and shoes and hats; or they’re going to the post office to mail another order for feeler wax, or polish for their shells, or to renew a subscription to a service that notifies them of products before they become available to the public.
General items too: ladybirds will buy anything and everything from bed-warmers to paperclips.
Many of the things ladybirds need are foot-related, because a ladybird, like a bee, has six feet to shoe and take care of. Files and emery boards both rough and fine, to ensure a shapely appearance; rubbing and cuticle creams; home chiropody kits; corn and bunion pads; special scissors with short and long and rounded blades; orthotics, ankle supports, foot baths, and soaking salts, and every imaginable colour of nail varnish—ladybirds have cupboards full of such things, many of which never get used.
Ruby was obsessed with her feet and went to great trouble over them; or rather her podiatrist Dr Tarsus and his assistant Fay Lange did, and her chiropodist, Mr Trodd.
Dr Tarsus often wished he didn’t have to spend so much of his life looking at Ruby’s arches, and having Miss Lange take X-rays and moulds of her feet, and checking for bone spurs and fractures. Though this was good business for Dr Tarsus, he had come to know Ruby’s “feets”, or “pedal extremities”, as they are called in the Bensen–Fisher song, Your Feets Too Big, better than he wanted to, and he even had nightmares about them.
For his part, Mr Trodd often chided Ruby for prizing appearance over comfort when she was choosing her footwear. For the most fashionable shoes are often attempted murder on the feet, making it necessary to massage them long and hard to bring them back to life.
But Ruby didn’t mind, nor did she care that these were the times, to paraphrase Thomas Paine, that tried ladybirds’ soles. In her opinion she might as well wear a pair of clogs, or Wellington boots, to the theatre or opera or symphony or ballet, as anything from last season. And since Ruby went to the theatre and opera and symphony and ballet a lot, for she never slept better than at an artistic performance, it meant that Mr Trodd had his work cut out for him.
“Proper tending of the foot is very important,” her chiropodist would remonstrate as he attended to another of Ruby’s corns or callouses; to no avail, because she always made the same reply: “Trodd, there are many chiropodists in this town.”
Ruby’s shoe closet was as big as her bedroom, and it was climate-controlled to preserve the patent leather, like the humidors men have for their cigars. Ruby employed a ‘footman’, Nethersole, who had a diploma in shoe science. Nethersole was very reliable, unlike the last footman, Heal, whom Ruby had dismissed for bringing her six mismatched sling-backs to put on. Heal said it was a joke,
but Ruby didn’t see it that way, and replied that the only thing she would be amused by was the reference she was not going to write him, which would ensure that he was down on his uppers for a long time to come.
It was Heal’s replacement, Nethersole’s, job to clean Ruby’s sets of shoes, and replace them in their racks, after he collected them from wherever she had tossed them when she got home, late, from whatever party or occasion it was that she’d attended that evening. Or rather it was in the early hours of the following morning, after Ruby had danced for so long that she had to stop, because her feet were complaining so bitterly. And when Ruby’s feet complained, the whole neighbourhood could hear them, because six feet make a lot of noise when they’re all grousing at once.
Nethersole was of course also responsible for taking Ruby’s shoes to be repaired. Some of them didn’t have to be mended, either because, like Cinderella, Ruby lost one or other of them on the way home; or because she decided she would never wear them again, owing to their having gone out of fashion overnight. In the latter case she usually changed her mind, and instead of throwing them away Ruby had Nethersole add them to the decommissioned shoe racks in the spare bedroom—she called it the Moresoleum—amongst footwear that dated back to the first thigh-length boots she had worn when she was eighteen.
“Fashion is so fickle,” said Ruby to her friend and confidante Amy May; “why, I’ve a suite of pumps I shouldn’t have been seen dead in for ten years, and now they’re the envy of tout le monde. Those pumps aren’t to be had anywhere today, even at the best shops such as O Sole Mia, because they’ve run out, so to speak. One never knows when a style will be all the rage again, and then I have Nethersole recall my old suites from the Moresoleum. I insist that he keep them all dusted and polished, which is why he only gets one day off a month.