Wasp Season

by Jennifer Scoullar

  After a light lunch, she cleared the dishes and went into the kitchen. One glance out of the window riveted her to the spot. Buzzing uncertainly within the confines of the small trap were half a dozen wasps. Circumnavigating the trap, with interest, were half a dozen more. Beth was fascinated. She watched the increasing panic of the trapped insects with decidedly mixed emotions. Hovering in confusion, just millimetres above the sweet liquid, one wasp dipped a little too low. Beth was surprised at the energy with which the wasp began to swim. Her first instinct was to rush out and rescue it, as she frequently did with butterflies and beetles that fell into the birdbaths dotted around her large garden. But she couldn’t do that, could she? The whole point of the exercise was to kill the wasps. She deliberately set the trap for this very purpose. All she could do was to watch, as the powerful insect swam and swam, hoping to gain some foothold on the sides. But the walls were smooth and curved, designed to give no purchase to tiny hooked feet. A second, then a third wasp hit the water. One managed, by sheer wing power, to lift itself out of the surface tension. Momentarily Beth thrilled that it was safe. But of course it was doomed. After several minutes of fruitless, frantic buzzing within the trap, each insect, due to a combination of battered wings and exhaustion, dropped into the water.

  Beth could watch no longer. She made herself a coffee and left the kitchen. The wasps were just doing their job, she thought sadly to herself, collecting food for their queen and larvae. Curiosity compelled her to take a book about insects off her shelf. She owned quite a good collection of field guides, which helped her to identify the myriad of birds, small mammals, and invertebrates with which she shared her small property. She wondered if European wasps organised their nests like Honeybees.

  “Vespula Germanica” she read.

  ‘Each nest is founded by a mated female, who rears the first generation of all-female brood by herself. These become workers and take over the task of nest building and of collecting food for the larvae. The queen then confines herself to egg laying. Colony defence and the day to day perils of foraging often result in the death of these worker wasps.’

  Beth felt genuinely inspired by this apparent self-sacrifice and devotion to duty. She imagined the wasps, setting-out each day, some never to return. A bit like bomber pilots during the war, she mused. But then her mind returned to the ruthless attack she’d witnessed on her beloved Emperor Gum caterpillar. She guessed that few native insects would be a match for these powerful alien marauders. The thought helped her to rationalise her actions. Yet she still avoided looking at the trap. She left the house to go for a ride, leaving the helpless wasps to continue their futile swim into oblivion. Without the children around, the weekends always seemed to pass slowly. Beth found herself slipping into a kind of slow motion. She rose late the next morning. What a luxury, just suiting oneself.

  Without the motivation of breakfasts and ferrying the children here and there, time held no sway over her. Breakfasting out on the verandah, she lazily planned her day. Solitude suited her. She wasn’t one to crave companionship.

  The jam on her toast attracted a wasp. Her hand actually brushed against it as she reached for a slice. Startled, she jumped to her feet and started to swat at the insect. After several ineffective attempts to drive away the intruder she conceded defeat and returned inside. She checked the trap. A dozen dead wasps floated in the water. Now they were dead she felt pleased. The ambivalence of the previous afternoon evaporated.

  The clear, brisk morning air promised a glorious October day. So Beth, donning old clothes, set about doing some planting in the garden. Glancing back at the house she noted the ivy covering the walls. Picturesque though it was, she’d lately been thinking of having it removed. It flowered profusely last autumn, and the dozens of little ivy seedlings sprouting from her pathways, could also be colonising the nearby bush gullies. In competition with native vegetation, the ivy was potentially a serious environmental pest. Still, it would be a pity, especially in summer, when its cool green mantle insulated the house from the fierce sun. Flowering climbing roses climbed up the ivy, using it like a trellis to scale the bricks. She stopped to admire the bright beauty of their blooms. On second glance, she noticed something odd about the roses. As usual, they seemed to be covered with dozens of Honeybees, busily collecting nectar from the heavy crop of vivid pink flowers. A closer look revealed that these insects were in fact European wasps. Not a single bee remained. Beth was incredulous. During the course of one short week, the invaders had utterly displaced the legion of Honeybees. As she neared the wall for a closer inspection, several of the wasps buzzed in her direction, forcing her to sprint for the safety of the house. She need not have worried. Foraging wasps are, by and large, innocuous, preoccupied creatures, much more inclined to fly away than fight. It is only when the nest is threatened, that they display the group aggression that they are infamous for, attacking intruders and stinging en masse.

  Thoroughly unnerved, Beth resolved immediately to increase her trapping rate, so she looked on the internet to research wasp control measures. To her dismay, she found that the only really effective control was to destroy the nest. But where was it? A quick inspection of her home’s exposed timber eaves revealed nothing. She was reduced to eliminating the insects one by one. One web page gave simple instructions for making traps out of drink bottles. So starting with orange juice bottles salvaged from the recycle bin, Beth commenced construction. First she sliced the top off the bottles just before the neck narrowed. Then she inverted the top, inserting it into the opening to form a funnel entrance which fitted snugly against the sides. A little glue to finish and she had a homemade trap along the lines of the commercially manufactured one. Enormously pleased with herself, Beth continued her production line until she had seven such contraptions. Now came the decision about the bait. She’d read somewhere that, despite the adult’s fondness for sweet things, they fed their larvae exclusively on protein. Opening her pantry she examined her stock of tinned pet food. Beth owned two dogs and a particularly finicky Chinchilla cat. There was a wide choice of meat and fish. Deciding to conduct a little experiment, she placed a variety of bait types in the traps. She then secured them with tape, side by side, to the tree outside her kitchen window. Standing at the sink, she soon observed several wasps hovering about the bottles. Within minutes, the fish-bait trapped several of them. The insects could not escape. Feeling encouraged, she now used her imagination to create new baits. A little tub of pineapple pieces came next. Well past its use-by date, she found it bubbling with natural fermentation at the back of her fridge. Orange juice in another, cola in another, a combination of dog-food and honey in another – with intense interest she noted the individual success rates of the various baits. Time slipped away.

  The sound of the phone startled her. Feeling a stab of irritation, she paused in her observations to answer it. The cheerful voice of her best friend, Irene, greeted her. Beth glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was so late.

  “Hi Irene,” she answered absent mindedly, her mind still on the little drama playing outside her kitchen window.

  “Sure, come over if you like. I’m not doing anything.”

  Irene and Beth had met at school and supported each other steadfastly through life’s various ups and downs. Beth was there when Irene escaped a marriage plagued by domestic violence, ‘another kind of trap’, Beth thought to herself. Likewise, Irene provided company and child-minding when Beth’s own marriage was reeling. Now happily remarried to Paul, Irene and her two children were a living example of how well a step-family could work with a little love and compromise all round.

  Half an hour later, Irene rolled up the tree lined drive in her battered old Toyota Land Rover. She was slim, blonde and vivacious. Although of a similar age to Beth, Irene always seemed to Beth like a younger sister, in need to some degree of protection. Irene smoked, she drank too much, and drove too fast –she always wore her heart on her sleeve. Cautious Beth envied her friend he
r brimming enthusiasm for life. Beth welcomed her at the door. Irene’s children, Rebecca and Simon, were at home with Paul, whose simple, down-to-earth nature provided the perfect foil to Irene’s high spirits.

  “What are you trying to do here?” Irene inquired as they poured themselves a coffee. Outside the kitchen window the array of traps reflected the rays of the late afternoon sun. A light breeze caused them to jostle together like some bizarre wind chime.

  ‘I must secure them more firmly,’ Beth noted to herself. The movement could deter her prey.

  “I’ve got a wasp problem,” offered Beth. “I’m just trying out some different traps.”

  “Goodness, you have been busy!” laughed Irene. “It looks like a wasp smorgasbord. When you do something, you sure as hell don’t do it by halves, do you!”

  Although it had been a warm day, the spring evenings cooled quickly, so the two friends did not venture outside. They threw some sticks of Satay on the grill, and while Beth tossed together a salad, Irene opened the bottle of wine she always brought along on such occasions. Through the open window the women heard the nightly dusk chorus of cicadas tuning-up. Before long it would rise to a deafening crescendo of sound. The topic of conversation moved to their children. Beth told Irene of Rick’s increasing reluctance to visit his father for the weekend. Irene frowned.

  “There’s always a reason when a kid’s behaviour suddenly changes. What do you think is going on?”

  Beth didn’t know. But she resolved to take the matter up with Rick on his return. She’d always enjoyed a very close, easy communication with her son, and it bothered her that he was shutting her out. After dinner they opened another bottle of wine, argued about politics, listened to music and generally enjoyed themselves until a knock at the door heralded Paul’s arrival. He always dutifully collected Irene at such times, aware the two friends often had the odd wine or three, and Beth was grateful for Paul’s attention to Irene’s needs. Winding her way upstairs, she flipped on the bedside television and fell asleep half way through the late movie. Tonight it was an Alfred Hitchcock thriller, ‘The Birds’.

  In the morning Beth awoke, unsure for an instant what day it was. With welcome relief she remembered this was a long weekend. Her mind wandered over the previous day. She smiled as she remembered her evening. Irene was good company. Standing in her kitchen with her morning coffee, Beth glanced at the traps. The wasps that spent the night in the traps were not dead.

  They wandered, sticky, cold and exhausted around their prison.

  A couple had even crawled out of the opening, only to find their damaged wings would not fly them home. They set about to clean themselves in a weary, useless fashion. Beth realised, with regret, that this slow, creeping death was more cruel than the drowning confronting the wasps in the liquid lures. For the first time she turned her thoughts to the wasp queen. She wondered if the queen, deep in the nest, was aware that some of her workers had not returned? Did she worry about the welfare of her growing larval brood? Was she grateful for the self-sacrifice of her daughters? Beth wondered why the worker wasps struggled so hard to ensure the survival of the queen’s offspring, their sisters, when they themselves did not reproduce?

  The sudden barking of her dogs alerted Beth to someone’s arrival. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to see it was only eleven o’clock. She went to the front door, peering past the heavy, damask drapes to identify her visitor. It was Mark. He was a tall man, athletically built, and he carried himself with a natural grace. His hair was dark and wavy, and his face was full of charm and character. However Beth had long since grown immune to his appeal. She wondered why he was bringing the children home so early. They weren’t due back until tomorrow. Rick came in wearing a wooden expression. Beth noted his brief glance of pure relief. Then his face composed itself again. This time, however, even the patient Sarah seemed put-out.

  “Is something wrong? You’re all back so early!”

  Beth was annoyed that she had no chance to tidy the debris from the night before. Mark also looked irritated.

  “The baby has some sort of a bug. He’s been vomiting and Helen’s been up all night with him. She’s pretty well had it, so she asked me to bring them home early.”

  “I didn’t hear her say that,” piped Sarah. “I was helping Helen. She said I was a big help.”

  Sarah adored her baby brother and prided herself on being a perfect big sister. Helen often complained light-heartedly that she never got to see Chance on access weekends. Sarah was too busy looking after her little ‘living doll’.

  “No, Helen said you were just getting in the way,” snapped her father.

  Sarah grabbed her overnight bag and flounced out of the room, as only a self-righteous twelve-year old girl can.

  Beth too was surprised. Sarah was a highly capable, sensible child. She knew that Helen appreciated this, and Beth found it difficult to imagine that she would ever refer to Sarah as ‘being in the way’. Still, after a sleepless night, Beth supposed that even the good natured Helen could get a little grumpy.

  “That’s no problem. I’d just like you to ring first next time to make sure I’m home,” said Beth.

  “I thought it would be alright. Sarah says you never go anywhere anyway,” countered Mark unreasonably.

  He looked around with distaste at the full ashtray and unwashed dishes, silently requesting an explanation. He received instead only an angry glance from Beth. She repeated her request for a phone call next time, before inquiring in a polite but uninterested voice about Helen and the baby. After calling out a goodbye to Sarah and giving his son a playful punch on the arm, Mark left.

  Rick headed for the kitchen and Beth went after Sarah, concerned her feelings had been hurt. She found her daughter sulking on her bed, playing with their Chinchilla cat, Spooky.

  “What’s up kid?” asked Beth.

  Turning her tearstained face towards her mother, Sarah blurted out that it wasn’t Helen that wanted them to go home early.

  “It was Daddy,” she pouted.

  “Chance wasn’t even sick. Daddy was just in a bad mood. I know he always yells at Rick, but he never usually yells at me. He was even mean to Helen!”

  Beth comforted her daughter and tried to distract her by suggesting that they go and bake something. Sarah brightened and trotted downstairs to get the big, old yellow Margaret Fulton cook book down from the shelf. She was relieved to see her daughter’s mood lift, but Beth remained annoyed for the rest of the day at Mark’s insensitivity. She’d always been grateful that, as a couple, they put their differences aside for their children’s sake. Mark was an attentive father and she generally had little to complain about. He was financially generous with family support and reliable with access arrangements. Beth’s personal interaction with him remained politely cold, and he in turn showed little interest in her life. This suited Beth perfectly well. It disturbed her that now, the arrangements seemed to be unilaterally changing. For the rest of the afternoon, Beth and the kids settled back into their comfortable family routine. Sarah baked muffins and Rick ate muffins. They then argued over the computer, ate dinner and watched television until bedtime.

  Beth had forgotten the wasps.

  CHAPTER 3

  The solid, dappled grey mare thundered towards the striped bars of the jump. Her body quivered and her ears snapped forward as Beth, seemingly imperceptibly, used her heels to indicate the precise moment to rise. Easily, gracefully she cleared the obstacle, with a stylish kick of her heels and flick of her tail. Beth circled the mare at a collected canter, finally coming to a halt at an excited group of people standing in the centre of the riding arena. A tall, dark-haired girl kissed the mare on the nose, her eyes shining with excitement and pride.

  “Why doesn’t she jump like that for me?” the girl complained.

  Beth smiled in an encouraging way as she gave the young rider a leg-up onto her mount.

  “It’s all in the hands and seat. We just have to work at developing an
understanding. You have a beautiful mare here with loads of potential. In time you’ll both learn to work as a team. Right now, you need more practice. So, let’s go!”

  For the next hour Beth devoted herself to her enthusiastic pupil. At the conclusion of the lesson she felt elated. She loved to watch the girl and her mare progress towards the magical union that exists between the successful team of horse and rider. With some parting advice, Beth headed for her car.

  Spring was Beth’s favourite time of the year. As she drove down the winding mountain road, the beauty of her surroundings struck her. The clarity of the blue sky was occasionally visible through the cool canopy of Gum leaf crowns. As the road left the forest, it emerged into a patchwork quilt of red ploughed paddocks and green pastures. Contented cows grazed lazily in the lush, daisy-studded fields. A Wedge Tailed Eagle soared in solitary circles over the ridge to her left. Sacred Ibis foraged in flocks along the river valley to her right. Scattered golden Wattle blossoms gave the whole world a sun-kissed effect. Beth whistled a tune as she neared the entrance to her tree-lined driveway.

  There was only one shadow on her horizon. It was Friday afternoon and Mark was due to pick up the children after tea. Beth wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Rick, who would be back from school by the time she arrived home. The access weekends were now a decidedly sore point, and Beth felt guilty pressing him to go. Yet although hating to see him sulky and depressed, she felt that he should go. She remembered her resolve to talk to her son, and get to the bottom of his changed feelings. She had neglected to do so.

  Rick and Sarah were arguing in the kitchen. Beth was relieved to discover that Rick was in a reasonably good mood. His Dad had apparently promised to take him bowling, and she hoped that some fun time spent together might ease the tension between father and son. For some reason Sarah was not invited, and was making her protests loud and clear.