After introductions and a brief consultation with us, followed by a quick inspection of the cottage interior, the beekeeper thoughtfully appraised the situation. Then, undaunted by comments from the crowd such as, ‘You wouldn’t get me to go in there for a thousand pounds’, he prepared to tackle the problem at first hand. Armed with various beekeeper’s hoods and nets he marched upstairs, with a boldness and professional aplomb that was truly impressive, and entered my bedroom, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Before going into the cottage he had told us that his purpose was to locate the queen bee and bring her out and this would result in the swarm then dispersing. At least, that was the carefully worked-out plan. Toby Jug meanwhile, maintaining his vigilance on the conservatory roof, had by now moved up to peer into the window, his courage no doubt strengthened by the arrival of reinforcements. He still would not come down.
As the beekeeper disappeared inside the cottage a hush came over the crowd. We waited for several minutes in silent anticipation. Suddenly there came exclamations of pain and anger from inside the cottage, which caused cries of alarm from the waiting onlookers. Then, the beekeeper erupted from the back door of the cottage and hurtled into the yard. Several angry queen bee guards had seemingly penetrated his protective attire. He flung off his face-mask, uttering various unrepeatable expletives. For a while all was confusion as my neighbour and I tried vainly to help by swatting his clothing whenever another bee appeared or wherever we thought there might be one. Far from being well-received, this attention only seemed to add to his stress and exasperation. By now the bee expert was becoming increasingly distraught and had totally lost his calm and confident demeanour of a few minutes ago.
The crowd, anticipating an angry scene, began to drift away. Finally the beekeeper lost his temper completely and vented his spleen in no uncertain manner on my neighbour, myself, all species of bees and the universe in general. Having been severely stung and suffered the public indignity of defeat, he stormed out of the yard and roared off in his van, leaving behind only the stunned aftermath of his wrath and a few dead bees as evidence of his efforts. Deeply apologetic, my neighbour returned to the company of his television, shaking his head in commiseration and remarking that his friend had always been known to have a volatile disposition. All at once I found myself as alone with the problem as before except that now the bees were humming even more aggressively. Toby Jug and I had been abandoned to our fate.
Eventually I managed to coax Toby Jug down from the roof with the promise of food and we both warily entered the kitchen where Toby Jug gulped down his meat morsels all the while looking around apprehensively as he listened to the aggressive humming coming from upstairs. A simple little cat he might be, but he knew peril when he heard it. Having finished his meal in record time, he rushed outside, still licking his lips and burping with the haste of his eating. Having made his escape he sat on the kitchen windowsill anxiously awaiting further developments.
‘Coward!’ I accused him, but Toby Jug was unmoved.
Left to my own devices I pondered the situation and after a cup of tea I decided upon my own battle plan. I would light the fire downstairs and load it until it was a roaring inferno. Then, since it used the same chimney vent as the fireplace in my bedroom, the bees would be persuaded to go elsewhere. I stoked the sitting room fire into a furnace of heat and observed from outside with some satisfaction that the swarm around my chimney stack had grown considerably as they retreated out of the chimney away from the heat and smoke. But relief soon turned to dismay because, as the fire died down, the bees once more crowded back inside the chimney. It was a stalemate. To add to my distress Toby Jug refused to come into the cottage. No amount of coaxing could change his mind.
Back in the sitting room, I determined to keep the fire as hot as possible to prevent the bees from occupying the whole house. Obviously, I couldn’t sleep upstairs. Instead, I was forced to use the settee as a makeshift bed. Nor could I use the bathroom, which contained all my toiletries, because it was en-suite to my bedroom. Fortunately there was a primitive outside toilet but I had only the kitchen sink in which to wash. It really was an uncalled-for nuisance and showed one of the downsides of country living. In a mood of abject misery, I wondered what I should do next.
Soon it began to grow dark and as I was very tired after the day’s exertions I decided to turn in for the night and somehow find a way to deal with the problem the next morning. Before locking up I went outside and, to his alarm, grabbed Toby forcibly from his refuge on the windowsill and brought him into the cottage. Then I shut us both in the sitting room after first filling the coal-scuttle, not to mention the fire, to ensure maximum burn. We were in a state of siege. In case of a bee attack I armed myself with a rolled up newspaper and prepared to repel any invaders. I also jammed the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door with a blanket I took from the car to prevent any bees entering the room whilst we slept. Toby Jug, far from settling down, began to prowl around the room looking for a way out. Ignoring him, I lay down and tried to rest.
We spent an uncomfortable night, tossing and turning, and it was a relief to awaken with the dawn and greet the day with a cup of coffee. I was tired out and not a little angry at the situation. After a demanding week at work, I’d spent a restless night all scrunched up on a two-seater settee. Each time I had opened my eyes I saw Toby Jug’s grizzled face anxiously staring down into mine as he lay stretched out on my chest. Now, both of us were glad to be outside in the cool, fresh morning air after the stuffy heat of the sitting room. I immediately began to reconnoitre the lay of the land and Toby Jug disappeared into the garden. As far as I could see, from looking up at the roof and the chimney stack, it was becoming increasingly serious since the swarm around the chimney had grown hideously in size and the sound from my bedroom had become an ominous drumming noise. Perhaps the message ‘Come and join us’ had gone out over the bee grapevine.
Having slept in my clothes and unshaven as well, I was in no way fit to face the outside world but I was just about angry enough to do so. Opening the garden gates I backed the car out of the garage and from nowhere was at once joined by Toby Jug who leapt on to the front passenger seat, obviously determined not to be left behind to ‘guard the fort’, especially since it was under attack. If the captain was leaving, then he wasn’t going to be left behind. In times of adversity, Toby Jug believed that discretion was the better part of valour. His motto was: if danger threatened, then the safest place was behind me.
Heading down the A1 to Morpeth at speed, a journey of approximately eight miles, I had the usual difficulty in parking on a Saturday morning. Eventually finding a parking place in a shadowy tree-lined backstreet and leaving one window partially open for ventilation, I assured Toby Jug that I would soon be back. Then I headed off for the main thoroughfare to find a chemist.
The white-coated teenage assistant found my requests somewhat bizarre and hastily summoned the pharmacist, who treated my emotional outburst about the bees with remarkable professional detachment. By now a small crowd, drawn by the unusual nature of my request and the intensity in my ‘lecture-room voice’, had gathered near the pharmacy counter. When I turned to look at them none would make eye-contact. Obviously I sounded and looked like some kind of crank. The chemist nodded in an aloof manner and departed into his inner sanctum. Some moments later he emerged with a cylindrical container with enough poison to kill all the troublesome bees in Northumberland. Poor bees! But I was in desperate straits and the bees had the option of leaving. I didn’t.
Hurrying back to the car, I was greeted with the not unusual sight of a group of children looking into the car at Toby Jug, who was enjoying the attention hugely. On the drive back I wondered what would happen if these tablets didn’t work. What were my options? As far as I could see I didn’t have any.
Arriving back at the cottage I immediately set about carrying out the pharmacist’s directions. The bees were still in fervent occupation and some had even begun t
o swarm around the smaller chimney which served the kitchen. It was time for desperate measures. Since leaving the car, Toby Jug was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he would be watching from some concealed viewpoint of comparative safety as he reviewed the situation.
First of all, I vigorously stoked the fire until I could see smoke pouring out of the chimney but still the bees remained and were beginning to establish a second beachhead in the corner of the ceiling at the top of the stairs. I was puzzled by this at first until, with a raincoat over my head for protection, I crept a little way up the stairs and, peering through the banister supports, I saw to my horror that bees were streaming out from under my bedroom door. Any feeling of compassion for these creatures was quickly dispelled. From now on it was total war and I was not in the mood to take any prisoners.
Following the pharmacist’s direction to the letter, I allowed the fire to die back to glowing embers and then threw two of the white tablets on to the red coals and immediately blocked the opening with a ‘blazer’, a heavy sheet of iron which had a handle attached to the outside, traditionally used in the coal burning cottages of the northeast to increase the draught up the chimney. Then I stood back and awaited the results. I was becoming increasingly fearful that if this didn’t work I would have to abandon the cottage. To add to my alarm some stray bees had already invaded the room in which I was standing and were obviously reconnoitring the area for a full-scale invasion.
At first there were no discernible results from my latest gambit but after about ten minutes of anxious watching from the front lawn I could see that there were signs of a gathering of bees which soon covered the whole of the chimney breast and eventually spilled on to the roof itself. Elated at this development I dashed inside and added a further two pellets to the fire. The view from outside was heartening. A swarm of tremendous size had gathered on the roof, covering the whole area of the chimneys and the adjacent tiles. The sight was awesome. In effect the noise of agitated buzzing made by the swarm sounded like a muted chainsaw and caused a curious tickling sensation in the ears. Passers-by stopped to gape at the phenomenon. The buzzing of the bee swarm was so loud that it had already caused a number of the neighbours to gather in their gardens to watch the spectacle. From the comments people made, it was clear that we all hoped to see an exodus. There was an expectation it would be imminent. I certainly wished it to be so and feeling quite buoyant I began to exchange opinions with my neighbours. It was then that I noticed that Toby Jug, unseen by me, had somehow joined our expectant throng, but then cats have a way of knowing things.
The lift-off occurred somewhat later than we all thought. It was almost three hours after I had first put the chemicals on the fire. It was a sensational sight. It seemed that thousands of bees became airborne at the same time, almost as if guided by a single mind. In flight they formed an ominous black cloud which swirled in columns way high above the trees and over the river to eventually disappear from sight. A collective sigh of relief, possibly even a muffled cheer, from the crowd greeted their departure. Although magnificent in their own way I hoped that they would not invade any other hapless person’s house. Several of my neighbours congratulated me on my good fortune in having got rid of the bees. One of them cheerfully advised me to get a bee guard around my chimney. Try as I might around the hardware stores in the weeks that followed I could not find out what a bee guard was. Perhaps it was a hoax.
I cautiously re-entered the cottage with Toby Jug following at a safe distance behind looking from side to side with his ears and his tail on high alert. Aware that there might still be some remnants of the invasion force who had not been able to escape, I explored the house gingerly at first and then with increasing confidence. There weren’t any bees anywhere as far as I could tell. What was even more surprising was that there was no sign, either in the bedroom or the upper landing, that they had ever been there. It was mystifying. The look on Toby Jug’s face mirrored my own amazement as we tentatively moved from room to room.
That night we were reminded intermittently of the bees’ former presence as, sitting by the fire after dinner with Toby languishing in my lap, there came periodically a sszzzzzzzzzing down the chimney followed by a zitzzz as a dying insect landed in the fire. It seemed that those bees too overcome by the fumes to escape the chimney stack with the rest of the swarm were now expiring and dropping down the chimney. For the first few buzzes and zitzzes Toby Jug lifted his head, ears pricked intently, to identify what was happening, then as the sound became commonplace we both relapsed into a restful snooze amid hopes that the morrow would bring a happier day. The episode of the bee invasion was over and we could contentedly relax. It had been a harrowing experience.
It was the final day of the summer term at Alnwick College. The setting of examinations, the marking of exam scripts and the endless committee and qualification board meetings had served their ritualistic purposes to the full. Now, and for the next ten weeks, the college would be closed and the Duke of Northumberland’s castle would belong solely to him, his family, the tourists and, of course, the ravens. I was greatly relieved to be going home to the peace and quiet of the cottage after the hectic term that had just finished. I arrived home to find one of my colleagues, Diane Forester, who taught Art and Craft Design, waiting for me at the entrance to my drive. As I got out of the car to open the gates she rushed forward and began speaking urgently as if she had no time to lose.
‘Sorry that I didn’t catch up with you at college,’ she said. ‘I got your address from the office. Could you do me a real big favour and look after my horse, Fynn, for the summer? She’s no trouble really and I believe you rode her a few times when she was at Moorgate Stables.’
Somewhat taken aback by this full-frontal approach I stared at her with apprehension, while she had a look of anxiety doubled with desperation. She looked genuinely all hot and bothered. Obviously, she was experiencing some kind of emergency otherwise she wouldn’t have come to me as we really didn’t know each other at all well. In the meantime Toby Jug was pacing up and down, rubbing himself against my legs and trying to remind me that it was his dinner time. I invited Diane into the cottage and got the whole story whilst I fed Toby Jug.
The following day she was due to go on holiday abroad for several weeks with her family. Unfortunately, the arrangements for the care of her horse, a dark grey Connemara filly which I rode a few times before she bought her, had fallen through and someone at the college had suggested that I might be able to help her out. I could see that she was on the verge of tears as she sat on the edge of a kitchen chair clutching a handkerchief tightly in her fist.
‘Of course I’ll pay you for your trouble,’ she began and I waved dismissively with embarrassment. I told her that as I didn’t intend going away this summer I was prepared to look after her horse to the best of my ability. With that her eyes suddenly lost their intensity and heaving a sigh of relief she sat back in the chair and accepted the cup of tea I offered her.
Then she noticed Toby Jug who, having finished his meal, was busy washing himself. She leaned forward and stroked him but he wasn’t sure of her and swiftly moved away to lie down by the door. I had noticed before that cats tend to avoid people acting nervously.
‘Fynn was very fond of the stable cats at Moorgate,’ she said as she groped for something to say. Toby changed his mind and leapt on her lap for some strokes. He didn’t stay there long, though, and I felt that Diane was much relieved because she commenced assiduously brushing down her light-coloured skirt and examining it for cat hairs and paw marks. I was relieved that she didn’t find any as I gently nudged Toby with my foot out through the open patio door and into the garden. Then she changed back into hurried mode and, fishing in her handbag, handed me the keys to the tack room and a sketch map of the location of the field in Denwick where Fynn was stabled.
‘I really am most awfully grateful,’ she said. She’d got what she came for and didn’t know how to leave without giving offence. I decided to help her out
. ‘You’ll no doubt have a lot of packing and arranging to do,’ I ventured.
Her smile gushed relief. Springing to her feet she grabbed her car keys from the coffee table and said, ‘Yes I have. I must be off. Thanks for the tea.’
This must have been no more than a politeness since I noticed her cup was still full to the brim on the coffee table where I’d placed it. I followed her out to the car, slightly amused by her agitated manner. Before she sped away she called out to me from the open car window: ‘Ride her just as much as you like. Regard her as yours for the next six weeks. Thanks again. Cheerio!’
Her inky blue-black Jaguar hummed as she drove away.
‘Now what have I done?’ I said, pacing the garden as Toby Jug frolicked around my feet. He loved these accompanied walks around the garden and was longing to show me the special places that he’d discovered that day, like the hedgehog’s nest of dried grass and fern where she was rearing three piglets and the broken remnants of starling’s eggs under the lilac tree. But tonight I was wrapped up in my own thoughts and didn’t pay much attention. I had other things on my mind, like what was I going to do with a horse for the next six weeks.
The dawn next morning was so full of sunshine that it woke me by shining through my bedroom window at around five a.m. I find sunbeams seen through the leaves of the trees especially appealing in the early morning and the sight invited closer inspection. Once outside I sat for a while, enjoying my first mug of tea and the clean fresh air. It had rained overnight and as the breeze shook raindrops out of the trees they sparkled like jewels in the sunlight. The urge to get up and savour what promised to be a glorious summer day had been too strong to resist even though it was so early. Toby Jug was an exuberant early riser and always keen to be involved in everything that was happening. He was particularly excited in the morning whereas I took a while to surface. For my part I was thinking about the practicalities of caring for the horse and deciding what we could do together over the coming weeks to relieve the boredom of carrying out the repetitive chores of feeding, exercising and mucking out the stable as well as all the household and garden jobs in the cottage. Still, it was great to think that the day belonged to me and that I could forget about work for a few weeks.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 9
