Kiss Kiss (12 page)

AMONG THE BEES IN MAY
HONEY COOKERY
THE BEE FARMER AND THE B. PHARM.
EXPERIENCES IN THE CONTROL OF NOSEMA
THE LATEST ON ROYAL JELLY
THIS WEEK IN THE APIARY
THE HEALING POWER OF PROPOLIS
REGURGITATIONS
BRITISH BEEKEEPERS ANNUAL DINNER
ASSOCIATION NEWS

      
All his life Albert Taylor had been fascinated by anything
that had to do with bees. As a small boy he used often to catch
them in his bare hands and go running with them into the
house to show to his mother, and sometimes he would put
them on his face and let them crawl about over his cheeks and
neck, and the astonishing thing about it all was that he never
got stung. On the contrary, the bees seemed to enjoy being
with him. They never tried to fly away, and to get rid of
them he would have to brush them off gently with his fingers.
Even then they would frequently return and settle again on
his arm or hand or knee, any place where the skin was bare.
      
His father, who was a bricklayer, said there must be some
witch’s stench about the boy, something noxious that came
oozing out through the pores of the skin, and that no good
would ever come of it, hypnotising insects like that. But the
mother said it was a gift given him by God, and even went so
far as to compare him with St Francis and the birds.
      
As he grew older, Albert Taylor’s fascination with bees
developed into an obsession, and by the time he was twelve
he had built his first hive. The following summer he had
captured his first swarm. Two years later, at the age of fourteen,
he had no less than five hives standing neatly in a row against
the fence in his father’s small back yard, and already—apart
from the normal task of producing honey—he was
practising the delicate and complicated business of rearing his
own queens, grafting larvae into artificial cell cups, and all the
rest of it.
      
He never had to use smoke when there was work to do
inside a hive, and he never wore gloves on his hands or a net
over his head. Clearly there was some strange sympathy
between this boy and the bees, and down in the village, in
the shops and pubs, they began to speak about him with a
certain kind of respect, and people started coming up to the
house to buy his honey.
      
When he was eighteen, he had rented one acre of rough
pasture alongside a cherry orchard down the valley about a
mile from the village, and there he had set out to establish his
own business. Now, eleven years later, he was still in the same
spot, but he had six acres of ground instead of one, two
hundred and forty well-stocked hives, and a small house that
he’d built mainly with his own hands. He had married at the
age of twenty and that, apart from the fact that it had taken
them over nine years to get a child, had also been a success.
In fact, everything had gone pretty well for Albert until this
strange little baby girl came along and started frightening
them out of their wits by refusing to eat properly and losing
weight every day.
      
He looked up from the magazine and began thinking about
his daughter.
      
That evening, for instance, when she had opened her eyes
at the beginning of the feed, he had gazed into them and seen
something that frightened him to death—a kind of misty
vacant stare, as though the eyes themselves were not connected
to the brain at all but were just lying loose in their sockets
like a couple of small grey marbles.
      
Did those doctors really know what they were talking
about?
      
He reached for an ashtray and started slowly picking the
ashes out from the bowl of his pipe with a matchstick.
      
One could always take her along to another hospital, somewhere
in Oxford perhaps. He might suggest that to Mabel
when he went upstairs.
      
He could still hear her moving around in the bedroom, but
she must have taken off her shoes now and put on slippers
because the noise was very faint.
      
He switched his attention back to the magazine and went
on with his reading. He finished an article called “Experiences
in the Control of Nosema,” then turned over the page and
began reading the next one, “The Latest on Royal Jelly.” He
doubted very much whether there would be anything in this
that he didn’t know already:

What is this wonderful substance called royal jelly?

      
He reached for the tin of tobacco on the table beside him
and began filling his pipe, still reading.

Royal jelly is a glandular secretion produced by the nurse
bees to feed the larvae immediately they have hatched from
the egg. The pharyngeal glands of bees produce this substance
in much the same way as the mammary glands of vertebrates
produce milk. The fact is of great biological interest because
no other insects in the world are known to have evolved such
a process.

      
All old stuff, he told himself, but for want of anything
better to do, he continued to read.

Royal jelly is fed in concentrated form to all bee larvae for
the first three days after hatching from the egg; but beyond
that point, for all those who are destined to become drones or
workers, this precious food is greatly diluted with honey and
pollen. On the other hand, the larvae which are destined to
become queens are fed throughout the whole of their larval
period on a concentrated diet of pure royal jelly. Hence the
name.

      
Above him, up in the bedroom, the noise of the footsteps
had stopped altogether. The house was quiet. He struck a
match and put it to his pipe.

Royal jelly must be a substance of tremendous nourishing
power, for on this diet alone, the honey-bee larva increases in
weight fifteen hundred times in five days.

      
That was probably about right, he thought, although for
some reason it had never occurred to him to consider larval
growth in terms of weight before.

This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby should increase
in that time to five tons.

      
Albert Taylor stopped and read that sentence again.
He read it a third time.

This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby . . .

      
“Mabel!” he cried, jumping up from his chair. “Mabel! Come
here!”
      
He went out into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs
calling for her to come down.
      
There was no answer.
      
He ran up the stairs and switched on the light on the landing.
The bedroom door was closed. He crossed the landing
and opened it and stood in the doorway looking into the dark
room. “Mabel,” he said. “Come downstairs a moment, will you
please? I’ve just had a bit of an idea. It’s about the baby.”
      
The light from the landing behind him cast a faint glow
over the bed and he could see her dimly now, lying on her
stomach with her face buried in the pillow and her arms up
over her head. She was crying again.
      
“Mabel,” he said, going over to her, touching her shoulder.
“Please come down a moment. This may be important.”
      
“Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
      
“Don’t you want to hear about my idea?”
      
“Oh, Albert, I’m
tired
,” she sobbed. “I’m so tired I don’t
know what I’m doing any more. I don’t think I can go on. I
don’t think I can stand it.”
      
There was a pause. Albert Taylor turned away from her
and walked slowly over to the cradle where the baby was
lying, and peered in. It was too dark for him to see the child’s
face, but when he bent down close he could hear the sound of
breathing, very faint and quick. “What time is the next feed?”
he asked.
      
“Two o’clock, I suppose.”
      
“And the one after that?”
      
“Six in the morning.”
      
“I’ll do them both,” he said. “You go to sleep.”
      
She didn’t answer.
      
“You get properly into bed, Mabel, and go straight to sleep,
you understand? And stop worrying. I’m taking over completely
for the next twelve hours. You’ll give yourself a
nervous breakdown going on like this.”
      
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
      
“I’m taking the nipper and myself and the alarm clock into
the spare room this very moment, so you just lie down and
relax and forget all about us. Right?” Already he was pushing
the cradle out through the door.
      
“Oh, Albert,” she sobbed.
      
“Don’t you worry about a thing. Leave it to me.”
      
“Albert . . .”
      
“Yes?”
      
“I love you, Albert.”
      
“I love you too, Mabel. Now go to sleep.”
      
Albert Taylor didn’t see his wife again until nearly eleven
o’clock the next morning.
      
“Good
gracious
me!” she cried, rushing down the stairs in
dressing-gown and slippers. “Albert! Just look at the time! I
must have slept twelve hours at least! Is everything all right?
What happened?”
      
He was sitting quietly in his armchair, smoking a pipe and
reading the morning paper. The baby was in a sort of carry-cot
on the floor at his feet, sleeping.
      
“Hullo, dear,” he said, smiling.
      
She ran over to the cot and looked in. “Did she take anything,
Albert? How many times have you fed her? She was
due for another one at ten o’clock, did you know that?”
      
Albert Taylor folded the newspaper neatly into a square
and put it away on the side table. “I fed her at two in the
morning,” he said, “and she took about half an ounce, no more.
I fed her again at six and she did a bit better that time, two
ounces . . .”
      
“
Two ounces!
Oh, Albert, that’s marvellous!”
      
“And we just finished the last feed ten minutes ago. There’s
the bottle on the mantelpiece. Only one ounce left. She drank
three. How’s that?” He was grinning proudly, delighted with
his achievement.
      
The woman quickly got down on her knees and peered at
the baby.
      
“Don’t she look better?” he asked eagerly. “Don’t she look
fatter in the face?”
      
“It may sound silly,” the wife said, “but I actually think she
does. Oh, Albert, you’re a marvel! How did you do it?”
      
“She’s turning the corner,” he said. “That’s all it is. Just like
the doctor prophesied, she’s turning the corner.”
      
“I pray to God you’re right, Albert.”
      
“Of course I’m right. From now on, you watch her go.”
      
The woman was gazing lovingly at the baby.
      
“You look a lot better yourself too, Mabel.”
      
“I feel wonderful. I’m sorry about last night.”
      
“Let’s keep it this way,” he said. “I’ll do all the night feeds in
future. You do the day ones.”
      
She looked up at him across the cot, frowning. “No,” she
said. “Oh no, I wouldn’t allow you to do that.”
      
“I don’t want you to have a breakdown, Mabel.”
      
“I won’t, not now I’ve had some sleep.”
      
“Much better we share it.”
      
“No, Albert. This is my job and I intend to do it. Last night
won’t happen again.”
      
There was a pause. Albert Taylor took the pipe out of his
mouth and examined the grain on the bowl. “All right,” he
said. “In that case I’ll just relieve you of the donkey work, I’ll
do all the sterilising and the mixing of the food and getting
everything ready. That’ll help you a bit, anyway.”
      
She looked at him carefully, wondering what could have
come over him all of a sudden.
      
“You see, Mabel, I’ve been thinking . . .”
      
“Yes, dear.”
      
“I’ve been thinking that up until last night I’ve never even
raised a finger to help you with this baby.”
      
“That isn’t true.”
      
“Oh yes it is. So I’ve decided that from now on I’m going
to do
my
share of the work. I’m going to be the feed-mixer
and the bottle-steriliser. Right?”
      
“It’s very sweet of you, dear, but I really don’t think it’s
necessary . . .”
      
“Come on!” he cried. “Don’t change the luck! I done it the
last three times and just
look
what happened! When’s the
next one? Two o’clock, isn’t it?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“It’s all mixed,” he said. “Everything’s all mixed
and ready and all you’ve got to do when the time comes is to go out
there to the larder and take it off the shelf and warm it up.
That’s
some
help, isn’t it?”
      
The woman got up off her knees and went over to him and kissed him
on the cheek. “You’re such a nice man,” she said. “I
love you more and more every day I know you.”
      
Later, in the middle of the afternoon, when Albert was outside
in the sunshine working among the hives, he heard her
calling to him from the house.
      
“Albert!” she shouted. “Albert, come here!” She was running
through the buttercups towards him.
      
He started forward to meet her, wondering what was
wrong.
      
“Oh, Albert! Guess what!”
      
“What?”
      
“I’ve just finished giving her the two-o’clock feed and she’s
taken the whole lot!”
      
“No!”
      
“Every drop of it! Oh, Albert, I’m so happy! She’s going
to be all right! She’s turned the corner just like you said!”
She came up to him and threw her arms around his neck and
hugged him, and he clapped her on the back and laughed and
said what a marvellous little mother she was.
      
“Will you come in and watch the next one and see if she
does it again, Albert?”
      
He told her he wouldn’t miss it for anything, and she
hugged him again, then turned and ran back to the house,
skipping over the grass and singing all the way.
      
Naturally, there was a certain amount of suspense in the
air as the time approached for the six-o’clock feed. By five
thirty both parents were already seated in the living-room
waiting for the moment to arrive. The bottle with the milk
formula in it was standing in a saucepan of warm water on the
mantelpiece. The baby was asleep in its carry-cot on the sofa.
      
At twenty minutes to six it woke up and started screaming
its head off.
      
“There you are!” Mrs Taylor cried. “She’s asking for the
bottle. Pick her up quick, Albert, and hand her to me here.
Give me the bottle first.”
      
He gave her the bottle, then placed the baby on the woman’s
lap. Cautiously, she touched the baby’s lips with the end of
the nipple. The baby seized the nipple between its gums and
began to suck ravenously with a rapid powerful action.
      
“Oh, Albert, isn’t it wonderful?” she said, laughing.
      
“It’s terrific, Mabel.”
      
In seven or eight minutes, the entire contents of the bottle
had disappeared down the baby’s throat.
      
“You clever girl,” Mrs Taylor said. “Four ounces again.”
      
Albert Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, peering
intently into the baby’s face. “You know what?” he said. “She
even seems as though she’s put on a touch of weight already.
What do you think?”
      
The mother looked down at the child.
      
“Don’t she seem bigger and fatter to you, Mabel, than she
was yesterday?”
      
“Maybe she does, Albert. I’m not sure. Although actually
there couldn’t be any
real
gain in such a short time as this. The
important thing is that she’s eating normally.”
      
“She’s turned the corner,” Albert said. “I don’t think you
need worry about her any more.”
      
“I certainly won’t.”
      
“You want me to go up and fetch the cradle back into our
own bedroom, Mabel?”
      
“Yes, please,” she said.
      
Albert went upstairs and moved the cradle. The woman
followed with the baby, and after changing its nappy, she laid
it gently down on its bed. Then she covered it with sheet
and blanket.
      
“Doesn’t she look lovely, Albert?” she whispered. “Isn’t that
the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen in your
entire
life?”
      
“Leave her be now, Mabel,” he said. “Come on downstairs
and cook us a bit of supper. We both deserve it.”
      
After they had finished eating, the parents settled themselves
in armchairs in the living-room, Albert with his magazine and
his pipe, Mrs Taylor with her knitting. But this was a very
different scene from the one of the night before. Suddenly,
all tensions had vanished. Mrs Taylor’s handsome oval face was
glowing with pleasure, her cheeks were pink, her eyes were
sparkling bright, and her mouth was fixed in a little dreamy
smile of pure content. Every now and again she would glance
up from her knitting and gaze affectionately at her husband.
Occasionally, she would stop the clicking of her needles
altogether for a few seconds and sit quite still, looking at the
ceiling, listening for a cry or a whimper from upstairs. But all
was quiet.
      
“Albert,” she said after a while.
      
“Yes, dear?”
      
“What was it you were going to tell me last night when
you came rushing up to the bedroom? You said you had an
idea for the baby.”
      
Albert Taylor lowered the magazine on to his lap and gave
her a long sly look.
      
“Did I?” he said.
      
“Yes.” She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
      
“What’s the big joke?” she asked. “Why are you grinning
like that?”
      
“It’s a joke all right,” he said.
      
“Tell it to me, dear.”
      
“I’m not sure I ought to,” he said. “You might call me a liar.”
      
She had seldom seen him looking so pleased with himself
as he was now, and she smiled back at him, egging him on.
      
“I’d just like to see your face when you hear it, Mabel,
that’s all.”
      
“Albert, what
is
all this?”
      
He paused, refusing to be hurried.
      
“You do think the baby’s better, don’t you?” he asked.
      
“Of course I do.”
      
“You agree with me that all of a sudden she’s feeding
marvellously and looking one-hundred-per-cent different?”
      
“I do, Albert, yes.”
      
“That’s good,” he said, the grin widening. “You see, it’s me
that did it.”
      
“Did what?”
      
“I cured the baby.”
      
“Yes, dear, I’m sure you did.” Mrs Taylor went right on
with her knitting.
      
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
      
“Of course I believe you, Albert. I give you all the credit,
every bit of it.”
      
“Then how did I do it?”
      
“Well,” she said, pausing a moment to think. “I suppose it’s
simply that you’re a brilliant feed-mixer. Ever since you
started mixing the feeds she’s got better and better.”
      
“You mean there’s some sort of an art in mixing the feeds?”
      
“Apparently there is.” She was knitting away and smiling
quietly to herself, thinking how funny men were.
      
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.
Although, mind you, it isn’t so much
how
you mix it that
counts. It’s what you put in. You realise that, don’t you,
Mabel?”
      
Mrs Taylor stopped knitting and looked up sharply at her
husband. “Albert,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve been putting
things into that child’s milk?”
      
He sat there grinning.
      
“Well, have you or haven’t you?”
      
“It’s possible,” he said.
      
“I don’t believe it.”
      
He had a strange fierce way of grinning that showed his
teeth.
      
“Albert,” she said. “Stop playing with me like this.”
      
“Yes, dear, all right.”
      
“You haven’t
really
put anything into her milk, have you?
Answer me properly, Albert. This could be serious with such
a tiny baby.”
      
“The answer is yes, Mabel.”
      
“
Albert Taylor!
How could you?”
      
“Now don’t get excited,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it if
you really want me to, but for heaven’s sake keep your hair on.”
      
“It was beer!” she cried. “I just know it was beer!”
      
“Don’t be so daft, Mabel, please.”
      
“Then what was it?”
      
Albert laid his pipe down carefully on the table beside him
and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me,” he said, “did you ever
by any chance happen to hear me mentioning something called
royal jelly?”
      
“I did not.”