She’s a good egg, our Fi. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be suitable for the job. That’s why we allow her keep us. We are the keepers of the keepers.
We see everything. When we buzz around waggling to one another, we’re not only chasing nectar. We’re assessing the mental state of the people and communicating potential danger. Forget being a ‘fly on the wall.’ Flies don’t care. It’s the bees who watch, listen and help.
Take Ian Jones next door. He had a near-miss with death only last month. He was smoking a cigarette beside the azaleas in his front garden whilst I busied myself with the foxgloves. What’s dangerous about that, you ask, aside from the obvious? It’s true that the smoking will get him eventually, but that’s not the sort of thing we get involved in. On this occasion I could tell from his stance, the faraway look in his eyes, and the slightly acidic smell of his perspiration, that he was planning on this being his last cigarette before taking his own life. Well, those things and my complex assessment of his mood over recent weeks.
I rapped on Fi’s letterbox in the manner of the Evri delivery driver. Fi’s a skincare junkie and nothing gets her out of bed quicker than the promise of that new miracle cream she’s been waiting for.
My acting skills came in handy for the next bit. I flailed around on the doorstep doing my best impression of dying. It was Oscar-worthy. Fi immediately fetched a spoonful of syrup, and I made a show of gulping it down.
Meanwhile, Ian was taking his last drag. “What’s up?” he said, and just like that they struck up a conversation. Fi can bring a smile to anyone’s face, and no-one needed it more than Ian that morning. He went back into his house so buoyed up that he decided life was worth living after all.
Today’s emergency calls for a genuine sacrifice. I’d offer myself up, but Brandon is on his last wings so he volunteers.
Fi is out front, pruning roses. We hear them before we see them, Jack Archer the loudest of all, pumped full of bravado and testosterone. They rumble down the street like thunder, school bags bobbing on their backs as they wrestle their way home.
Brandon throws himself onto the pavement as they pass Fi.
“A bee!”
Jack looks down, his face contorting in disgust. He sees the vulnerable part of himself in Brandon as he lies there, exposed and weak, and we know exactly what he’ll do now.
On hearing the word “Bee,” Fi rushes over, just in time to see Jack stamp an overgrown Nike-clad foot onto Brandon’s body.
“Noooo!” Fi screams, and the boys roar with laughter and sprint down the road.
Fi gives chase. All that jogging she’s been doing has paid off, and she keeps Jack in sight all the way home.
She’s striding with such purpose that she doesn’t notice the unmown grass, broken gate and peeling paint. But when she reaches the door, she stops. Because there’s no ignoring that sound. The booming voice of Jack’s drunken father, and the crash of things being thrown.
Fi takes her phone from her pocket. When the police arrive, Jack will pretend not to be relieved.
Next week, when she comes to harvest our hive, Fi will be rewarded. When one of our own is sacrificed, our grief and gratitude produces a rich black honey that sweetens the soul. And Fi, in turn, will continue sprinkling good deeds around town like sugar.
