Mean Bees

‘Ow, ow ow!!!’

Looking up, I see Laura weaving her way up from the bottom of the garden, arms flailing, her face scrunched as she continued to cry out in pain. Sighing, I put down my book and go to see what is wrong this time.

‘Have you been poking that bee’s nest again? I told you not to, that you would get stung again.’

‘No’ she responds, but the tell-tale bumps give her away.

‘These look very much like stings to me. Are you sure you weren’t poking that bee’s nest again?’

She swears black and blue she hasn’t, but after a minute or so her resolve begins to waver: ‘Well, not that bee’s nest…’

I examine the cluster of stings that are starting to swell impressively and escort my daughter through to the sanctuary of the kitchen where I can run cold water over her arm to soothe the stings. ‘Hmmm, no stingers – are you sure they were bees?’

‘They looked like bees’ my seven-year-old says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. ‘They were stripy and buzzy like the ones last week, but they were kind of… funny’.

‘Funny how?’

‘Well, they weren’t as round, and when I tried to stroke them, they weren’t fluffy, just mean and angry. I wasn’t going to hurt them or steal their honey, or anything mean. But they were NASTY! Mean, mean bees…’

Her voice trails off as she registers my failed attempts to contain my laughter.

‘Oh Laura, they weren’t bees! They sound like wasps. They don’t like it when people poke around their nests.’

‘Worse than bees? ‘Cos those bees didn’t like it when I looked for their honey. And I WAS only looking, I didn’t want to steal it, maybe only taste a teeny, little bit.’

‘No, wasps don’t make honey –

‘Then why were they so angry? Why did they try to keep me out? Mean, mean bees! I don’t think they should be allowed! We should get rid of all the mean bees!’ she declares with a defiant stomp of her foot.

I give Laura a hug and pull her onto my lap and settle down to tell her the tale my grandfather told me when I was about her age and had a similarly nasty encounter with wasps.

Why Wasps Are (or Where does Marmite Come From?)

‘Long, long ago, before people lived in towns and cities, or even villages, we farmed the land and lived close by, to nurture our crops. What we couldn’t grow ourselves we traded with others who could. We relied on abundant produce, that grew quickly and reliably, and food that was harder to farm or find was prized. Honey was one such product. This sweet, sticky amber-gold treat was so sought after, the people would fiercely guard their hoard –

‘Like the bees in the nest!’ interrupted Laura with a big grin.

‘Yes, like the bees that kept you away from their nest the other day. But there were people who had learned a way to get the bees to share their honey. Do you remember what we call them?’

Laura pauses, her brow furrowed in concentration as she searches for the right word. ‘Beekeepers!’ she announces proudly.

‘Well, these first beekeepers understood the value of honey, and the need to keep the bees happy so they would keep making it, and built them elaborate wooden houses, and planted whole fields of beautiful flowers for them to feed on. This tradition was passed down through families, keeping the secret of how to tame the bees and how to gather the honey.

‘But there was one very lonely old beekeeper, and he had no-one to share his secrets with. Not that he minded much – he didn’t like to share anything, not even a cheery hello or a wave as people passed by his farm. No-one liked to trade with him as he was so mean, so one by one people stopped trying to trade with him. But he didn’t care, because he had his honey, and he knew that honey was the most valuable commodity. And so, he began to hoard his honey. Soon his larder was full, and he ran out of jars. The combs in the hives weren’t full yet, so he left them. And left them. And left them some more.

‘No-one came to trade with him, but he didn’t care. He had no room for food anyway – his larder was full to the brim with his delicious, oozing, sticky gold. But he never ate any – it was far too precious. And, if he was honest, he had never really been keen on the taste; he would much rather have just salted butter on his toast than honey. And so, he became thinner and thinner, and – if it were possible to believe – even meaner.

‘Outside in the hives the bees became restless, their hives uncomfortably full with honey. And so, just like that, they stopped gathering nectar to make fresh honey. And like the old man, they began to change. Stuck in the hive, overflowing as it was with honey, their fluffy coats became sticky and matted, and the bees became thinner. Without their cosy coats – which had they slowly shed and were now melting into the darkening ooze – their bodies became harder, somehow spikier, and they became mean. REALLY mean.

‘Eventually even the old man noticed the differences in his bees and went out to investigate. The buzzing sounded different to how he remembered, somehow harsher and more angry, but he just shook his head and ignored his instincts. Using the secrets handed down through his family from generation to generation, he carefully opened the hive and removed a comb.

‘Back in his kitchen he was surprised to find something quite different to what he had expected. Instead of the precious, unctuous, dripping amber-gold, was a dark, almost black substance. Curious, he dipped his little finger into the dark goo, and found that although it was much thicker than his usual honey, it still had a curious stickiness to it. Sniffing it, he couldn’t detect any sign it was poisonous, so decided to taste it.

‘A powerful, savoury-salty taste filled his mouth; THIS was what he had been longing for to spread on his toast in place of honey. He rapidly set about harvesting as much as he could, then, to the astonishment of all the local farmers, set up a big marquee outside his house, and invited everyone in to try his miraculous mean bee honey.’

‘But mummy’ questioned Laura ‘why don’t we see mean bee honey anymore?’

‘We do! But now we call it Marmite. And that is why wasps are important, even if they are just mean bees – some people like honey from the bees on their toast, but others prefer Marmite’.