A Dance to the Music of Thyme

A dance to the music of thyme.

            ‘What’s the buzz in the churchyard?’ Maurice is trying to be clever, as usual. He knows very well all the other bees will be out collecting in the sunny weather.

            ‘Very quiet.’ Brenda does not like Maurice, she thinks he is a selfish show-off. ‘You should know, aren’t you supposed to be on guard duty?’

            ‘Yeah, well, I hung around for a bit but nothing much was happening, so I took some time out. Dora said she’d meet me here about now, but I can’t see her anywhere. She’s not been well, you know, she doesn’t like the heat very much and the scent of the flowers makes her feel tired.’

            Brenda watches another bee executing an excited dance on the landing stage of the hive. She runs round in circles. Stops. Marches a straight line the whole width of the hive, turns round three times, leaps into the air, bows to her audience and flies away.

            ‘Very impressive, whispers Maurice. ‘Looks like she’s discovered something exciting. Shall we go and find out?’

            Brenda thinks this is Maurice’s way of getting out of doing any hard work. Left to himself he will merely drift around enjoying the sunshine. If she comes too, she can force him into following the dance instructions and gather in some of the promised pollen. That way, the day will not be completely wasted.

            The churchyard is a complex patchwork of trees, plants and bushes which have been planted over the years or have grown up from seeds dropped by the resident birds. A stand of hollyhocks have been thoroughly picked over but the nettles are in full flower despite the efforts of the parish gardener. The pair have to push their way through a crowd of butterflies to gain access to a purple buddleia.

            ‘No good,’ complains Maurice. ‘The hoverflies and the wasps have milked this one dry. There’s a pretty pink rose over there, perhaps it’s the one the dancer was trying to tell us about?’

            Brenda is partial to roses. They smell nice and the wild ones have wide open flowers which are easy to fly onto. She is concerned about this particular one. It’s pink colour clashes with her gold and black dress and the petals seem too tightly bound together for comfort. ‘What if I went in there and couldn’t get out again?’ she thinks.

            Maurice does not wait. With a whoop, he charges into the nearest blossom, shaking pollen all over himself, splashing about like a starling in a puddle of water. Brenda is more cautious, pushing aside the outer petals before wiggling into the centre of the plant. Delicious! The scent is overwhelming, one she would love to keep on her forever.

She tries another flower. There’s no space, something’s getting in the way. Brenda pushes and puffs. ‘What’s going on?’ Maurice arrives, curious as ever, taking over what little space there is.

‘I don’t know, I hope it’s not something horrible.’

‘Oh, good.’ Maurice is all for a nasty surprise, as long as it doesn’t hurt him. ‘Help me pull back this petal. Sick a leg in there, while I shove myself further in. Well, look what we’ve got here.’

Inside the rose, cosily rolled up, is a sleeping bee, snoring gently.

It’s Dora,’ cries Brenda. ‘I’d know that snore anywhere. Dora, Dora, wake up. You can’t sleep here all day.’

‘Why not,’ says Dora. ‘I’m so happy here. The petals are comfortable and the smell’s divine.’ Dora rolls over onto her other side, covering her head with her wings,

‘You know why not,’ says Brenda. ‘You’ve not done your quota for the day. The queen will be furious when you go home, she’ll have you cleaning out the hive for the rest of the month.’

Dora begins to cry. ‘There’s no way I can fulfil my quota now. I’m too tired and sleepy and there isn’t enough time. And I hate having to clean the hive, it’s always such a mess.’

Brenda and Maurice grab a leg each and pull their friend into the fading daylight. Dora squeals in protest. ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ orders Maurice. ‘Surely we can find a way round your little problem. Why don’t Brenda and I give you a hand, gather as much pollen as we can, then load you up with it? A bit tricky moving it from our leg sacs to yours but with the three of us on the job they should be full in a trice.’

Moving from sac to sac is more than ‘a bit tricky’, as they soon learn, so it is past sunset by the time they finish, the light almost gone. All three are exhausted by the time they land back at the hive, the guardians furious at having been kept up so late.

‘I really don’t know how to thank you,’ says Dora. ‘You have been such good friends. What would you like?’

‘I’m too tired to think,’ mutters Maurice. ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with a clever idea.’

Next morning, he and Branda are awoken by an excited Dora. ‘I have a plan! Watch my dance carefully, I have the perfect ‘thank you’ present.’

Few of the other bees war around so early, leaving Dora free to take up the whole of the landing platform with her jumps an swirls. ‘Go now,’ she orders, ‘there is no time to lose.’

Following the directions of Dora’s dance, Brenda and Maurice fly sleepily out of the churchyard into a nearby garden, full of rock plants and exotic grasses. A sage plant tumbles roughly into a woody rosemary bush, its blue flowers now over and gone. Next to it lies the plant they are seeking.

‘Looks comfortable,’ says Brenda. ‘A creeping thyme. Nice and cosy to curl up on top of. When the sun comes up properly, the flowers will open and we can eat our fill.’

‘Great, shouts Maurice, ‘good old Dora and her ‘thank you’ present: breakfast in bed!”