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colonies for next year.’
    Mr Fisher nodded slowly. He let out another long, despairing sigh. ‘Well, no bees – no fruit, no vegetables. Nothing.’
    â€˜Surely there’ll be something, Daddy?’
    Mr Fisher shrugged. ‘Wheat and corn, Marguerite. Wheat and corn. The wind carries their pollen. But I didn’t plant any. I never do, haven’t for years. People love our fruits. You need bees for that. That’s what they want, our fruit, that’s what’s special. Our wheat and corn were like anyone else’s.’ He shook his head. ‘If only I’d known. If only I’d known ! ’
    â€˜Is it too late to plant them now?’
    â€˜Much too late.’
    Darius frowned. ‘Is it really so bad, Mr Fisher? Will there really be nothing?’
    â€˜No bees – no fruit, no vegetables,’ murmured the gardener, as he had said before. ‘Nothing.’
    Mr Beale had been right, thought Darius. For a moment, he tried to imagine what the world would be like if there were no bees anywhere. Would there really be no fruit at all? No vegetables? Humans depended on bees to an extent he hadn’t understood. That particular lesson in science was real now, as real as Mr Beale could ever have wished.
    He glanced at Marguerite. The Fishers lived from the crops they sold at the market. But this year there would be nothing. And from what he had overheard Mr Fisher saying when he and Marguerite arrived at the buttery, it didn’t sound as if he had any money in the bank for them to live on. He wondered what the Fishers would do.
    Darius looked around. He saw that Mr Fisher was watching him. So were the Deavers. Suddenly, from the way they were looking at him, Darius knew what they were thinking. The Bells got all their fruit and vegetables from Mr Fisher. All their honey came from the Deavers. If there were no bees, it wasn’t only the Deavers and the Fishers who were in trouble!

For dessert that evening, Mrs Simpson served one of her apple tarts. Hector Bell, Darius’s father, savoured it with an expert air, pausing thoughtfully after taking a bite and then turning to Darius’s mother with an expression of deep satisfaction.
    â€˜Excellent. Don’t you think so, Micheline?’
    Darius’s mother nodded. She always said that her husband never used only one word when three would do, and she knew what was coming next. So did Darius and his brother, Cyrus.
    â€˜The apples are tart, yet sweet,’ continued Darius’s father. ‘The pastry is buttery, but crisp. The cream is rich, yet refreshing. In sum, in conclusion, in total, the com- bination is a blend of exquisite textures that draws the eater into a sense of fulfilment unrivalled, unparalleled, unmatched, in short, unexceeded even by the most exotic desserts in Mrs Simpson’s repertoire!’
    â€˜It’s just an apple tart,’ muttered Cyrus.
    â€˜But what a tart, Cyrus! That’s the point.’
    â€˜Is it?’
    â€˜Show me a better one! Show me one more flavoursome, more delightful, more toothsome. Why, look at the colour of it! The golden pastry, the warm brown of the apple. Even the colours speak. And as for the flavour, as for the taste . . .’ Hector shook one hand in the air expressively as he ate another mouthful. ‘As for the flavour, why, it’s just . . . it’s just . . .’ Darius’s father frowned. ‘It’s different.’ He looked at his wife. ‘There’s something different about it. Micheline, don’t you think so? Isn’t there something different about it?’
    Micheline took another bite. ‘I couldn’t say, Hector.’
    â€˜I’m sure there is.’ Hector took a third bite, blinking quickly as he ate it. ‘What is it?’ he said, his fingers twitching rapidly in the air. ‘Something’s not there – or something else is. Something