Wasp Season

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Weekends without the children always seemed to last longer. Beth found herself slipping into a kind of slow motion. She rose late on Sunday morning. What a luxury, just suiting herself. Without the need to cook meals and ferry the children here and there, time held no sway over her. She took her breakfast out to the verandah and lazily planned her day.

The honey on Beth’s toast attracted a wasp. Her hand brushed against it as she reached for the second slice. Startled, she jumped to her feet and swatted at the insect. After several ineffective attempts to drive the intruder away, Beth conceded defeat and retreated inside. She checked the trap. A dozen dead wasps floated in the water. Now they were dead, she was pleased. Her ambivalence of the previous afternoon had evaporated.

The clear sky and brisk morning air promised a glorious October day. Beth donned old clothes and set about planting the new seedlings in the vegetable garden. When she stood up to stretch, her gaze fell on her home’s ivy-covered walls. Picturesque though it was, she’d have to have the ivy removed. It had flowered profusely last autumn, and the dozens of young ivy plants sprouting from her paths could also be colonising the nearby bush gullies. Ivy was potentially a significant environmental weed. Still, it would be a pity, especially in January, when its cool green mantle no longer insulated the house from the fierce summer sun.

Rambling roses trailed up the ivy, using it like a trellis to scale the weatherboards. Beth stopped to admire the bright beauty of their blooms and noticed something odd. At first glance they seemed to be swarming with bees, busy collecting nectar from the abundant crop of vivid pink flowers. But a closer inspection revealed that the insects were, in fact, European wasps. Not a single bee remained.

Beth was incredulous. During the course of one short week the invaders had utterly displaced the legion of honeybees. A wasp buzzed in her direction and she sprinted for the safety of the house. She couldn’t help herself, although she knew it posed no real threat. Foraging wasps were innocuous, preoccupied creatures, much more inclined to fly away than fight. Only when their nest was threatened would they display the group aggression they were infamous for – attacking intruders and stinging en masse.

The incident left Beth thoroughly unnerved, and she resolved to increase her trapping rate. Of course the only permanent way to control the wasps was to destroy the nest. But where was it? A quick inspection of her home’s exposed timber eaves revealed nothing. She was reduced to eliminating the insects one by one.

She found a webpage that gave simple instructions for making traps. Using plastic bottles salvaged from the recycle bin, Beth commenced construction. First, she sliced the top off each bottle just below where the neck narrowed. Then she inverted the top, inserting it into the opening to form a funnel entrance which fitted snugly against the sides. A little glue to finish and she had homemade traps along the lines of the commercially manufactured one.

Beth continued her production line until she ran out of bottles. Now she had seven traps and decided to conduct an experiment using a variety of baits. A little tub of pineapple pieces past its use-by date, bubbling with natural fermentation at the back of the fridge. Orange juice in another, cola in one, tuna in another. She taped the new traps to the lasiandra tree beside the first, and soon observed wasps hovering about. Within minutes, the tuna had trapped several of them.

Beth noted the individual success rates of the various baits. Time slipped away.

The sound of the phone startled her. With a stab of irritation, she paused in her observations to answer it. Karen’s cheerful voice greeted her. She glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was so late.

‘Hi,’ she answered absent-mindedly, her mind still on the little drama playing outside her kitchen window. ‘Come over. I’m not doing anything.’

Karen was Beth’s best friend ever since school. The pair had steadfastly supported each other through life’s ups and downs. Beth was there when Karen and her children escaped a marriage plagued by domestic violence – another kind of trap, Beth thought. Likewise, Karen provided company and childminding when Beth’s own marriage was reeling. She’d even moved from town so she could be closer. Now happily remarried to Paul, they were a living example of how well a stepfamily could work with a lot love and compromise all round.

Half an hour later Karen rolled up the tree-lined drive in her battered old Land Rover. She was slim and vivacious, with wild blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Although the same age as Beth, Karen always seemed like a younger sister. Karen smoked, drank too much, drove too fast and wore her heart on her sleeve. Cautious Beth envied her friend her brimming enthusiasm for life.

‘What are you trying to do here?’ asked Karen as they poured themselves a coffee. Outside the kitchen window, the array of traps reflected the rays of the late afternoon sun. A light breeze made them jostle together like some bizarre wind chime.

Time to secure them more firmly, Beth noted to herself. The movement could deter her prey. ‘I have a European wasp problem,’ she said. ‘I’m trying out different traps.’

‘Goodness, you have been busy,’ laughed Karen. ‘It looks like a wasp smorgasbord out there. When you do something, you sure don’t do it by halves, do you?’

It had been a warm day, but spring evenings cooled quickly, so the two friends decided to eat inside. They put some foil-wrapped salmon fillets in the oven, and while Beth tossed together a salad, Karen opened the bottle of wine she always brought along on such occasions. Through the open window they could hear the dusk chorus of cicadas tuning up. Before long, it would rise to a deafening crescendo.

As usual, Karen inquired about her friend’s non-existent love life, and for once Beth stopped short of a full-blown denial. ‘It’s about time.’ Karen poured them both a drink. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘There’s not much to tell. His name’s Noah and he manages the riding school. He’s a wonderful horseman.’

Karen gave her a knowing smile. ‘Does Noah have any other good qualities?’

‘Well yes. He’s sweet and funny and kind …’

‘And good-looking?’

‘And good-looking,’ said Beth.

‘And single?’

‘Of course he’s single. What do you take me for? Anyway, I think he likes me too. I can’t be sure, it’s just a feeling.’

Karen was delighted. ‘Ask him out.’

Beth rolled her eyes.

‘Why not?’ asked Karen. ‘That’s how I got Paul.’

‘Yes, but that’s you.’

‘True. Ask him for a favour, then. Say it’s important. Men love feeling important.’ Karen looked thoughtful. ‘You say he’s a horseman.’

‘He certainly is. One of the best I’ve seen.’

‘Okay, tell him your horses desperately need exercising and you can’t ride them both at once.’

This was true. Beth had bought Caesar for Mark to ride, but he’d never been interested. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Beth promised.

The topic of conversation moved to their children. Beth told Karen about Rick’s increasing reluctance to visit his father on weekends.

Karen frowned. ‘There must be some reason for a sudden turnaround like that. What do you think it is?’ Beth didn’t know, but resolved to take the matter up with Rick on his return. She’d always enjoyed a close, easy communication with her son, and it bothered her that he was shutting her out.

After dinner they opened another bottle of wine, argued about politics, listened to music, and generally enjoyed themselves until a knock at the door announced Paul’s arrival. He always dutifully collected Karen on these occasions, aware the two friends often had the odd wine or three. Beth was grateful for Paul’s attention to Karen’s needs. She felt an unexpected prickle of envy. It would be nice to have somebody like that in her own life.

Karen hugged her. ‘I’ll pick up the Land Rover in the morning.’

Beth said goodbye and went upstairs. Perhaps she’d watch the late movie. Tonight, it was an Alfred Hitchcock thriller, The Birds. She fell asleep before the horror began.

When Beth woke the next morning she sat up, bleary-eyed, unsure for a moment what day it was. Of course – Monday, last day of the long weekend. She sank back on her pillow and let her mind wander. She smiled as she remembered the previous evening – Karen was always great company.

Later, standing in the kitchen with her morning coffee, Beth glanced at the new traps. The wasps that had spent the night in them weren’t dead. They wandered sticky, cold and exhausted around their prison. Two had even crawled out of the opening, only to find that their damaged wings would not fly them home. They set about trying to clean themselves in a weary, useless fashion. She felt a gush of pity. This slow, creeping death was crueller than drowning the wasps in the liquid lures.

Beth’s thoughts turned to the European wasp queen, safe in the nest somewhere. Was she aware that some of her workers had not returned? Did she worry about the welfare of her growing larval brood? Was she grateful for the self-sacrifice of her daughters? Beth wondered why the worker wasps struggled so hard to ensure the survival of the queen’s offspring, their sisters, when they themselves did not reproduce?

The sudden barking of her dogs alerted Beth to someone’s arrival. She peered out the window, then glanced at the clock – only ten o’clock. The children weren’t due home until that afternoon.

Mark strode through the front door without knocking. He was an attractive man, tall and well built. He had dark, wavy hair, even features and he carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence. However, Beth had long since grown immune to his appeal.

Rick marched in wearing a wooden expression. Even patient Sarah seemed put out.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Beth. ‘You’re all back so early.’ She looked around at the debris from the night before, annoyed that Mark had arrived before she’d had a chance to tidy up.

‘The baby has some sort of a bug,’ said Mark. ‘Lena’s been up all night with him. She’s exhausted, so she asked me to bring the kids home.’

‘I didn’t hear Lena say that,’ piped Sarah, her voice high with indignation. ‘She told me that she wanted us to stay. I was helping her. She said I was a big help.’

Sarah adored her baby brother and prided herself on being a perfect big sister. Lena sometimes complained lightheartedly that she never got to see Chance on access weekends. Sarah was too busy looking after her little living doll.

‘No, Lena said you were just getting in the way,’ snapped her father. Sarah grabbed her overnight bag and flounced from the room, as only a self-righteous twelve-year-old girl can.

Beth rinsed out her coffee cup, surprised by Mark’s words. Sarah was a highly capable, sensible child, and Lena adored her. Beth couldn’t imagine that Lena would ever refer to Sarah as being in the way. Still, after a sleepless night, Beth supposed that even the good-natured Lena could get a bit grumpy.

‘No worries. I’d just like you to ring first next time to make sure I’m home,’ said Beth.

‘Why? You never go anywhere.’

He looked at the full ashtray and unwashed dishes with an expression of distaste, silently requesting an explanation. Beth glared at him and repeated her request for a phone call next time. Mark called out goodbye to Sarah and gave his son a playful punch on the arm before leaving.

Rick headed for the kitchen and Beth went after Sarah, concerned her feelings had been hurt. She found her daughter sulking on her bed, playing with Spooky, their white Persian cat.

‘What’s up, kid?’ Beth asked.

Turning her tear-stained face towards her mother, Sarah blurted out that it wasn’t Lena who’d wanted them to go home early. ‘It was Dad. Chance wasn’t even sick. Dad was just in a bad mood. I know he sometimes yells at Rick, but he never usually yells at me. This time he was even mean to Lena.’

Beth comforted her daughter and tried to distract her by suggesting that they go and bake something. Sarah brightened and trotted downstairs to take the old yellow Margaret Fulton Cookbook down from the shelf. She was happy to see her daughter’s mood lift, but remained annoyed at Mark’s insensitivity.

Beth was proud that, as co-parents, they’d always managed to put their differences aside for the children’s sake. Up until now Mark had been an attentive father, and she’d had little to complain about. He was generous with child support and reliable with access arrangements. Beth’s personal interactions with him remained politely cold. He, in turn, showed scant interest in her life. This suited Beth perfectly. It worried her that Mark seemed to be unilaterally changing their arrangement.

Rick had cheered up at the prospect of cake. Beth didn’t have the heart to tackle him about his father and risk upsetting him. That conversation could wait. For the rest of the afternoon she and the kids settled back into their comfortable family routine. Sarah baked muffins and Rick ate muffins. They argued over the computer, had dinner and watched television until bedtime.

Beth had forgotten the wasps.