The Beekeeper's Dispute

When Julian Ashcombe bought Rose Cottage in the Cotswold village of Little Hadley, the estate agent told him three things: that the roof was sound, that the pub did an excellent Sunday lunch, and that the lady next door kept "a few bees". All three statements were, in their way, true. The roof was sound, the lunch was excellent, and Miss Edith Partridge, who had taught geography at the village school for thirty-eight years, kept eleven hives at the bottom of her garden, which she considered a few.

The first note arrived in June, handwritten on thick cream paper and pushed through Miss Partridge's door. "Dear Miss Partridge," it read, "I do hope you won't mind my mentioning it, but there seem to be rather a lot of bees in my garden. I'm sure it's nothing, and I wouldn't dream of interfering, but I wondered whether there might be some small adjustment you could make. With very best wishes, Julian Ashcombe." Miss Partridge read it twice, which was once more than she felt it deserved, and replied the same afternoon.

"Dear Mr. Ashcombe," her reply said. "How kind of you to write. I'm afraid bees are not terribly good at boundaries, but I shall certainly have a word with them. Do let me know if there is anything else at all I can do. Kind regards, E. Partridge." Julian, who had spent twenty years in the City of London and knew a refusal when he saw one, was not amused.

Over the summer, the letters grew longer and the language grew more polite, which in an English village is never a good sign. Julian wrote that he was "slightly concerned" about his guests, one of whom had been stung "a little" at a garden party. Miss Partridge wrote that she was "so sorry to hear it" and wondered, "purely out of interest", whether his guests had been wearing perfume. Julian wrote that he "took her point entirely" and "would hate to be a nuisance", but that he had nonetheless consulted a solicitor. Miss Partridge wrote that she "quite understood", and that she had consulted the parish council.

By September, the whole village had taken sides, though nobody would have dreamt of saying so. At the pub, people asked each other about the weather in a meaningful way. At the church flower show, Mrs. Doyle from the post office was seen to give Julian a slightly smaller slice of cake than everyone else. It was, as the vicar put it, all getting a bit much.

The parish council met in the village hall on the second Tuesday of October. Twenty-three people attended, which was nineteen more than usual. The chairman, a retired vet called Mr. Pettigrew, opened the meeting by saying that he was sure the matter could be resolved "without anyone getting too excited", at which point several people sat up a little straighter in the hope that someone would.

Julian spoke first. He said that he had nothing whatsoever against bees, that he was sure Miss Partridge was a wonderful neighbor, and that he simply wished to sit in his own garden without being attacked. Miss Partridge spoke second. She said that she had nothing whatsoever against bankers, that she was sure Mr. Ashcombe was a wonderful neighbor, and that her bees had never attacked anybody in their lives. There was a pause. "Well," said Mr. Pettigrew. "That's very helpful."

It was at this point that young Tom Doyle, aged nine, who had come with his mother because there was nobody to look after him, put up his hand. He had been in Mr. Ashcombe's garden that afternoon to fetch a football, he explained, and the bees were not coming from Miss Partridge's garden at all. They were coming out of Mr. Ashcombe's chimney.

There was a long silence. Miss Partridge was the first to speak. "Ah," she said. "That would be a wild colony. They're quite common in old chimneys." She paused, and then added, with enormous kindness, "Not ideal." Julian, who had turned a remarkable shade of pink, said that he was terribly sorry, that he had perhaps been a little hasty, and that he would quite understand if Miss Partridge never spoke to him again.

She did, of course. She came over on Saturday with a smoker, a veil and a spare hive, and spent the afternoon persuading the colony to move into it, while Julian held the ladder and tried not to scream. The following summer, the shop on the high street began selling small jars of honey with a handwritten label: Rose Cottage Honey, by J. Ashcombe and E. Partridge. They sold out in a week. Neither of them ever mentioned the solicitor again, which, in Little Hadley, is how you know a thing has been forgiven.