Hast thou ivver seen a white bee?

We were to have an afternoon out, my maternal grandmother, great aunt Mary, her son George and myself.

It was a major event : a trip to Hutton-le-Hole, with everyone suitably excited and seated inside a large black taxi with attendant driver.

Plush comfort and the pleasant smell of leather upholstery was the order as we rode the dips and bends from Lealholm to Danby and on to Castleton. After a slow climb up Castleton Rigg to Ralph's Cross, our driver stopped a while to allow the radiator to cool. George, I remember, used the time to place a penny on top of the old monument for the aid of needy wayfarers; an ancient tradition, he said.

Not long after we were sailing along the magnificent high road to The Lion Inn and beyond, finally to descend the long southern slop of Blakey Ridge into Hutton. There, disembarked, we were soon shuffling in single file through the flower-laced porchway of a small stone cottage, where I could already hear my leading elders exchanging long-time-no-see greetings.

Granny and Aunty Mary busied themselves immediately, re-kindling a glimmering fire for the all-essential kettle and placing a white embroidered cloth on the covered table in the centre of the living room.

A large tin containing a generous batch of Aunty Mary's famous side-oven biscuits made a welcome appearance followed by a couple of Granny's scrumptious cakes and a goodly number of jam tarts. Unfortunately, all were covered with a layer of tea-cloths and left for later.

Meanwhile, George and our driver, well settled and making very-comfortable-thank-you noises, filled their pipes with Robin Redbreast, lit up, and launched a flight of richly flavoured clouds from the sofa.

To a certain extent, small boys in the company of adults still crafted the art of being seen and not heard in the late forties. So that afternoon, I applied my usual technique of keeping quiet and soaking up the ambience.

On an opposite wall, its mask mounted on an inscribed shield, the bright teeth and glassy stare of a fox killed years since by The Sinnington made interesting viewing. Even more interesting viewing was a second build-up taking place on the table top directly in line with my nose-end, fast filling with further mouth-watering delights.

Beyond the solid table's red velvet drape were two open doors. The first led into a wash-house, furnished with stone sink and a cold tap. The second framed the white-washed walls of a small backyard where, set behind a blazing mass of potted geraniums stood a white-painted beehive.

Our gathering went well. The bees hummed in and out of the sunny yard, and I wandered through to watch them, albeit cautiously.

Tea-time, when it came, was an absolute treat, solemnly overlooked by Queen Victoria in full regalia, ornately framed above the mantlepiece and guarded by two china dogs. Interwoven with the chink of teacups, quiet and not-so-quiet munchings, and the constant chirping of sparrows outside the cottage windows, was the ongoing chatter of country voices to which I always loved to listen.

There had been every chance to study the huge countryman my relatives had come to visit. Tall and dark with thinning hair, big-bellied and drooping a walrus moustache, Seth wore a white collarless shirt, black waistcoat, matching trousers and a pair of boots upon his feet which would have fitted a carthorse.

Totally relaxed in his high-backed Windsor and rambling gently on to his visitors about this and that throughout tea, Seth had evidently been watching me too. My interest in the comings and goings of his backyard bees had not gone unnoticed. Having consumed five of Aunty Mary's biscuits when I had only dared to take two, my mouth dropped as he dunked a sixth into his tea-cup, cocked a glittering eye in my direction and said:

"Hez thoo ivver seen a white bee?"

I paused for a moment, thinking not only of Seth's backyard buzzers but also of the bumble-bees about our local common, whose low-flying voyages were a frequent occurrence. Deciding that truly no such creature had ever crossed my path, I shook my head.

The likeable giant grunted, and taking leave of his chair beckoned me to follow. He lumbered through the wash-house into the yard, crouched beside the hive and picked up a used tobacco tin. Lifting the lid and fiddling inside for a second, he swiftly cupped something into his enormous hands.

Of course, I should have known. Of course I should have realised, but didn't. Here was a man whose practical jokes were legendary. For wasn't it Seth who once placed a hefty sod of grass atop a chimney pot in Hutton one bitter winter's night, eventually causing a cosy arrangement of village ladies to dash out onto the green, coughing, spluttering, and threatening blue murder?

And, on another black night, wasn't it Seth who removed the wheels from the Lord of the Manor's motor car after chocking it up on four sets of bricks? So that, when the old boy finally tottered out of The Crown and started his jalopy, he simply couldn't comprehend why in tarnation the bleddy rotten thing refused to take him home!

Green as spring grass, I peered into the cavern of Seth's mighty palms as ever so carefully he half-opened his hands for me. I never noticed his moustache curving into a long slow smile; nor did I catch the quick wink thrown to a knowing audience, now gathered round the backyard door. For the only thing I saw gleaming in the depths of those fleshy shadows was a small white-enamelled letter, the second in the alphabet, complete with screw-holds...

(And, as I have often thought since, probably one of the saddest cases of hook, line and sinker on record.)

Updated: 08:50 Thursday, August 30, 2001