Free Hens Dancing by Raffaella Barker Page B

raising his arms so that they at least are not caught in the chocolate- and grass-stained embrace of his sons. He pats their heads gingerly.
    â€˜I’d have thought you were rather old for that sort of nonsense now, Giles.’
    Giles grins and retorts, ‘Well I’m not,’ and I turn away fast to hide my smile. Can’t help being glad that Charles is a total bastard, as anyone less vile would cause me so much more misery every time the tireless, ‘Did I do the right thing?’ thought surfaces.
    A rattling camper van creeps up the drive as the second pram race begins. This one is between Charles pushing Giles and Felix pushing Rags, as The Beauty has retired after her victory and is excavating the large box Charles has brought for her. Out of the camper van step my brother, Desmond, and a half-naked youth.
    â€˜I thought she’d like some entertainment for herparty,’ says Desmond, and I stare at the stripagram as I assume he is, and wonder how old Desmond thinks The Beauty is.
    â€˜This is Oak, he’s a mate of mine and he’s going to do a bit of juggling.’ Desmond squats next to The Beauty and hands her a red plastic rose. She bites the head off. Charles escapes from the pram race and moves in to help open the box he has brought. To complete the happy family scene, my mother arrives with The Gnome who has written a poem for The Beauty and wishes to recite it. He squats beside her and clears his throat. The Beauty is now surrounded by crouched men, none of whom she has any recollection of having met before. It is too much. She tries very hard to look pleased for a moment and then the bottom lip protrudes, wobbles and collapses and weeping commences. Her party is a disaster. She sobs and buries her face in my shoulder and I am attacked by the usual hysterical laughter, and so is my mother.
    Charles has unwrapped his gift and is standing looking foolish next to a very done-up and
bijou
doll’s house.
    â€˜Oh, Charles, how kind,’ I say, ‘you shouldn’t have.’ Am mentally computing price, and becoming red with fury that he can have forgotten the presence of my own doll’s house, and so squandered a fortune on this soulless Bovis-style residence when he could have given her a musical box. The Beauty is becoming frenzied withmisery and everyone else is standing about talking in groups as if at a garden party. Am saved from spiralling lunacy by Oak, who blows giant bubbles the size of footballs, and with them casts a spell of happiness over The Beauty and even her bored and cynical friends and relations.
    Everything is looking up now: Charles says he has to go, and even the discovery of Sidney scooping cream off the top of the cake with his paw cannot diminish the new party spirit.
    June 26th
    The Beauty is still hung-over from her party and sleeps most of the day, enabling me to have two arguments with David over the bathroom and to plant a tray of
Verbena officinalis.
    Argument One: David wants to put gauzy fabric across the ceiling like a tent, and I think this will make the bathroom look like a Turkish Delight advertisement. We agree to try it and then decide.
    Argument Two: The tent effect is in place, it looks wonderful and seductive and sensuous. I am enraged. Make a special trip to the village shop for a bar of Turkish Delight. I place it on the lavatory seat and stand back.
    â€˜Look, David, I told you so.’ He removes the Turkish Delight without a smile.
    â€˜Don’t be absurd,’ he says crisply. ‘Let’s leave it and see what you think tomorrow.’
    Go into garden to avoid thinking about being defeated on this, and create a doughnut-shaped weed-free zone in which to plant the verbena. Move a few pink foxgloves to the centre of the doughnut, and a pot of slender agapanthus spears, and retire from the garden convinced that I have achieved a beautiful effect. The feathering green leaves and palest pink of the tiny-flowered