Hens Dancing

by Raffaella Barker

  This morning’s olfactory experience includes a hint of grass cutting, a suggestion of apple blossom, a waft of cow from the field and, best of all, an overriding scent of wet paint. David is finally at the decorating stage with my bathroom. With my new improved eyesight I can tell that I do not like the colour he is using, and despite his insistence to the contrary, I know it is not the one I chose. I wanted Plover’s Egg, and I think he has used Dead Mouse. He insists there is no such colour as Dead Mouse; I am sure there is, though. These colours prove their smartness by having eccentric, call-a-spade-a-spade names. There is String, Ox Blood, Cold Cream White and the enigmatic Dirt, but I wish they would be a little bolder and have Phlegm and Fungal Brown as well. And I would especially like to be able to get hold of Eyeball White for the bathroom ceiling, which needs a blue-white tone to lift it a bit.

  May 20th

  Felix and Giles return. Charles rings the bell, and I open the door to one former husband, smirking slightly, and two piles of merchandising. ‘The way to a boy’s heart is via the shopping mall,’ I quip.

  Charles jangles his keys. ‘We had some time on our hands yesterday after the boys did well with an early reveille and run.’ He allows himself a flash of a smile as I gape in astonishment at this insight into quality time with Dad.

  Giles and Felix are not listening, but are burrowing in their shopping bags. Charles coughs self-effacingly and continues.

  ‘They said they hadn’t any clothes, or trainers, and from what you sent with them it seemed true.’ A needle of resentment jabs at me. ‘Don’t criticise my packing,’ I hiss, a line so babyish I wish to bite off my tongue. The boys push past into the house and there is Charles’s car with the crown of Helena’s head just visible in the passenger seat. I turn to him in reproachful surprise.

  ‘Oh, Charles, you should have bought her a little cushion while you were shopping.’

  He hardly pauses, but swipes right back as he marches to the car. ‘I’ll be in touch about next month: I thought I’d take the boys to Wimbledon, I’ve got tickets for centre court.’ Fifteen, Love to Charles. I slam the front door cursing, and am almost sent flying by huge, hugging boys.

  May 26th

  Thrilling sense of freedom caused by sitting on the train to London reading Hello! and being surrounded by other ladies, many of them quite antique, with packets of sandwiches and sensible shoes which say that they, like me, are on their way to the Chelsea Flower Show.

  I, however, do not have sensible shoes. By the time I have negotiated the tube as far as Sloane Square and lost half an hour in a delicious ribbon shop, I have two blisters and a throbbing big toe. Trailing an exquisite bundle of pink and yellow satin, which I plan to sew round the edge of a cardigan in the manner of top fashion houses this season, I head for the nearest shoe shop and arrange myself for purchase. Very shaming moment when I remove the silly slingbacks I had thought appropriate when dressing this morning, and find aroma of Emmental clinging to my feet. Rub them on the shoe shop carpet and move to a different squeaking leatherette chair. How does anyone buy summer shoes? Summer feet are clammy and puffy and have red areas and also grass stains on their soles. They are hideous. They do nothing for the flimsy, strappy shoes so fashionable this year. Regretfully, I opt for a pair of clumpy mulish sandals as worn by biology teachers. These will get me through the flower show in comfort, I tell myself, and turn resolutely away from the shocking-pink kitten heels which beckon and tempt from the shop window.

  By the time I have crossed the King’s Road I am in agony, and at the entrance to the flower show I am forced to remove the new instruments of torture and go barefoot. I now have seven blisters bubbling on my feet. With savage pleasure I hurl the nerdy cripplers in a bin and hurry into the floral vortex of Chelsea. So glad I paid for them with Charles’s money out of the children’s account, so have not just wasted £80 of my own. Surely I can now go back for the kitten heels, as I still have no shoes? This uplifting thought carries me barefoot into the throng of well-behaved frocks and hairdos and little notebooks with neat notes.

  Two hours later I am sagging beneath piles of catalogues, and the inside covers of Devil’s Cub, my Georgette Heyer of the moment, are dense with illegibly scrawled names of flowers and cryptic notes. On the train going home, assisted by a gin and tonic, I decipher ‘Heterosexual Lord Bute trailing clouds of perfume’, and give up. Maybe ‘heterosexual’ is ‘heliotrope’, or ‘hemero-callis’. Or maybe it’s a colour code. I don’t know, and what’s more, I just don’t care. For on my feet beneath the Formica table lurks a pair of perfect pink kitten heels. Even the blisters don’t hurt any more.

  Summer

  June 1st

  Chaos of clothing carpets my bedroom as I attempt to find something to wear. I am going for a drink with David to celebrate the near-completion of the bathroom. Initially refused David’s kind invitation, issued just after an outburst on my part at Digger, whom I caught burying a newly bought loaf of bread under the yew chicken. Having stubbed my toe kicking him, I marched round to complain to David, and felt lame and crabby when he spoke first and asked me to go to the pub. Giles overheard me saying rudely, ‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy’, as I stood, arms crossed, leaning on the door of David’s ambulance with Digger cowering within. ‘Yes, you can,’ Giles interrupted. ‘Jenny can babysit. You shouldn’t make up excuses.’ Tried to tread on his toe to shut him up but he skipped out of the way, leaving me red-faced in front of David. Had to say yes to diminish embarrassment.

  Jenny, who has a gold tooth, hennaed hair and a flourishing business growing coriander and basil in poly tunnels for local supermarkets, arrives with her boyfriend. He is called Smalls. ‘It’s a nickname,’ Jenny explains, unnecessarily. Smalls turns out to be one of David’s henchmen, and as well as looking like a Warhammer, he is an avid collector of these oddities. Felix and Giles cannot wait to get me out of the house so that they can leap into pitched battle with Smalls and a cohort of wild woodland elves. The Beauty doesn’t need me either. She is fast asleep in her cot, exhausted by the arrival of three new teeth this week. Despite being redundant, I hang around at home making myself late and telling Jenny dozens of ways to deal with The Beauty, should she wake: ‘But of course she won’t, this is just in case.’

  Take short cut to unknown pub selected by David, and become very lost. The Wheatsheaf, East Bessham is somewhere in a valley fringed with bluebell woods, and I soon stop worrying about the time and am enchanted by my route down narrow roads which tunnel through banks scattered with pink campion and buttercups. The evening light is a luxurious gold after a day of energetic sunshine, and I take deep breaths and revive from children’s bedtime and am glad that I bothered to wear my ironed skirt and not jeans. Just becoming parched and anxious when the pub appears in front of me, separated from the road by a little stream and enhanced by branches of fragrant lilac waving pinkly over the garden wall. I park the car and dawdle across a peeling blue footbridge, noting its rustic charm and its excellent credentials for the Troll and Billygoat game with Felix. Once within the pub walls I quickly find David on a cropped lawn playing boules with a gang of men. I pretend to be interested in rules and scores for a few seconds before saying brightly, ‘Let me get you a drink,’ and diving into the bar.

  At the bar, I become panic-stricken by the thunderbolt reality that I am out having a drink with a man. On my own. What will we talk about? He is bound to think I am pursuing him. Am I pursuing him? Why have I come? What shall I drink? I’m starving. Will I look deliberately suggestive if I have crisps?

  The barman has been patiently waiting, but begins to shift from foot to foot and roll his eyes. I take a deep breath and order the first drink that enters my head. ‘Two Pimms, please, and some prawn cocktail crisps.’ David appears next to me and is drawn, as I am, to silent contemplation of the lengthy procedure of the Pimms’ creation. The barman must be about to do his cocktail exam. Everything is going in – strawberries, lemon, cucumber, orange, apple, a glacé cherry and
finally a pink paper umbrella. On the bar, surrounded by pints of Guinness and halves of cider, the Pimms are lush and outrageous, like a couple of dolled-up transvestites on a commuter train. I am thrilled with my choice of drink. I hand one of the confections to David with a flourish, along with a pink foil packet of prawn cocktail crisps.

  ‘Shall we sit outside, or have you finished the game?’ Have regained my nerve, am full of renewed poise, and am looking forward to my drink. Another boules player is at the bar now, and his face is a mask of severity as he gazes at David with his pink drink. David’s lime-green shirt seems to me the perfect backdrop to the cocktail, and, emboldened by the first gulp of Pimms, I say so, loudly.

  David puts his glass down on a low table behind him. ‘I think I’ll have a pint as well as this,’ he says hastily, and the boules player unbends visibly and turns back to his cronies.

  I drink all of David’s Pimms as well as my own, and eat both packets of prawn cocktail crisps. I am thoroughly enjoying myself and can’t believe I was nervous. I share my feelings with David.

  ‘I am so glad Giles made me come out, because now I realise that it’s no big deal to go for a drink with a man.’ He looks taken aback for a moment, but rallies.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love one, and shall we have something to eat? I’m starving.’ Am vaguely aware that protocol would have preferred him to say this, but he hasn’t and I have, so what the hell. He reaches for the menus from behind the bar, and passes me one.

  ‘Go ahead. I won’t. I thought you might have eaten with your kids, so I had something earlier, but don’t let that stop you.’

  My stomach shrivels like a slug with salt poured on it, and I feel blushing embarrassment rise in a tide up my neck and onto my face.

  ‘Oh, God, I can’t. I’m not hungry at all, actually, I forgot I’d had those crisps. I’m full, in fact. Completely full.’

  David is grinning. ‘Only teasing. Come on, let’s order quickly before they close the kitchen. I’ll have a steak sandwich, what about you?’

  Can only just bring myself to say, ‘Me too, please.’

  June 2nd

  Am enjoying a most satisfactory morning, having spent half an hour scraping dried Weetabix and worse off The Beauty’s high chair. It looks lovely now, and she is in it, dressed for success in shocking-pink tights and leopard-skin miniskirt. Have never seen anything as delicious as this miniskirt, which is made of soft felt and is full like a tutu. It came by post this morning from Rose, accompanied by a card announcing her arrival. Decide to go and get her room ready to avoid doing any work for a bit longer.

  I have a setback with the joys of morning upon reaching the spare bedroom. Sidney had peed on the pillows, and even more insultingly, padded little black raspberry footprints over the crisp sheets to reach his lavatory. I fling open the window and hurl the gross, damp pillows out, shrieking, ‘Urgh, bastard cat. God, I loathe you.’

  Muffled echo of the ‘Urgh’ noise comes from outside, and I peer out to see David and Smalls, who have just arrived in the ambulance, with the pillows which must have landed on their heads. Quickly step back from the window and hope they haven’t seen me as I can’t be bothered to explain.

  The morning improves again when a large delivery lorry hums up the drive with my order from a poncey garden catalogue. The company is called Haughty Hortus, which I think is nearly as good a name as Teletubbies. I have bought a Vita Weeder, which is a chic trowel, and a glamorous fork called a Daisy Pusher. Their arrival necessitates a morning in the garden. The Beauty enjoys this, and almost eats her first worm. Well, I hope it’s almost. The worm is wiggling from her mouth as she sucks it in like her favourite pasta. I yank it out as soon as I notice, but cannot tell how tall, or rather long, the worm was before it went in. She sobs bitterly at the loss of her worm, and I am about to cave in and give it back rather than have to go inside and find more wholesome bribes when Sidney the creep arrives. He slinks over to The Beauty and insinuates himself like Shere Khan. She pats him vigorously, cooing and a little breathless, with a fat, spent tear wobbling on her cheek. He departs. Regretfully I down my top new tools and return to the house to find elevenses for The Beauty and to say thank you to David for taking me out last night.

  Having greatly enjoyed most of the evening except for the moment of salted-slug stomach, am now keen to find other people to go for drinks with. Telephone my mother to ask if she can think of anyone. She suggests The Gnome, and I am underwhelmed. Get off the telephone and find The Beauty mimicking me. She is sitting in her toy car under the kitchen sink, babbling sweetly into her pink plastic mobile telephone.

  June 9th

  The bathroom is finished. Vivienne appears as David is taking me on a guided tour of its beauty spots and areas of perfection. We are admiring the copper pipe which runs from the high cistern to the loo when she opens the door.

  ‘Gosh, this is wonderful, isn’t it? Venetia, did you know that there is a black Labrador mounting Rags on your lawn?’

  I am out of the mermaid’s palace in a flash. ‘That creep, Digger. I think Rags is on heat. Who let that filthy brute out? I shut him in your car, David. God, I wish you wouldn’t bring him here.’

  All this is wasted breath. David is demonstrating the power shower to Vivienne, and anyway couldn’t care less what Digger does to Rags, as he won’t have to bring up a litter of freak pretend-Labradors with terrier-length legs or worse. Fortunately, Rags has protected her virtue and is sitting firmly on her tail looking apologetic; Digger saunters down the drive with garbage investigation rather than carnal matters on his mind. Vivienne appears in the garden with The Beauty, fresh and twinkly of eye post-rest, and David; I am sidetracked by noticing that all three of them are wearing purple T-shirts and look like the perfect family in a cereal advertisement. On reflection, Vivienne’s wild red hair makes them a bit too avant-garde for cereal; perhaps a new car commercial is more the look. David is giving her the full programme of events now the bathroom is officially open.

  ‘… And we’re going to use it to photograph this mate of mine’s handbags. He designs them, and has a backer who will pay for the location and give me some of the pictures.’

  I am not sure about all this, and wish Rose had not gone suddenly to Spain instead of coming this weekend to advise me. I must be looking especially blank, as David suddenly breaks off and turns to me.

  ‘I thought you would like it, Venetia. And don’t forget, part of the deal was that I could use it for photographs. You’ll really like Rob, anyway, and it’ll be good for you to get to know a new crowd. You never know, if you chat Rob up enough he might give you a free handbag.’ I open my mouth to tell him he is a patronising git, but he has already turned back to Vivienne, who is becoming very excited.

  ‘Who did you say was coming? Robin Ribbon? Oh, I’ve read about his designs, I’d love one. Venetia, you are lucky.’

  I find her words unaccountably red-rag-like: ‘Well, I don’t want one, and I don’t want to meet any sodding handbag-makers. You must be mad, David, if you think I’ve got time to deal with all this sort of nonsense. God, I left London years ago to get away from handbags and all that they stand for.’ My outrage gathers momentum. ‘And how am I meant to show off that bathroom properly if you aren’t here?’

  ‘Why won’t I be here? I’m not going to leave you to deal with something I’ve set up.’ Exasperated, scowling, David runs his hands through his hair. The Beauty leans towards him from Vivienne’s arms to pat his shoulder. She then reaches for his hair and grips a few locks tightly in one fist. David tries to detach her, but she continues breathing heavily and gripping. He grabs both her hands, and clasping them as if pleading with her, says simply, ‘I don’t want to put you through any hassle, it’ll just be a bit of fun.’

  Awful how unused I am to dealing with genuinely thoughtful men. Feel guilty, and supress lemon-faced emotions in a rush of hospitality.

  ‘Shall we all have some lunch to c
elebrate you finishing it?’ The Beauty catches my effervescent mood and suddenly launches herself from Vivienne’s distracted embrace and hurtles, arms and legs whirling, towards the floor. David neatly catches her and she pulls his face towards hers and peppers his cheek with her first kisses.

  June 11th

  Felix, The Beauty and I arrive at school having dropped Giles at the more senior entrance, and are met by a huge poster announcing the Concert with Cake Sale this afternoon. Had, of course, forgotten all about this dainty entertainment, and will now have to forgo lunch with Vivienne and afternoon of gossiping and dawdling at her house. In the school cloakroom the smell of antiseptic smarts from the loos and mingles with a puff of the headmistress’s scent as she rustles past with a pile of egg boxes and a grim, determined expression. She smiles vaguely at Felix and I realise that we have failed to brush his hair. The Beauty adores school and settles down, growling happily, to remove books from shelves in Felix’s classroom. Felix and his friends assist her and she holds court delightedly, her gingham bloomers causing mirth among her admirers and huge pride for her.

  On the way out of the school with The Beauty, I enjoy a five-minute interlude with two other school mothers. We talk about our children, their starring roles in the forthcoming concert and how many cakes we are baking for the sale. All is a big lie on my part. My cakes, although often surprisingly delicious to eat, are low on physical charms, and I have no intention of making any for the school at any time in case I am humiliated by their not being bought. As for the concert, Felix is still on ‘Old MacDonald’ after a year of piano lessons, and shows no promise at all. I never make him practise because both of us hate it so much, and we have begged the teacher to let him give up. She just smiles kindly, and says, ‘Have you tried bribery? He must persevere, he’s doing so well.’ Another big lie.