Hens Dancing (15 page)

‘The Beauty is so depraved,' she sighs. ‘I suppose it's having elder brothers. Theo's never had sweets.'

I try to rally her. ‘Never mind, he probably won't like them much.' Fortunately her eyes are on the road, so she misses Theo thrusting a fistful of marshmallows into his mouth, batting his long eyelashes and grinning.

August 18th

Have adapted with ease to fashionable life in cottage with boat as sofa, chairs fashioned from tyres and driftwood, and pretty well everything else hanging from big ropes slung about the beams. Lila would be impressed by simplicity of first-night supper of lobster and scallops, although she might not have drunk three bottles of wine and gone cavorting in silk-warm sea at midnight. Routine-bound motherhood has been hurled out of the window, and The Beauty and Theo stayed up until they fell asleep, curled together in the cushioned boat hull like the Lost Boys in
Peter Pan.

Tristan and Rose still not up although it is eleven, and the babies and I have examined a herd of cows, whose field ends in dilapidated hurdles a few yards from our back door. Boiling the kettle for The Beauty's dawn bottle, I was taken aback to find a vast bovine face
sniffing the window frame, shooting out a long black tongue at the steam marks on the glass. The Beauty and Theo spent half the morning hurling unsuitable items, including The Beauty's bottle and Rose's delicious turquoise embroidered slipper, into the cows' field. Now they have moved round to the sea a few hundred yards in front of the house, and we have made two pilgrimages across the beach already. Theo squeals in delight, running naked into the waves, and The Beauty follows but sits down abruptly when the first breath of water covers her feet. This is baby paradise. Our cottage is just yards from the tide's highest point, and the sea rolls back over hard wet sand, the colour and texture of fudge. Shallow pools form in pockets by boulders and the waves are delicate as lace, lapping baby ankles. Have huge fun paddling with Theo and The Beauty and can believe again that the boys are at Scout camp.

August 21st

A seaside holiday without Giles and Felix is weird, and am riddled with the conviction that I should be enjoying it more than I am. Emphasis much more on eating, and food is laid out like fabulous colour supplement spread. Tristan sees each meal as a chance to flex his creativity,
and Rose and I do nothing but play with the babies, plan excursions we cannot be bothered to go on and paint our toenails. Today lunch is to be a picnic with bonfire near a tiny harbour further up the coast. Tristan has brought everything, and sends us off while he sets it all up. He wields his wooden spoon, camp as a television chef in his navy silk scarf and dreadful PVC apron with bosoms on it.

‘Go and look at the boats coming in for twenty minutes,' he urges.

Am very impressed; he gets full brownie points from me, despite his outfit.

‘God, you're lucky, Rose, it must be amazing to have a husband who can do all this stuff.'

Rose lifts Theo onto the low wall above the harbour so he can see the boats.

‘Well, it comes from his being power-crazed.' She sounds resigned. ‘I sometimes wonder what I'm supposed to do. I'm not allowed to interfere with the cooking at all, or even buy the food for it. He does everything. He even picks flowers for the table. And he thinks doing it all on holiday and at weekends gives him the right to behave like a total slob the rest of the time. And as for that apron, he wears it because it annoys me. No other reason. Ask him.'

Gaze out at knife-edge horizon, beneath which the sea is crisp navy blue and above which palest clouds scud about, and try to imagine being annoyed by a husband
who does everything but who wears PVC bosoms, when view is eclipsed by hands over my eyes.

‘Well hi there, gorgeous girls. What's grooving?' Gawain is standing behind me. Rose jumps up to welcome him.

‘Gawain, you're here. How was your journey? That little plane is terrifying, isn't it?'

She is not a bit surprised to see him, even though she doesn't know him as well as I do, and I wonder if I have forgotten that I knew he was coming.

‘What on earth are you doing here, Gawain?' Gawain has expression of joy writ large at the sensation his arrival has caused.

‘I ran into Tristan rollerblading in the park, and he said that you lot would be here for a week, so I arranged with him to come and surprise you, Venetia.'

‘Well you have.' Rose is glaring at me; I realise that I sound rude and graceless. Relax lemon face by hugging The Beauty tightly as we walk back to the picnic.

Gawain is an exotic addition to our party, and I covet his clothes: his shirt is lobster pink and crinkly like cheesecloth and his trousers are purple velvet. He is on excitable form, and dashes to the pub for beers to add to the picnic. We expect him to return in moments saying the bar fell silent when he entered. He does not return.

Am sent to fetch him, and find him playing darts with
two old fishermen whom he has just bought pints of Guinness. In Norfolk his appearance would stop traffic, but in Donegal he is accepted and enjoyed. He finishes a rollerblading anecdote, and, gathering a box of beer cans from behind the door, returns with me to Rose and Tristan.

The picnic is prawns, shoals of pink curls matching Gawain's shirt. The Beauty enjoys them hugely, especially when she learns to pull the prawn from its shell, and she eats eleven of them. We return to the house and The Beauty and I collapse in the swinging boat and sleep all afternoon.

Wake up refreshed and discover Gawain pretending to be domesticated and podding peas on the doorstep. He passes me an envelope. ‘This came yesterday, and I wanted to tell you.'

Snatch it and tear it open, heart banging because for no reason, am convinced it is bad news about the boys. It is from New York, so can relax, but am too traumatised to be able to read the whole page of close typing.

‘I can't face reading it, Gawain, what does it say?'

He returns the letter to his pocket and grins saying, ‘We won the portrait prize for the show next month.'

Much clapping and jumping up and down pleases him, but I can tell I am still not reacting properly. Must show more interest.

‘Who is the portrait of? Have you got a photograph
of it? Will it make Normal for Norfolk more valuable? Speaking of which, where is my painting, Gawain?'

Gawain groans dramatically. ‘Christ, you're a halfwit, Venetia. Have you really forgotten? It's you. Remember, I took some photographs of you in Norfolk for it, but I haven't got a snap of it here, I'm afraid.'

Amazing, delightful news. Surely this must be how Miss World feels, but better, as I did not have to wear high heels and a swimming costume. Rose appears from the beach like a mermaid, wrapped in a silver-green sarong, hair dripping down her back, skin glowing from sun and the sea. She looks exactly as I should like to look when emerging from the waves. I beckon her over to share the glad tidings about the portrait, and we caper about screeching, ‘Hooray!' until Tristan brings champagne and olives to the doorstep. Am becoming increasingly at ease with this grown-up and civilised way of life. Wonder if I can recreate it at home without Tristan. Doubt it.

Second glass of champagne and Tristan is becoming ever more my ideal man. He has persuaded The Beauty and Theo to lie down in the boat sofa and is singing Bob Marley to them. About to suggest to Rose that we share him when notice his long yellow toenails for the first time. And he burps at the table to annoy Rose. And, of course, there is the apron. Gawain is crawling around in the sea singing a shanty and resembling a Labrador. It is hard to imagine a holiday romance with him, let alone a life. Why
am I even bothering to think pointless thoughts about putting a man back into my life?

August 24th

Home again. House seems vast after Donegal cottage, but garden a minuscule doll's house version of a jungle, now that I am used to having the serene sea as my lawn. Make shepherd's pie in triumphant non-fashion statement. Shaking Worcester sauce into it and enjoying nursery-kitchen aroma, I know that I am a pedestrian housewife at heart rather than chic free spirit with a need for everything perfect about me. The Beauty is overjoyed to be home, and dashes from room to room shouting, ‘Ha ha,' and patting cushions. Rags returns in the sidecar of Smalls's motorbike, and The Beauty squats on the doorstep and hugs her. Have terrible anticipatory butterflies by the time Felix and Giles are dropped off.

‘Mummy, we're back.'

‘Hello-oo, where are you?'

They burst through the front door ahead of Charles and are so different. Brown and freckled faces which have cheekbones I had never noticed before are smiling at me. Felix nearly as tall as Giles, and both surely six inches taller than a week ago. The Beauty jumps up and down
wrinkling her nose and shouting, “Allo, ‘allo,' at anyone listening. Charles is international man of mystery in appearance, with suntan and his usual smirk. Practically push him out of the door before the boys can say thank you, so desperate am I to have them to myself again.

August 25th

Club Med was not a success. ‘It was like a prison with a huge fence and we never saw Mount Etna,' is Felix's verdict on the holiday, and, in mitigation: ‘There were loads of really cool lizards, and I saw a snake in the swimming pool.'

Giles is hardly less surreal. ‘They had a thing called the Black and White Minstrel Show at night, and we did circus stunts every morning and it was so hot that one boy passed out and fell off the trapeze and had to go to hospital in a helicopter.' He pauses, looks at me measuringly and adds, ‘Helena liked the entertainment. She wanted to do belly dancing, but Dad wouldn't let her.'

Mind boggles. Cannot wait to see holiday snaps.

August 26th

Mistakenly saw garden as jungle on my return from Ireland. Closer inspection reveals it to be arid parched zone with yellowing bindweed, vast sunflowers and strident fuchsias. Must do something about it. Good intentions are set back when putting on wellingtons. Sidney has been using them as a game larder. Unearth a dried shrew in one red ankle-length boot, and the tail feathers of a blackbird in the high-heeled aubergines. Discouraged, I opt for my oldest pair, green with holes in heels and soles, and stomp out leaving Felix, The Beauty and Giles watching
Dirty Dancing,
our latest bargain from the Spar shop, and at £2.99 for two hours, cheaper than a babysitter.

Satisfying session with wheelbarrow and spade getting rid of all but the sunflowers in readiness for autumn planting. Am wiping brow and enjoying dark chocolate brownie texture of the soil I have turned, when gravel-crunching and vehicle-groaning interrupts. A small blue van with Heath Robinson trailer is inching up the drive, terrible squeals suggesting a need for oil. Waving from the front seat and beaming are Vivienne and Simon. I chuck my tools down and rush to bang on the playroom window, interrupting Patrick Swayze at a particularly suggestive moment.

‘Quick, boys, the piglets are here.'

This visit was arranged months ago when Simon's sow, Portia, gave birth to fourteen piglets, some spotty like fruitcake, some ginger and some plain pink. All very clean and reminiscent of old-fashioned sweetshops and Sam Pig stories. Had powerful desire to knot red spotted handkerchiefs around their necks. Simon offered us six of them. ‘You can have them to stay and they'll clear some of your rough ground,' he said, flicking cigarette ash into his jacket pocket, his face smothered in generous smiles at the thought of his clever plan for getting someone else to bring them up for him.

Six piglets in June, when they fitted into the palm of a hand or the crown of a hat, had seemed scarcely adequate for the rough ground, but now six large snouts sniff the air. Hairy faces and guttural grunts greet the boys, reaching towards the bars of the trailer to stroke them. They are warned off by Simon.

‘No, wait. Let them get used to you. Their teeth are very sharp. Come on, let's put up the fence,' he says, and wreathing the boys in electric fencing tape, marches off with them to the wood.

Vivienne is still sitting in the car, with The Beauty beside her, standing at the wheel as if she is Boadicea, making vrooming noises and waggling all the levers. Keen to sit down after my digging, I climb into the back seat for a rest. Next to me is the watering-can handbag, no longer an object for derision, but somehow amusing and chic,
and coordinating with Vivienne's sea-green cashmere cardigan and little lavender skirt. Am amazed at her choice of outfit for pig husbandry.

‘How can you keep clean?' I ask in wonder, glancing down at my formerly white jeans, now skewbald with mud patches and speckled like an egg where I spilt tea on myself at breakfast time.

Vivienne strokes The Beauty's hair. ‘I'm not clean, these clothes are filthy, that's why I'm wearing them.'

Evidently, we have different standards of hygiene.

Felix runs up from the wood.

‘Simon says can you bring them down now, and he says you'd better drive across the lawn.' He gives Vivienne his most pleading look.

‘Vivienne, please, please could I drive?'

She is no match for him.

‘All right then, at least you can see over the steering wheel, unlike your sister.'

The Beauty is passed back to me, rigid with fury, howling into my ear. I elect to walk with her, and we stand well back as Felix crunches the gears and bounces van, Vivienne and piglets across the lawn. Simon and Giles are putting the finishing touches to the corral, and with an old door propped up on bales for a house, and a big sink as a water trough, it is very inviting and Three Little Pigs-ish. Blood-curdling screams and trumpetings herald the piglets as the ramp of the trailer comes down, but no
movement follows. Two fruitcake ones are prone across the doorway, the rest milling about behind them unable to work out the route. Simon shakes a bucket of food and the fruitcakes leap to attention, trotting out and into their field like veterans. Vivienne has reclaimed The Beauty, and takes her into the corral to sit on the largest piglet. An early morning oversight prevented The Beauty from dressing today, and sitting on the rusty brown piglet in her white embroidered nightie she looks like a painting, maybe ‘Baby Circe and the Swine'. Must ask my mother if Circe knew any pigs as a baby.