Hens Dancing (24 page)

Charles hangs around while I put them all to bed. He doesn't come in, but hovers at the front of the house in the dark, unloading the luggage, brushing the seats, removing The Beauty's throne. By the time the children are tucked up, his car has reverted to its customary state of luxury, and there is no trace of squalor, or of the children.

‘They are not talking to Helena,' he says. ‘She is very upset.'

We are on the doorstep, having a conversation I hate already. My throat is tight with anger, and adrenalin courses through my veins as if on the Cresta Run.

‘They're upset too. Your news was bound to be difficult for them. They'll be fine when the babies are born.'

‘Oh, do you think so? I'll tell Helena; it'll cheer her up.' He shuffles his feet and looks wretched.

‘I think you should make some plans for your time with them that are separate from Helena and the babies. Just for a while.'

He nods, his brow clearing as though he has confessed and been absolved, and salutes my cheek before driving off. There are not many people these days who still salute a cheek. Charles does it with the driest brush. It is painless to receive, and about as thrilling as a roll of kitchen towel.

November 10th

The only flower in my garden is a white chrysanthemum, given to me last year by a school friend of Giles's as a thank you for having him to stay. Not being a big
chrysanthemum fan, I let it hang around in the porch until it had finished flowering, then planted it without thinking, on the edge of the drive. Now, when the rest of the garden slumbers beneath a thick carpet of manure, and leaf interest is everything, it has burst into soggy flamboyance. Keep catching sight of it when arriving or leaving the house, thinking it is a collection of discarded tissues or other litter, and having mini-apoplexy. Similar temper caused daily by Rags, who is loving the easy access to well-rotted pig shit and rolls in the flowerbeds before coming in to lie on the sofa every morning. No matter how many tuberose joss sticks I burn, the house remains sty-like in ambience. Odd how a bad smell can affect appearance also. House is becoming trailer-park and tawdry. Shall not be discouraged or dragged down myself, but will improve everything. First, the chrysanthemum must go.

November 14th

Desmond's birthday. Fortunately he is in Sri Lanka, washing elephants, so don't have to give him a present.

November 15th

My mother's birthday. The children give her a Glamorous Granny mug with transfer of Dolly Parton/Minna type on one side, and, mysteriously, a large dog on the other. I give her a purple inflatable chair and a pair of yellow ankle-length gardening boots like my red ones. We make a cake in the shape of a Teletubby and take it to her house for lovely family tea. She is out. We telephone the pub. She and The Gnome are there. Their words are slurring. Return home in giant lemon mode.

November 16th

Poison pygmy Helena's birthday. Send her a pair of outsize knickers from Woolworths.

November 17th

Travel many miles under cover of darkness to procure bargain of the century – a proper snooker table for fifty pounds. Find this covetable item in the free paper and
have to bribe Jenny the babysitter with double time to get her away from her seed germination trays in order that I can be first on the vendor's doorstep with the cash in my hand. It is to be Giles's birthday present, and must therefore be erected tonight. More bribing of Jenny, and the presence of Smalls, are the only way to get the vast slab into the house. It takes hours, during which there are many moments of tight-lipped silence, and bursts of strong language. Comforting to think that the rows are nothing to what they would have been if we had all been married to one another. At last it is up. The glossy balls beckon in a neat squad on acres of smooth green. A quick game is called for to celebrate, and a few beers to relax us. Totter to bed at three in the morning, with muscles seizing up after unnatural exertion of becoming a removals woman, and crone-like curved spine setting in. Sleep is scarcely achieved when The Beauty begins her matutinal calls at six o'clock in the morning.

November 18th

Giles's birthday. He tears downstairs to open his cards, and tries to look grave and don't care-ish that his present pile consists only of Silly Putty, a pair of Superman socks and a book token from a great-aunt.

‘Oh, it's great,' he says of the Silly Putty, ‘I've always wanted some.'

The rest of us, having festooned the snooker table in ribbons while Giles was getting dressed, cannot bear the suspense. Before he can finish his bacon, Felix has blindfolded him and he is being propelled by The Beauty, through rather than around furniture, to the playroom.

‘Surprise. Happy Birthday!' Felix and I shout, and Giles opens his eyes. The hugest grin splits his face.

‘Wow, wow, wow,' he gasps. And then hugs me and Felix, patting The Beauty's head, trying to thank all of us at once. ‘Thank you, Mummy.'

Weep mawkishly into a tea towel as he and Felix purr and exclaim at the top-notch present. Charles has supplied cues, a triangle, many blocks of blue chalk, one of which The Beauty is keenly sucking, and some bar towels. Why bar towels? Instantly find a use for them, though, and ambush The Beauty with a towelling rectangle saying ‘Carlsberg', before she can leave the room to smear blue slug trails from her fingers and face onto everything.

Six boys come back from school to stay the night. None of them sleeps, preferring to play snooker and watch videos of
The Full Monty, The Simpsons
and
Fawlty Towers
all night. Following Giles's instructions to the letter, I feed them marshmallows, Coke, Twiglets and slices of
processed cheese. I am banned from going into the attic, which they have made their lair, but have to communicate via walkie-talkie.

November 19th

The tallest of Giles's friends thanks me for a lovely time and for being ‘a totally chilled mother'. My day is made.

November 23rd

My birthday. As usually, totally birthdayed-out by this point and have reached a point far beyond civility or even partying. Elect to go to the cinema with my mother and Simon and Vivienne in the evening. Giles and Felix are adorable and make me breakfast in bed. Scrambled eggs, toast, strawberry Nesquik and Toblerone arrive on a tray with three home-made cards. Felix's has a zebra on it wearing sunglasses. It has a cartoon balloon wafting above its mouth announcing: ‘It's a Stripy Day'. The Beauty's is more abstract with just a smear of butter and a couple of crumbs, and Giles's is a still life of a tennis shoe. There are presents too.

‘We bought them with Granny in Budgens,' explains Felix, wrapping one leg round the other and overbalancing in anticipation. He has given me a packet of chocolate cornflakes.

‘How delicious, Felix, how did you know that I love these the most?'

He is terribly pleased with this reaction. ‘Do you? That's really good. I chose them because they've got Space Trolls inside, and I wanted one.'

Giles kicks him; he howls.

‘Shut up,' says Giles. ‘You shouldn't give people things just because you want them.'

‘Shut up yourself. You didn't even buy Mummy something in Budgens. You—'

Wave my arms and yell as forcefully as possible from trapped position beneath my tray. ‘Come on, you two, let's not have a row. Let's see what Giles has given me.'

It is a false arm.

‘It's meant to be like The Thing in
The Addams Family,'
says Giles, watching me keenly and trying to gauge my reaction. ‘I got it in the shopping mall in Cambridge.'

The arm wears a white sleeve and likes to be draped out of pianos or car doors. Am nonplussed. Fortunately Giles has stopped looking at me. He has seized the arm and is demonstrating its skill at dangling from my knicker drawer. Following the success of this interlude, the arm is accompanied out of the room and around the house,
until it is finally given some peace when it is posted through the letter box.

‘Mum, will you take a photograph of the postman when he sees it?'

The Beauty gives me a pair of false eyelashes and a leather diary.

‘How smart and kind. What a thoughtful—'

Am interrupted by the return of Felix. He picks up the diary.

‘Oh, no! You can't have this, Mum. You'll be arrested. The Beauty stole it. In fact, she shoplifted it. What's the difference?' Felix pauses to glare at his sister.

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Well, anyway, Granny didn't notice it in the pushchair when we came out of the newspaper shop. It's a crime, and I said I'd take it back and I forgot. Will she be in trouble?'

He removes the stolen goods. Am very impressed by the high moral tone, but also disappointed; a new diary would be perfect. Perhaps I can sneak it back when Felix has forgotten about it again.

My mother meets me at the cinema with a green furry hot-water-bottle cover and a bunch of white roses made of satin and adorned with plastic dewdrops. David is with her. Immensely cheering, as Simon and Vivienne cannot come, and three are always better than two at dealing with Cromer.

‘Happy Birthday, Venetia.' David kisses me and proffers a selection of gifts. ‘I couldn't decide what to give you, so I brought all the things I had available.'

Not quite sure how to take this. There is a leopard-skin lead for Rags, who never has one, with a label saying, ‘Love from Digger.' There is a scarf with poppies and anemones on it, and a glass scent bottle with a crystal stopper.

‘Oh, David, how lovely. And how girlie.'

Eyes begin to smart with emotion and excitement. Suddenly realise what a thrill it is to receive girlie things, and how I have missed it. Hug him, accidentally dropping my hot-water-bottle cover into a puddle.

After the film (most satisfactory, being a costume drama with many horses, spirited heroines plus swashbuckling men, almost all of Georgette Heyer or Tolstovian quality), we scuttle down the High Street to the Indian, which apart from Le Moon, is the only restaurant to stay open beyond nine o'clock. Order Tiger beers and piles of poppadoms from a waiter who looks like a parrot with a curved nose and shaggy hair in a crest from his crown to his shoulders. Mouthwatering smells of grilling chicken and sauces seep from the kitchen and we eat all the poppadoms while admiring the disco decor of black velvet walls with hanging baskets of neon-green plastic plants and gold foil ceiling. David is wearing a grey shirt of extreme softness and loveliness, cut to emphasise broad shoulders. Cannot
stop looking at it, coveting it and the notion of having someone to give it to. Wonder who gave it to him. Don't dare ask. We stay at the restaurant until one in the morning and drink quantities of Bailey's Irish Cream liqueur.

Driving my mother home, am engulfed in warm joy.

‘This was an especially nice birthday,' I enthuse, but am met with a deep exhalation of breath. She is asleep in the back seat, propped up against The Beauty's throne, having refused to travel in the front because of my driving.

November 27th

Winter, as always, sets in as soon as the birthdays are over, and a sharp frost last night has left the hens' water bowl frozen and the car windscreen sparkly and groovy to look at but impossible to see through. Pour kettle of boiling water over it; very pleased with myself for remembering this practical tip. The piglets are going to the butcher today, so I cannot bear to be at home. We gave them apple crumble and fish fingers and macaroni cheese for their last supper. During this melancholy half-hour, one of the fruitcakes bit Giles, while a pink scraped the top layer of skin from my shin with its razor-sharp hoof, so their departure is not all bad.

Drop the boys at school and take The Beauty shopping in Norwich. Appalled to discover that Christmas is in full swing a mere twenty miles from my home, and all shops are decked with tinsel and piping carols. The Beauty has huge fun dancing along to ‘Ding Dong Merrily' in the Marks & Spencer's ladies' changing room, where I try on and reject three depressing, matronly skirts, and finally select a knee-length pink felt one from the children's section. Marks & Spencer fourteen-year-old girls are the size of normal adults. Must be the delicious oven-ready meals. Buy many of these, especially the puddings. Supper with the boys tonight will be great, we shall have chicken Kiev with ready-washed new potatoes and chocolate bread-and-butter pudding.

‘Mmmmmm. Yummy, yummy,' says The Beauty, who is most interested by the shopping and has climbed onto the conveyor belt to help me. Think about doing Christmas shopping, like everyone else, but am too daunted to begin. Have made no lists as yet, so am paralysed. The Beauty and I spend the afternoon in the toy shop testing different kitchen sets. She likes the most expensive one. It is an architect-designed cooker and surface set based on a highly fashionable restaurant, and has lots of organic-looking plastic veg on shelves and sheaves of black spaghetti. It also has heavenly miniature enamel implements, and a set of saucepans I could share with The Beauty. They would be big enough for boiling a
bantam egg or making hot chocolate for one. Very practical. Very economical. Am so relieved that she doesn't like the soppy Cabbage Patch kitchen that I buy the architect-designed one for her. It costs more than I can believe; all the props are extra, but I am in too deep and just pay up. It will be delivered the week before Christmas. Hooray. One down, just a few more now. Pity it cost all my money.

Head for home, but pause at a groovy men's clothes shop, attracted by my favourite Willie Nelson track reaching its crescendo on the shop's sound system. A completely beautiful purple shirt beckons from the first rail. Simultaneously, The Beauty and I reach out and touch it.

‘Aaah,' she says.

‘Ooh,' I agree.

Buy it, and on the way home wonder why. Who can I give it to? Desmond, I suppose. What a waste. Maybe I can keep it myself.

November 29th

Sunday morning is spent arguing with the children. Their view of Christmas shopping is that I should take them to a shop, let them run riot and then pick up the tab. Mine
is that they should choose very tiny, inexpensive items for everyone and pay for them with their own money. Cold War; no compromise is reached.