Hens Dancing by Raffaella Barker

nasturtium sandwiches, knowing that the boys will be furious if he accepts and will quarrel over who gives up their Twiglets to him. He accepts, and making a few remarks about leaving a lady to sunbathe in privacy, takes himself off into the house, promising to return at twelve-thirty.
    I settle down on a rug in the shade with The Beauty and
A la recherche du temps perdu,
which I always seem to have in the bottom of my bag, but never take out unless there is absolutely nothing else to read, not even a crisp packet. The Beauty coos and pats my shoulders and I begin to feel as languorous as Marcel himself, when my ear is invaded by a cold wet snout. It is Jack, Sir Nicholas’s Labrador, and with him Leo, Sir Nicholas’s eighteen-year-old son. Leo, blond, brawny and very California-beach-bum, lollops towards the pool, hurdling the box hedging. The enchanting, blonde cause of this athleticism follows wearing the merest hint of a bikini. Felix andGiles return from their donkey-watch in time to see Leo execute an elaborate dive. We wait for him to surface, expressions of impressed awe at the ready, but disaster has struck. Leo rises from the pool with blood cascading down his face, his hand pressed against a wound in his forehead. He staggers out and collapses on the edge of the pool. The blonde rushes to his side, ministers for a second, then shudders and recoils, throwing something small and bloody onto the ground.
    â€˜Urgh! Gross. A bit of your head’s come off,’ she says.
    Giles and Felix rush forward. ‘Let’s see, where is it? What bit?’
    Leo groans. ‘Quick, pick it up,
pick it up.’
But as if in a nightmare Jack the Labrador snuffles towards the small red dollop the blonde has chucked. Leo roars, ‘That’s mine,’ and lurches, but too late – Jack’s pink tongue scoops up the itinerant piece of flesh and it is gone. Slobbering goodwill, the Labrador moves over to Leo and affectionately licks his bloodstained face. Leo and the blonde sob unrestrainedly in one another’s arms. Giles photographs the wet concrete where the bit of Leo’s head had lain.
    July 19th
    At last, Giles and Felix have stopped kicking furniture and moaning ‘I’m bored’ every three minutes, and are building a tree house. The handbag crew are coming tomorrow to set up, and David will be here later today to prepare the ground for them, I am not sure why or how. Have not seen David since bacchantine feast and am apprehensive. How much can he remember? I have toe-curling memories of a nearly naked ping-pong tournament, a show-off session dancing on the dinner table and subsequent falling off, and, finally, singing ‘Jolene’ in a much too earnest voice. Oh, God.
    David is early. The sight of him, carrying a ladder out of the barn with Felix, gives me a nasty fright as I trip across the yard in my dressing gown and duck-beak-yellow wellies. These are a vast improvement on the red ankle-length ones, and were sent by Rose with a gloomy note saying, ‘The nearest we’ll get to sunshine.’
    Consider it best to ignore Felix and David until they speak, so set to work feeding the hens and staring at the sky. Hard to believe that sludge-grey clouds ever existed, and especially last week, as we are now immersed in sunshine and even the evenings are silk-warm and glowing with rose-stained sunsets. A puff of feathers and hot air greets me when I open the hen-house door in pursuit of eggs. No eggs, just a broody hen, clamped likea tea cosy over her clutch. I stretch my hand cautiously under her and count seven eggs. David, the ladder and Felix approach, David unnecessarily jaunty for this hour.
    â€˜Hi, Venetia, I love your boots. Can you come and give us a hand with this ladder?’ He is not going to mention the party, his expression is preoccupied and distant. What a relief that men are so peculiar. We march in convoy with the ladder down to the wood, where Giles