Hens Dancing by Raffaella Barker Page B

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 playingboules 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.
    â€˜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 isat 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Would you like another drink?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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