The Invitation

Jane often feels a little awkward amongst groups of mothers. I’m afraid females don’t always grow out of silly, cliquey schoolyard behaviour. I include Rachel and her coven in this. But sometimes it can be good to confront one’s fears. Anyway, when I looked over, Jane seemed happy enough amid the Kate Greenaways and there were only a few fractious toddlers playing nearby.

I was soon deep in my maps, lost to the world. It wasn’t until Jane coughed by my elbow that I realised how much time had ticked by. One look outside confirmed the worst; the tide had turned and we’d missed our chance with the crossing.

For a happy moment, I thought I’d been let off the hook, and we could return safely home, with only the minor inconvenience of purchasing a new rail ticket to show for the weekend. But no; Jane had a plan B. She’s very efficient, my wife.

I was rather appalled when we finally tracked down the boatman on the pier. Not only had the wind got up, adding a distinct chill to proceedings, but the boat he indicated didn’t look particularly seaworthy. You would think, with the Cadogan millions at her disposal, that Rachel would have bought a nice new vessel. But no. We had to lurch aboard a leaky old skiff and sit amongst lobster pots and nets festooned with defunct sea life. I did quip to Jane that we might not arrive scented with the sort of eau de toilette that Rachel might expect. But she didn’t seem to find it amusing.

At first I thought our skipper was going to row, and I believed we might miss most of the first night’s festivities. But he soon got an outboard motor to splutter into life and then we were zipping along like billy-o. Jane certainly perked up, and I resigned myself to the approaching ordeal, her smiles a recompense for all I was sure was to come.

I’ve never much enjoyed the company of the Rachel set over the years, even at the most propitious of times – the usual slew of gatherings, drinks parties and the like, that keep the social wheels turning. And, with everything that’s transpired recently, I can truthfully say I am not looking forward to this at all.

However, with my good wife at my side, I am confident we will get through the event and emerge at the end of the weekend, as Henley put it in Invictus, ‘bloody but unbowed’. Of course, Rachel’s island isn’t going to match the rest of that poem, and turn out to be a ‘place of wrath and tears’, full of ‘the horror of the shade’.

Or at least, I certainly hope not.