It was a magnificent party. How could it have been anything but ? A steady, even sunlight filtered through deep green ancient trees, spotting guests and lawn alike. That first tingling feeling of November sun teasing at skin, nagging to be allowed to enter bones and warm bodies still recovering from a sharp winter and a soggy spring. Manicured grass unravelling in every direction until it collided with blooming bowers and bushes of roses. And the homestead, placid and inviting with cool corridors and calm clocks measuring the minutes. And the overpowering fragrance of flowers filling the breezy rooms.  

It was the first time I had been to the house, although I had heard a thousand stories of its inhabitants. What struck me was the stillness, in spite of all the people. Giant white ceramic trays laden with explosions of pastry and jam and cream hovered across the lawns and verandahs, the waiters beneath them almost invisible. Somewhere, deep in the house, middle aged women with kind smiles fussed over tea and coffee and savoury finger foods which would no doubt have been delicious, had I bothered to sample them. Padding quietly, nuzzling idle fingers, the Alsatian promised to take care of anything the guests left behind.  

A glass of Chardonnay grew warm in my hand as I fell under the drowsy spell of the late afternoon sun. Leaning against the pillars of the verandah I could watch the people milling about, and see the incongruities of their forced chatter, eyes wandering to watches and over shoulders. Mostly strangers, few seemed to know how to behave in the circumstances. The same banal questions and answers see-sawed back and forth and everyone seemed to wonder just exactly how long a person was expected to stay at such a party.  

Ignoring convention and politeness, I found myself in a field overlooking a valley behind the house. Stretched out in the sun and the long, soft grass, not yet scorched white by the ferocity of summer, the sky seemed an endless dome of blue. From time to time noisy antique aircraft gurgled across it leaving stains of smoke and slashing the blue to pieces. I don’t know how long I was there before I started screaming. Loud, violent, filled with the pain of the week just endured. Perhaps I was screaming for all the proper, well-mannered guests who couldn’t. Perhaps for the ladies too busy with the tea to think of it. Or perhaps just for me. Perhaps all the tea and cakes and fussing were to stop us screaming. Does it matter ?  

There weren’t any teas left by the time I made it to the lovely garden party on the lawn. I had used them all up and mingled them with everybody else’s. Lying in the grass watching the air be kind enough to hold those puttering little planes aloft, brought home the randomness and injustice of the one plane it had allowed to fall from the sky a few days earlier, and the friend it had taken with it. Smart suits and summer dresses suspended awkwardly in a carefully trimmed garden did not seem to me a way to say goodbye to a spirit who had thrived on the recklessness of keeping an engine in the sky. It was a magnificent party, by any standards. But I couldn’t help but wonder if the absent guest of honour would have wanted it this way. Or would he have preferred us all to lie in the grass and wonder at the sky ?