‘Goodbye and thank you – it’s been a lovely party,’ say little clusters of guests as we shake hands and squeeze shoulders and smile in the open doorway.
My husband, in the general confusion, seems to be shaking my hand and leaving with the others by mistake. At least I hope it’s by mistake.
I am relieved that the food and drink have gone down well and that the mixture of guests seems to have worked.
Lovely party or no, I always enjoy the next bit when a couple of long-standing trusties rummage around for drying-up cloths and we settle down at the kitchen sink for a good long, in-depth chat about how pretty Jillie looked in her Laura Ashley print and how grown-up Anna’s getting and what a marvellous person Great Aunt Dolly is in spite of all those years of gin and sin. Or perhaps because of them.
David’s moment of enjoyment comes when he discovers that there is still one unopened party pack of bitter. Happily he gathers up a straggle of left-over beer drinkers and arranges a coda to the main entertainment – a finishing-off party. For the rest of us it looks as if it is going to be trifle, trifle all the way through until Monday.
I love trifle. There is something about sloshing custard over assorted odds and ends (those few elderly sponge cakes, the half tin of mandarins, that little scrape of jam left in the jar) which appeals to my ‘waste not, want not’ instincts.
Through the years I’ve hit upon some amazing variations in flavour. In fact I think I recently stumbled across the secret formula for Coca Cola. (Chocolate Swiss roll, lemon jelly and very ripe bananas, in the right proportions, taste exactly like Coke.)
For my last parties, however, the results have been impeccable – ever since I tried out the recipe for that Good Housekeeping favourite – the one with the crumbled macaroons and jammy sponge and sherry and custard and double cream and oh boy, do make it if you haven’t already. This time I have to admit I overdid it, though, and in spite of second helpings all round, and some thirds and fourths, there’s still lots left.
The washing up continues, enlivened by a clutter of swopped recipes and post-party gossip. Someone relates their favourite party story of the bachelor friend who bravely decided to bake and serve a pie to his guests. Being without a pie funnel he seized the spout cover from the kettle. An ideal solution! Or so it seemed until suddenly, in mid Martini, a piercing whistle was heard coming from the hidden depths of the cooker.
We discuss another friend whose parties are large, colourful and invariably marvellous. The food in this particular household is always superb – but then for this particular wealthy hostess it isn’t all that difficult.
‘Mmm,’ cried an ecstatic guest in mid-forkful at her last do. ‘Where d’you catch your salmon?’
‘Harrods,’ she called back blithely.
Our own parties are much less formal affairs and certainly less expensive. We quite enjoy having lots of people in for ‘lunch with punch’ once or twice a year. If the weather is fine, guests drift prettily about outside, and our tiny garden is greatly enhanced by the odd sausage-on-a-stick found next day sprouting from the herb bed. I’m not too sure that Caesar, the guinea-pig, enjoys these occasions. Well-meaning folk will poke party food into his cage. Twiglets, nuts and crisps he can just about cope with. But please, my dears, no more stuffed olives, dill pickles or maraschino cherries.
On the whole, though, we all feel better for an occasional culinary splurge. Even if we do find that, by the look of the hall carpet afterwards, someone must have actually trodden in the Stilton, we can soon dart about with a soapy sponge. Which could not be said for a friend of mine who threw a graffiti party.
‘The hall needs re-decorating anyway,’ she told her guests. ‘So why not grab a pencil and get rid of a few inhibitions?’ Which they did. With enthusiasm. In fact, next morning the hostess was amazed at some of the inhibitions they’d got rid of.
Then it dawned on her that not only would she have to call in the decorators immediately but she’d have to meet them face to face and discuss the new décor surrounded by some of the most explicit drawings and fruitiest phrases ever written on walls anywhere …
I am relieved, too, that after our parties we can at least all face each other next morning, unlike those we keep hearing about where by the end of the evening, Jim’s wife and Muriel’s husband have both mysteriously disappeared, but there’s steam coming out of a cupboard upstairs. Not only do poor old Jim and Muriel have a rotten evening (unless by chance they, too, fancy each other – in which case it won’t be long before little men from The News of The World start arriving in plain brown envelopes) but there’s all that remorse and groaning and sheepishness to be got through the morning after. Not to mention weeks of scuttling up alleyways to avoid sober confrontation.
But now, with clear consciences and fairly unblemished décor, the last of the dishes and cutlery is put away. Likewise the last of the bitter. Some good soul is vacuuming the living room and an old friend who lives alone sighs and says how parties always seem to bring a house fully to life. Pantries, too, we decide. It isn’t every day we get to use the chocolate strands, the crystallized violets and the little silver balls.
‘Anyone for trifle?’ I say, without much hope, as I juggle extra space in the fridge. I expect I shall be saying this quite often during the next few days.