Hell's Bells


A gossip of grandmothers gathers among the cool boxes, the shopping bags, plastic containers and tins. While their capable hands are busy scooping, slapping, covering they incessantly talk about wayward children and medical conditions. Ingredients are diced and sliced, made and mixed, sandwiches filled and cut, each dainty triangle artistically arranged on its doilied tray. With tense exuberance the woman in charge controls the activity; arranging, cajoling, exchanging, re-doing each and every finicky operation. ‘There, doesn’t that look nice, don’t you think,  - but don’t you think so?’ Insecurity peeping. Assorted cakes of every make, elaborate and plain, sugared and creamed, spread out to tempt.

That ham, reared in intensive Danish farm, died for you to throw bits away. These crusts, enough to feed a family for a week, slung in bin bags for irreverent disposal. That cake, more eye than tongue, gathered from more than one country of origin to be crumbled and chucked. Conspicuous waste for the jaded temptation of the rich. A swan comes in, parades around, casts a beady eye, re-arranges, comments and departs.

The duchesses pause for lengthy socialising over an elegantly prepared luncheon – this is what it’s all about.

Outside the wind becomes unreasonable. Are we sailing? No, we’re not. Yes, we are. Have we too much tea, too little, too late? Uncertainty sets in.

The music bursts like rock-smashing waves, the trombone shouts, a dissonance of instruments breaks out, the tempo quickens, the noise decibels. Colour, noise, wet-suited people swirl and chat, like parrots in a zoo.

The women hang around, waiting for custom; counting the plates, mashing the tea, checking the table. It’s beautiful just. So much food, a temptation to hens to peck whilst clucking among feathery friends.

Wasps for the flowers, covert non-payers; sneaky children, paunchy seniors slide past the begging bowl, dart a hand, mouth a meringue. Vegetarians peer and recoil. Now there is too much indifferent cake, squishy sandwiches with questionable fillings, food flyblown, wasp-tasted, discarded polystyrene cups and paper plates, litter to be batched and dispatched later.

Outside, the sea enticingly sparkles, the waves fill and fade, the breeze blows catspaws, the boats dance, the air breathes life. And I inside – ultimate frustration.

Restronguet Sailing Club, Tuesday, Falmouth Week, Tea, Hell, TR11 5UF.