Schmoozing the Village

I went to the village harvest supper last night with my weekend guest. To say I had reservations would be an understatement: new to the village, knowing very few people, I had no idea how friendly they would be. We arrived in pitch blackness, no moon, and peering through the windows into the stark light we were amazed, speechless. Two huge tables running in parallel lines the length of the hall were packed with people, already eating. We looked at each other, eyes wide. Oh God, had we made a terrible mistake? But in we marched to be met by near silence, no animated conversation, no arm waving or gesticulations. Just the noiseless sight of people chomping stolidly. They looked up as we came in, and someone gestured to spare seats which we quickly took opposite each other. Our plates were already in front of us, ham salads tightly covered in cling film. A man - I recognised him as the chairman of the parish council, Tim - came up with a tray of baked potatoes and we took one each. No drinks - the bar was unmanned and we didn't want to make a fuss. Nobody spoke to us, they just concentrated on their food. We caught each other's eye and signalled wry concern. And I realised in a flash what was wrong: at similar functions in our previous village the whole demographic was represented, the chattering middle classes outnumbering the long-term residents. Here it was just the snaggle-toothed locals, as my guest observed. Decent, worthy, but devoid of the sort of social graces that make these events sparkle.

So we did what you do, threw ourselves into the spirit of the occasion. Like pros we chatted up the people on either side of us, drawing them out. Soon we had established rapports with several of them, and we relaxed and started to enjoy ourselves. Eventually tables were cleared to make a dance space, and some of our supper companions became The Brotherhood - two ageing men from Felixstowe who set up their music and sang their 60s repertoire. The two jolly (after several huge glasses of wine) ladies next to us suggested we started up a backing group, and so we swayed from side to side singing the words we remembered from first time around, doing little hand jives.

A beautiful young man sitting across the narrow hall from us had been tapping his feet, drumming his thighs, and soon he was a solitary presence on the dance floor, seemingly unaware of the rest of us, throwing himself into an ecstasy of movement. He was tall, fluid, graceful and dreamy-eyed, black hair flopping across his forehead. He was still dancing when other couples got up to join him. But while they were having a laugh or seriously waltzing, he continued to dance for himself, as unselfconscious as a child. Who was he? I can't wait to pop across the road to see my friends Sue and David and do a bit of post-event analysis. Surely gossip hasn't died out as a village art?