I followed his gaze. As we got closer to the fire, I saw Babs — oh, and Celia, too, good. Amongst the milieu of almost exclusively young people who were swaying laconically to the music, Babs and Celia, ciggies aloft, were very definitely boogying on down with gusto around imaginary handbags. Singing along at the tops of their voices to whatever song they were thrilled enough to recognize, all angst between the two of them clearly forgotten, they turned their faces up to the sky and fog-horned the chorus to ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ out into the night.

“Plastered,” observed Ted.

"Oh, completely."

“And the rest are my lot, of course," he added, glancing around. "Who will be in a similar state, but far more used to it.”

I made a considering face. “Babs has had a bit of practice.”

“True.”

We were nearly upon them now. The bass note from the speakers throbbed in my ears. Young girls in tiny shorts and cropped tops flirted and half danced in boys’ faces. I could feel the drink-fueled electricity from here: the snap and crackle of impending sex.

“Darlings!" Babs suddenly spotted us. She threw up her hands and ran to meet us.

Celia saw us and followed. "Isn't this fun? It's years since we've done this — remember how we used to, Flora?"

"I do."

It brought a bit of a lump to my throat, actually, albeit recalling a very different sort of party. Usually my father would light the fire, but always in a pit, surrounded by rocks, well supervised and military in fashion. We children would eat baked potatoes cooked in tin foil from it and poke them with sticks. Mum and Iris would fry sausages on a Primus stove and a local boy, Gideon, would play the guitar — Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen — and we'd all sing along. This was a very different sort of event. Not louche or out of hand, though, by any means, I thought, as I saw a group of students sitting in a huddle having an earnest discussion. Another group, all girls, were in a circle, singing along softly together. As Ted had observed, there was certainly more decorum amongst this age group than our peers. Two rather pretty blonde girls suddenly spied their professor. They leaped up to dash barefoot across the sand to lead him, protesting, by the arm, to their little singing coterie.

Babs’ face was instantly in mine. Her eyes were bloodshot and her breath billowed like a furnace.

"Well?" she hissed.

"Well what?"

“Are you having a lovely time?”

“Very pleasant, thank you, Babs." I stepped backwards to escape the fumes.

“Very pleasant? Veg pleasssant!" she slurred. "You're not at a garden party! You've got to go after him, hasn't she, Celia?" She turned to her new best friend. Celia was somewhat insensible, though. She swayed, mute and glassy-eyed, beside her. I hoped she wasn't going to puke. Babs took her arm and shook some life into her.