Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

  Jude flinched as she read her date of birth with its eight numbers seperated by forward slashes. It only seemed like yesterday since she was at university, getting lost in the endless corridors, walking for miles to reach the library and falling in love with the man of her dreams. Now here she was on the verge of turning forty and life had passed her by so quickly that it was scary. More than scary, damn outrageous, and it was only of late that Jude began to feel like she was living again – alive in more ways than simply breathing in oxygen and exhaling its toxic pollutants – she was living the stuff that her dreams were made of. She was living her dreams and yet she had never felt more awake.

  Jude pulled out from the car park, manoeuvring slowly as she passed the Parent and Child spaces. Anna had once run out in front of a car when she was a toddler. Jude had her back turned for a single second as she unclipped Tom’s safety clasp, lifting him from his car seat when she heard the screech of slamming brakes followed by the piercing cries of her beautiful daughter. The car hadn’t touched her. She was one of the lucky ones. Jude felt as much for the driver of the car as she did for herself and Anna that day.

  Even as young kids, Tom and Anna were head-turners. Both of them. They had inherited the best qualities of herself and Clive and life came to them so easily that it brought a lump to her throat as she cruised along, heading back to Sophie’s shop to test the sample paints now that the plastering had dried out. It would take double the coats than if the walls had simply been left in their original condition, which they could easily have been – but Jude felt that the refined smoothness would add to the artistic perfection she was hoping for.

  Both Tom and Anna were in the top sets at school, excelling too in tennis, polo, dressage for Anna and golf for Tom. The children had had life handed to them on a plate since the day they were born and Jude had been there to dish out more as soon as their hungry mouths were open and willing to take it.

  She too had led a priveleged life and it was second nature to her to allow her children to benefit from the same upbringing, organic and uncontrived. It was Clive, however, who wanted the opposite of the life he had where his parents struggled to make ends meet and it was his past which drove his future. It had shaped him well and truly, moulding him into a cast-iron, non-malleable figure and Jude knew that he was not easily persuaded and it was this that worried her.

  Jason stood behind the protective trunk of a tree which had no doubt witnessed every burial since the existence of the graveyard. Its roots spanned the width of a car jutting out above ground level, with complex shapes and a twisted infrastructure holding its seventy-foot-high torso firmly in place.

  He watched as the Volkswagen hearse rolled to a perfectly controlled stop and the pallbearers shuffled towards it, clearly dreading lifting the weight of someone who was a central figure in their lives. A mother figure. Someone who would soon be rotting away, experiencing the dreaded lividity of greying skin and the stiffened muscles of rigor mortis.

  Jason recognised some of the mourners. They were his aunts, uncles and cousins. He should have been there, so should his father, and he wanted nothing more than to perform a demonstration of disrespect to the decomposing body who had torn him away from a whole side of family that he never got the opportunity to know. He was a child for Christ’s sake. What did it have to do with him? Yet he and his brother had suffered at the hands of an adult spat and he had felt like the odd one out for as long as he could remember.

  He laughed scornfully at the wonderment of his parents as they struggled to understand his provocative behaviour. How blinkered where they? Consumed in their own plight. He had been brought up knowing his grandparents existed and yet he couldn’t see them. He had heard stories from friend of friends who knew the family, hearing how they spoiled his cousins while he and Neil got nothing and he had eavesdropped on his parents when the contention between them climaxed, hearing the bitterness in their voices. Jason knew that his life was not the same as the life which his friends had lived. He was robbed. Robbed of relationships which should have come as par for the course and he was still hurting from the insecurities he was left with.

  “Let’s do it one more time,” Darren ordered as Roni panted hard.

  “I can’t. You’ve worn me out,” she puffed.

  “Stop being a wimp.”

  Darren jumped into the water taking the yellow float from her. He lay on his stomach stretched out, kicking his legs just below the water’s surface. He made no splash as he demonstrated the technique to his trainee.

  Roni watched carefully, determined to imitate it to perfection.

  “You’re doing this, Roni.” Darren kicked his legs above the water soaking Roni in the process.

  “Oi!”

  He handed the float back to her. Their fingers touched as they exchanged the piece of floating rubber and Roni felt a bolt of electricity pass through her.

  “Lie flat on your stomach and remember to kick from your hips not your knees,” he ordered. “All you’re doing, Roni, is using too much energy splashing about and that’s why you’re glued to the same spot not moving anywhere and yet tiring yourself out unecessarily. Don’t stop until you’ve reached the other side . . . I don’t care how tired you are. We’re nearly done.”

  Roni lifted her chin, squirting out a mouthful of bleached water as she tried hard to mimic the actions of a seamless Olympic swimmer. She felt her body dipping as it struggled to stay afloat. Her legs simply refused to stay close to the surface. They wanted to walk on the floor to get to the other side instead of swimming and it was that which Roni’s mindset had to forcibly change.

  Darren mused as he watched his protégée tackle the challenge of the entire width of the pool. He would be sad when he had to say goodbye to her.

  Roni was kind, endearing and enigmatic, but most of all she was – had been – a lost soul searching for her very core and she was within a cat’s whisker of finding it. Darren knew that his work with Veronica Smyth was nearly done. She would soon be able to swim. Okay, she’d never be a natural, that was evident, but she would soon be able to manage a few strokes without the float aid which was about to be taken from her for good. She was a strong, determined woman who could tackle anything she desired once her mind was put to it but it was the way in which she tackled things that had caught Darren’s attention within moments of setting eyes on her. It was her worst enemy. She was her own worst enemy.

  Darren swam across to the other side of the pool where an exhausted Roni puffed away as she clutched the safety of the side.

  “I did it! I did it!” she roared. “I didn’t put my feet down once . . . did you see me . . . did you?”

  Darren lifted her into his arms.

  “I did indeed.”

  She was featherlight as the buoyancy absorbed most of her body weight.

  Roni wrapped her legs around his waist. Her arms clasped around his broad shoulders and an oral battle recommenced as the fiery passion which they had tried to suppress reared its lustful head once more. Darren ripped at the bathing suit, baring her breasts, lying her back in the water as he teased them with his tongue and Roni’s groan echoed through the chalet as she was set free.

  She was becoming unrecognisable to herself.

  Kath added green cardamon pods to the mortar followed by whole black peppercorns and three sticks of cinnamon. She ground them down by pressing hard, whistling away as she enjoyed the rougness of her actions. It was cathartic and it took her mind off the funeral which was taking place not too far from where they lived.

  “Do you want some help, love?” James popped his head around the kitchen door. He was desperately trying to be brave and Kath applauded him for agreeing to the Curry Club on what would inevitably be one of the most difficult days in his life. The men would be great company for him tonight and Kath hoped the question they pulled out would make for light discussion.

  Helena had called earlier with plans for how she thought the night might go but all she had instructed wa
s for Kath to think of a sexist joke. Kath was still in the dark about what form the night would take.

  She trusted Helena.

  “That would be great, Jim, thanks.”

  Kath pulled a net of onions from beside her and thrust them at him. “Here, that’ll give you something to cry about,” she laughed.

  James smiled weakly. He recognised that all his wife was trying to do was distract him, add a little humour to this difficult day and he appreciated it. They had made up from the earlier spat. Kath had every right to be angry. Why wouldn’t she be? She’d stood back and watched her kids lose out on birthday presents, Christmas presents, and attention more importantly.

  “How come I always get the rubbish jobs?”

  Kath added two teaspoons of ground cumin, coriander and turmeric, watching as the colours changed into autumnal reds, a contrast to the bright, fine day which radiated from outside the small kitchen window that looked out onto a flagged garden filled with herbs and potted plants.

  “Can you cook?”

  James shook his head.

  “Well then.”

  He pulled a knife from its stand, using it to break a hole in the net, ripping at the rest of the bag it until half a dozen onions escaped, rolling beserkly around the cluttered work surface. One dropped onto the floor and he bent down to pick it up as another one fell landing right on his head.

  Kath squealed with laughter.

  “Give them here,” she laughed. “Go and watch the television or something.”

  James looked hurt. He was easily wounded the past few weeks.

  “I can do it, Miss Bossy Boots. Seriously now, pass them over, Kath, I’m okay. I need the distraction. . . plus I can tell the guys later that I cooked too!”

  “They might believe it but the girls will know better!”

  Kath glanced at his hand, pointing to it with the clay pestle.

  “Jim, you can’t chop onions with a bread knife, you eejit. Here,” Kath grabbed a sharp chopping knife from the pine block, “use this.”

  “Thanks.” James chopped the stalks from each end of the onion and Kath counted to ten silently as she watched him waste a good inch either side. She would need double the onions by the time he had finished using only the middle of them.

  “Where’s Jason today? I spoke to Neil and he said he’d gone out but he didn’t know where.”

  James wiped his eyes with his hands rubbing at them hard. “Aah!”

  “You don’t wipe your eyes with the same hand that’s been holding the flesh of the onion.” Kath was fast becoming exasperated. It was reminiscent of the boys when they were little and keen to help her as she took one step forwards and two steps backwards. But they had to learn, it was educational. James on the other hand was too long in the tooth to take on a culinary role. Kath had given up long ago and she dreaded being ill because she knew the only decent meal she would get was a fried egg on toast. But the irregular shifts he had always worked meant he had little time to learn any culinary skills.

  James splashed his face with water, drying it with a clean tea towel which he grabbed from the top drawer next to the sink.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk, love.”

  Kath was relieved that he would be out from under her feet. As usual, he had done half a job, leaving her to peel and chop the rest of the onions. The kitchen was the only place he ever let her down. Not that she really cared. On a scale of life, it had mattered little to her.

  “You do that. Maybe you could stop at the off-licence on the way back and stock up on some beer for the guys tonight? I’ve plenty of wine for the girls.”

  “Will do, love.”

  He kissed her forehead, avoiding the smear of orange powder on her left cheek.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Jason waited until the funeral procession had left the graveside after the short service. It was more than she deserved in his opinion. Maybe she’d been a good mother to the others, he’d never know. She certainly hadn’t been a good mother – any mother in fact – to his father, nor a good grandmother either. She didn’t deserve the salty tears nor the biblical words the wind carried in his direction. She could go to hell for all he cared. She had ruined the family life he wanted, but never had.

  He trudged slowly towards the open grave when the coast was clear, peering down into it. The scattered earth he had seen fall from shaking hands lay on the beech surface of the coffin beneath long-stemmed white roses which were – ironically – his mother’s favourite flower. That was their only similarity. That and James.

  As he stood glaring down at the wooden box with narrowed eyes, Jason realised that he had no plan of action. No idea of what he was to do in order to serve up the revenge he so wanted to impart. She was dead. Wasn’t that revenge enough?

  He picked up a mound of freshly dug earth, hurling it violently against the coffin, followed by another and another until his arm ached heavily. Yet still his heart felt no lighter. He wanted to do something for his father. A manly son-to-father gesture to show just how much he loved him. Let him know he was sharing the burden of his pain. But as the tears flowed down Jason’s face, it suddenly became clear. His father wanted nothing more than him – his son. He’d lost his mother and he didn’t want to lose anyone else, certainly not to a set of prison bars.

  Jason was crippled with guilt over what he had put his parents through over the past number of years. One day it would be him standing over the graveside of his parents. A day which he hoped would never come but he knew it was inevitable. He wanted to make them proud, just like they were proud of his brother, Neil, and he wanted to be back in the family home where the four of them had shared precious memories, filled it to the brim with love and laughter.

  Jason kicked clods of soil into the open pit thoughtfully, his white trainers soiled. He needed to get his act together, get a job and earn the trust of his parents because he was not prepared to rip apart another generation. Never.

  “How did you get on, love?”

  James’ flushed cheeks had transformed themselves into a perky smile as he set down two carrier bags filled with beer cans, leaving them on the floor at the entrance to the kitchen.

  “Fine thanks . . . do you know this . . . I can’t believe how much better I feel already, Kath. That walk has really cleared my head. I feel great. But it’s colder than it looks.” He rubbed his cold hands across Kath’s warm face noticing that the orange stain had spread to her other cheek.

  “Get off! You’re freezing.”

  “And you’re hot.”

  Kath pulled away, concentrating on her battle with the age-old can-opener which refused to pierce the can of tomatoes she needed to finish her rogan josh.

  “Put your energy into something more useful.” She winked at him, pushing the can away from her, surrendering to its stubbonness. “And why do you keep using those bags, Jim. It takes thirty years . . . or something like that . . . for one of them to biodegrade. Use the bag for life under the kitchen sink next time. I keep telling you.”

  James grinned at his wife. She wasn’t bossy by nature but when she was forced to concentrate in order to deliver on time, she turned into a Sergeant Major type, bellowing instructions followed by threats if those instructions weren’t carried out. Only there was no malice in Kath’s voice. Its volume was raised but that was the height of it. She was mildly stressed.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” James saluted her. “Might I suggest a punishment of forty spanks with the hairbrush?”

  Kath washed her hands using her favourite organic seaweed handwash. She lifted them to her nose inhaling its blend of essential oils, marvelling at the lather it built up in a matter of seconds.

  “This stuff is brilliant . . . even the bottle is biodegradable,” she was talking away to herself, “this stuff is full of vitamins, minerals and free ra –”

  James had crept up behind her, snuggling into the side of her warm neck. He kissed it with an open mouth, covering much o
f her exposed skin.

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” he groaned, spinning her around to face him. “Now get upstairs into that shower . . . I think you need a good rub down after chopping all those onions.” He winked at her. “Serves you right. You should have let me do it,” he chided wagging his finger at her.

  “Hhm. We would probably be sitting in the A&E;department, Jim, if I had let you loose on those onions! Honest to goodness, it was like having the boys under my feet again.”

  Kath laughed as he picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a rag doll. She was glad he was feeling better. He had lost his libido of late which was hardly suprising given the torturous time he had been faced with, but Kath knew that he was slowly coming to terms with what had happened. Recognising that he was not to blame in any way for the decisions she had chosen to make. She was. But she was gone now. Six feet under.

  Kath opened the mahogany dividing doors which separated the living room from the dining room, the latter being the larger of the two rooms.

  James had been saying for years that they should switch the rooms, using the larger back room as the living area and transferring the rarely used dining room to the front of the house. He hated the relentless noise of the thud which came from the heavy leather football of his neighbours’ kids as they bounced it for hours on end until it drove him crazy. More than crazy in fact, for a man who was generally so easygoing. He wanted nothing more than to grab it and puncture the living daylights out of it and every other football on the street. But Kath liked to see what was happening in the world, and much as she liked her neatly paved garden with its colourful array of greenery, she didn’t want to look at it all day. It didn’t do anything to keep her attention. There were only so many one-way conversations a woman could hold.