Room Service

by Diana Hunt

  I was lucky that I wasn’t called first for the ‘line-up’. What it amounted to was that one judoka faced five others and had to fight them one after another. We all watched the fights - not just out of interest, but to make a note of their favourite techniques. That way, we would know what to look out for. The beauty of judo as a martial art was that all the throwing techniques were designed for players of different heights and weight. For example, I was tall; therefore I wouldn’t choose a technique such as the well-known shoulder throw (ippon-seoi-nage) against someone shorter than myself because I could not reach below their centre of gravity.

  However, that is just of technical interest, and bye-the-bye. When my name was called, I felt the frisson of nervousness as I knelt in front of my opponents on the red edge of the mat, looking across the green area; they were all girls of my own age group. I had fought a few of them before at area championships. The first contest went like this:

  She was a stocky farmer’s daughter from Thetford; very strong; quite skilful. You are not supposed to rely on strength alone in judo; but if she got under my defences I wouldn’t stand a chance. They say that a contest is often decided by the first grip - the problem is getting the correct hold. We danced around, both of us trying to get hold: but we did it too long, and the referee penalized us both ( 3 points lost). She got angry at that and rushed at me. I couldn’t believe my luck: I went with it, grabbed her left sleeve and swept her feet from under her with the sole of my right foot (de-ashi-barai). She crashed over to the mat on her back (ippon!). The referee raised his hand: 10 points - match over.

  The next three fights were not so spectacular. But again I was fortunate because I knew my opponents’ favourite techniques (tokui-wazi) - but then, they may know mine! I remembered my instructor’s remark before any contest: ‘The way you are easily beaten is by your opponent using your favourite throw against you.’

  The girl I was up against next was known for her leg techniques (ashi-wazi); in other words, she would attempt to throw by sweeping the outside or inside of my leg, and thus throw me to the rear. We battled for position; she kept moving sideways, hoping to hook inside my left leg, swing me to the left, so I would fall to the mat, and could follow with a grapple, hoping to hold me down. But I also knew that she could use it as a feint, and if I tried to block it she would turn ( so her back was against my chest) and spin me over her buttocks (uchi-mata). That was one of the big contest techniques popular at the time.

  And that was what she did - she almost telegraphed it: so as she turned, confident that I would be thrown, I dropped on my right knee and pulled down hard - te-waza. She spun down like a windmill’s sails. Another ippon for me.

  The third and fourth were stalemates - draws. But we both scrapped really hard. No disgrace for either of us then.

  The final contest was the one I feared most. I was getting tired now, and I had to think of how efficient I could fight without wasting energy. Rose ( a misnomer!) Wallis of medium height, stocky (mannish even) and a grappling (ne-waza) specialist. She wasn’t much good on her feet; at the same time, she was hellish to move off balance. Rose would wait her opportunity to counter any move by me, then half throw me to the mat, land on top of me, then wait for the timekeeper to shout 25 seconds - and that would be the end of the match.

  She was a left-handed fighter ( always an advantage), but I was prepared to take a big risk: I shot forward and attacked her left-handed ( I was a right-handed player) with a major outer reaping (o-soto-gari), my left leg behind her left leg, pushing forward: she countered by using the same technique, and I fell on my backside. She immediately dived on top of me; but she made the mistake of facing me, with both her hands groping for my collar. I pushed her elbows up and out, then crossed my hands ( little finger edge) across both sides of her neck and strangled against the carotid artery, and pulled and squeezed as hard as I could. She tried to drag my hands away; but the more she pulled, the tighter my grip became. I pushed my knee against her femoral artery to cut of the blood supply (again to weaken her grip; she was notorious for twisting her opponent’s nipples), then I pulled her over my head and followed her, stomach throw pattern, and landed on top of her, squeezing hard on her neck.

  The referee got on his hands and knees and inspected our position. Rose’s face went white. The referee shouted the end of the contest and declared me the winner. The examiner nodded to me, so I bowed and left the mat. All I could do - like the rest of my fellow girl members - was to wait.

  I borrowed a mobile phone from one of the girls and phoned home. (...’hope everything is OK, Di’) There was no change. Eventually we were all called back into the hall. The examiners had a sheaf of papers in front of them. They read out the list while we waited nervously. One of them said:

  ‘We were pleased with the standard of judo today, and the sporting spirit shown. I shall now advise you all of our recommendations to the British Judo Association.’

  He read out the names alphabetically; all were promoted one grade above: the green to blue: the blues went to brown - but my name was not mentioned. There was clapping and ribald remarks from the young men in the club. I was devastated. Surely not! It couldn’t be! Why? Judo discipline forbade me to say anything: one had to accept in stoically. But I couldn’t understand it. One of the examiners spoke and dragged me out of my dejection. He said:

  ‘We have something further to say. One of you we have decided to upgrade to first dan. Diana Hunt, will you please approach us.’ I walked to the table in a daze. I bowed, and he presented me with a certificate. I truly could not take it in - jumping from failure to this... I walked quickly out of the dojo. One of the young men at the door (their grading exam was after the girl’s) who fancied himself (and me) said: ‘Well done, sensei. Why don’t you take me for a drink to celebrate?’

  ‘Buy your own bloody drink, Jack.’

  ‘Well, would you like a spot of groundwork, then?’

  ‘Not if you want my knee in your bollox.’

  I quite liked Jack, but like most boys of his age he could be a bit of a prat. I cycled quickly away from the school (that was where the judo club hired its premises). As I reached home I was just in time to see the Macmillan nurse getting into her car. I stopped her. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to your father.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve recommended that Mrs Hunt should go to the local hospice for respite care. Your father needs a break.’

  Where did they think I was all those weeks? ‘Yes: and so did I, but I had to arrange that myself and you would not be here unless I had pestered my GP.’

  ‘I realize...’

  ‘Good - the sooner the better, please.’ I knew I was being bitchy, but I worked on the principle of if you don’t ask, you don’t get. And if you don’t get, make a bloody nuisance of yourself.

  My father went with my mother in the ambulance to the hospice. Before he left, he asked: ‘Are you coming, lovey?’

  ‘No, dad; I’d better clear up here. Where’s Peter?’

  ‘Dunno. Out with his mates, I suppose.’ Of course.

  I made my way to the kitchen and put my judo outfit in the washing machine. There was one more thing I had to do before spending some time in the bathroom. The front parlour was now empty, but as I entered, the smell hit me in the face - that odour of the long-term sick. I drew back the curtains and opened the windows then stripped the bed and put the linen in the washing machine. There was a 1930’s art deco style fireplace in the room; exactly in the centre of the mantle-piece was a clock of the same period ( possibly my late grandmother’s). It had stopped; but then, I never remembering it working. I cleared the ‘get well’ cards from either side of it and put them in the bureau drawer. I pushed the bed against the wall, and rearranged the armchairs. That would do for now.

  I made sure all the doors were locked, before
I went to the bathroom; I lingered in there, soaking in a bath full of scented soap, and I thought: all I could do now was t wait until I sat my language exams on Tuesday. I showered with cold water, dried, flung talc all over me, and dressed in a fine silk shirt with wide sleeves and bum-hugging jeans (it’s surprising what you can find in an Oxfam shop).

  I knew what I was going to do now - celebrate. I had earned it. I left a note for my father, made a phone call to arrange a rendez-vous for later and caught the bus.

  Chapter 3

  KING’S LYNN, CITY CENTRE

  Sunday evening

  Melanie was waiting at the bus stop near the market square when I alighted. She put her arm through mine and grinned. ‘Your phone call was a bit of a surprise. Where’re we going?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘You bet. But first; how’s your mum?’

  ‘Not good: she’s been sent to the hospice - give my dad a break.’

  She squeezed my arm. ‘And you as well I hope.’ Melanie and I were, I suppose, opposites: everybody thought of me as distant, reserved - even cold. ‘Snooty cow’

  as my brother Peter once called me. Melanie was a frizzie-haired, bouncy blonde - the complete extrovert. She was the only close college friend I had. She was also from a different social background; her father a solicitor; her mother a teacher. She wore a pink blouse with too many frills and a dirndle skirt: she looked like an extra from The Sound of Music.

  ‘So’ she said; ‘what is all this about? Why the sudden call from the blue? You are not an impetuous sort.’

  ‘A kind of celebration - but wait until we get ourselves settled in somewhere nice for dinner, with lots of posh grub and wine.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  There is a quiet Italian restaurant just off Tuesday Market Square: near enough for the city centre; but far enough from the tourists traps. It has red-and-white chequered table-cloths and old vines hanging from the rafters . It was cool and quiet away from the main, still sun-drenched city. The waiter lit a candle on our table as soon as we sat down. Melanie said, staring with her pale blue (not always) innocent eyes:

  ‘It’s not something to do with your ju-itsu-thingy, is it?’

  Bless her. ‘Yep: I was awarded my first judo black belt this morning.’

  ‘Heavens darling: that is awfully impressive.’

  ‘And I’ve got fifty pounds to splash out.’

  ‘Really - where did that come from?’ Then she blushed: it was an unspoken rule with us that we never discussed our backgrounds - she was rich, I was poor. It never affected our relationship; she thought she had crossed the line. But it didn’t bother me. I said:

  ‘You know I have a part-time job?’

  Melanie took a sip from her glass of frascati. ‘At the hotel - yes.’

  I grinned. ‘It was a grateful client.’

  ‘Heavens; that was a large tip. What did you do for him? I assume it was a man.’

  Our antipasti arrived. Melanie said, ‘Oh good - I love mushrooms,’

  ‘It was a man. If I tell you, will you promise not to say a word to anyone?’

  ‘Diana: how intriguing. I promise. Tell, tell.’

  ‘On my back.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Like I said. We have a lot of lonely male clients. I work the night shift. This one was a knee-trembler in the kitchen - fifty quid for five minutes. Easy money, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Diana! That is awful...’ Melanie stared at me - half believing, half disbelieving. The look in her eyes said: you are a tall, shapely, beautiful woman - but...

  I grinned at her discomfort. She rapped my wrist with her fork. ‘Honestly, Di: I never know when to believe you.’

  We finished the half bottle of frascati, then went on to chianti classico with the meat balls and spaghetti. After that, I said: shall we have pud?’

  ‘Tiramasu?’

  ‘Why not.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  We dawdled over cups of latte. I said: ‘Are you sure it’s OK with your parents for me to stay?’

  ‘Of course, silly. Anyway, mummy and daddy are at a Rotary dinner - he’s president this year.’

  THE PEARSON HOUSE.

  We left the restaurant and crossed the market square to the taxi rank. The sun was lowering into the horizon, but we could still feel the heat of the day. Melanie paid the taxi off at her front gate. I stared enviously. We approached the double-fronted house from a curved stone flagged driveway. I noticed a yellow alarm box just under the roof. There were no flowers in the garden, but in the middle of the lawn stood a beautiful white birch. Cream stone pillars flanked either side of the front door which was painted a shiny dark green; a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fish shone against the paint.

  ‘Here we are :home,’ said Melanie. (Oh, yes, I thought; this would suit me fine.) There was a half-moon burr walnut table on the right hand side as we entered. On it, in the corner, an onyx lamp (lit) and a telephone. That was the only illumination. Melanie said, ‘mum always leaves the light on ; shall we go straight up’ We ascended the deep-pile dark blue carpeted stairs. I could smell scented beeswax polish. Yes please, Mel., I want to be in your sweet bed next to you. Her bedroom was at the rear of the house, and her window (opposite the door) looked out over the garden at the rear. It was dark now, but I could make out the shapes of the trees at the end of the sloping garden.

  Melanie switched on a bedside lamp, so I drew the curtains. Her walls were painted a pale pink; her delicate bedroom furniture was white. Her dressing-table was cluttered with usual girlie things - make-up, body lotions, skin creams in great disarray. Her bookshelf seemed to consist of childhood paperbacks: Famous Five, Paddington Bear, working up to Noel Streatfield and her contempories, and the Bridget Jones era. Incongruously, on the bottom shelf were maths textbooks: differential equations, pure number theory, and other esoteric tomes. ( Of course: her mother was the head of a maths department at a comp., and Mel was reading maths at our VI form college.)

  Also - luxury upon luxury! - a shower room with a basin and loo, en suite. Melanie said:

  ‘I need a pee and to brush my teeth - OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ I threw my shoulder bag on the bed with its necessary contents: toothbrush, clean nix for the morning, an outsize t-shirt for bed wear. I undressed, and folded my blouse and jeans carefully over a chair; placed my pumps neatly under the chair; then removed my bra and pants; they went into my bag. I was sat on the edge of the bed naked, my legs crossed, my arms pressed palms down either side of my buttocks and looked at myself in a long mirror: you are a beautiful woman, Diana Hunt; everything in proportion. Your stomach ripples with slender muscles. These are your assets. The question is, what are you going to do with them? ( And I asked myself another question: are you tempted?) I was pondering all this when Melanie walked into the bedroom. She gasped.

  ‘Diana! You’re starkers!’

  I grinned at her, slid off the bed and used the vacant ablutions. When I returned, Melanie was sat up in bed; the bedside lamp reflected her golden frizzy head. She was wearing the de-rigeur sleeping-wear of our generation - camisole vest and shorts. I sat on the edge of the bed, But I didn’t put on my oversize t-shirt. I said:

  ‘Mel; do you mind me being naked?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  I slid in next to her. The sheets felt smooth, fresh,and clean, and smelled vaguely of lavender. I sat up and looked down at her. She blinked. ‘What’s the matter, Di?’

  ‘Nothing, Mel. I love being in your house. Thanks for having me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Thanks for a super dinner.’

  I said: ‘I would like to make a personal remark, if I may say, Miss Melanie Pearson.’

  ‘Would you now. What’s that?’

  ‘Well it is a compliment.
’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  I slid the thin straps of her vest off her shoulders and said: ‘You have the most beautiful breasts, with lovely little pink nipples - just like young apples.’

  Melanie blushed. ‘Diana!’

  ‘But you have.’ She looked down to her chest. ‘Really? I’ve never thought.’

  I leaned over to the cluttered dressing table and picked out a tube of Clarins body lotion.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I squeezed a spot of the contents on the end of my finger and drew a line gently under both her breasts, then slowly slid up towards her peaks. Melanie lay back and sighed.

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘God, Di: it’s lovely.’ Her breasts now had a soft sheen. I bent my face down and covered her nipple with my mouth. I then traced a circle round her nipple with the end of my tongue - on one breast, then another. Melanie moaned. I lay back on the coverlet and held her hand. She squeezed it with hers.

  ‘God, Diana: where did you learn that?’

  ‘Did you like me doing it?’

  ‘What do you think? It made me tremble all the way down to the pit of my tummy.’

  ‘Would you do it to me?’

  She did, tentantively, then flowed into a rhythm. While she was stroking I aroused both her and myself. We collapsed, exhausted, then fell asleep. I woke in the night for a pee; as I came out of the lavatory, Mel woke up, and went in.

  ‘Gosh, Di: do you think we’re lesbians?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you virgo-intacta?’

  ‘Er, yes, I am as a matter of fact - do you think you have deflowered me, Di?’

  ‘If I have, it was a funny way of doing it.’

  ‘Are you...?’

  ‘A virgin? Yes. At least I think I still am. But we both had an orgasm, didn’t we?’

  Melanie giggled under the bedclothes. ‘I think I had two.’

  (So that was my introduction to forbidden fruits; and as we know, forbidden fruits have the sweetest taste. I loved Melanie as much as I could love anyone. But....)