RT Y O SH TOR S
Hot August by Jane Seaford
The car crunched on the drive and then slid slowly through the gates. As it turned onto the road, Aunt Kitty called out through the open window, ‘We’re off on an adventure.’ She waved and laughed and then they were gone. Mum and Dad were standing on the terrace, side by side. We girls had been practising cartwheels on the lawn and had stopped when we heard the car starting. ‘Come back,’ Martin, Kitty’s elder son, yelled. ‘Waste of time, Martin,’ Dad said. ‘Ed,’ Mum said; she was the middle of three sisters. Kitty was the youngest and prettiest of the three. Martin had been born before she was eighteen. Dad flipped his cigarette case open. Mum reached over and took one. ‘Which beach are we going to?’ Martin asked. Normally that’s where we’d be. ‘None. We’re not going anywhere today,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t ask, Ellie,’ Mum said when I opened my mouth. After that, we cousins, seven of us, spent the morning mooching about. We climbed the big oak tree, scrambled over the wall into the next-door field. When we came back, I went inside for cold drinks. The grownups were sitting at the table smoking. Mum filled a jug with orange squash and added ice while I put beakers on a tray. No one said anything. Then we had an argument about climbing the wisteria and Robbie, my little brother, ran in complaining. I sat cross legged, chewing my hair and glaring at the rest of them. Martin was leaning against the tree, staring into the distance. Uncle Jack, who was married to Mum’s elder sister, had been driving the car that had taken Kitty away that morning. Mum came out, holding Robbie’s hand. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been brushed. It was damp and the permed curls were limp and stringy. She sighed. ‘Robbie says Martin hit him. ’ ‘They’re being mean,’ Robbie whined and Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you hit Robbie, Martin?’ Mum asked; her voice thin and sad-sounding. Martin shook his head. He had not hit Robbie, had just told him he was too little to climb the wisteria. ‘Robbie hit me,’ I said and went back to chewing my hair. ‘Oh,’ Mum said. ‘I can’t cope. Be nice to each other, can’t you?’
Gold Dust
issue 34
winter 2018
4
We ate lunch in the kitchen. There was cold meat, beetroot and potato salad. Pudding was tinned pineapple poured over sponge cake. None of us children spoke and the grownups said little. The clattering of cutlery on plates, the buzzing of an angry fly and the soft hiss of the kettle sitting on the Aga filled the space. My stomach was tight. The meat was hard to chew. Afterwards, we girls washed up while the grownups had more tea and then Mum asked me to pick beans and gave me a trug. ‘How much?’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What you can.’ Martin came with me to the kitchen garden. He was the oldest of us, fourteen, three years older than me. When we’d filled the trug with beans, he reached out and took my hand. He pulled me to him and kissed me. When it was over I felt a strange tingling in my throat; the tingling moved down my body. ‘Sorry,’ Martin said. He was blushing. He turned away. ‘S’OK,’ I said. But it wasn’t. Nothing was that day. For the children’s supper, Mum cooked sausage and mash and the beans Martin and I had picked. We ate in the kitchen and Mum leaned against the sink drinking gin and tonic. The other grownups were in the drawing room listening to the news on the radio, as if it were important. We heard the sound of tyres on gravel and I looked at Martin. He raised his head and dropped his fork. I swallowed. Aunt Kitty flew through the kitchen door. ‘Hello, hello, what a lovely time we’ve had,’ she said. She was wearing a new straw hat. It had a wide brim and a mauve silk band around the crown. Her lips were plump, red and lipstick shiny. When I looked at her, I thought of an ice-cream sundae covered with whipped cream. Uncle Jack came in slowly. He didn’t say anything. Just stood looking as if he wished he weren’t there. ‘Mum.’ Martin stood and said ‘Mum,’ again, his voice hoarse. ‘What is it, Martin?’ Aunt Kitty came over to him and tousled his hair. She was laughing. We stayed in the garden trying not to listen to the sounds of the grownups. Finally they were all talking; shouting even. The sun was sliding away