Flaming June

"?it may be a place where they'd go to make love?"

Silence fills the room. Ruth raises her head and rests her gaze on the
figure at the head of the room. Andrew Masters looks up; his eyes
lightly dust the classroom before returning Ruth's gaze. Thirty-two
pairs of eyes stare back at him. He is uncomfortable. His face is
puffed with youth and pink from the warmth that radiates around
him.
He asks Ruth a question; something about imagery. He gently probes for
an answer but her concentration has evaporated the way of early morning
diaphanous mist. He waits. His actions are held in close observation as
the silence swells to a brittle void and pushes out against the
confines of the room.
The June air is congealed with heat. It oozes through the single glazed
windows and folds itself around those seated inside the tired
classroom. Ruth rests her head on her arms. The electric clock whirrs
laboriously towards the finish of a never-ending afternoon.

Ruth sits in the same place for morning and lunch breaks, between the
second and third pillars from the staff room. There are twelve pillars
in all. They support the overhang from the upper floors. Each
indentation is filled with a different group of girls. They watch as
the rest of the school mills around the playground.

"So what d'you reckon; Boldwood, Oak or Troy?"
"Who?"
"Masters?"
"Boldwood." Mel laughs. "Could you imagine him indulging in a bit of
swordplay?" She drops an orange segment into her mouth. "Masterful
Masters; I don't think so. Mathews though, a bit of the Troy in him I
think."
"Nice car too."
"Ooh yes. Shiny red MG, bit of symbolism there I think." Mel
exaggerates a leering wink. Her court laughs. Ruth sits on the edge of
the group. Their legs are stretched out before them, dresses hitched up
to mid thigh. They sit facing the sun; its heat scrubs their legs to a
pinky tone.
"God, look at your legs." Mel points to Ruth's limbs. The group swivel
and examine Ruth's legs. "You need some sun on them."
"They match your socks." Cassie agrees.
"But I don't go brown." She protests, but they return their attention
to Mel.
Ruth hates her legs, shiny-white and shapeless. No one would go for
legs like hers. Ruth knows this. She hates the summer and she hates the
school for their decree that short socks are worn as summer
uniform.
"Persil white," Mel sneers as she brushes minute flakes of skin from
her calves. "And you've got chunky ankles."
Ruth draws her legs inside her skirt. She wishes they could be
absorbed back into her flesh. No carefully sculpted calves for her.
Just fine red indentations where socks grip her flesh. She sneaks an
envious look at Mel's perfect limbs. Her skin is the gentle colour of
honey. Turned down white socks merely emphasise the slimness of her
ankles. Ruth feels awkward and self conscious about something she
cannot control. People can be cruel in the pursuit of their own
confidence.

Girls scrutinize Masters as he patrols the playground. The school is
set in an expanse of lawns brimming with girls in thin cotton dresses.
They roll around to watch his progress and sman between themselves.
Clover tips blush against the grass. He averts his gaze lest he glimpse
a stray sliver of white cotton panties. His face is needled with minute
perspiration. He longs for a ruffle of breeze.
Roll me over, in the clover,
He struggles within the confines of his three piece-suit.
Roll me over, lay down, do it again.

The envelope in February had not helped. It arrived on Valentine's
morning. Its crude red hue had first glared up from the hall carpet. It
had then sat propped against the milk on the breakfast table, silently
umpiring their conversation.
"So, aren't you going to open it?"
"Later. Why?"
"Who's it from?"
"It's a valentine; I won't know, even if I open it."
"Probably those girls. You think they'd find something better to do
with their time."
"They're just messing around."
"So you think it is them? Andrew, be careful. They're at that age. You
don't know what could be going on in their heads."
He looks up. Her gaze cowers under the weight of his silence.

Throughout the school, pupils are dilated with heat. Girls sit trapped
inside rigid classrooms. Garish summer dresses stick to skin as if
fastened by lemonade. They are suspended inside temporary worlds of
algebra, The Reformation and truncated spurs. Outside the world sweats
under the suffocating weight of inexorable heat.

Andrew Masters' form is doing Hardy; but Hardy lives and breathes
Hardy.

The school is vast and cavernous outside the restraints of the day.
Desks and chairs are strewn in a spontaneous collective abandonment.
The building relaxes in the aftermath of intensity. The cloakroom with
its neat orderly rows of coat pegs is silent and still.

Mrs Masters waits for her husband to return home. He is usually home
before she is. She appears overly formal against the heat. She smiles
with bovine approval at their wedding photograph. Its size almost
dwarfs the tiny living room. The heat of the day is trapped within the
walls and slowly solidifies to an unknown entity. The house appears
neat and tidy. Everything is as it should be.

They have almost been married twelve months.

Ruth stands inside her tiny bedroom. Flimsy curtains shield the bright
light. She sheds the thin cotton dress from her body and it slumps to
her feet. The fabric lies on the floor like discarded skin. Ruth
unfastens her bra. She leans forward and allows the bra to fall,
exposing her breasts to the warm air and inner curiosity. They are
almost bald in their lack of colour. Ruth faces the mirror. She turns
and views her outline from her right, then her left side. Her nipples
gently swell under soft scrutiny. Her skin is warm and damp. She
squats; a stroke of pink stares curiously past her reflection.

Ruth has seen a naked man once before. Her eyes full of disbelieving
sleep. She crept to the bathroom late one night; her father was
streaming a rich yellow river, his penis bruised in colour. A sharp
contrast to the clean lines of reproductive organs portrayed in biology
textbooks.

Andrew Masters arrives home late. He looks unsure and unsteady. His
wife is laying the table for supper.
"You're back. I thought we'd eat outside."
He follows his wife into the garden of their rented house. Unchecked
plants vie for space along the sun-faded fence. He stares at the
flowering dog rose beside him; youthful pink flowers as yet undamaged
by the sun's heat. He sips the glass of chilled wine put before
him.
"Won't be much longer." His wife appears in the doorway.
"Want a hand?"
"No, you can wash up."
Their wedding photograph catches his eye. It claims pride of place
above the mantelpiece. The couple smile to an outside world. The
valentine is hidden behind the photograph. Its blatant sexuality
suppressed by ice-white matrimony. He drains the wine from his glass.
He hates using these glasses, fine hand blown glass; a wedding present.
Their fragility makes him nervous. The heavy scent of tangled
honeysuckle fills the garden. He shuts his eyes and drinks it in.

Ruth has showered and is dressed in fine loose cotton. She feels clean
and sleek against the late afternoon heat. Her damp hair is pulled into
a high ponytail and exposes her gentle nape, which the sun cups with
warm gratification. She sprawls on the tightly cropped lawn and
explores her text in greater depth. Soft fingers dip between pliant
folds. She is oblivious to the soft throbbing coos of deep-throated
pigeons.
The afternoon air is slowly peeled of heat and replaced with a sultry
afterglow. Generous shadows merge into in the late twilight. The world
is lulled into an uneasy slumber.

Ruth walks home through Oak Apple Wood. Ferns drag against her calves.
There is a heady stillness. Ruth's knickers are damp from perspiration.
Her dress sticks to her suppressed form. She is drawn towards the
centre of the wood. Foxgloves, tall and full with witches' thimbles,
consider her passage with graceful poise. The air is cool. Her pale
skin gives her an ethereal air. The surrounding foliage is plump and
engorged on rising sap. A delicious taste of uncertainty runs down her
spine like carefully measured saliva.
The centre of the wood is marked by a gentle fern-lined concave. A
cherry red shirt wounds the undergrowth. Mathews is resting. The
curving earth supports his prone form. He draws on a cigarette and
pushes out fine uncurling smoky fronds. His other arm rests across his
forehead in a perfect 90-degree angle.

Ruth crouches. Her dress forms a shade over her legs. The wood is out
of bounds, forbidden territory during school hours. The dress's hem
circles the ground; finger tipped fronds creep inside and explore her
skin. The air is as still as baby's breath. Mathews has unbuttoned his
shirt's top buttons. His thick gold chain catches the occasional chink
of light that works its way through the leafy canopy. He waits in
casual anticipation.
Ruth moves gently from side to side, lowering herself behind the ferns
that screen her from Mathews. A stray furled frond brushes against her
crotch.
Ruth hears rustling through the undergrowth; whispered secrets on a
wire. A form approaches. Masters appears on the edge of the hollow and
gazes down at Mathews.
"Andrew?"
Mathews does not look up. Masters descends into the hollow. He stands
next to Mathews. Mathews reaches up and pulls Masters gently down
beside him. Ruth shuts her eyes. Her breath is tight inside her chest.
Mathews was kissing Masters?
Ruth holds her breath until her lungs ache. Frustration is coiled deep
inside her. Her lids flicker. Small lenses of light are caught behind
her lashes. Tepid air licks her skin. White light is refracted into a
myriad of separate intensities. Ruth sighs; her breath forces its way
out in a slow silent gasp.

Ruth opens her eyes. The hum of the ground contractor's mower winds its
way through the opened metal-framed window. Dandelions and daisies were
losing their heads.

"?it may be a place where they'd go to make love?"

Ruth returns Masters' stare. His body is stiff with uncertainty. She
can see images of opened windows reflected in his eyes. Ruth lowers her
gaze and returns to the flattened undergrowth and the hollow amid the
ferns.