Mulled Vine

Aaron sat awkwardly at the back of the chapel, his bulky, inappropriately clad frame bathed in a rainbow of dusty colours. He did not want to be here but he had promised her he would say good-bye. A ghostly minister droned on about life’s passing and hereafter glories, things that neither he nor Aaron really believed in. She was dead and that was that – dust to dust. Form dictated that they should be here, but it was empty, a vestigial residue of more superstitious times. Aaron walked to the front where the coffin lay enshrouded in candlelit mahogony, silk and flowers, and leaned over to kiss her cold lips, one last time.

One might be forgiven for thinking the room was a tawdry boudoir, so lurid were its dark pink walls. However the large black poster on the wall gave it away: “Come into my lair” threatened a smirking cartoon monster with twinkling eyes, “We have cookies!” The room was tiny, with scarcely any room to swing a fish, never mind a cat. A practical, white single bed filled one side, its compact built-in drawers overflowing with clothing, while opposite a small cupboard formed an alcove for a minute desk which was bedecked with homework books, scraps of paper covered with colourful doodles, a broken MP3 player and a half eaten biscuit. The tiny paper bin beneath the desk spilled its contents onto the unseen green carpet: a paper rubbish trail that morphed seamlessly into heaps of shed clothing. A large white, wooden-framed window completed the scene, opening generously onto a view of the Kent Weald valley below, lush with green, hedge-rowed fields, occasional trees and dopey-eyed sheep.

The pink duvet stirred and a little tousled head emerged sleepily from an orderly dream world.

I loved the girl next door, and watched her daily as she frolicked amidst the summer daisies in the field behind our houses. She danced with delightful, childish exhuberance, waving her dandelion wand like the faeries of old. She knew I watched her from my dark curtained prison, and frequently cast a wave or sunlit smile my way, beckoning me to come and join her.

Oh, how I longed to, but Mama said it wasn’t right to mix with white folk. I tried to tell her this was the 21st century and racism was a thing of the past, but she just beat me with the rod and told me to grow up. Papa looked over at me and shook his head in shame before returning to his Financial Times.

“This way … mind your step.”

I trod carefully, the thrill of being led blindfold to a birthday surprise almost overwhelming in it’s intensity.

“Here we go”, spoke the gentle voice of my lifelong friend Jose, soon to be best man at my wedding; I was surprised that he had accepted so graciously since I knew he secretly loved Michaela, but he had, and now this!

“Ready?” he shouted.

I nodded, jumping a little at the sound of his cry.

“Aim!”

The chill wind swept across the wild, heathery glen, tugging at our inadequate clothing like ghostly fingers of long dead kilted warriors.

“Surely this is not the place, Sean,” she pleaded, “so desolate?”

I squeezed her hand tightly, “Up there on the rise, my uncle’s shepherd hut. I know tis not much to look at, Mare, but it will be our new home, I promise.”

She rested her other hand on the little bump that could no longer be hidden and sighed, “Ah well, come on then, we’ll catch our death out in this cold.”

I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her forehead, looking back for just a moment at the little village in the distance where the evening fires were being lit, sending fine whisps of smoke swirling into the lonely, frosty heights.

Wrinkles wound deep furrows along his face, itself a crumpled memory of handsomer years – his eyes had however not lost their bright luster and twinkled at me now with good humour. “Don’t mind me, me boy. I’m just messin’ witcha.”

I smiled tentatively in response, my young ego more than a little bruised at his insightful mirth. “You’re right of course, Grandpa. She is a pretty fine lass with broad, child-bearing hips, but tis her mind that entrances me.”

The old man laughed out loud: “A young man who loves a woman’s mind more than her hips? Well now I’ve seen everything.”

My Love is like a wild, Irish rose, her hair red like the ancient sunsets, her eyes the colour of forbidden emeralds, and her skin, ah her skin: lovely to the touch, soft as down and flecked with gold.

She stands in the doorway, looking at me, her man, and I remember the first time we met, how our hands touched, and then our lips – it were truly love at first sight. There is fire in her eyes and it makes my heart want to leap and do a little  jig.

“Jimmy O’Connell!” she says, “ye feckin’ useless man. Will ya not get up off yer arse and take out the garbage like I told yous? Why did I not listen to me old ma?”

Her name was Susan and she was my first love – at least, what passes for love at the tender age of seven.

We were inseparable as friends, and impish to the core, like the time we decided to make a real spider web in her room with 2 balls of wool and a pot of honey; I was banned for a while after that, but Susan’s tears soon sorted that out.

Then one fateful day the spelling test came. I did well as usual, but came second, having misspelled ‘honour’, however she did better and won the coveted lollipop prize. I was so proud of her, genuinely, and only a little jealous.

But then I found out she had cheated; I did not speak to her again, ever.

We stood before the priest below the altar of our Lord Hunahpu, the wind tugging at our white robes; she turned to me, “Do you love me?”
I returned her gaze and smiled, taking her hand in mine, “You know I do, my love, and I would go to the ends of the earth just for one smile from your lips.”
She looked down, but did not smile; then said, “But would you die for me?”
I fell to my knees and raised up my hands to her in imploring supplication, “Anapu, my life is yours. you know it is – why do you need to ask?”
She sobbed, tears flowing from her eyes, and turned to the priest nodding.
He raised his arm in blessing, the knife glinting in the golden Mayan sun.

She was sitting alone at the table, wearing a red rose in her lapel – the agreed sign. I kept my rose in my pocket, waiting. I wanted to scout the scene first, see what Ellie123 looked like. After all, I didn’t want to spend the evening with a complete minger. No, life was too short, and my image too fragile.
To my delight she looked fairly attractive. Petite, blonde, soft eyes – she would do. The glasses were a bit of a turn off, though. I hoped she wasn’t the bookish type.
In the end I decided to risk it. Putting my rose in my lapel, I sauntered over and smiled, flashing my new white smile.
“Ellie123?”
She looked up startled, no doubt at my good looks, then regaining her composure, looked me up and down appraisingly. I felt violated, I tell you, but waited. I was worth the wait.
Then she smiled and said, “No, I think you must have the wrong person. I’m waiting for someone else.”