Free Dark Roots by Cate Kennedy Page B

cases of excitability , said the book, initially stimulates gastro-colic reflex, direct enervating and cumulative effect on male’s production of testosterone, decreases vigour over long period of application, useful in hysteria.
    Snap and colour, Barry? I thought as I gazed out the window. You shall have them . I returned the book and went to a reputable apothecary.
    The Home Preserver , I hasten to add, was quite clear in its application. Per quart of liquid (American measurement) you are meant to add the merest pinch, a half of a flattened teaspoon, to achieve the pickle of your dreams. This, they point out, reacts with the acetic acid in your herbed vinegar to prevent that rubbery effect that can so easily spoil a good cucumber. And I had the teaspoon ready, I honestly did. But I was listening to Macka and Chooka and Barry hooting and crashing in the living room, horsing around in their tracksuits and liniment, and I suddenly thought, Well, who the hell knows what a quart is anyhow? And my hand sort of ... slipped.
    Calm down. It’s not going to kill anybody. But it’s interesting, isn’t it — ironic even, when you consider its long-term effect — that a chemical which does so much to keep cucumbers firm and non-flaccid has quite the opposite effect on the male organ. It doesn’t occur suddenly, the book had said, and you’d no doubt need to injest a fair amount over a period of time before you started noticing any changes, but wilt it will. Oh, yes. You’ll be looking at that space between thumb and forefinger in a whole new light.
    I watched the powder dissolving into the vinegar and drifting around the cucumbers, smiling to myself because it reminded me of one of those kid’s souvenirs where snow falls in a little dome on some little landscape; a desert island, say, or — in this case more appropriately — the Big Banana. I shook a jar. The cucumbers, warty and ghostly in their vinegar formaldehyde, bobbed around like specimens. This many pickles were going to take months and months to eat. And suddenly I realised I had no intention of being there.
    Barry, after seeing my defection as an admission of guilt, will hold me no conscious grudge — I’ve left him and the boys a huge supply to be going on with. It’ll take them an entire football season to get through what’s left, marinating gently in their dill-flavoured broth. I was generous with the herbs and spices. I was unstinting.
    I hum a tune to myself as I pull out of the driveway, hearing the china clink in the back as I hit the tarmac. It’ll be weeks, probably, before any of them notices anything a little ... amiss. But never, never, never would they mention it to each other. And I doubt they’ll think to change their diets. Nothing like a crunchy, firm, green cucumber pickle, thrusting proudly up from your fingers, no bigger than that. Perhaps with a little cheese, a few dry biscuits, a celery stick. I have left the jars in the fridge, lined up as impressively as show exhibits. Pickled cucumbers, dill cucumbers, pickled onions, artichokes, vegetable medley, baby beetroot. Always have them chilled and crisp, advises The Home Preserver , and I tend to agree.
    They are a delicacy. How shall I put this …? They are a dish best served cold.

Dark Roots
    You’ll be fitting your key in the lock when you hear the phone start ringing, and straight away your hand will be fumbling with haste. The answering machine will kick in and when your heart squirms up around your throat somewhere, you’ll know. Call it what you like, we think it’s love, but it’s chemical. It’s endorphins, that high-octane fuel, revving the engine and drowning out the faint carburettor warning sound in the back of the head, the out-of-tune chug that says wait , wait , in its prim, irritating little voice.
    At the doctor’s, you’ll keep your eyes on the package of contraceptive pills made into a