August Frost
August is a tall, pale, painfully shy young man with blood-orange hair and sun-shy eyes, who hides his awkwardness behind the counter of a gourmet deli in London's diverse Shepherd's Bush neighborhood. One December day, August notices something unusual-a rash on his skin that exactly resembles the frost on his windowpane. The same day, into the peace of the deli and August's dreamy fantasizing about his sassy coworker (with the gender-reversed name of Henry) come a spherical deep-orange cheese which seems to mock August's own coloring, and his mother's old boyfriend Cosmo, whom he hasn't seen since he was a child but who still inspires instant dread. Cosmo fails to recognize him, which is a relief, but it soon becomes clear that he is not going away, even moving in on August's block. His presence becomes a nagging reminder of the childhood August would rather forget-raised in a commune, with an inattentive mother, overaware from a young age of adult sexuality (including his mother's rampant promiscuity), and now, as an adult, realizing that the man he's always been told was his father, who died soon after his birth, was almost certainly not.

August initially writes off the rash as nothing more than that, and his doctor prescribes an ointment that doesn't work. But as other manifestations happen (icicles on his ears, a blue tinge to his skin, snow falling from his head) he cannot ignore what is happening: he is mirroring the weather. At first, it only increases his awkwardness, but gradually he begins to feel better than he ever has. Spring comes and he buds, and leaves sprout in his navel, flowers from his skin. The deli continues humming around him-Henry is learning French for her new boyfriend Yves, a slick Frenchman who August thinks is obviously bad news; local eccentric Cedric, who lives off government assistance and the kindness of the deli, composes ribald poetry (sample title: "Blondes in Tight Pants"); a mysterious East European woman named Flora turns up and takes Cedric under her wing; the deli's motherly owner Rose takes a cruise to the Antarctic and returns with a mysterious South American suitor named Salvadore. August develops an interest in a tall, lovely, accident-prone woman named Leola, who works at the flower shop across the road. And Cosmo, who has befriended Henry, finally realizes who August is, and begins taunting him about his parentage, telling him to ask his mother about "Edward." When he does, she stops speaking to him.

But August's quest has taken on its own momentum. As the summer heats up, he determines to find out the answer to the mystery of himself, tracking down the people who were supposedly his grandparents and learning that Edward was their gardener, and that his mother had an affair with him. In the midst of a cruel heat wave, though his skin is dry and cracked like the earth and his body hot enough to send steam up from the public pool where he swims, August finds himself increasingly comfortable in his body. There is a solar eclipse and, while he had never before been able to tolerate normal sunlight, August does not need sunglasses to look at the eclipse. Though he has not made any moves, Leola clearly likes him (which doesn't prevent a jealous Cosmo from trying to spoil it with taunting remarks about August's background).

As autumn comes, August's hair and fingernails fall out. He goes to Ditchling, where his father lived, and looks for him. He finds only his brother, who tells him that Edward died the previous December, at the time when August's body began to change. Though it is too late to know Edward, August finds comfort in knowing who he was and having some pictures of him. Still, there is something unresolved: an image he's held in his head since childhood, of himself at the window of the commune, watching a tall, elegant man leaving something behind in a copse of trees, and walking away. But August is loath to return to the past. Meanwhile, Rose's ancient pug Hilary has disappeared, and when August finds her locked in a cupboard in the basement, he also finds Rose's passport, which reveals Rose has her own secrets: she used to be a man. August finally goes out with Leola, and their intuitive connection promises to become something important and wonderful. She is also teaching him about plants, overcoming his long inability to make anything grow.

Finally the mysterious Flora convinces August to go to Stonegate-she gives him a pair of "kissing breads" (two rolls whose crust has stuck together as if in an embrace) which, when he tears them open, are full of indigo petals. He realizes there is something else he must uncover. In a rainstorm, he trespasses on the grounds of the old commune, now the country home of a rich family, and digs in the copse for the gift his father left for him, a garden spade. He wonders: "Had Edward forgotten the spade, or had he been embarrassed at such a humble gift? August looked around him, at the leafy yellow-green clllllloud he was in. Light danced around the tips of the leaves, mottled and pretty. There was something about the trees, their solemnity, their great brown trunks, so solid, their quiet, confident permanence, that made him somehow know Edward." The next morning, August wakes up in Shepherd's Bush, his houseplant flourishing and his hair and body returning to normal, and knows he has found the answer to the year's mysteries.

1102228295
August Frost
August is a tall, pale, painfully shy young man with blood-orange hair and sun-shy eyes, who hides his awkwardness behind the counter of a gourmet deli in London's diverse Shepherd's Bush neighborhood. One December day, August notices something unusual-a rash on his skin that exactly resembles the frost on his windowpane. The same day, into the peace of the deli and August's dreamy fantasizing about his sassy coworker (with the gender-reversed name of Henry) come a spherical deep-orange cheese which seems to mock August's own coloring, and his mother's old boyfriend Cosmo, whom he hasn't seen since he was a child but who still inspires instant dread. Cosmo fails to recognize him, which is a relief, but it soon becomes clear that he is not going away, even moving in on August's block. His presence becomes a nagging reminder of the childhood August would rather forget-raised in a commune, with an inattentive mother, overaware from a young age of adult sexuality (including his mother's rampant promiscuity), and now, as an adult, realizing that the man he's always been told was his father, who died soon after his birth, was almost certainly not.

August initially writes off the rash as nothing more than that, and his doctor prescribes an ointment that doesn't work. But as other manifestations happen (icicles on his ears, a blue tinge to his skin, snow falling from his head) he cannot ignore what is happening: he is mirroring the weather. At first, it only increases his awkwardness, but gradually he begins to feel better than he ever has. Spring comes and he buds, and leaves sprout in his navel, flowers from his skin. The deli continues humming around him-Henry is learning French for her new boyfriend Yves, a slick Frenchman who August thinks is obviously bad news; local eccentric Cedric, who lives off government assistance and the kindness of the deli, composes ribald poetry (sample title: "Blondes in Tight Pants"); a mysterious East European woman named Flora turns up and takes Cedric under her wing; the deli's motherly owner Rose takes a cruise to the Antarctic and returns with a mysterious South American suitor named Salvadore. August develops an interest in a tall, lovely, accident-prone woman named Leola, who works at the flower shop across the road. And Cosmo, who has befriended Henry, finally realizes who August is, and begins taunting him about his parentage, telling him to ask his mother about "Edward." When he does, she stops speaking to him.

But August's quest has taken on its own momentum. As the summer heats up, he determines to find out the answer to the mystery of himself, tracking down the people who were supposedly his grandparents and learning that Edward was their gardener, and that his mother had an affair with him. In the midst of a cruel heat wave, though his skin is dry and cracked like the earth and his body hot enough to send steam up from the public pool where he swims, August finds himself increasingly comfortable in his body. There is a solar eclipse and, while he had never before been able to tolerate normal sunlight, August does not need sunglasses to look at the eclipse. Though he has not made any moves, Leola clearly likes him (which doesn't prevent a jealous Cosmo from trying to spoil it with taunting remarks about August's background).

As autumn comes, August's hair and fingernails fall out. He goes to Ditchling, where his father lived, and looks for him. He finds only his brother, who tells him that Edward died the previous December, at the time when August's body began to change. Though it is too late to know Edward, August finds comfort in knowing who he was and having some pictures of him. Still, there is something unresolved: an image he's held in his head since childhood, of himself at the window of the commune, watching a tall, elegant man leaving something behind in a copse of trees, and walking away. But August is loath to return to the past. Meanwhile, Rose's ancient pug Hilary has disappeared, and when August finds her locked in a cupboard in the basement, he also finds Rose's passport, which reveals Rose has her own secrets: she used to be a man. August finally goes out with Leola, and their intuitive connection promises to become something important and wonderful. She is also teaching him about plants, overcoming his long inability to make anything grow.

Finally the mysterious Flora convinces August to go to Stonegate-she gives him a pair of "kissing breads" (two rolls whose crust has stuck together as if in an embrace) which, when he tears them open, are full of indigo petals. He realizes there is something else he must uncover. In a rainstorm, he trespasses on the grounds of the old commune, now the country home of a rich family, and digs in the copse for the gift his father left for him, a garden spade. He wonders: "Had Edward forgotten the spade, or had he been embarrassed at such a humble gift? August looked around him, at the leafy yellow-green clllllloud he was in. Light danced around the tips of the leaves, mottled and pretty. There was something about the trees, their solemnity, their great brown trunks, so solid, their quiet, confident permanence, that made him somehow know Edward." The next morning, August wakes up in Shepherd's Bush, his houseplant flourishing and his hair and body returning to normal, and knows he has found the answer to the year's mysteries.

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August Frost

August Frost

by Monique Roffey
August Frost

August Frost

by Monique Roffey

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Overview

August is a tall, pale, painfully shy young man with blood-orange hair and sun-shy eyes, who hides his awkwardness behind the counter of a gourmet deli in London's diverse Shepherd's Bush neighborhood. One December day, August notices something unusual-a rash on his skin that exactly resembles the frost on his windowpane. The same day, into the peace of the deli and August's dreamy fantasizing about his sassy coworker (with the gender-reversed name of Henry) come a spherical deep-orange cheese which seems to mock August's own coloring, and his mother's old boyfriend Cosmo, whom he hasn't seen since he was a child but who still inspires instant dread. Cosmo fails to recognize him, which is a relief, but it soon becomes clear that he is not going away, even moving in on August's block. His presence becomes a nagging reminder of the childhood August would rather forget-raised in a commune, with an inattentive mother, overaware from a young age of adult sexuality (including his mother's rampant promiscuity), and now, as an adult, realizing that the man he's always been told was his father, who died soon after his birth, was almost certainly not.

August initially writes off the rash as nothing more than that, and his doctor prescribes an ointment that doesn't work. But as other manifestations happen (icicles on his ears, a blue tinge to his skin, snow falling from his head) he cannot ignore what is happening: he is mirroring the weather. At first, it only increases his awkwardness, but gradually he begins to feel better than he ever has. Spring comes and he buds, and leaves sprout in his navel, flowers from his skin. The deli continues humming around him-Henry is learning French for her new boyfriend Yves, a slick Frenchman who August thinks is obviously bad news; local eccentric Cedric, who lives off government assistance and the kindness of the deli, composes ribald poetry (sample title: "Blondes in Tight Pants"); a mysterious East European woman named Flora turns up and takes Cedric under her wing; the deli's motherly owner Rose takes a cruise to the Antarctic and returns with a mysterious South American suitor named Salvadore. August develops an interest in a tall, lovely, accident-prone woman named Leola, who works at the flower shop across the road. And Cosmo, who has befriended Henry, finally realizes who August is, and begins taunting him about his parentage, telling him to ask his mother about "Edward." When he does, she stops speaking to him.

But August's quest has taken on its own momentum. As the summer heats up, he determines to find out the answer to the mystery of himself, tracking down the people who were supposedly his grandparents and learning that Edward was their gardener, and that his mother had an affair with him. In the midst of a cruel heat wave, though his skin is dry and cracked like the earth and his body hot enough to send steam up from the public pool where he swims, August finds himself increasingly comfortable in his body. There is a solar eclipse and, while he had never before been able to tolerate normal sunlight, August does not need sunglasses to look at the eclipse. Though he has not made any moves, Leola clearly likes him (which doesn't prevent a jealous Cosmo from trying to spoil it with taunting remarks about August's background).

As autumn comes, August's hair and fingernails fall out. He goes to Ditchling, where his father lived, and looks for him. He finds only his brother, who tells him that Edward died the previous December, at the time when August's body began to change. Though it is too late to know Edward, August finds comfort in knowing who he was and having some pictures of him. Still, there is something unresolved: an image he's held in his head since childhood, of himself at the window of the commune, watching a tall, elegant man leaving something behind in a copse of trees, and walking away. But August is loath to return to the past. Meanwhile, Rose's ancient pug Hilary has disappeared, and when August finds her locked in a cupboard in the basement, he also finds Rose's passport, which reveals Rose has her own secrets: she used to be a man. August finally goes out with Leola, and their intuitive connection promises to become something important and wonderful. She is also teaching him about plants, overcoming his long inability to make anything grow.

Finally the mysterious Flora convinces August to go to Stonegate-she gives him a pair of "kissing breads" (two rolls whose crust has stuck together as if in an embrace) which, when he tears them open, are full of indigo petals. He realizes there is something else he must uncover. In a rainstorm, he trespasses on the grounds of the old commune, now the country home of a rich family, and digs in the copse for the gift his father left for him, a garden spade. He wonders: "Had Edward forgotten the spade, or had he been embarrassed at such a humble gift? August looked around him, at the leafy yellow-green clllllloud he was in. Light danced around the tips of the leaves, mottled and pretty. There was something about the trees, their solemnity, their great brown trunks, so solid, their quiet, confident permanence, that made him somehow know Edward." The next morning, August wakes up in Shepherd's Bush, his houseplant flourishing and his hair and body returning to normal, and knows he has found the answer to the year's mysteries.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780802140463
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date: 05/10/2004
Pages: 400
Product dimensions: 5.48(w) x 8.16(h) x 1.07(d)

Read an Excerpt

August Frost

A Novel
By Monique Roffey

Grove Atlantic, Inc.

Copyright © 2002 Monique Roffey
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-8021-4046-7


Chapter One

11 December There'd always been a problem with the light. Ever since August had first opened his eyes, he'd found it hard to look out through them. It was a problem with pigment mainly, or lack of it. He'd been born with the palest of blue eyes. Eyes filled with a kaleidoscope of the most delicate shades of ice. They were the eyes of a veal calf. The eyes of a worm; of a hermit crab, with pinheads all nervous on stalks. Eyes that smarted constantly, or seeped water. Eyes that blinked or peered. Squinted. Eyes that were always about to collapse on him, or so it felt, his eyebrows sagging like paunchy roofs. His eyes provided little protection from the sun. The problem was one he harboured and often took out of a black velvet pocket in his mind to brood over when alone; one he assumed, in a sorrowful and private way, was a trick of nature, one which made him feel naturally confined. It was almost always in his thoughts, that he cringed at the sight of so many things. The light, mainly. But other things too. Women. Children sometimes. Fish, clothes, car fenders. Knives. He was constantly blinking back these sights, searing the balls of his eyes. Winter was the easiest time. Winter was kind. August could look at the world without too muchdifficulty, at the gun greys and milky skies of purples and lavenders and muted pearl blues. In winter the skies were also struggling; not to see, but to be seen. The floes of stars were fatter, more bloated with dust, moving heavily and sluggishly, as if drawing a screen of smoke between the sun and earth. In winter it was as if the sun itself was blind. Often, sleep deceived him, soothed him, appearing to rearrange reality overnight. August frequently dreamed he was someone else and would wake up with this possibility faintly traced, as though with the juice of an onion, on his cool, white eggshell skin. In the bathroom he'd avoid the mirror at first, absurdly half-playing a game with himself, half-believing a swap really might have taken place. He'd urinate. Blow his nose, stare at the wall - then turn round. He didn't see Adam Ant or GQ Man or a young Peter Frampton, all of whom he thought of as ideal replacements. He saw himself: six foot four in his skin, elbows sharp as corncobs, collarbones protruding like the jaws of a great fish. He saw his lumpy, set-to-one-side nose, his large, spaced-apart teeth. His upright blood-orange hair which limbo danced crazily from his head, as though a madman lived there, leaping from a burning attic. His eyebrows and lashes were the same colour and he knew it made his face look as if it was crawling with fire-ants or some other kind of insect. It was a face which had lain dormant in youth, unformed - even plump. As he'd grown older it had thinned and then elongated and found itself, as faces often do, long after adolescence. It had climbed out of a bag of tricks, punching its way into its present curves and lumps, its monstrous dimensions, presenting itself in his late twenties with the innocence and confidence of truth. That morning was different. August woke from a dream with a start. In the dream someone was bending over his bed, peering at him, breathing into his face. He'd felt a light and tickling breath on his cheeks, his eyelids, across his throat. When he opened his eyes there was only his bedroom. Empty, yet still holding the essence and presence of a body. Something was etched in the air around him, the feel of someone - the heat, or perhaps just an imprint left from his imaginings. He lay under his covers, perturbed, focusing on a crack in the ceiling until the feeling disintegrated and the dream completely disappeared. He looked at his bedside clock, saw it was 6 a.m. and groaned, annoyed he'd been jolted so prematurely from sleep. He pulled back the covers and got out of bed. In the bathroom August went straight to the mirror. He splashed hot water on his cheeks, picked up his shaving foam from the shelf above the sink and sprayed a ball of foam into one hand. For five, maybe six years now, what he saw most mornings wasn't just a face he didn't like. It was a face which didn't fit. August glanced at the mirror's edge. An old photograph was wedged behind it. The photo, about three inches long and two inches wide, had curled with age and its colours had become a mixture of liverish browns and lurid over-processed inks: purples, greens. Framed in the middle, in a tank top and jeans stood Luke, a smallish, wiry man with long blond hair and fine, even features. Cheekbones. Thin lips. Dark eyes. Tanned skin. Luke was handsome and impish; a vibrancy in his smile which spoke of an innate ease with the world. In the picture Luke had his arms folded across his chest and a large tattoo bulged high up on his right arm - Lucky Luke, the cartoon cowboy with the lounge crooner's eyes. Luke smiled out from the photograph with the sureness of that day's sunshine. With the abundance of the harvest at the time. With the ripeness of an afternoon. With the ease of evening. The photo was taken the day before he died. Luke, August's father, had died when he was two weeks old. Small, sunny Luke. Handsome. Brown-eyed. Lucky Luke. August rubbed foam slowly, deliberately, across his cheeks making large smooth circles, his eyes picking over the photograph, Luke's hair, his mouth, his nose. As the years passed, as his face had gradually formed, August had grown more and more suspicious of the man in the photograph. The more he examined Luke's face for clues: a curve of the brow, or even of the ear, moles, freckles, anything, the more he'd come to see their connection was plainly incongruous - he looked nothing like Luke. In fact, they were impossibly different. And this disturbing idea, now living with him for years, was made worse by the fact that Luke's picture triggered no emotion. No filial response. When he looked at Luke he felt nothing. Carefully, he rubbed foam along his top lip. His mother, he'd come to realize, also behaved oddly. As he'd grown older he'd come to see her thinness. She was internally thin. Collapsed in on herself; thin-voiced, thin-nerved. As a child he hadn't understood, hadn't pieced together her mannerisms: her permanently clenched jaw, her habit of looking away when she spoke, of keeping conversations short, of being afraid of scrutiny of any sort. Her stories about Luke had always been kept to the minimum, the same few details repeated. She was on bad terms with Luke's parents and had lost contact, never encouraged him to trace them. He'd added all this up. Now he felt mocked. His eyes like pools of fat, his golem's skin. His teeth, his height. His colouring. All taunted him. Most mornings. That morning, as he smoothed foam along his jaw line, August felt a tingling in the backs of his forearms, a sheer blush of warmth. Peculiar, as though a battery had been switched on inside him; he could feel his blood cells multiplying in a dim frenzy. He caught sight of one of his forearms in the mirror. It looked unusual. Something white, a pattern, was smattered along his arm, a rash of some sort. Perhaps he'd eaten something. Odd. He rarely got rashes, had no allergies that he knew of. The sensation spread up to his elbow, then his armpit, becoming warmer and more fluid. August peered closely at his arm. The pattern seemed to have risen up from under his skin, was part of it. In it, even. He rubbed it, pinching up the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It appeared to be made of fine particles which sparkled a little, like salt or sugar. Crystals. The morning sky was low over London. Outside the darkness was just lifting and the air had the qualities of a lung; dense, absorbent. Muffling sound. August noticed tiny lilac globes, hailstones, scattered on the ground as he walked to work - the result of a clash between currents thirty miles up. The walk was short, all of three minutes, left out of his flat, up Lena Gardens and right on to Shepherd's Bush Road. At Finlay's Deli, he stopped and fumbled for keys in his trouser pockets. When he found them he let himself in, flicking on the lights as he walked through to the cafe at the back. In the kitchen alcove he switched on the coffee machine, letting it warm up before he made himself the first cup of many he drank throughout the day. He went back through to the deli, slipping behind the long display fridge. On the counter a coffee grinder stood upright, battered, shoulders back, its funnel bent somehow at a noble slant; rows of brown-dusty drawers of unground beans ran under it, jars of ground coffee crowded around it. Behind the grinder was a small, portable radio-cassette player and some tapes. He selected some Colombian ground coffee as well as some cumbia, slipping the tape into the machine and pressing play. August closed his eyes - his way of making himself vanish. The cumbia was slow and rustic, snaking around his waist, settling on the soft, butterfly-shaped area around his kidneys. Trumpets and horns. An accordion. Sticks. And possibly an old washboard for percussion. It was a simple melody and he imagined it came from the mouths of five ancient men, sitting on chairs in a dance hall, singing to a wedding party. He envisaged couples gliding across a vast polished floor, mutely pressed together. He began to sway carefully, from side to side, feeling the music in his mind, a lazy, friendly tune. His hips began to swing in time to the languid song, moving effortlessly, as though his body and the music were one. He began to shift his feet. One step, then two. He shimmied forward, braver, the trumpets pushing him from behind. His hands floated upwards and began to knead the air in gentle, fluid movements. August salsa-ed past the salami slicer, past the row of upright fridges which kept fine cakes and champagne, the quail's eggs and the Ben & Jerry's, past the entrance to the cafe. He danced blindly into the middle of the deli, danced around the wrought iron tables pulled in from the pavement. Danced, suspended in time, his face relaxed, different, a small smile pressed into his cheeks, danced graciously, loose-limbed, on his own. In Spanish, the old men were crooning, something about tobacco. August hopped a little, overcome with the rise in emotion in their voices, the increase in tempo. He opened his eyes by accident. Sweet Banana Wax Peppers. The jar pulsed on the shelf in front of him; the peppers were gnarled and an eerie yellow, pickles from another world. He cocked his head at them, trying to realize them, absorb their freakish nature. Something about their twisted form was strangely soothing. The music was stronger than him now, picking him up and coursing through him. Near the peppers were rows of condiments. August ran his eyes along the jars: Jamaican Pepper Jelly, Spicy Sri Lankan Balti Paste, Green Olive Pate. Their thick textures were somehow reassuring, he felt stirred at the thought of their locked secrets. He danced on, past the wall of pasta sauces, marvelling at their flavours, silently mouthing their long, onomatopoeic names: arrabiata, basilico, puttanesca, vodka, campagnola. He stared closely at a jar of tightly packed anchovies. Silverwhite fillets. Tiny fish darting through the water. Now naked and standing on their heads. He could taste them: gluey, vinegary. He danced past bags of lumaconi pasta. Like giant snails. He hadn't ever tried them. He must, he told himself. With cream and porcini mushrooms. He danced on. His body had warmed. His blood was loose and roamed freely over his back and shoulders. He twirled his hands and rotated his hips in graceful circles. It felt natural and he smiled. People did things like this all the time, he thought, without having to close their eyes. August snatched up two tubes of pretzels from a small table and shook them like maracas. He had rhythm and movement. Momentum. He salamandered backwards, towards the door, hands and hips in sync, feet like crabs darting from side to side. He was suddenly excited, thrilled he could move so fast. A flurry of strong feelings rushed around in him. A sharp banging rang out above the music. August became instantly rigid. The sound rang out again, unmistakable: knuckles rapping on the glass. August remained frozen, cat-like, as though about to pounce, pretzel tins still in his hands. Slowly, he turned to look outside. A young woman was standing on the pavement, about three feet from him. She was pretty, her hair running down her shoulders in two silver rivers. Her face was lightly tanned and her neat, black eyes were narrowed. Her arms were folded across her chest. August dropped the pretzel tins and they clattered to the floor. He moved quickly across the deli towards the display fridge, slipping behind it to the small portable radio-cassette player and switched the music off. He could feel all the heat in him rushing up his neck, into his face. He glanced out the window again. The young woman was still waiting, her eyes more like slits. At the door his fingers trembled at the lock. Panic flooded him as he felt his hair, his nose, his teeth, his entire body re-emerge from wherever it had gone. He opened the door. 'I'm s-sorry,' he stammered. August's eyes tried to meet hers but instead found her chest. He smiled apologetically. The young woman pulled her head backwards. Her face hardened as she scanned his features. She gazed openly for a moment, as though she didn't have to be polite. 'Your cheese,' she said curtly. August was puzzled. 'My ...' But the woman turned, cutting him off before he could finish his response and stalked back towards a van parked nearby. * * * The storeroom sprawled like a catacomb beneath the deli. Its walls were pistachio green and lined with shelves crammed with tins and jars of overstocked goods. In one corner there was a kitchen with a large oven used for baking, fridges for the cakes and salads, also two cold rooms, one for cheese, the other for meat. In another corner there was a door which led to a small office. August let the box of cheese fall to the floor with a thud. He shuddered as he thought of the woman who brought the delivery, remembering the way she wouldn't look at him as he wrestled the box from the back of the van. With a Stanley knife he sliced the top flaps open. Shiny new hay protected the cheeses inside. He grasped a handful, put it to his nose and inhaled. It smelt of cows. Open pastures. Mountain streams. That morning, the cheeses had been flown in from Normandy. As he scrabbled through the hay he imagined the affineur they'd come from, a middle-aged man with a grey tonsure and cheeks like ripe apples, his skin the colour of tea. His fingers were callused and he had haemorrhoids from eating too much cheese.

Continues...

Excerpted from August Frost by Monique Roffey Copyright © 2002 by Monique Roffey . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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