The Biggest Female in the World and other stories

by Wendy Perriam

  She was woken by rays of sunshine nuzzling at the curtains, as if clamouring to come inside. Opening her eyes, she reached for her watch: 12.25. Impossible! To have slept for over nine hours in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar house, and without Patrick’s comforting presence beside her, was something of a miracle.

  Bemused, she went downstairs to the kitchen, where she was confronted by the mangled remains of the hawthorn, sitting on the table beside the pliers and the string. Only then did she remember the crown, feeling immediately embarrassed by her credulity last night. How could she have been so gullible as to go along with some Irish superstition?

  Having made a cup of tea and demolished another slice of cake, she returned upstairs to wash and dress. As she drew back the bedroom curtains, she noticed to her astonishment that the hawthorn crown had gone. She stared at the empty window ledge, rubbing her eyes in disbelief. The crown must be there; it must be! The ledge was too high up for any prowling cat or fox to have dislodged it, and too wide for it to have fallen off. Nor could it have blown off, since there hadn’t been a breath of wind last night, and the weather was still sultry and quiescent. None the less, she peered down at the ground below, to make absolutely certain, but there was no sign of any prickly circlet, or even broken twigs. Could some bird have carried it off – a buzzard or a crow, perhaps? But that made no sense either. No creature would be tempted by a tangled mass of thorns.

  She sank down on the bed, totally perplexed. Other questions were jostling in her mind. Why did she feel so different: upbeat and energized, whereas normally if she took a sleeping pill, she would wake fuzzy and lethargic? And all the worries oppressing her last night – the anguish over Patrick and the future of their relationship – seemed to have completely disappeared. She was no longer even anxious about the impasse with her mother, or the mounting pressures at work. It was as if every problem in her life was now open to solution.

  Suddenly, on impulse, she began hurling things into her case and pulling on her clothes. There wasn’t time to wash. She had to drive back now – this instant – to activate the blessings showered on this morning. Those blessings were indisputable – as strong, as real, as the beating of her heart, though transmitted through some agency she couldn’t understand. If she tried to claim they had been granted by the fairies in return for a hawthorn crown, she would be derided as a crackpot. She had no explanation; couldn’t even begin to say how the crown had vanished, or why she felt so extraordinarily empowered. All she knew was that if she went home straight away, her bond with Patrick would not only be cemented, but endure throughout the span of both their lives.

  Seizing her case, she ran downstairs, scrawled a note for Phyllis, grabbed her bag and jacket and slammed the door, replacing the key beneath the brick before getting into the car.

  As she drove off down the winding line, she suddenly spotted a bank of hawthorn in full bloom; the mass of creamy flowers resembling a lacy wedding veil flung across the hedge. She hadn’t even noticed it when she’d arrived here in the dwindling evening light. But now it was shining in the sun; its heady scent attracting bees and butterflies.

  Stopping the car, she scrambled out and started picking armfuls of the stuff – a child again; a London child, with no trees near her home, delighted by the prospect of free flowers. Now, as then, the thorns tore her dress and scratched her hands, but this time she didn’t care. She was returning not to punishment and thrashings but to happiness and peace. Hawthorn was the flower of love, and she had a strong, deep-seated instinct that the minute she got home, Patrick would rush to greet her – and greet her with a ring.

  The wedding would be next May, with the hawthorns in full bridal attire, bestowing sacred blessings on the marriage.

  And, as she drove away – to Patrick – she saw herself reflected in the mirror: a shower of blossom-confetti in her hair.

  Barbecue

  Pink with indignation, Muriel heaved herself out of bed, stumbled to the window and peered down at the next-door garden. Yes, as she’d thought, another barbecue – that wretched couple disturbing the whole neighbourhood as they hammered in the stakes for the marquee. The dratted thing was a fold-up affair, stored in the garden shed, but it seemed to come out every weekend now, to impress their swanky friends. Neither of the pair were dressed at all appropriately, she noticed with distaste: Piers in skimpy shorts that revealed far more than was decent, and Yvette in a quite scandalous bikini. And clearly neither had heard of skin cancer. Every time the sun so much as glimmered, they’d be out there in a trice, exposing acres of their naked flesh not only to its dangerous rays, but to any hapless neighbour watching from upstairs.

  She looped back the curtain, to get a better view. It was not that she was nosy. Indeed, when the refined, fastidious Barlows had owned the house next door, she would never have dreamt of snooping. But then the Barlows entertained their guests in the privacy of the dining-room, whereas these two laid on public displays and so were more or less asking to be spied on. Half the contents of the house had been dragged out to the garden: crockery and cutlery, little tables, parasols, cushions, tartan rugs. And the deckchairs and recliners had already been set up, forming a large circle round the barbecue. Did they have to start the preparations quite so early? Of course, in the normal way she would have been up and dressed long since, but she had been banking on a lie-in, after a sleepless night wrestling with a pulled muscle in her leg.

  All hope of a nap expired, however, as the hammering continued and, to make matters worse, Yvette switched on the radio and turned the volume up. Muriel rapped her fingers on the sill – a useless little protest, lost in all the racket. She was subjected to their raucous noise every minute of the day. If it wasn’t the radio, it was the television set – or sets, she ought to say, since they appeared to own a good half dozen, judging by the hullabaloo she heard coming through the party wall: car-chases and gunfire, jingles from advertisements, chimes from Big Ben, theme tunes from the soaps. Of course, if you lived next door to a couple called Yvette and Piers, there was bound to be some sort of friction. Such frivolous, un-English names were simply spoiling for a fight – so different from the Barlows, who’d been Elizabeth and John: Biblical, traditional and utterly dependable.

  Yvette laid down her mallet and sat back on her heels, displaying an ample expanse of thigh. ‘Shall we stop for breakfast, darling?’ she yelled to Piers above the din.

  ‘Yes, do,’ Muriel muttered under her breath. ‘Then perhaps I’ll get a few minutes’ peace.’

  Not a chance. She might have guessed they would eat outside, with the radio as threesome. Since the day they’d first moved in, two endless months ago, they’d taken most of their meals in the garden, presumably in a bid to accelerate their tans, which were now a shade of deep mahogany. ‘Meals’ wasn’t quite the word, though. Most of the time it was pizzas, delivered in huge, square, cardboard cartons by foreign chaps on motorbikes, who came roaring up the street, causing yet more aggravation. Clearly Yvette couldn’t cook. Indeed, she probably couldn’t boil an egg, since breakfast was usually croissants.

  Muriel leaned out further, to check this morning’s menu. Yes, a whole pile of the greasy, foreign things, plonked on the patio table, along with a bowl of orange fruits she didn’t recognize – certainly nothing as commonplace as clementines or tangerines. The couple were obviously loaded. Each one of their fancy barbecues must set them back several hundred pounds, what with the mountains of meat they bought, the exotic fruits and elaborate ice-cream-cakes, the cocktails and champagne. Yet half of it was wasted – scores of uneaten chicken legs tossed into the wheelie-bin, along with sausages and steaks; whole pineapples and melons, barely touched, discarded amongst empty tins and teabags.

  And it was just the same with the newspapers. Even as she watched, Yvette unfolded the Sunday Times, while Piers was already skimming through the Mail. Every single day, they ordered a whole stack of papers, read a section here, a section there, then disposed of the entire week’s-w
orth on the Monday. Monday was rubbish-collection day and she made a point of being out there in the street when the dustcart rumbled up, so she could see for herself the extent of their extravagance.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of high-pitched barking as Fifi burst out of the house and jumped up on Yvette’s lap. Muriel never failed to wonder at the dog, which seemed not to be made of flesh and bone, but only of a mass of fluffy hair. The creature was hardly more than toy-size, yet its coat was quite extravagantly profuse, and even its small pendulous ears resembled miniature hearthrugs. If one were going to have a dog (and frankly she’d never been keen on a species that combined the maximum of noise and mess with the minimum of charm), then why not go for a manly breed, such as a boxer or retriever, rather than a foppish little thing that resembled a walking powder-puff?

  ‘Hygiene!’ she exclaimed, as Yvette went to fetch a brush and began grooming the pampered brute – yes, right there on the breakfast table. She had seen them groom the dog before and been stunned by the devotion lavished on the process. Of course, she couldn’t make out what was said, not from this far off and with music blaring out, but the cosseting and coddling were unmistakable. As Yvette primped and titivated, she accompanied each brushstroke with affectionate pats, loving little squeezes and butterfly kisses planted on the small wet nose. And Piers joined in as well, leaning forward to nuzzle the dog, or fondly scratch its ears. Both breakfast and the barbecue appeared to be forgotten; nothing else existed for them but their beloved only child. At last, the task was finished and, with a final sweep of the brush, Fifi’s fringe was scooped back from her face and tied in a topknot with a large pink satin bow. Muriel shook her head in wonderment. She wouldn’t be surprised if the spoilt little minx had its own designated room in the house, to store its stock of bows: rainbow-coloured polka-dotted, tartan, lurex, even hound’s-tooth check – a different style and colour every day.

  Suddenly she was a child again, sitting in the chilly bedroom while her mother brushed her hair – though with resentment and annoyance, rather than affection. She could actually feel the pain in her head, as her hair was tugged and de-tangled, then plaited far too tightly, so that it was pulling at her scalp. And there were certainly no satin bows, just plain old rubber bands. Children were expense enough, without wasting yet more money on frivolities.

  Yvette rewarded Fifi with a large buttered piece of croissant, while Piers offered her a sugar lump – the doting master and mistress indulging their precious petkins. Fifi yapped her thanks. Diminutive she might be, but her bark wouldn’t have sounded out of place on an Alsatian or Great Dane, and could be heard by the Park-Davisons, as far away as number five. They had recently complained – quite fruitlessly, of course, since Yvette would no more shush her darling dog than turn down that dreadful music. Both were in full cry: Fifi pleading for more titbits, whilst a so-called singer squalled disastrously off-key on the heart-shaped, red-plush radio.

  Muriel let the curtain fall, limped from window to door, and took refuge in the spare room, which faced towards the front. Although the bed was lumpy and the once vivid poppy wallpaper had now faded to a lethargic pink, those were trivialities compared with the chance of blessed peace.

  She sat up in confusion, glancing with horror at the bedside clock. Nearly half past twelve! How on earth could she have slept so long? And wasn’t that the doorbell? Who on earth could be ringing it so loudly – indeed ringing it at all? She never had any visitors, and it wouldn’t be a tradesman on a Sunday. She struggled out of bed, pausing in dismay as she glimpsed herself in the mirror. She could hardly deal with callers when she wasn’t even dressed and her hair looked such a fright. Inching to the window, she concealed herself behind the curtains, trying to see who was there.

  ‘Yvette!’ she murmured, barely able to believe her eyes. Never, since the couple moved in, had either of them approached her; never exchanged a single word with her, let alone turned up on her doorstep. So what could the woman want, for heaven’s sake?

  All at once, a flush suffused her cheeks. Wasn’t it obvious – calling round at lunchtime on a Sunday, and dressed up to the nines like that in a blue silk party frock? She must have come to invite her to the barbecue! As a way of making amends, perhaps, for all the noise and disruption over the last two months. Muriel’s glow of pleasure deepened to a blush of shame. Clearly she had judged the pair too harshly. She had to admit she wasn’t her usual self. She felt constantly out of sorts, these days, and thus liable to snap or be judgmental. Thank God she’d kept her annoyance to herself; a public confrontation would have wrecked any chance of being included on the guest list. And it would be rather wonderful to attend a barbecue – something she had never done in her entire seventy-seven years.

  She closed her eyes, saw herself gliding in and out of that showy green marquee; eating in the open air, instead of in her small, dark, poky kitchen – the thrilling sense of danger from glowing charcoal, billowing smoke. Yes, the porky tang of sausages was sizzling on her tongue, and she was biting into best rump steak, meaty juices running down her chin. ‘Do have a couple of chicken breasts,’ a deep male voice persuaded, as she was passed a steaming platter, freshly cooked for her alone. Next, she was offered corn on the cob, deliciously sweet and buttery (though a serious challenge to her teeth). Then, after a brief pause to aid digestion, came a feast of luscious desserts. Not her usual Instant Whip (made from a packet and tasting of soapy nothing), but elaborate frozen gateaux, studded with whole strawberries and smothered in double cream. And no boring apples or cut-price black bananas, mushy in the middle, but young, firm, blushing mangoes and musky golden papayas.

  With trembling hands, she pushed the window open and called out in a breathless tone, ‘I’ll be down in a couple of minutes, Yvette! Just give me time to get dressed.’

  If they were to see her in her nightgown – an ancient thing in pea-green nylon, with a darn on one of the sleeves – they wouldn’t want her in their perfect garden, with its padded swing-seats, its sundial, and its beds of exotic flowers, tended by a proper high-class gardener who came every Tuesday afternoon in a van marked, ‘Lotus Landscape Design (Chelsea Medal-Winner)’.

  ‘OK,’ Yvette bellowed back. ‘But don’t be long.’

  Feverishly she rushed to her own room, tore the nightie off, struggled into her underclothes, pulled on her loosest frock, so she wouldn’t have to bother with fiddly belts or buttons, and slipped her feet into her best white summer sandals. While she dressed she kept glancing down at the next-door garden, her elation increasing by the second. The setting looked quite magical, with silver streamers looped between the bushes, and huge bunches of balloons (in the shape of stars and flowers, no less) hanging from the apple trees. Several guests had already arrived – young, stylish types, in amazing clothes, giving tinkly little laughs as they greeted each other with extravagant embraces. Perhaps she would be embraced – which hadn’t happened for close on four whole decades.

  An elegant young man, dressed in smart cream linen trousers, was doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. Champagne! The very word sent a shiver of excitement tingling down her spine. She never touched alcohol – the doctor had forbidden it – but today every rule would be broken with glorious impunity. Indeed, a whole magnum of champagne seemed to be dancing through her body, in a veritable Highland Fling of bubbly spume and fizz.

  ‘Hurry!’ she reproved herself, as she ran a comb through her hair. ‘You’re keeping Yvette waiting.’ Yet she just couldn’t tear her eyes away from that tantalizing scene next door: the great stack of meat still waiting to be grilled, the piles of tropical fruits – everything from hothouse grapes to outlandish pomegranates. All she’d planned for lunch today was a hard-boiled egg and salad, or beans on toast, if the eggs were past their sell-by date. Couldn’t eggs be sold singly instead of in half-dozens? No one seemed to cater for people living on their own. Today she wouldn’t be alone, though, but mingling with distinguished guests – maybe television presenters, or
interior designers: people who owned racehorses or villas in the sun. The notion was so thrilling, she all but lost her footing as she went tripping down the stairs, ignoring all her aches and pains in her haste to reach the door. Flinging it open, she greeted her neighbour with a radiant smile.

  ‘Look, I don’t even know your name,’ Yvette said apologetically, ‘but—’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I’m free. I’d love to come. It’s awfully kind.’

  Yvette looked noticeably disconcerted. Perhaps she was a stickler for the proprieties and wanted introductions first. ‘I’m Muriel – Muriel Hemmings. And you’re Yvette – I know that. I’ve heard your lovely husband call you many a time.’

  Yvette’s frown cut deeper. ‘Muriel, forgive me, but I haven’t time to chat. I’m out of my mind with worry. We seem to have lost our little dog …’

  ‘Fifi?’

  ‘Yes, Fifi.’ Her voice took on a note of desperate hope. ‘Are you telling me you’ve seen her? You’ve got her here? Oh, please say yes!’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen her,’ Muriel said tonelessly. ‘Well, not since earlier this morning.’

  ‘She might be in your garden, though. There’s a small hole in the fence. I need to have a thorough search, to put my mind at rest. She could be in the shed or—’

  ‘The shed’s locked.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s so agile and determined, she can worm her way into anything.’

  ‘She couldn’t be here in the first place. That hole in the fence is so tiny, no creature could get through.’

  ‘Muriel, I’m at my wits end! On top of everything else, we’re expecting fifty guests. Some of them are here already. My husband’s doing his best to cope, but I should be with them myself.’