The Biggest Female in the World and other stories

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I said I’ll miss you, darling,’ he repeated, clasping her hand in his hot, red, knuckly one.

  She nodded, terrified she’d cry. Everything was about to change, just as it had changed for him, a year ago, after his remarriage. You had to learn to compromise in marriage. Where you lived, what you wore, when you ate, how you ran your finances or chose your holidays – all would now depend on what a partner thought. She would even change her name. She tried it out: Mrs Pemberton-Jones. No, that couldn’t be her. It was too swanky, too grown-up again. None of her friends were married, nor even wished to be. ‘How could you promise to shag just one bloke for the rest of your life?’ Lucy had demanded.

  ‘Why not?’ she’d retorted fiercely. ‘Edward’s great in bed.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ll get sick of the same routine.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘I mean, blokes are all so different. And variety’s the spice of life.’

  Lucy was a slut – everyone knew that. If she wanted to sleep with half the office, that was her affair.

  ‘I hope you’ll be really happy, pet. Edward’s a good chap.’

  Again she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. How could her father know what Edward was like, when, in some respects, he was a stranger even to her? Perhaps other people were always unknown quantities, or did marriage bring you closer? Her best friend, Lorraine, believed that sex was the closest you could ever get to anyone, and that you didn’t need marriage vows, just a double bed. And, yes, when she and Edward made love, she did feel really special; his key in her lock, opening and exploring her. She’d had only one other bloke before, and he was a complete nonstarter, whereas just thinking about Edward lit her up inside, as if the nineteen candles on last month’s birthday cake were flickering and sparkling in her stomach. It was the other stuff that rankled: his parents always nosing around – turning up at Edward’s pad and fussing about stupid things like why he hadn’t defrosted the fridge, and did he know the cups were chipped? And his maddening younger brother who called her Freckle-Face, and the snooty sister, Kate, who had borrowed her best skirt, then spilt red wine all over it. But then taking on your husband’s tribe was simply part of the deal.

  ‘You’ll phone from Tobago, won’t you, darling?’ Her father squeezed her hand again.

  ‘’Course.’ She pictured a palm tree in their honeymoon suite, sprouting telephones instead of dates or coconuts.

  ‘Otherwise I’ll worry.’

  ‘It’s OK, I understand.’ She knew he wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. He had never been one for emotion. That was her mother’s forte.

  ‘Thank God we’re making good time,’ he said, peering at his watch.

  ‘How late are we?’

  ‘Well, we should have been there ten minutes ago, but don’t worry – it’s not far now.’

  ‘Shit! They’ll all be going bananas.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just try and relax.’

  ‘I can’t. Everybody’s staring at us and it makes me feel a prat.’ Ever since they’d started out, other drivers had been smiling or waving, some even tooting their horns; all attracted by her get-up and by the beautiful old car, its wide white ribbons fluttering in the breeze. Did they envy her, or pity her, she wondered? Getting married was like entering an unknown land with neither passport nor map. If only she and Edward could stay as lovers and simply lark about.

  ‘Well, let’s play “I Spy”,’ her father joked. ‘And pretend you’re a little girl again, who doesn’t care who’s looking.’

  ‘OK. I’ll go first. I spy with my little eye something beginning with …with … K.’

  ‘Kettle.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Kestrel.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad, you wouldn’t see a kestrel on a motorway.’

  ‘Yes you would. They hover over the verges, searching for food. And I’ve seen a buzzard.’

  ‘Buzzard doesn’t begin with K.’

  ‘Well, er, let me think … Knee.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Key, then.’

  ‘Give up. My brain’s on strike.’

  ‘KitKat.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On that lorry, in huge red letters. You must be blind if you can’t see it.’

  ‘As they say in the song, “I only have eyes for you …”’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. You’re a true romantic. Right, your turn.’

  ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with—’

  ‘Wait! I need a pee.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘Can’t you hang on?’

  ‘No, I’m desperate. That awful feeling’s suddenly come on – that you’ve just got to go or—’

  ‘Look, we’re almost there. It’s only another mile or two.’

  ‘Yeah, but they might not have a loo in the church.’

  ‘They’re bound to.’

  ‘Well, even if they do, I can’t just disappear when everyone’s been waiting for me so long. I’d die of shame.’

  Her father shook his head in exasperation. ‘Why the hell didn’t you go before we set out?’

  ‘Oh, Dad! You sound like Shirley.’

  ‘Well, didn’t she remind you?’

  ‘No.’ Her mother would have done. That’s what mothers were for: to make sure your bladder was empty before all important functions, and that your shoes were polished and you had a nice clean handkerchief. Though, of course, proper mothers would be present on your wedding day, instead of in the labour ward.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ the chauffeur interjected. ‘Forgive me butting in, but we’re coming up to a service station. I could pull in there, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Jo, for heaven’s sake, you can’t get out in all that fancy gear.’

  ‘Dad, I haven’t any choice. It would be worse if I had an accident.’

  ‘Christ!’ he groaned. ‘Not that.’

  Suddenly she laughed. Wetting her pants on her wedding day – what next? She jiggled on the seat, relieved to see the SERVICES sign. And, as they drove into the car-park, she kept her hand poised on the door-handle, ready to leap out the minute they’d come to a halt. Throwing back her veil, she made a dash for it, not waiting for the chauffeur to come round and do the honours.

  ‘Careful!’ her father called. ‘Don’t let that dress trail in the dirt, or Shirley will go berserk.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she shouted back, looping up the flowing gown, and attracting more stares in the process.

  It was a good fifty yards from the car-park to the café, and a spiteful wind was tugging at her hair, threatening to dislodge the pins. Now she wished she had worn tights. The recent heat wave had given way last week to a moody, grey September, and her bare legs were distinctly cold.

  ‘Hey, look, Mum!’ a small boy yelled. ‘They’re having a wedding here.’

  She grinned, despite herself. Edward’s parents would be mortified if their grand reception at High Pines Country Club were downgraded to the Little Chef.

  All the toilets were engaged, but there was no queue, thank God, just one woman waiting, who said she could go first. ‘Your need is greater than mine,’ she laughed. ‘You can’t keep the bridegroom waiting.’

  ‘I’m afraid I already have! But he’s a patient sort, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘You’re lucky! My old man goes through the roof if I’m even a second late.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mind you, he wasn’t always like that, but men are unpredictable.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘Yes, all of them, believe me. You marry one you think you know and land up with a stranger.’

  Just at that moment, a cubicle came free. With a quick word of thanks, Jo darted forward and squeezed herself into the narrow space, cursing the dress as she tried to pull her knickers down. Still, at least she’d only had to wait a minute, and should be back in the car in just a couple more.

  Having straightened her cl
othes, she charged out of the ladies’ room and veered left along the passageway, trying to find the exit. But this particular corridor didn’t look familiar, and she eventually found herself face to face with a small blue door, which certainly wasn’t the way out. Disoriented, she pushed blindly at the handle and all but fell into a cleaner’s cupboard, full of mops and pails. ‘Bloody hell!’ she muttered, staring at the clutter: dustpans, disinfectant, a box of rubber gloves, and a pair of fluorescent orange overalls, hanging on a peg.

  Suddenly, impulsively, she stepped into the cupboard and closed the door behind her, enclosing herself in the dim, claustrophobic space. There was barely room for her voluminous wedding finery, but already she had begun to tear it off. She tugged first at the wreath, discarding it in a shower of hairpins, then stripped off the veil, bundling it up any old how and tossing it into an old red plastic bucket. Next, she struggled out of her dress, almost ripping it in her haste. She couldn’t bundle that up – it was too stiff, too self-important, and seemed to have a life of its own, still standing to attention. Angrily she shoved it right to the back of the cupboard, then took down the orange overalls, climbed into them and zipped them up. They were far too big – a man’s pair – but delightfully loose and baggy, although they did look rather peculiar teamed with white wedding shoes. Tomorrow she would be back in her old trainers – no more high heels, high style. And her make-up she’d get rid of now. She rummaged for a J-cloth and kept rubbing at her face with it, until most of the lipstick and foundation had come off. Finally she combed her hair with her fingers until it was hanging loose and straight again and free of the last of the hairpins. Her old self was back, thank God.

  Pushing the cupboard door open, she bolted down the corridor, no longer looking for the exit but for the bridge across the motorway that would take her to the other side. She hadn’t got a penny on her, so she would have to hitchhike back the way she’d come. Lorraine would give her a bed until she decided what to do. And her father would forgive her – grudgingly, eventually. As for Edward – no, she dared not even think of Edward, nor of the romantic diamond ring still shrieking on her wedding finger. The guilt was just too huge: a great mushroom-cloud of self-reproach, remorse, regret …

  Ah – she’d found the stairs that led up to the bridge, and was already teetering up them, hampered by her shoes. And now she was on the bridge itself and refusing to look back – or down – just running, running, running, away from shackles, fetters, wedlock.

  If all men were unpredictable, then best not to take the risk.

  Dandelions

  ‘I don’t like the look of that sky, Brianna. Mark my words, it’ll be bucketing down before you reach the station. Why don’t you stay the night?’

  ‘Mum, I can’t – I’ve told you. That meeting in the—’

  ‘Well, stay another couple of hours and catch a later train.’

  ‘But it’s just as likely to be raining then, as well.’

  ‘There’s no need to snap. I’m just concerned about you getting wet. You do have an umbrella, I presume?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brianna lied, knowing her mother’s efforts to find one would only cause still more delay. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s not far.’ Another lie – the walk took half an hour.

  ‘And don’t forget, next week you’re coming earlier.’

  She was hardly likely to forget when they’d been over it a dozen times already. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all settled.’

  ‘Well if you have to go, you have to, I suppose.’ Her mother opened the front door, only to close it again, barring the escape-route. ‘Look, are you absolutely sure you can’t make it on the Wednesday? It would mean a lot if you could take me to that appointment.’

  ‘But I thought that woman you met at church was—’

  ‘Oh, Angela’s no use! She’d bound to turn up late. And that car of hers is an absolute disgrace. Dog hairs all over the seats, and the ashtray overflowing.’

  ‘At least she’s got a car. I can’t really help without one.’

  ‘You could arrange a taxi, couldn’t you? There’s this nice little man in the village who—’

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry, but I just can’t get away on a weekday – not with my job as pressured as it is. And I simply must leave now. Otherwise I’ll miss the train.’

  ‘Off you go, then. It was silly of me to ask. I should have saved my breath. You’ve never got a minute, have you, to do anything but work?’

  Brianna suppressed a scream of rage. Hadn’t she been there all damned day, for heaven’s sake? Her mother could at least say thank you, instead of issuing reproaches.

  As she set off down the lane, she kept turning back to wave. That was part of the whole ritual, as if her mother liked to leave her with the image of a poor, pathetic figure abandoned on the doorstep by a, yes, endlessly busy daughter.

  The minute she rounded the corner, she broke into a run, although there was no real relief in beating a retreat, when she was left struggling with a curdled mass of anger, guilt and pity, all seething and bubbling like the yeasty scum on fermenting beer. And ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’ kept snaking round her head, hissing out more venom-clouds of guilt: she should have stayed the night; should have been more sympathetic; should have coaxed her mother to eat the food she’d brought (expensive food from Fortnum’s, which had necessitated a special journey on her precious one day off). Instead, she had tipped the whole damned lot into the waste-bin, once her mother started complaining about pâté being a health-risk and shop-bought quiche a con. Other people’s mothers actually cooked for their daughters, or took them out to lunch, especially when they’d been travelling for over two-and-a-half hours on a crowded tube and a moody, stop-start train.

  The rain began in earnest after only a few minutes, yet there were still two miles to go. Did her mother have to live in such a godforsaken place? With no means of local transport other than the bus (notoriously unreliable), of course she’d feel cut off – isolated, lonely and all the other words that played the same refrain: ‘Poor me. All alone.’ She wouldn’t move, though, not even into Guildford. She liked to make things difficult, to test her only child’s devotion. ‘If you really cared, you’d come down twice a week, pressured job or no.’

  Was she mean? Undutiful? Downright selfish, even? Yes, all of them, most likely. Her mother was in desperate need of company – that was incontestable. ‘But why should I provide it? It’s her own fault if she hasn’t any friends. She’s driven every single soul away but me.’

  Stopping a moment to button up her jacket, she cursed her folly in not bringing a proper mac. But when she’d set out this morning, the sky had been reasonably clear. Besides, one didn’t expect protracted April showers in the second week of June.

  On finally reaching the station, she made an immediate dash for shelter and stood huddled under the platform roof, wringing the water from her long mane of dripping hair and peeling off her sodden rag of a jacket. She had barely caught her breath when a voice crackled from the loudspeaker-system. ‘This is a customer announcement. South West Trains regret to inform you that the 18.53 service to London Waterloo has been cancelled, due to non-availability of staff. We apologize for any inconvenience caused.’

  ‘Fuck!’ she muttered under her breath – not that anyone was listening. Apart from her, the platform was deserted; no one else ‘inconvenienced’, not to mention hungry, tired and drenched. According to the station clock, it was 18.46. The Sunday trains were only one an hour, which meant hanging about for sixty-seven minutes, on a station with no facilities whatever: no waiting-room, no toilets, no refreshment bar. Well, at least there was a seat, and some musical diversion in the form of the deluge drumming on the roof and the plop-plop-plop of water-drops leaking from a hole.

  She sat gingerly on the bench, which had broken slats and a black scribble of graffiti behind it, on the wall: ‘Ted loves Sally.’ ‘Piss off, wild boy.’ ‘Kirsty likes it up the arse.’ Unfolding the Sunday Times, she tried to immerse herself in an a
rticle on the Kyoto protocol, but it was impossible to concentrate. Her mind was more concerned not only with her mother but with what awaited her at home. She wouldn’t be back till half-past ten, and there was a mass of stuff to get ready for the morning, mainly connected with the crucial Monday meeting. According to the Head of Department, all their jobs were on the line; indeed, the very future of the college was at stake. She had tried to explain the situation to her mother, but someone who’d never had a job, never worked to deadlines, simply couldn’t understand. In any case, her mother preferred to talk about herself: the pain in her left leg, the rudeness of her neighbours’ boys, the uneven pavement outside Clarke’s, just waiting to trip her up.

  Brianna refolded the paper and stuffed it back in her bag. It was vile to be so lacking in compassion, and only went to show what a rotten daughter she was. She took a deep breath in, exhaled it in a long, shuddering sigh, trying to clear her mind of the whole exhausting cycle of resentment and remorse, annoyance and regret. At least she was mercifully alone now, with no mother making demands; no frantic boss warning of a showdown. In fact, a stifling Sunday silence seemed to have descended on the land; the station still deserted; not a soul in sight.

  Even the rain was easing off, at last; glints of sunlight breaking through the clouds. As if seeking an escape from herself, she walked right to the end of the platform, where the concrete finished and a tangle of brambly scrub took over, interspersed with weeds and flowers: cow-parsley and chickweed, stinging nettles, willowherb. She stooped to pick a dandelion, admiring the way the showy yellow flower-head had closed against the rain. If only she had that same knack, in order to protect her hair from downpours. She also envied the fact that dandelions reproduced themselves non-sexually, never requiring pollination from any outside agency. That, too, would come in handy in her present man-less state, when she was longing for a baby, but had no obvious means of conceiving one

  She started picking a whole bunch of the flowers, in tribute to her father, who’d been passionate about nature study and a champion of the dandelion. ‘It’s not a weed,’ he’d told her, ‘but a valuable plant that gives us food and wine.’ Indeed, now she came to think of it, he and the plant had certain things in common: bright, cheerful, easy-going, resilient and strong. And neither her father nor the flower ever gave themselves airs or demanded special treatment, but simply adapted to their circumstances and flourished where and how they could. If he’d had a grave, she would have piled it high with dandelions, but his ashes were still in their original container, which took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Her mother refused to relinquish them – or the role of widow – even after twenty years.