She had to keep reminding herself not to eat too quickly. You were meant to put your fork down between every single mouthful, which struck her as plain daft. If food was sitting on your plate, then best to gobble it fast, in case someone snatched it away. But here it wasn’t worth the risk – she might be banished in disgrace and forbidden to return. And she must never, ever, use her fingers, Aunt Augusta said, to pick up the chipolatas (which she’d done on her first visit, much to everybody’s horror). Now, she cut them into strips, holding each piece in her mouth as long as possible, so she could enjoy their greasy, porky taste, and the different, darker flavour of the crusty, slightly burnt bits.
She paused a moment to admire the decorations: a huge bunch of mistletoe, brought in by the gardeners from the grounds, a ten-foot-tall Christmas tree, hung with miniature glass birds, and wreaths of holly and ivy, festooned above the windows. They weren’t just outward show. Aunt Augusta lived her whole life round the church, so even Christmas greenery was a religious thing for her. Mistletoe, she’d told them, could survive the harshest weather and, even if it seemed to die, would revive like Christ our Saviour. And the holly and the ivy were symbols of Eternal Life because they stayed green throughout the year and never shed their leaves. Eternal Life sounded rather frightening. Did it mean you’d have a million, million birthdays? But wouldn’t you get bored, then, living all that time, or run out of food or money and have to go to the pawn-shop? And if mistletoe could come back from the dead, then why not her own father, who had died when she was two?
To cheer herself, she took a sip of wine, feeling wonderfully grown-up, but casting anxious glances at her mother, who always drank too much. If an argument broke out, or some frightening shouting-match, again they might be shown the door. The people on the television were beautifully behaved, not talking with their mouths full, and passing the salt and pepper without having to be asked. Even the two screen children sat as quiet as mice, the girl with long fair ringlets, the boy in a brown velvet suit. The under-fives at Grove End House were confined strictly to the nursery, Christmas Day, or no. Uncle William hated children, so her mother said, which seemed rather strange when he had three girls of his own.
Suddenly he caught her eye and, as she met his gaze, he shot her a look of such hostility and spite, she immediately kicked her chair back and hurtled into the kitchen. She stood leaning against the worktop, still seeing his blue eyes bulging from their sockets, as if any moment they’d pop out of his head and shoot straight into the turkey dish. It was clear he didn’t want her here – maybe even wished her dead.
She shivered, as the cold gape of her father’s grave seemed to suck them down as well. No, she mustn’t think of death and graves – not on Christmas Day – but think only about the meal: the luscious second course, followed by the crystallized fruits that came in a big wooden box, perfect for a pencil case. And the other box, of Turkish Delight, which opened in a sneeze of sugar, and contained gluey chunks of pink and white that tasted sort of scented, and stuck gloriously to your teeth. And, after that, the walnuts and brazils, with their thick, rough shells like bark on trees, and then coffee for the grown-ups in tiny, pretty cups, and big fancy golden crackers, with proper toys in, not just paper hats …
The BANG-BANG of the crackers sent her frisking into the other room, where she grabbed her plate, with its soggy sprouts and undercooked potatoes, and, returning to the kitchen, tipped the contents in the waste-bin. No need to save provisions for tomorrow. Grove End House was groaning with food: pheasant paté, chicken pies, pork and veal terrines, whole sides of honey-roasted ham …
Back in place at the table, she watched Priscilla carry in the pudding, flaming blue and gold. Everybody clapped as the flames danced and flickered, danced and flickered, before finally petering out. The making of the pudding was another holy rite at Grove End House. It couldn’t be made any old time, but only on ‘Stir-Up Sunday’ – the last Sunday prior to Advent. And it had to be made with exactly thirteen ingredients – neither more nor less – to represent Christ and His twelve disciples. And every member of the family and staff was required to stir the mixture, stirring from east to west, in honour of the Three Kings. If only she was there, so she, too, could have a stir. But they never went to Grove End House except on Christmas Day, and her own mother was too busy to make puddings, and couldn’t possibly afford the three real-silver charms that were put into the mixture, and bought new again each year: a ring, a thimble and a coin. Whoever found the ring would be married within the coming year; whoever got the thimble would remain a spinster throughout their life, and the one who found the silver coin would have their wish come true.
And the wishes did come true – she had seen it happen year on year. In 1927, her cousin Grace had got the sixpence and wished for a new pony. Two weeks later, a piebald with a long white tail had turned up in the stables. And in 1928, Uncle Hamish had suddenly spluttered on his pudding, coughed the sixpence from his mouth, and wished there and then for a wife. His marriage to Aunt Ellen took place the following June. And the Christmas after that, it was Mrs Forbes who had got the coin and immediately made a wish to live abroad. She was never seen again, but spent every subsequent Christmas in her new exciting home – a ranch in Santa Fe.
‘Would you like pudding first, Miss Violet, or mince pie?’
A difficult decision. She screwed up her face in concentration, trying to work it out. ‘Both together’ might sound rude, or greedy. ‘Mince pie, please,’ she finally blurted out. Pudding was her favourite, so best to leave it till last.
She was given not just one pie but two, and a whoosh of thick whipped cream, which began melting in luscious rivulets. The hot shortcrust pastry crumbled in her mouth, its buttery taste mixing with the tang of brandied mincemeat. If only her stomach was as big as the house itself, then she could fill it up to the attics, and down to the cellars, to last her through the hungry days ahead. Once, aged six, she had nicked an extra mince pie from the kitchen, and stuffed it down her knickers, to take home. By evening, it was a mess of damp and smelly crumbs, but she’d devoured it just the same.
She peeled off one of her jerseys. The room was warm from the real-log fire crackling in the hearth, so there was no more need for several layers to keep away the cold. Eric had just replenished the logs, giving them a vigorous poke to set them fiercely blazing. If you stared at the flames for long enough, you could see pictures in the fire: scarlet birds with golden plumes, trembly orange flowers …
‘Ready for your pudding yet, Miss Violet?’
She nodded. Her mouth was still full, so she mustn’t speak, but she watched in amazement as she was given an enormous piece – enough for three or four – and covered with a tide of velvety custard. The custard looked alive, quivering with eggs, trembling with rich cream, as it murmured, ‘Eat me! Eat me!’ Without need of further prompting, she spooned in the first mouthful of custard-coated pudding, then shut her eyes, so she could remember the tastes and textures right through to Christmas next: the satisfying crunch of nuts contrasting with the smooth dark mass of fruit; the tiny jolts of bitter sweetness from strips of candied peel; the kick of rum and brandy tingling on her tongue; the waxy, sticky sweetness of whole glistening glacé cherries, the smooth, soothing balm of the custard itself. But all at once, she spat the pudding out. Her teeth had encountered something foreign – hard and sharp, metallic.
She looked down at her plate. There, amidst the dark regurgitated mess, shone a tiny silver coin. Awed, she picked it up, rubbed it clean, examined it – not the magic sixpence of Aunt Augusta’s day, but a 5p piece, and magic just the same. How could any coin have landed up in a St Saviour’s Christmas dinner? They were obviously pre-prepared on a massive scale by some municipal caterers, so wouldn’t they have checks in place, health-and-safety regulations, hordes of council inspectors poking their fat noses in? After all, they wouldn’t want a lawsuit, were some old soul to break her dentures or swallow a foreign body. Yet somehow this one tiny coin
had escaped their vigilance, and found its dogged way into her particular carton, which in itself was something of a miracle. They must deliver countless meals, but only hers – she’d bet her life – contained a silver coin.
She clutched it tighter in her palm, smiling in sheer triumph. Throughout her childhood she had longed to get the coin, yet never once, in all that time, had it actually occurred. In fact, neither she nor her mother had got any of the charms. She had never abandoned hope, though, praying every year for the sixpence in particular, to make her wish come true. And she was always well-prepared, laying in a store of wishes so she would be ready if it happened, like the jars of jams and jellies in the Grove End larder that took up five whole shelves – wished to have a brother or sister, or at least a dog or cat; wished her mother didn’t drink; wished they lived in a palace and not in the Walworth Road; wished she had new clothes instead of cast-offs; wished to be plump and pretty, with blue eyes and a mop of curls, not a skinny scarecrow, with hair so limp it resisted even curling-tongs; wished sherbet lemons grew on trees, so you could pick them when you wanted.
Once she grew up, her wishes changed. At the age of twenty, she wished for a better job, and more cash for cigarettes, and an escape from her boss, who kept putting his hot hand on her leg and breathing cheese and pickle in her face. And she wished for romance, of course – not with that old fossil, but with a tall, dark, handsome sweetheart, who would kiss her sort of hungrily like they did in all the movies, and give her an engagement ring. Later still, her wishes changed again, so that now she wished for healthier lungs, and for any job at all. And, as for men, she had seen too much of marriage to want to be bullied like her neighbours, used as a servant or a punch-bag by some rude pig of a spouse. Instead, she wished her friends were still alive; wished she had a skateboard, to spare her aching feet, or a battery-heated nightdress to keep her warm at night.
Now, however, none of the wishes seemed to rouse her interest – certainly not the early ones, and not even the most recent. It was as if she had lived so long, she had outgrown all desires. Yet how could she simply ignore the coin, when she had been waiting every Christmas past to find it in her pudding? Wouldn’t it be a shocking waste of this once-in-a-lifetime chance?
Indecisive, she sat listening to the silence. All around her, in the street, her neighbours must be eating Christmas dinner, pulling crackers, singing carols, yet not a sound of their festivities reached her in this room. No child was playing outside; no car purred past the house; no burst of music exploded from next-door, no bird piped up or church bell pealed, no plane droned through the leaden winter sky. Despite the row of houses crammed rib to rib the entire length of the road, it was if she were the only person left in the whole world, abandoned here in isolation, while life went on elsewhere.
Then, all at once, a wish formed on her lips: a wish to be at Grove End House again, not just for one short Christmas Day but for what Aunt Augusta called Eternal Life – yes, sitting at that blesséd table for ever and ever and ever. And Eternal Life wouldn’t be alarming, as she had feared when she was young, because there’d be so much cheerful company – the whole throng of distinguished relatives she had so rarely seen in this life. Nor would it be boring, with the whole house to explore and its stables, orchards and fishponds, not to mention the fields and woods beyond. And the food would keep on coming through all eternity: breakfast after breakfast, dinner after dinner, then tea and supper and bedtime snacks, with sweets and drinks and iced buns in between.
Closing her fingers round the coin, she shut her eyes and sat up very straight. ‘I wish,’ she said out loud, her voice solemn with emotion, ‘that this time next year I’ll no longer be here, and I’ll no longer be alone.’
Then, suddenly, through half-closed lids, she saw a dazzling ray of light illuminate the drab December day. Wonderingly, she bowed her head, knowing that her wish was granted and that next Christmas would be truly happy because, as well as the big family, her own father would be there – resurrected like the mistletoe – and she would feel his loving arms around her after eighty-seven years of waiting, and the two of them would sit entwined, the most honoured and triumphant guests in the bliss of Grove End Heaven.
Pet
‘Can I help you, madam?
‘Er, yes,’ said Margaret, eyeing the salesgirl’s prominent bump. Did this store employ pregnant women deliberately, as part of some new marketing technique? ‘I’m looking for a present for a one-year-old.’
‘Girl or boy?’
‘Girl. It’s her birthday next week, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about babies, so if there’s something you could suggest.’
‘How about a pretty dress?’ The girl steered her towards a rack in the middle of the shop. ‘This would be the size you need, unless the child’s exceptionally big.’
‘No, average, I’d say.’ It was difficult to judge. Clara looked quite puny in her cot, yet felt a ton-weight when picked up. But then she never felt at ease with a baby in her arms, not even her own great-niece.
‘How about this frilled one, with the darling little matching pants?’
Margaret surveyed it dubiously. The precocious infant already had every conceivable garment, from a fairy outfit, including wand and wings, to a pair of miniature Levi’s, encrusted with fake rhinestones. ‘I’m not sure about clothes. She seems to have so many as it is.’
‘Then a doll, perhaps. Or a cuddly toy. We have a fantastic range of animals. If you come this way, I’ll show you.’
Confronted by the menagerie, Margaret stood in silence, her gaze straying from the array of bears (everything from polar and teddy to grizzly and koala), to more exotic creatures such as bison, yak and porcupine. The dolls were equally numerous: china dolls and rag dolls, in various skin-tones from pink-and-white to black, with shades of cappuccino in between; dolls that wet their nappies, or spoke or cried or giggled; dolls that sucked on bottles, or came with fashion-statement wardrobes. And there was an impressive selection of doll accessories: cots and prams, bathtubs and highchairs, even a Jacuzzi.
The choice was, frankly, baffling. If she opted for an Anglo-Saxon doll, would that be construed as politically incorrect? And any bottle-fed doll would meet with Rachael’s outright condemnation. Her niece believed passionately that breast was invariably best, and intended feeding Clara for at least another year. Margaret sometimes feared that when the child began at primary school, she would still be trotting home for her thrice-daily fix of the nipple.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said to the salesgirl. ‘I don’t want to waste your time. It’s probably better if I have a little wander round and try to make my mind up.’
‘Just as you please. But don’t hesitate to ask, madam, if you do need any help.’
‘Thanks. I will.’ Margaret trudged self-consciously from rocking cradles to potties, wishing she wasn’t so much older than everyone else in the shop. Apart from several pregnant customers (and at least three pregnant salesgirls), there were half-a-dozen young couples in sight, complete with progeny. One man standing near her was cuddling his baby with unashamed devotion, kissing every finger in turn, whilst whispering endearments in her ear. Rachael’s Ted was just the same, doting on his daughter and passionately involved with her, changing nappies, singing bedtime lullabies and boasting about her achievements to anyone who’d listen: she had swallowed her first solids (‘wonderful to watch’), learned to crawl (‘a milestone’), cut her first tooth (‘I felt profoundly moved’), taken her first step (‘it seemed an actual miracle’). He kept her photo in his wallet and on his desk at work, and, according to Rachael, even got up at night, to be part of the ritual of breastfeeding. If he could have grown a pair of breasts himself, in order to offer Clara an alternative milk-experience, no doubt he would have done so. And he and Rachael had actually attended a baby massage course, so that their child could have four expert hands caressing every inch of her small body.
Margaret glanced at the young man again. He was still g
oo-gooing and kiss-kissing with no trace of embarrassment. Rather different from her own father, who had regarded babies – and indeed children generally – with a mixture of resentment and distaste. In fact, he had been away ‘on business’, for the greater part of her childhood, and although neither she nor her sister had any idea what that mysterious ‘business’ meant, it was clearly of infinitely greater importance than dandling a couple of infants on his knee, or spooning pap into a pair of drooling mouths.
All at once, she gripped the edge of the shelf, as a wave of burning heat went surging through her body; a volcano about to erupt. Oh, no, she thought, not here! Hot flushes seemed particularly inappropriate in this temple to the young and fertile. Her face had gone a deep brick-red and sweat was pouring down her back and chest, as she stood trying to gain control. What scared her were the palpitations that accompanied each flush. The doctor had reassured her that her heart was basically sound and that the flutterings and pulsings were just another menopausal symptom. She struggled to follow his advice: she must focus on some object, observing its colour, shape and size, and so divert attention from her symptoms and her self. The only thing in her line of sight was a row of plastic potties, some in garish colours, some in the shape of animals or cars. She fixed her gaze on a plain one in a soothing shade of grey – brilliant reds and purples only made the flushes worse.
However, far from growing calmer, she was suddenly plunging back in time, until she was an infant of two months again, being held out over the chamber pot by her fastidious, rule-ridden mother, who detested dirty nappies. The hard china rim was pressing into her bottom, and huge, harsh hands were gripping her so tightly her body felt as if it was breaking in half. ‘No!’ she screamed with her not-yet voice, knowing with her not-yet brain that it was a battle for supremacy – and one she was bound to lose. Her mother had the bargaining power; could withdraw her milk – and love – if that potty wasn’t full. Day after day, the grim routine continued. She could feel the horror of it now: the sense of precariousness as she was dangled in mid-air, then plonked fiercely down on that hated, hurting object. Her body lacked the resources required to do what it was ordered, so she was doomed to failure, however hard she tried. And try she did – straining every muscle, tensing every nerve, desperate to obey her parents, who regarded this particular skill as crucial to their peace of mind. The stuff that plopped and spurted out of babies was shameful and disgusting if it soiled clean nappies or – worse – fouled the floor or cot. Indeed, her mother saw it as a personal affront, and would mete out stringent punishment unless the odious mess was channelled into the pot. She, the guilty infant, had grasped that hideous fact at less than eight weeks old, but was powerless to comply.
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 21