The Biggest Female in the World and other stories

by Wendy Perriam

  Before long, she was too scared to sleep. If she closed her eyes, she might have what was called an ‘accident’, and ‘accidents’ were unpardonable. She would be snatched up from her bed, slapped on her bare legs, and told she was a dirty, thoughtless, selfish little girl.

  ‘Dirty’ meant you’d made your mother suffer; caused her needless work; made her want to leave you at the orphanage, or wish she’d never had you in the first place. Only ‘clean’ was safe. ‘Clean’ meant love and praise; ‘clean’ meant you could stay at home and not be sent away. But ‘clean’ also proved impossible until she was almost fifteen months – fifteen haunted, nervy months, in which she struggled for her life.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, are you OK?’

  Margaret opened her eyes. A salesgirl in a black trouser-suit was standing by her side.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude, madam, but you looked as if you were going to faint.’

  ‘Oh, did I?’ Margaret said, suddenly realizing where she was. ‘Gosh! How silly of me! No, I’m perfectly all right. Just a bit … hot, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, it’s stifling in here, isn’t it? I’m afraid the air-conditioning’s on the blink. I reckon this heat-wave was too much for it! Can I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘No, really,’ Margaret mumbled, quickly backing off and making her escape.

  She stood a moment outside the shop, adjusting to the glare. She had forgotten how sweltering the weather was, enough to trigger another flush. Perhaps it would be wise to have a drink before continuing with her shopping, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of collapsing on the pavement. There was a café just a few doors down, so she drifted in, took a seat and ordered an iced tea.

  ‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asked.

  ‘No, thanks.’ The display of cakes looked tempting, but she’d been taught early on in life not to eat between meals, and somehow the training had stuck. Everyone around her, though, was tucking in without compunction, and clearly didn’t share her qualms about greed and self–indulgence.

  She unbuttoned her jacket, wondering why she had worn it on such a blistering day. Most of the women here were dressed in shorts and skimpy tops, whereas she was wearing tights, for heaven’s sake! Her mother’s training again, of course. It had begun so early, lodged so deep that, even after all these years, she still believed it was wrong to expose an inch of naked flesh. She had been born in a heat-wave, similar to this, yet the first photo of her, at three days old, showed her bundled up in layers of clothes and wrapped in a woollen shawl.

  Sipping her tea, she enjoyed the feel of the tall, cold glass against her sweaty palms. Stupid to spoil the day by returning to her babyhood. She should feel pity for her mother, who’d been extremely young and extremely inexperienced, with little education and no mother of her own to help. It must have been a struggle bringing up two daughters single-handed; her husband not just absent, but squandering most of the money. Blame was out of the question; in fact, she felt a deep compassion for a woman so supremely insecure she’d been forced to impose severe controls on every aspect of her babies’ lives.

  Best to avoid the subject and concentrate on Clara. She still had to decide on a present, which wasn’t easy when the nursery was an Aladdin’s cave of toys and clothes and playthings, puppets, mobiles, ornaments. The child even owned a Baby Gym, complete with padded play-mat, breakproof mirror and a complicated electronic device that alternated light effects with bouncy little tunes. And a silvery-pink CD player stood beside her cot, to stimulate her burgeoning brain with tracks of ‘Bach for Babies’ and ‘Mozart for the Under-Twos’.

  Margaret drained her tea. How could an average mortal hope to compete in the gift stakes when the bar was set so high? Unless she went for something practical, like that plastic potty she’d seen – the one in the shape of a car, with big yellow eyes as headlamps and a grinning mouth as bumper. No, Rachael considered potty-training as a form of child abuse, and intended to follow the Californian method, which left children in nappies till the age of three or four. Well, perhaps a box of toiletries: beautifully packaged baby creams and soaps. Except that, too, was bound to meet with disapproval. Her niece was extremely fussy about Clara’s delicate skin and tended to buy organic preparations from a special Swedish firm. Indeed, she and Ted had even learned to blend their own essential oils, as part of the baby-massage course.

  Fanning herself with the menu, Margaret glanced surreptitiously at the small girl at the next table, who was working her way through a dish of ice-cream in a curious shade of mauve. It reminded her of Clara again, who was regularly indulged with elaborate ices prepared at home from fresh farm eggs and cream, in unheard-of flavours such as boysenberry and nectarine. Rachael refused to buy the commercial ones, loaded with additives and chemicals (not to mention ‘lethal’ sugar), but would liquidize the sweetest fruits, to provide ‘natural’ sugar, along with vitamins. In fact, the pampered babe had never touched the normal sort of baby food that came in jars and tins. Her doting parents insisted she experience the variety of tastes and textures that only home-cooked cuisine could provide. Devotedly they laboured in the kitchen, making miniature cheese soufflés to tempt her infant palate, poaching salmon with asparagus, mashing up ripe avocados, or swirling puréed blackcurrants with probiotic yoghurt. Their pièce de résistance was what they called Fish Pie Supreme, which included seven different sorts of fish, swathed in saffronflavoured sauce and with organic mashed potato on the top. Every mouthful swallowed was a triumph for both child and parent. ‘Well done, my pet!’ Ted would coo, spooning in a soupçon more of guava sorbet or courgette mousse.

  ‘Pet,’ Margaret murmured under her breath – the most bewitching word in the lexicon. It actually had a physical effect on her: made her heart beat faster, brought a flush to her cheek – and nothing to do with the menopause, this time. ‘Pet’ epitomized the very heights of affection and devotion, the unalloyed approval of a parent for a child. ‘Pet’ meant your father stayed with you, rather than storming out in fury because under-fives frayed his nerves and drained his cash supplies. There had been no ‘pets’ in her day – the very thought was blasphemous. Even literal pets (cats, dogs, hamsters, budgerigars) were strictly disallowed, as being germy, unhygienic and a source of danger and disease. And as for using terms of endearment to small and self-willed girls, it would only feed their vanity; make them perilously lax. Clara, on the other hand, had been awash in ‘pets’ since the first moment she drew breath. She was Mummy’s pet and Daddy’s pet, Granny’s pet and Grandpa’s pet, and was bound to be Teacher’s pet, as well, the minute she started school (still clad, no doubt, in nappies).

  Margaret mopped her face with a paper serviette. It was not that she was jealous – she despised jealousy not only as a vice but as a sign of unintelligence. Since equality in fate and fortune was obviously impossible, why waste time and energy deploring a basic fact of life? Politicians might strive to iron out gross discrepancies in healthcare and education, and all power to them – it was an admirable ideal. But no policy on earth could remove the flagrant differences in the upbringing of children, or decree that every baby in the land received its fair ration of ‘pets’. And yet those very ‘pets’ were more crucial for people’s future confidence – indeed their very happiness and desire to live at all – than any number of government handouts or social welfare schemes.

  A squawk from the child at the adjoining table recalled her to the matter in hand: Clara’s birthday present. Perhaps it would make more sense to open an account for her, paying in a substantial sum each year. Already, in her will (which she had drawn up after a cancer scare last summer), she had left most of her money to Rachael, as a way of expressing how much the relationship meant. Having a niece – and a great-niece – made her feel less alone in the world, and helped compensate for the fact that no suitable man had ever come along to give her children of her own.

  Yes, the account was the perfect solution and would solve the present problem for many yea
rs to come. Although there was still Ted’s birthday, just ten days after Clara’s, and men were even trickier than babies. She gestured to the waitress, fumbled in her handbag for some change. It was no good sitting here idling her time away, when she should be in a men’s-wear shop, choosing a tie or shirt or scarf. She owed a lot to Ted. He could easily have dismissed her as a boring spinster-aunt, instead of welcoming her so warmly; even trusting and respecting her.

  She was lucky, extremely lucky in her almost-family.

  Easing off her shoes, she rubbed her swollen feet. Despite the pain in her arches, she was glad she’d persevered, traipsing from men’s department to men’s department until, finally, she’d happened on a most distinctive sweater: softest cashmere in a subtle shade of blue. The cost had been prohibitive, but her ‘nephew-in-law’ was worth it. Then she had retraced her steps to Debenhams, to buy a silk scarf for Rachael. If Ted deserved a present, then her niece did even more so, despite the fact her actual birthday wasn’t till next year. And finally she’d trekked the length of Oxford Street again, in search of a party-favour shop, so she could buy a few unusual trinkets for Clara’s special day.

  She had to admit she’d probably overdone it, walking so far in such ferocious heat. She did feel almost tearful now, but that was just her hormones playing up. The doctor had warned her that she might get ‘weepy’ as her oestrogen levels plummeted still further, but it would be criminal to cry when she had so much to be grateful for: a roof over her head, a steady job, and her basic health and strength.

  She was also thrilled to be included in the party. Ted could well have put his foot down and told Rachael on the quiet, ‘We don’t want fossils like Aunt Margaret. Let’s restrict it to our friends.’ But no – there was her invitation flaunting on the mantelpiece. And the party, by the sounds of it, was going to be sensational. Rachael was making the cake herself, from pulverised almonds and hazelnuts (no ‘poisonous’ white sugar or unrefined white flour), and decorating it with silver bells and tiny porcelain figurines. And she’d bought everything in Clara’s favourite colour – pink figurines, pink streamers, pink helium balloons, a pink fluffy bear for every tiny guest, and bunches of pink rosebuds on order from the florist. She had even hired a bubble machine to create a magical atmosphere: streams of bubbles jetting out in – yes, translucent pink. As for Clara’s party frock, that was in a class of its own – a ravishing creation in ruffled silk (pink, of course), interleaved with pink embroidered ribbon, and complete with a pair of matching ruffled pants.

  Margaret cast a judgemental eye on her frumpy khaki skirt, only now aware of how unflattering it looked. She would have to make an effort for the party, if only to be worthy of her great-niece, although she had no intention of splashing out on some new, expensive outfit. The less she spent on herself, the more would be left for Rachael, after her demise. Besides, however much she might primp and crimp, who would spare a glance for her?

  Having put away her purchases, she limped along the passage to the bathroom. A warm bath would help her aching feet and, anyway, she was worried she might smell unpleasant after ten hot flushes in a row, the last exceptionally fierce. In fact, she was perspiring even now, in the small and sweltering bathroom, which often reached a temperature of eighty-five degrees, on account of the hot pipes that couldn’t be turned off. She ran the bath, peeled off her sticky clothes, then climbed into the murky brownish water. The landlord had assured her that the peculiar colour was simply due to rust in the pipes, and wouldn’t do the slightest harm. Rachael often urged her to find another flat, or at least invest in some bath-salts to turn the water blue, and some soothing plant-oil to moisturize her skin. But whereas Rachael believed in pampering, she had been taught it was selfish and remiss, and that baths were strictly functional affairs, whose overriding purpose was to remove basic dirt and grime, not sybaritic experiences that squandered time and money.

  She closed her eyes, wincing against the pain in her spine. These sudden stabbing backaches seemed to come on every day now – perhaps another menopausal symptom. She already had most symptoms in the book, including drenching night-sweats that continually disrupted her sleep. The doctor had admitted that her case was extremely severe, yet it would be pointless and selfpitying to make a fuss about a few odd pains and sweats, when poor benighted souls were starving in Malawi or being tortured in Dafur. ‘And, for heaven’s sake,’ she rebuked herself, ‘you’re only in your fifties. People of ninety have to cope, even when they’re crippled with arthritis or half-blind from cataracts.’

  She let herself drift off. There were chores to do, bills to pay, but they could wait a little longer. Right now she’d snatch a few minutes’ peace and quiet before washing the net curtains and cleaning all the windows in the flat. ‘Clean’ was still her watchword – her long-dead mother saw to that.

  *

  ‘Happy birthday, my little love!’ her father cooed, tenderly sponging her legs. The water was a bewitching shade of turquoise and scented with precious oils. She lolled back against his supportive arm as he soaped between her toes. The soap was perfumed too – a luxurious bar, marbled green and white.

  ‘Who’s Daddy’s little treasure, then? Who’s Daddy’s favourite girl?’

  She crowed in sheer delight. She had his unreserved attention, his undivided love. And Mummy was there, too, hovering beside him, waiting to swathe her in a nice warm fluffy towel. Yes, she could feel the cosy softness of the towel, and then the glorious sensation of warm fingers against her naked skin, as four adoring hands began to massage her whole body with some deliciously fragranced baby-salve. She allowed herself to squirm in sensuous pleasure. How wonderful it was to be free to move her limbs; not bound and shackled in tight, confining clothes.

  Even when her parents slipped on the ruffled party frock, she was still perfectly at liberty to roll over on her back, kick her little legs, explore the tiny buttons with her fingers. There were no heavy, hampering fabrics; no hot, imprisoning shawl; no bulky nappies that chafed her tender skin; no jabbing pins or clammy plastic pants. And no one shouted, ‘Keep still, you wretch!’, every time she dared to wriggle or wave her hands about. In fact, the only words were those of approbation.

  ‘You look absolutely enchanting, my sweet. The cutest little baby in the world.’

  Praise could make you beautiful. The ugly, stupid baby had entirely disappeared, replaced by a sweet, shining pearl. And when Mummy carried her downstairs to meet the waiting guests, compliments and accolades flowed from every mouth, as all the grownups purred in admiration.

  The whole room had been transformed, and solely in her honour, as if she were the most important person in the world. Sparkly pink balloons were suspended from the ceiling; pink and silver streamers looped along the walls, posies of pink rosebuds smiled from every surface, and beguiling pink-pearl bubbles drifted through the air, glinting as they caught the light. And the tablecloth was pink, of course, and all the plates and cups, and pink jellies glowed in pink glass bowls, beside enticing piles of snow-capped Turkish Delight. She didn’t even have to sit on an uncomfortable high chair, but stayed safe on Mummy’s lap, cradled in her arms; the focus of each doting adult eye. Daddy crouched beside her, feeding her with a silver spoon – not vulgar messes out of tins (boring, tasteless pap), but a host of delicacies. Morsels of choice chicken breast were popped between her lips, followed by slivers of best Dover sole, soupçons of Fish Pie Supreme and thimblefuls of asparagus mousse. The puddings were equally delicious: hazelnut pavlova, boysenberry ice-cream, and a blissful swirl of Greek Mountain Honey sorbet, served with damson coulis. Nor were the drinks forgotten. Daddy held her cup for her as she sipped Apricot Nectar and Elderflower Elixir, then Mummy offered her a smoothie made from puréed pawpaw and full-cream Jersey milk.

  And now it was time for the birthday cake, which was shaped like a fairy palace and covered with pink roses and tiny silver bells. Daddy lit the big pink candle and helped her blow it out, and everybody clapped and told her she was a c
lever little girl. And although she ate three helpings, no one called her greedy, or slapped her because she’d made a mess. Even when she sucked her thumb or dribbled down her best pink frock, Mummy didn’t raise her voice, let alone lash out.

  The best was still to come, though. She had eaten so much, drunk so much, there was a pressing need for all that food and liquid to be voided. Yet the chamber pot, with its obnoxious smell and hard, unyielding rim, was nowhere to be seen. Nor was she being dangled rudely over it, terrified they’d drop her and she’d fall into that gaping, stinking trap. No, she was still snuggled close to Mummy, with Mummy’s strong, consoling arms keeping her from harm. But, most wonderful of all – and the bliss of it was beyond the power of words – she was free to be a baby, for the first time in her life.