Little Marvel and other stories Read online

  LITTLE MARVEL

  AND OTHER STORIES

  Wendy Perriam

  For Lee Langley

  In appreciation of her treasure-chest mind.

  Be it Hollow Men or lentiggini, she always provides a eureka.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 Little Marvel

  2 Germans

  3 Thirty-nine

  4 Birth-rage

  5 Charlotte Elizabeth

  6 Heart’s Desire

  7 Sacred Heart

  8 Treasure Hunt

  9 Indonesians

  10 Heart-break

  11 Dolce Vita

  12 Worms

  13 Mystery Prize

  14 Peacocks

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Little Marvel

  ‘I’m sorry, girls, I’ve finally lost patience. You’re meant to be civilized young ladies, not a herd of pigs wallowing in the swill.’

  A nervous titter escaped from Sally-Anne. She tried to suppress it – too late.

  ‘So you think it’s funny, do you, Sally-Anne?’

  ‘No, Miss Bates.’

  ‘And do the rest of you think it’s funny?’

  ‘No, Miss Bates,’ they chorused dutifully, Dolores loudest of all. She had found little to amuse her in her nine years of life to date.

  ‘Well, that’s a blessing, I suppose.’ Miss Bates paused to blow her thin, arched nose – red and slightly swollen from a cold. ‘But since you all seem hell-bent on shovelling in your food like little savages, it’s time you were taught a lesson. What I want you to do now is to eat your peas one at a time, which I hope will slow you down.’

  A gasp went up from the assembled girls; even a muffled cry: ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Miss Bates retorted. ‘Just one pea on the fork. And, Amanda – I’ve told you already – you’re meant to hold your fork the other way up, with the tines pointing down towards the food.’

  ‘What’s tines, Miss Bates?’

  ‘Never mind. You ask too many questions, child. Now, is everybody listening?’ Her sharp grey eyes swivelled round the refectory, corralling every girl on every table. ‘Good. That’s the first part of the exercise. The second part is equally important. You are to chew every pea fifty times before you swallow it. Have I made myself clear? Fifty times each pea. That should stop you guzzling.’

  This new command was greeted with shocked silence, Dolores in particular feeling a surge of deep unease. How could you chew one tiny pea fifty times? Wouldn’t it slip down on its own accord after only a couple of bites? And she and all the other girls had been given extra large portions, to compensate for the minuscule ration of meat, and for the fact that Cook had burned the potatoes that morning, tossed them into the waste-bin and refused to peel a second batch.

  Staring down at her own substantial pile, she tried to count each individual pea, before giving up in despair as she reached 104. She detested peas in the first place, especially these particular ones, which were overcooked and shrivelled, some with splitting skins. She imagined them filling up her stomach until there was no room for her heart or lungs and all the other squashy things people had inside them. And she hardly dared imagine what might happen the other end. Would they rattle into the toilet bowl in a torrent of green rabbit-droppings?

  ‘Slow down, Theresa! What did I just say?’

  ‘Eat the peas one at a time, and chew each one fifty times. But that’s impossible, Miss Bates. No one would could ever do it, not even Superman.’

  ‘I grant it isn’t easy, but that’s the whole point of the exercise. The trouble with you girls is that you’re all far too impatient.’

  Forking in her first pea, Dolores began anxiously to chew, but it was ready to be swallowed almost straight away. She would simply have to pretend to go on chewing, even though her mouth was empty. She made exaggerated movements with her jaw, aware that Miss Bates was patrolling the refectory, alert to any slackers.

  ‘Theresa! How many more times do I have to tell you to stop gobbling like a turkey-cock? I don’t know why I waste my breath when you ignore every word I say.’

  ‘But I’m hungry, Miss Bates.’

  ‘Hunger’s got nothing to do with it. Suppose you had to live through a famine, like your Irish ancestors?’

  Dolores closed her ears to the ensuing argument. The worst thing about school was that you could never be alone; swarms and shoals of girls always pressing in on every side. It was bad enough at home, where, as the youngest of eight children, there was never space enough to stretch or sprawl, nor peace enough to hear the sigh of lazy clouds idling their slow way across the sky, or the tiny squeaks of slugs and snails munching on a dandelion. Indeed, with seven brothers and sisters rampaging round the garden, most small creatures – including her – were trampled underfoot. When people mentioned Heaven, she imagined it as a vast expanse of shining space she didn’t have to share (as she was forced to share her bed and even bath). It would be hers, and hers alone, with no angels, no dead bodies, not even any God. From what she had heard of God, she knew she wouldn’t like Him. He sounded very stern – a tyrant like Miss Bates, constantly thinking up beastly, senseless punishments.

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen … She had actually managed to chew a pea fourteen times before it vanished down her throat. That was an improvement, although she had to fake the remaining thirty-six chews as Miss Bates glanced her way. Her jaws were beginning to ache, yet she had eaten only seven peas so far, and the pile on her plate appeared to be getting larger. Worse, the peas were shifting slightly, as if they might erupt in a pea-earthquake. Last week, she had seen an earthquake on the News: bloody bodies everywhere and houses collapsing into dust.

  Theresa suddenly nudged her in the ribs. ‘Pea-eyes!’ she taunted. ‘Pea-eyes!’

  Dolores flushed. Her green eyes were a source of constant gibes. She had been called an alien, a Martian, a pussy cat, a frog, but Pea-eyes was a new one. The thought of a loathsome pea wedged in each of her eye-sockets made her feel quite panicky. Frantically she rubbed her eyes, to dislodge the green intruders, only to stop herself in horror. Without eyes, she would be totally blind – unable to see the blackboard or read her favourite books. Could she put her eyes on strings, perhaps, like those tiny tots whose gloves were sewn to their coat-sleeves on pieces of elastic? While continuing to chew, she did a little business with an imaginary needle and thread, until her round pea-eyes were bobbing up and down in front of her face on lengths of black elastic.

  ‘Dolores, why do you keep rubbing your eyes? Are you developing a stye?’

  ‘No, Miss Bates.’

  ‘Well, what’s the trouble then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nothing, what?’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Bates.’ She forked in another pea. Although ten were gone, several hundred were left. They were definitely increasing. For every one she swallowed, another dozen sprang on to her plate. Things like that kept happening – things beyond all rational explanation; things that made you worry that God was breaking the rules, deliberately and cruelly.

  ‘Miss Bates?’ a voice piped up.

  ‘Yes, what it is, Hannah?’

  ‘We have netball at half-past one and it’s twenty past already. If we have to chew every pea fifty times, we’ll miss it.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the time, Hannah. Perhaps you should have thought about missing netball at the beginning of the lunch break rather than the end. I could see you girls were spoiling for a fight the minute you sat down, so now I’m afraid you’ll have to take the consequences.’

  Dolores let the muffled groans was
h over her, along with a further scolding from Miss Bates. She was trying to work out just how long they might be imprisoned in the refectory. It wasn’t only netball they’d miss, but all the afternoon lessons (including her favourite, art), then home-time and bedtime and getting-up-in-the-morning-time. In fact, maybe the entire rest of their lives they would be sitting here chewing peas, one by one

  one by one

  one by one

  one by one

  one by one

  one by

  one

  by

  ‘Do sit down, Dolores. May I call you Dolores?’

  ‘Please do.’ She had always been embarrassed by her name, which meant ‘sorrowful’ in Spanish. Why her parents should have given her a Spanish name was something of a mystery, since they were robustly English and suspicious of most foreigners. As for ‘sorrowful’, she could only guess that an eighth child (and a sixth girl at that) could well have been a burden rather than a blessing.

  ‘And do call me Willow.’

  The name suited its frail owner – a slender, floaty sort of female, with a breathy voice and long rippling hair, who looked as if she might break in half, given a strong breeze.

  ‘Well, what can I do to help?’ she asked, seating herself on a floor-cushion and draping her billowy caftan over thin, frail, freckled legs.

  Dolores hesitated, wondering where to start. Over the last few years, she had developed several new fears, including octophobia, but all of them were related to her underlying pea phobia, which had become increasingly disabling. ‘I … I’m frightened of peas,’ she blurted out, at last.

  Willow nodded kindly, giving no indication of surprise. Presumably she had heard it all before in her role as therapist. Or alternative therapist, as she was listed in the Yellow Pages. Dolores had warmed to that word ‘alternative’. In ordinary life there were all too few alternatives.

  ‘Oh, I know it sounds peculiar, or even downright mad. How could anyone be terrified of small, harmless things like peas? But they’re not harmless – not to me. In fact, there’s hardly a place I can go now without a sense of danger. All supermarkets and general stores are out of bounds, of course, along with pubs and restaurants, but I also feel quite jittery in ordinary people’s houses. I mean, they’re almost certain to have peas in the freezer, or tinned peas in the larder.’ She was reasonably safe with Willow, who saw her clients in the Natural Healing Centre – which didn’t have a café – rather than at home. (One of the reasons she’d chosen her, in preference to the rest.) ‘I think I may have picked up the fear from my mother. She was always terribly anxious and—’

  ‘Just a moment, Dolores,’ Willow interrupted. ‘I’m not a conventional psychotherapist – I do hope you realize that. I don’t examine people’s childhood or delve into their past.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, nonplussed. Her childhood was surely relevant, if only in view of the fact that the average number of peas in a pod was eight. When she was growing up in a tiny terraced house, there was just that sense of being squeezed and jostled in a claustrophobic pod, as she and her siblings swelled towards maturity, fighting for breathing space. Though it could have been worse, of course. Some varieties of pea boasted eleven or even twelve peas to the pod. And others were triple-podded, the very thought of which made her feel quite faint.

  ‘Perhaps I should tell you a little about my credentials.’ Willow leaned forward eagerly, in danger of overbalancing on the large squashy purple cushion. ‘I’ve trained in several different disciplines, including reiki and shiatsu, but now I practise mainly Chinese medicine.’

  Dolores tried to hide her disappointment. Why on earth Chinese, when she and Willow were both living in Crouch End? Her parents had always distrusted China; her father muttering darkly about the dangers of a Yellow Peril. Nor, for that matter, would he have approved of this consulting-room. There were no proper chairs (she herself was sitting on a pouffe-thing), the walls were painted insolent orange, and the only decoration was a large statue of a seated Buddha, who looked worryingly obese.

  ‘Which means I’d treat your fear in general, rather than concentrating on one specific phobia. You see, extreme amounts of fear often indicate a deficiency of kidney energy.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my kidneys. My physical health is OK – well, OK-ish, I should say.’

  ‘It’s not the kidneys themselves, Dolores, it’s your kidney Qi.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Qi is energy – the basic life force, you could call it. Everything in the universe has Qi.’

  ‘Do peas have it?’

  Willow appeared to ignore the question, continuing serenely, ‘It flows around the body through channels or meridians.’

  Like fear itself, thought Dolores, instantly alarmed. Things with foreign names were always best avoided.

  ‘The kidneys are the root of all energy in the body. So if a patient’s kidney Qi is low, they can experience anxiety, or even full-blown panic. But, of course, in order to make a proper diagnosis, I’ll need to take a case history.’

  Dolores felt increasingly uneasy. Not only were they were going far too fast, but Willow was now staring at her intently, which was surely impolite. ‘What are you looking at?’ she demanded, blinking nervously.

  ‘Your eyes.’

  ‘Yes, I know they’re green, but I can’t help that. It’s a family trait. All my—’

  ‘It’s not your eye-colour I’m interested in, but the colour of the skin just below your eyes, which can reveal problems or deficiencies. A blackish tinge may indicate a kidney problem.’

  ‘Blackish?’ Dolores put her hand up to her face. She had extremely fair and fragile skin – the sort that never tanned. Not that she would ever dream of braving the dangers of the sun.

  ‘First I need to establish whether you have a kidney-yang deficiency or a kidney-yin deficiency. Do you tend to feel the cold, or are you always opening windows and complaining that it’s too hot?’

  ‘I never open windows.’ The risks were far too great. Wasps or bugs or sparrows might fly in, on a whim, or pollutants waft their perilous way inside. ‘And I’m always cold. Instead of getting undressed at night, I put on several sweaters and two pairs of woolly tights, just to keep warm in bed.’

  ‘In that case, I’d suggest a change of diet. Make sure you eat warming foods like cinnamon bark and cloves, fenugreek seeds, quinoa, star anise …’

  Apart from the cloves, she had never heard of any of them. And they all sounded most peculiar, not to mention foreign again. Although she did like the word ‘star anise’. Perhaps she should change her name to Star Anise, which had a certain ring to it, and was definitely an improvement on Dolores. She tried it out under her breath, only to realize to her horror that it rhymed with peas.

  ‘Lobsters can be helpful, too.’

  ‘Lobsters?’

  ‘Yes. They’re very warming as a food.’

  No way would she eat lobster. Any food with eyes or claws was totally taboo. Not to mention the expense. She’d had to pawn her watch just to pay for this appointment.

  ‘Before you leave, I’ll supply you with a diet-sheet, but I need to ask you a few more questions first. Do you suffer from weak legs or painful knees?’

  ‘Both,’ she said, her mind switching back to peas again. They had weak stems but, whatever their fragility, there was instant help to hand, in the shape of sturdy pea-sticks or supportive trellising. You could be jealous of a pea, even while you feared it.

  ‘And do you tend to feel tired or lacking in vitality?’

  ‘Yes, constantly.’ Fear was a full-time job, depleting all her energies.

  ‘And do you find you have to get up in the night – you know, to go to the bathroom?’

  ‘I’m up half the night in any case. I have these frightful dreams, you see.’ The nightmares featured peas, of course – peas at their malevolent worst. However, she ought to count her blessings. At least she didn’t have clinophobia – the fear of going t
o bed at all – which caused many unfortunate sufferers to lose their partners, health and jobs.

  ‘Well, I’m beginning to get the picture, Dolores, and it’s definitely adding up to some sort of kidney deficiency. But I’d like to take your pulses, including the kidney pulse, and also have a look at your tongue. So if you lie down on the couch …’

  Dolores tensed. She hated lying down. A prone position made one much more vulnerable.

  ‘Then, subject to my diagnosis, I’ll do some acupuncture, to tonify and warm the kidney energy.’

  ‘Acupuncture?’ She sprang up from the pouffe. ‘You mean needles?’

  ‘Don’t worry – they’re extremely fine, barely thicker than a human hair. You’ll hardly feel them going in, though you will feel some sensation once they begin to work. It may be a dull ache, or just a sort of tingling, or it could feel like a mild electric shock.’

  Dolores turned on her heel and fled. There were only two things more frightening than peas – needles and electric shocks.

  She stood hunched outside Safeway’s, staring up at the huge letters of its name, blazoned on the store-front. How could any store be ‘SAFE’, filled as it was with peas: frozen peas, canned peas, mushy peas, marrowfat peas, not to mention all the deceitful peas lurking in soups and stews and ready-meals? Yet Duncan, her new therapist (Cognitive Behavioural), had set her a task as homework. She had actually to enter this shop, phobia or no, and stand for three full minutes beside the frozen peas, before leaving slowly and quietly, without giving way to panic.

  She consulted her watch. Ten past four. She had been here since 1.30, trying to pluck up courage, flurries of snow falling on her flimsy anorak. Several times she had advanced towards the automatic doors, only to retreat again. Better to die of hypothermia than come face to face with the source of her most overwhelming fear.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ said a deep male voice. ‘I was wondering if you needed any help?’