The Birthday Party

[Bertha]

This is a short story I wrote many years ago and submitted to Susan at PDQ who kindly published it. Susan always supported my contributions and I will be forever grateful. Anyway here it is as another archive piece.


Dear  readers.
I thought you might be interested to hear about a very interesting birthday party that I attended recently, and which really showed the effectiveness of nursery discipline as a means of managing difficult boys.
I had known Miss Kelly for a while, and I was delighted to have been invited to Christopher’s party. The tall, strong Nanny figure and the cowering child in the pushchair had intrigued me for a while. Talking to Miss Kelly in the park I had perceived that the small child she pushed, hidden behind the plastic rain cover, was not all he seemed. He was usually well protected from the weather, sporting girlish woollen mittens and a woollen hat, and with a blanket with a bunny rabbit appliqué over him. The pink dummy that he permanently had in his mouth struck me as odd. Surely he was too old for such a thing? Miss Kelly always rebuffed any attempt on my behalf to talk to him and departed quickly.
I was confident I knew their secret and wanted to find out more about this unusual couple. I had a long-standing interest in such matters but was reluctant to broach the subject with her. Now I had the perfect opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.
‘It is Christopher’s birthday tomorrow,’ she told me, he was asleep as we walked back from the park. ‘There will be a small tea party to mark the occasion and I would like you to attend. I know you are the kind of woman who will appreciate my disciplinary methods. We shall expect you at three’.
At three on the dot I arrived at the front door. Miss Kelly greeted me warmly. Framed in the doorway I saw an attractive woman in her late forties who carried her height well. Her blouse and skirt were smart and functional without being frumpy, and she exuded a cool authoritarian demeanour that brooked no nonsense. To a younger person such as myself she personified the ideal of a traditional Englishwoman. Miss Kelly invited me to take a seat while she went to fetch Christopher. ‘He doesn’t know you are coming so I expect it will be a big surprise for him. Perhaps you would put the candles on the cake for me?’ She gave me a knowing smile as she spoke, and left the room.
Taking a seat, I looked around and noticed lots of baby toys scattered around a soft play area. The coffee table in front of me was set for two people; my suspicion that I was to be the only guest had been confirmed. The cake was decorated with icing and had ‘Baby’s Birthday ‘ piped upon it. Amusingly I discovered thirteen candles to put upon the cake, and was looking forward to meeting the reclusive teenage Christopher when I heard Miss Kelly’s voice. ‘Come along babykins, time for your birthday surprise’.
She entered the room leading Christopher by the straps of leather baby reins that were adorned with tiny bells that tinkled delightfully as he toddled alongside her. It was at that moment he saw me and made a comical attempt to turn around and flee the room. Miss Kelly pulled up high on the reins and swung him around in front of her. She stooped down and picked him up effortlessly, carrying him on her hip toward me. His eyes blazed with embarrassment, and I knew that this young fellow was humiliated at my witnessing his baby plight.
He suc-ked his dummy frantically, trying to bury his face into Miss Kelly’s shoulders. She would have none of it; perching him on a breakfast chair she clipped the straps of his baby reins to the back, leaving him securely on display, his little legs dangling helplessly over the edge of his improvised high chair.
His pink cotton dress caught my attention. It had been lovingly made, with lots of lace trimmings, buttoned at the back; it had a laced collar and a flared hem. The elastic in the short puffed sleeves enhanced the chubbiness of his arms, and the matching pink baby knickers, also trimmed generously with lace, could not disguise the presence of thick cloth nappies. On his hands he wore the sweetest pair of knitted mittens, soft pink wool, with tiny yellow ducks embroidered upon them, on his feet were matching bootees tied with a pert, flourishing bow.
Miss Kelly fastened a towelling bib around his neck that had ‘Babykins’ stitched across it, and announced it was time for some birthday cake. She lit the candles and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The poor boy was crimson with embarrassment as she removed his dummy and urged him to blow out the candles. ‘What a clever baby you are,’ she cooed as he reluctantly blew them out.
‘Would you like to give Christopher his piece of cake?’ she enquired. ‘Ill just get you something to wear’.
She presented me with a frilled apron, explaining that Christopher could be a messy eater. I put on the crisp white linen garment and began to feed cake into his protesting mouth. I was slightly nervous and caused him to choke, making a mess on his bib. ‘Oh please...that's too fast.’ he spluttered, as the gooey and crumby substance smeared around his mouth. Miss Kelly interceded. ‘That’s quite enough grown up talk from you Mister Babykins, she scolded, wiping his face with the bib, ‘You deserve a smacked botty!’
‘No Nanny! Cwissie sowwy.’ He spoke in a babyish voice, desperate to avoid being spanked in front of me, ‘Baby eat cake all up’. Miss Kelly gave him a reproachful stare, then sat down and began to pour us tea, leaving baby struggling hopelessly to feed himself.
We chatted into the afternoon, Miss Kelly occasionally turning to keep a watchful eye on her beleaguered charge. I had to admire Miss Kelly: her neat skirt and blouse were devoid of creases, and her every movement portrayed strict, traditional values that are sadly now a thing of the past. She spoke of how Christopher, despite his very small stature, had become something of a tearaway, driving his poor mother to distraction. Miss Kelly, a family friend, had intervened and instigated a course of complete baby discipline for his own good. She had determined the time was now right for Christopher’s training to progress, hence my invitation. I began telling her of my own interest in petticoat and baby discipline, and how I had helped my mother babify my cousin Leonard one Christmas. It was an insightful conversation, one that was set to continue until Christopher became the architect of his own, new humiliation.
As we talked Christopher had given a stifled yawn. Miss Kelly turned quickly toward him. ‘Is Chrisicuddles tired?’ she enquired in a sweet voice. ‘I think it’s time for baby to get ready for beddy-byes’. She said this in a sing song manner and poor Christopher desperately tried to sit up and appear alert. ‘No Nana too thoon,’ he lisped, ‘Cwissie not tired.’
The thought of being dressed for bed so early on his thirteenth birthday provoked panic in his voice. Unfortunately for Christopher, before he could protest further Miss Kelly had already lifted him out of his chair and started to unbutton his dress.
I was dispatched to the kitchen to prepare a bottle of baby milk, and when I returned Miss Kelly had Christopher sitting naked upon an old fashioned potty. ‘Are we all done?’ she asked the squatting boy, ‘you know Nanny spanks naughty babies who wet their night time nappies’. Poor Christopher was the picture of abject misery sitting on the baby potty.
She lifted him off and proceeded to use a damp flannel to wash every part of his body. ‘No Nanny stop!’ he wailed, trying to avoid her thorough attention to his cleanliness.
Miss Kelly spoke angrily. ‘That’s quite enough, I warned you about using big boys talk, now you are going straight to bed you naughty baby. Helen, would you please fetch me some clean nightwear for baby? His night-things are in the dresser in the nursery’.
She continued diligently with her task, and I eagerly did as she asked while Christopher howled his disapproval at being washed and destined for bed. The nursery was decorated in shades of pink. Soft toys lined a shelf upon which also stood bedtime story books. I easily imagined Christopher all tucked up in his cosy pink cot while Miss Kelly read him a bedtime tale.
The cot dominated the room. It was a large cot but not a specially made one, Christopher was very small for a thirteen year old and would quite easily fit. Over the end rail was draped a floral pink nightdress with frilled cuffs and collar, I held it up and wondered how Christopher would look in such a girlish item. Remembering I had been told to bring fresh clothes I went to the dresser. It was full of neatly folded infantile nightwear; I chose a pair of pink brushed cotton pyjamas, with a Peter Pan collar that buttoned to the neck. The pattern consisted of two bears pillow fighting, they were so babyish and feminine, and Christopher would look sweet in them. Pausing only to pick up a teddy bear that was lying in the cot, I returned to find him being pinned into fresh nappies that were protected by a pair of plastic pants printed with nursery characters. I handed Miss Kelly the pyjamas.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said smiling at me, ‘I’m afraid you have chosen baby’s least favourite pyjamas. He thinks they are far too babyish for him, nonsense of course.’ Christopher shook his head furiously. ‘But I'm not thleepy I don't want to put pyjamas on yet'.
Miss Kelly gave his legs a sharp smack. His eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Aunty Helen has decided you will wear your lovely teddy bear pyjamas so you will put them on and apologise for being a naught babykins,’ ordered Miss Kelly firmly.
She put his arms into the sleeves of the jacket, buttoning it up to the neck. Placing his feet into the pyjama bottoms, she stood him up, pulled the bottoms up around his waist, and tucked the jacket inside the pyjama waistband. Christopher’s hands and feet had disappeared, enveloped in flannelette as the nightwear was at least a size too large for him. ‘Now say you are sorry to Aunty Helen in your sweetest baby voice.’ Ordered Miss Kelly  Christopher paused for a second before saying in a barely audible whisper," Sowwy for being a naught babykins aunty Helen."  I leaned forward and gave him a big hug; he looked so miserable standing there all ready for bed in infantile pyjamas.
Miss Kelly sat down, extended her arms wide, and said, ‘Come to Nanny’. He had no choice but to stagger toward her, toddling like an infant thanks to the bulky nappies and voluminous pyjamas. She scooped him up and cradled him maternally in her lap. Lifting the collar of his pyjamas she tied on a clean bib, smoothed the collar precisely down again and slipped the teat of the bottle between his lips. The warm milk flowed as she rocked him gently toward impending sleep.
Christopher was only vaguely aware of the empty baby bottle being replaced with his dummy, and was practically asleep as I gently tucked his teddy under his arm. She carried him through and gently put him into his cot and kissed him once on the forehead before raising the side rail. Miss Kelly and I quietly left the nursery to the sound of  baby Christopher suc-king gently on his dummy.
I looked at my watch; it was five o’ clock, Christopher’s thirteenth birthday party had come to an end.