Of course Maureen lived on her own. That way there was no problem about sharing. She couldn’t think of anything worse (except, perhaps, having no food in the house) than opening a box of chocolates and having to offer them to someone else. Imagining the pain of seeing nutty clusters, soft centres and chewy caramels disappear into the jaws of another made her feel quite panicky. Like the time she’d left a Thornton’s carrier bag on the bus. What a nightmare that had been, phoning up the bus company, traipsing back into town.
So, anyway – no problem at home. Maureen had cupboards stuffed with biscuits, crisps, cheesy wotsits, salted nuts, tinned beans and family sized chocolate bars. Her fridge strained on its hinges to rein in bacon, eggs, sausages, butter, cream, pork pies, sliced ham, coleslaw, mayonnaise and chocolate spread. She never bought anything in ones any more. A six pack of crisps grew to 12, then 24 until she discovered the joy of the Makro card. Now she could load up her trolley with boxes of crisps, case of biscuits and catering packs of baked beans.
As for the ‘three for two’ offer – it could have been invented for Maureen. If you liked something, of course you were going to want at least three of it – and the day Thorntons took it up she celebrated with three bags of brazil nut toffee (chocolate coated), three boxes of rum and raisin fudge, three bars of alpini truffle – what a saving that represented.
“I’ve got lots of kids to buy for,” she’d explain to the assistant, as she rang up Maureen’s purchases and looked out one of the big Easter egg bags to pack them into.
Maureen prided herself on never having seen the bottom of her chest freezer, which was choc o bloc (pun intended) with pizzas, fisherman’s pies, chicken curries, artic rolls, ready meals of every description, loaves of bread, catering packs of raspberry ripple ice cream, burgers, sausage rolls and – a particular favourite – white chocolate magnums. She loved the excitement of putting her hand in, like a child dipping into a bran tub, and bringing forth her mystery prize.
Work proved more of a challenge but over the years Maureen had developed coping strategies: deep desk drawers that slid easily on their runners so they could be whipped open or slammed shut the instant someone left or entered her office. A large shopping bag was essential and the day she was allocated her own personal filing cabinet – with key – was indeed a day of great joy.
If she ever thought about it, which she did rarely and only ever during the grey no man’s land hours between night and day when, due to heartburn, stomach cramps or indigestion, she fruitlessly pursued sleep. Yes, if she ever did think of where she might lay blame, it would be with her mother.
“Eat up Maureen”… “clear your plate Maureen”… “No pudding until you’ve finished what’s on your plate Maureen”. So she had and it had just become a habit. Phrases such as “she enjoys her food” and “she has a good appetite” or even “it’s just a bit of puppy fat” followed her into adolescence where she became “big boned”….”sturdy”….”a little on the plump side” until the day she moved out, leaving the bathroom scales and anything without an elasticated waist behind her.
She was thinking about that and about God the day it first happened. If the Almighty had meant her to be thin, then surely he wouldn’t have given her such a robust appetite or made her taste buds so amenable to all fattening food, would he?
She had just completed her lunch break circuit, ending with, as usual, Bunters the bakers, where she loaded up with a couple of steak bakes, three sausages rolls (for the price of two), three cheese and onion pasties (ditto), a four pack of madelines (sensibly they didn’t even sell them singly any more) and then onto the cream cakes, pointing out her choices to the vacant, spotty teenager serving her.
“We’ve got a birthday in the office,” she confided as she exchanged her money for the bags and boxes. The teenager made no acknowledgement.
She returned to the office, climbing the creaking, wooden stairs with difficulty, stopping at each turn to recover her breath, under the guise of adjusting her shopping bags and bemoaning, as usual, the lack of a lift. She had thought about trying out the chair lift, recently installed to comply with legislation, but she was dubious as to whether she could fit into the ridiculously narrow seat.
She nudged the door open with her elbow.
“You’re late back,” Marjorie, one of the other three occupants of the wages office, already had her coat on, bag over her arm. She tapped the face of her watch.
“It’s not my fault, it’s those stairs,” protested Maureen. “It was just on one when I got in, but it’s taken me a good 10 minutes to get up those bloody stairs. If they won’t put in a lift, we should be allowed extra time to take account of the stairs.”
But Marjorie had gone.
“Cow,” muttered Maureen as she set about shedding her bags. She manoeuvred herself between her desk and chair and hovered for a few moments before allowing her bottom to plummet towards the upholstered seat, which squawked in anguish as contact was made.
She opened the two top drawers of her desk and placed, for later, the cream cakes and madelines in one and party pack of tortilla chips with salsa dip in the other.
Opening a file she started on her lunch, stopping every so often to lick her fingers, screw up an empty bag, shake crumbs from the wide shelf of her bosom or, less often, to turn a page of the file. When she had completed the savoury section of her meal she stood up, brushing pastry flakes off her body and carried out a tour of her absent colleagues’ desks.
With the pretence of searching for a stapler, Maureen harvested half a packet of polos, two jaffa cakes, a kitkat and a small amount of – rather flat – Seven Up.
The kitkat was the most dangerous but it was Marjorie’s, so Maureen figured she deserved it after the telling off the old goat had given her. She made sure she put the wrapper in her handbag, rather than the bin so there could be no risk of discovery. Irritatingly, Maureen only managed to get through a meringue and a vanilla slice before she heard footsteps on the stairs and had to slam her drawer shut.
By two o’clock the four members of the wages department were all back at their desks, tapping away at keyboards.
“Oh, it’s frozen again,” Maureen sighed, rapping repeatedly on her ‘enter’ key.
Alison looked over her reading glasses at her colleague. “You’ll have to call tech support,” she said.
“Just when I need to get on,” said Maureen, picking up the phone. She explained her problem to “tech support, this is Tony, how can I help you?” who talked her through various operations while she kept the phone squashed to her ear with her right shoulder.
“No, it’s not doing anything,” she told him triumphantly. Tony said he’d pop up in 10 minutes.
“Well, it’s not my fault. I can’t do anything till he comes,” said Maureen petulantly and she sat back on her chair with her arms folded on her stomach like two Swiss rolls atop a Christmas pudding. She pulled open her second drawer down. “Anyone like a biscuit?” she waved the choc chip cookie packet around for half a second and then withdrew it. “Actually there’s only a couple left,” she said, levering out six biscuits. She hid four of them in her left hand and dropped the other two into her mouth.
When Tony arrived she was just downing the final concealed cookie, under cover of her computer monitor. Maureen stood up to let Tony take her place at the desk. A small but unmistakably audible fart crept out as she levered herself out from the desk. She coughed loudly and then again, not looking at any of her colleagues.
After a few minutes of keyboard rattling, Tony started to laugh.
“What is it? What’s so funny?” asked Maureen. Had he spotted her cream cakes? No, the drawer was shut tight.
“It’s clogged up with food,” he said. “Look!” He picked up the keyboard, turned it upside down and shook it. Sure enough a heavy drizzle of crisps, cake crumbs and pastry flakes showered down onto the desk. Alison, Marjorie and Lorraine all stopped what they were doing and looked over. Lorraine had to stand up to see. “Bloody hell,” she said, “It’s like confetti,” and they all laughed.
Maureen looked from one to the other, panic rising in her chest.
“I’ve seen it all now,” hooted Tony. “Wait’ll I tell the lads, they’ll never believe me.”
“Well, I don’t know how that can have happened,” blustered Maureen, playing for time. “It’s not my fault, I haven’t had it very long. I think someone else had it before me, you know.” But they weren’t listening to her. They were laughing louder and longer. Eventually Tony pulled himself together, unplugged the keyboard and stood up.
“I’ll get you another, love,” he said and, as he brushed past her to go out, he stopped, cocked his head and said: “you’ve got something on your arm, haven’t you?”
Maureen looked down to where his eyes were homing in.
“Bit of cream or something, looks like,” he put out a tentative finger.
Maureen felt sure she could hear a snigger from Marjorie but didn’t dare look round.
“Handcream, it’s just handcream,” she slapped her arm with her other hand. Tony shrugged, not his problem, but it was a funny place to have handcream.
“It’ll be tomorrow before I can get you a replacement,” he called over his shoulder as the door swung to, behind him.
Maureen followed him with a whisper of “just going to the ladies” and, once ensconced in a cubicle, she gingerly lifted up her right arm. She gasped and dropped it back. Then she lifted it again, slowly, very slowly. She smelt it, as if checking for BO then, with the index finger of her left hand, flicked a slug of the white substance that was bubbling up in her armpit onto her fingertip and placed it on her tongue. It was definitely cream, Tony was right about that, but not handcream. This was the type of cream that came between layers of a cake, sandwiched between two meringue shells, piped onto a strawberry tart or spread along the length of a chocolate éclair.
Had she just…? by accident ….smudged….She lifted her arm right up this time. No, there could be no doubt about it. This cream was coming from her. She switched her attention to her left arm and discovered more telltale creamy bubbles oozing from her pores. She, Maureen Maddison of 14 Radnor Gardens, was sweating cream.
She yanked on the toilet roll, pulling sheets of it towards her and wiped the cream off. When she was sure there was no trace left, she listed to make certain she was alone before unlocking the door. At the basin she rinsed her armpits as best she could, patting them dry with the rough brown paper towels.
She re-entered the office to an abrupt silence. Lorraine cleared her throat in a very unnatural manner, while Marjorie stabbed at her big desk calculator with farcical concentration. Allowing a few minutes to pass, Maureen slid open her top drawer. She frowned at the cream horn cowering in a corner of the box. She was sure she’d only….she counted off mentally: meringue, vanilla slice. There should definitely have been a choux bun in the box too. Without looking up she swivelled her eyes from Lorraine, to Alison to Marjorie. Busy, busy, busy. She was just wondering how she might frame any such question as to the errant bun’s whereabouts when Alison said, still staring at her screen, “anyone like a polo?”
Marjorie and Lorraine both agreed that they would. Maureen remained silent.
“Oh,” said Alison, “they’re not here. I wonder where they could have gone?” She made a great show of opening and closing her drawers, lifting up her papers, moving the photo of her son, checking her filing tray.
“You must have eaten them and forgotten,” suggested Lorraine.
“Yes, you probably just forgot. It’s easily done,” said Marjorie, slightly too loudly.
Maureen could feel herself getting hot again, but on her face this time. She put up a hand to wipe away the sweat from her forehead. It felt sticky and grainy, as though she had rolled her face in sand. She took a discreet look at her hand. Tiny white crystals glistened on her fingers. She put them to her mouth, tasting the sweetness with a shudder of dread mixed with the pleasure of their taste. She sat motionless, frozen like her computer screen.
The door opened and Olive, the post lady, bristled in. “Any post? I’m late, so you’d better have it ready.”
Maureen jumped and, in relief, looked at her watch.
“Oh, it’s five o’clock already.” The others started to pack up and two minutes later Maureen was on her own. She carefully loaded the remainder of her food into carrier bags and waddled down the stairs, taking her time lest she should catch up with any of her colleagues.
It was a relief to get home. The bus had been packed, making it impossible for Maureen to manage getting anything more than a small bar of chocolate into her mouth. Once in the house, she oozed into a chair at the kitchen table and started on a box of Quality Street. It wasn’t till she was down to the toffee pennies (her least favourite on account of how they stuck to her upper plate) that she began to feel anything like normal again.
A week passed and it was happening more often now, she noticed. By the time she got to work each morning a thick layer of cream had built up under each arm so that she had to stop by the ladies toilets to remove it before going into the office. The sugar too was popping up like a rash on her arms as well as her face and today, when she pricked her finger trying to extract a staple and licked the blood, she found it wasn’t blood at all, it was chocolate sauce.
“Office leaving party,” she said to the girl in Bunters while she was tying up Maureen’s cake box. As she swung her great bulk around and started for the door she caught the tail end of one girl’s mutter to another: “…turn into a cream cake one of these days” and she wondered, just for a second, if this was God’s doing.
She felt the cream frothing, not just under her armpits but behind her knees this time. It was a hot day and the sugar was starting to caramelise and trickle down her face She licked it with her tongue. The cut on her finger had opened up again from holding all her bags and was dribbling into her hand. She raised it to her mouth and drank the sweet, dark liquid.
Back at the office there was an ‘atmosphere’. Maureen was used to this but today it was different. Alison waited till Maureen had settled herself the announced:
“We’ve all got to go to the canteen at four o’clock. The boss has got an announcement.”
Redundancy – which obviously wasn’t her fault – came as a relief to Maureen at first even though she was only due the statutory payout, having been there less than two years. On the way out of the meeting she licked at her arm and, when no one was looking, scooped a little cream out from her left armpit. She picked at a scab, till it bled and sucked her finger nail. It was sweet and lovely.
She didn’t bother trying to get another job, preferring to spend her days at home, where she could eat without interruption, growing fatter and rounder. Her skin began to flake and she sweated more but she could deal with that – she had coping strategies. She found it more and more difficult to go out. Walking chafed her thighs and was tiring. The bus seats had got smaller, making it uncomfortable to sit for long with one cheek dribbling off the end. Thank God for Tesco home delivery….until the money started to run out.
When came the day that Maureen, leaning over the freezer to retrieve a pack of oven chips, spotted a small triangle of the smooth white plastic surface that lined the bottom, she knew what she had to do, what God had in mind for her.
She pulled back her sleeve to reveal the flabby skin of her left arm and lowered her fur-coated teeth into the wobbling flesh. Maureen felt the familiar thick sweet fluid enter her mouth and let a slow syrupy smile leak over her pastry face – death by chocolate, was there any other way