Lamb Fatale

Chantal Schaul, 2003

Lambert was admitted to Sherwood Borstal in 1964. We always assumed that he was the youngest in our midst. He looked fifteen or so. But after a couple of years had gone by, he still looked the same, and we started to wonder.

Lambert was a quiet and nervous individual. He didn’t mix with the other fellows and never provoked a fight. He would have been thrashed to pieces if he had. Governor Caldwell left him to his own harmless devices.

Lambert was only leathered once, for taking too long over his food. He often played with his baked beans, picking them out of the tomato sauce one by one and cutting them in halves before swallowing them. This beating left Lambert in such a pitiable state that we feared he might die. The Governor never had him flogged again.

When Lambert was in the doldrums after his punishment, I sought him out. I found him curled under the thin duvet of his creaking camp bed, staring at the bare grey walls of his tiny cell. Although his chin was sharp and his nose prominent, with pronounced and pliable nostrils, he looked very young.

His hair, while conforming to the standard borstal cut, short at the nape and temples, erupted into a tousled frizz on top of his head. The curls were of a mousy brown hue with a dash of ginger and coiled up like a tropical island brimming with undulating vegetation.

‘Perk up, chap,’ I said.

Unlike Lambert, I was in fine fettle. I had just chewed the fat with Governor Caldwell over a glass of finest Port. I was in a mood to help the less fortunate. But Lambert did not even brush me with a look. I was a trifle taken aback by the darkness of his mood.

‘What ho, Lambert,’ I said in a cheerful tone.

He did not budge.

‘Oh, come, come. Let’s hear what dampens your spirits. It can’t be that leathering, still? It was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, what?’

Lambert shifted his pupils in my direction. I sat down on his bed, which squeaked under my weight.

‘Come now, old chap. Put me abreast with what casts you down.’

I took a bottle of Port from my suit pocket and uncorked it, while he watched. I filled Lambert’s tin mug to the brim and passed it to him. He was sceptical at first, but then drank greedily. Within five minutes he had guzzled more than half of the bottle. He watched me for a while, as if I was a sketch or a drawing of some sort, then suddenly sat up, angled his knees against his chin and reclined against the wall.

‘I am stuck in the body of a sixteen-year-old,’ he complained. ‘I stopped growing, just like that. My bones are brittle; I’ve broken my wrists twice. And I have only three hairs on my chest.’

‘Golly,’ I said. ‘That’s some predicament. What’s your real age?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Why are you in borstal?’ I asked.

‘My mother thought a proper prison would be too harsh and faked my birth certificate.’

‘Goodness gracious,’ I exclaimed.

Lambert said nothing.

‘How does a harmless chap like you end up in borstal in the first place?’

It was a question we had all been asking ourselves. And however much Governor Caldwell had taken me under his wing, he never broke the regulations of confidentiality. Unless they were dead, he never disclosed any information about our fellow inmates.

Lambert mused for a moment. He finally blew the gaff and out came the whole story.

‘Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I lived with my mother and aunt. I never knew my father. He had run off with a bigger woman. I wasn’t surprised. Both my mother and aunt were tiny skinny rakes, with no curves and no smiles. They were dusty and dry, boring and barren. I might as well have lived with two crusty twigs.

They named me Lambert because I looked like a lamb when I was born, all white with a down of fair curls on my head. Lamb became my nickname and my imposed nature. Well beyond my childhood years, they showered me with teddies to cuddle up to in bed, and made me wear colourful jimjams patterned with lollipops and poodles. They put a fluffy hedgehog family on my windowsill and washed me with baby soap, not to harm my delicate skin. They knitted mittens and hats for me and made me wear them well into April.

They once caught me looking at their underwear catalogue, which I had found hidden under their mattress. I was twenty-five. Aunt Prunella screamed when she discovered me bending over the pages.

‘Mirabelle!’ she called my mother and turned towards me. “I will not have my precious little lambkins look at this filth.’

My mother gasped when she saw the catalogue in my hands. She whipped it away from me and sat me down.

‘Women like those will be no good for you. Do you want to be turned into a wild animal?’

I shook my head and almost started to cry.

‘Good. Now promise you will never look at this again?’

I nodded.

‘And off to bed you are. Tomorrow you will clean the cart.’

We had a little fruit shop, inherited from my grandfather. In order to transport the fruit from the greenhouses to the shop, my grandfather had built a three-wheeled wooden fruit cart and hand-painted it with vibrant ripe plums and melons, blushed apples and pears, twinkling berries and cherries.

It was my duty to pedal the psychedelic vehicle back and forth between shop and garden every day. I enjoyed these trips because they took me away from my overbearing mother and aunt. Although they made me wear my hat and mittens, I felt free.

This daily fruit transport prompted my downfall and led to my incarceration here.

It took me across a long bridge and past a tollbooth, staffed by a hunchbacked man with callused hands. His name was Alf. Though deformed and not the brightest of chaps, Alf was kind-hearted and always let me pass for free without any qualms.

Not long before my thirty-third birthday, Alf died. While polishing the barrier, he accidentally hit a lever. Sharpened from splicing the air in constant up and downs, the barrier, when it hit Alf’s nape, severed his head with one brief slash.

The following day, the booth was empty. The day after that, it was manned by the most beautiful lady I had ever laid eyes on. As I trundled along on my bike and drew closer to the magical creature, I became very self-conscious of my childish hat and mittens. I tore them off in a frenzy, but immediately reconsidered my actions and put my hat back on. My sheepish curls needed covering.

The lady magnetised me from afar with her thick and bountiful long hair. It was of the most vibrant red. Her vivid carmine burgeoning growth was so profuse and lavish that it flooded the entire booth and set it ablaze. I ogled at her. My feet kept pedalling although my brains were failing to co-operate.

When I finally dragged my eyes off her hair and to the rest of her person, I beheld the most ravishing creature on the entire planet. Her skin was deliciously smooth, her features strikingly unusual, her breasts agreeably over-sized. She had plump and pert lips that glowed in the same colour as her fiery locks. Her eyes gleamed in a mysterious green and were encased by long black lashes and skilfully sculpted brows.

Her nametag read ‘Fuchsia Foxtrot.’

Before I knew it, my rotating feet had taken me up to the booth window that framed the majestic lady. There was no turning back. I assumed the manliest position that my fruit cart allowed and said in a gallant voice, slightly raising one eyebrow and crinkling one nostril, to look sophisticated:

‘Why, what a pleasant surprise to see such a charming young lady here.’

She lit a cigarette and half smiled.

‘Tuppence, please,’ she said in a husky and salacious voice.

Her smoke coiled into the air and past my twitching nostrils. I swallowed.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘Alf and I had an agreement on fruit carts.’

‘Yes?’ She blew more smoke through the window.

‘Yes. There was no charge.’ I had to control my voice so it wouldn’t shake.

‘Well.’ She smiled and spotlighted me in a gleam of her mystic green eyes. ‘Give me some fruit and I’ll let you pass.’

I was thunderstruck. She wanted fruit, and fruit she would have. I picked my juiciest apple, perfectly blushed on one cheek, and carefully passed it to the open window on the palm of my hand.

As she took it from me, one of her glossy crimson fingernails came so near my skin that I could feel her heated aura emanate from it. My heart pounded inside my breast with such vehemence that I feared she might hear it. But she only had eyes for the apple. As the barrier opened and I passed through, I heard it crunch between her teeth. I pictured the juice collecting on her tongue.

From that day on I wasn’t the same. I became shamefully aware of all my sheep attributes and tried to obliterate them from my person. I ran to the barber on impulse and had my fleecy locks cut short. I practised a stiff upper lip in front of the mirror and dandied myself up in a suit that my father had left behind. Both the bow tie and shirt were pink, no doubt my mother’s choice, and probably the reason why he hadn’t taken it with him. But I had no choice. To complete my new persona, I went to the library and read up on sophisticated gentleman’s language.

My mother and aunt were alarmed.

‘What’s the matter with you, lambkins? Why do you suddenly worry so much about your appearance?’

‘I only want to look a bit smarter,’ I defended myself.

‘Don’t overdo it, or you’ll have a horde of useless girls sticking to your heels.’

‘Yes, dear, and you know no good will come of that. They will steal your money and wrap you around their little finger.’

But I paid them no heed.

On my next delivery trip, the bridge was busier than usual. A long queue of cars was ahead of me and I had to wait endlessly until the booth finally moved within reach. I wished I had a car, too, to impress her with.

Fuchsia was filing her nails in between customers. I proudly presented her with a cluster of ruby grapes. They didn’t fail to grab her attention. She pinched them by their stem, a voluptuous grin on her bee-stung lips. I was hypnotised as she nipped off one grape and held it between her flashing white teeth, pouting her mouth. The barrier opened and I passed through, blood bubbling in my veins.

Back home, I delicately asked my mother for a car.

‘A car? What do you need that for, lambkins? Isn’t the fruit cart enough for you? And do you know how dangerous a car is?’

‘We can’t afford to buy a car, sweetheart,’ Aunt Prunella added. She patted my head.

‘Why on earth did you have your lovely plush ringlets cut off? Your head is hard as a rock.’

‘You’re turning into a pig-headed rascal, Lamby. What has got into you, I’d like to know?’

I returned to the subject of the car.

‘It would be so much easier to transport the fruit in a car. Especially in the winter.’ Aunt Prunella petted me behind the ear. She turned towards my mother.

‘Perhaps he’s right, Mirabelle. Daddy’s cart is getting old. Perhaps we should modernise. Everyone’s getting cars nowadays.’

My mother rubbed her temple.

‘All right. A small, affordable car.’

‘There are these French cars called Two CVs,’ I enthused. ‘It would make me look very smart.’

‘Smart?’ my mother thundered. ‘Why on earth would you want to look smart? Not to impress any girls, I hope?’

No, of course not. For the sake of the business, I mean.’

They looked at each other suspiciously.

‘It will be economical in the long run. I could transport so much more in a day. We could sell so much more.’

‘As long as you don’t pootle around in it to make sheep’s eyes at young ladies.’

‘Of course not, mumsy.’

My mother and aunt gave in. They bought a pink Two CV. It was to be delivered within three weeks. Meanwhile I was in agony. My cart trips were both humiliating and electrifying. I gave Fuchsia cherries, melons, plums, raspberries and apricots. She suggestively bit into all of them and fluttered her long lashes at me every time I passed.

I gradually increased the degree of indecency in my addresses to her. My mother and aunt would have shuddered to their bones, had they heard me call her ‘sugar plum,’ ‘peach fairy,’ and ‘cherry bud.’ I suggestively raised my eyebrow at Fuchsia and licked my lips every time I spoke to her. She tossed her flaming mane back and nibbled her fingertips. I kissed a ripe peach and passed it to her; she bit into it so lasciviously that a droplet of juice trickled down her divine chin. Sometimes I imagined her wearing the lingerie I had seen in Aunt Prunella’s underwear catalogue.

The day I got the car, I planned to give Fuchsia a special treat. I was proud as proud can be. My elbow angled across the window ridge, I pootled up the bridge, stopped casually by the booth and beamed my most dashing smile at her. She held her breath when she saw the new car.

‘I brought you strawberries and cream,’ I said, and passed her a dish with the red fruit, topped with a white mountain of finest Devon clotted cream. She took it and dipped her forefinger into the silky heap. As the white blob melted on her tongue she groaned with pleasure.

Her next move was deeply disconcerting. Had I been perched on the saddle of my bike, I would most certainly have toppled over. The comfortable fruitmobile seat saved me from such disasters, but could not prevent my awful abashment that followed her gesture.

Fuchsia’s arm protruded from the confines of the booth as she reached out to place a succulent strawberry smothered in glistening cream on my lower lip and shoved it into my mouth with her soft, warm thumb.

‘My fruity lamb fatale,’ she mouthed.

I had never been touched by a woman before, apart from my mother and aunt. The sensation that Fuchsia caused on my skin was too much to digest within the space of a second. I gulped down the strawberry whole and drove off, almost taking the barrier with me.

I felt oppressed and cornered, like a hunted animal. The moment when Fuchsia had reached out of the booth and trespassed beyond its safe enclosure, I realised that I had got myself into a serious scrape. I had tantalised her for so long that she was ready for the pounce, like a lusty tigress.

What now? I was snookered. Did she guess that I was a virgin? Would the fiery vixen jump me the next time I came by? My brain was reeling. There was only one route of escape. Fall ill and avoid her until my thoughts were my own again. I was so disturbed that illness came naturally. I developed a fever of unknown origins.

My mother and aunt drowned me in caresses, hot milk and honey, chicken soup, grapes, sugared tea and hot water bottles. Slowly I recovered, but pretended that my legs were still too heavy to drive. Aunt Prunella got her own driving licence and took care of the fruit transports. I was put behind the shop counter, safe from the beast.

One day, I went for a haircut. My curls had grown to unspeakable lengths; I could barely see. I had trouble giving our customers the right change.

When I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, my blood froze. None other than Fuchsia had approached me from behind. Lustful and carnal as ever, she threw a towel over my shoulders and ran her fingers through my thick mop of locks. She looked at me in the mirror.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you! What a pleasant surprise!’

I felt a bitter taste on my tongue. She had been set free.

‘What are you doing here,’ I painfully articulated.

‘I work here now,’ she replied. She glared at my reflection and pouted her lips.

I wanted to run away but was rooted to the chair. I was so petrified that I could not even move my little finger. Fuchsia kept fondling my hair and touching the back of my ears. I shuddered. I saw the goose pimples rise on my arms.

‘How would you like it cut, my fruity darling?’

I quaked. ‘Very short, please.’

Fuchsia snipped through my ringlets like a whipping whirlwind. Her own luxurious red thicket tossed and heaved with every move she made. When it brushed against my skin it felt like a thorn bush. I smelt her wild and heavy fragrance and started to sweat. My cramped hands stuck to the plastic seat.

‘Are you hot, my raspberry bear?’ She blinked her eye and smiled. ‘Perhaps a cooling peach would help?’

I was scared stiff. With a superhuman effort, I wrenched away from her and freed myself from her clutches. I stood flat against the mirror with my back. She came closer. In despair I reached for something to defend myself with. I clasped what turned out to be a pair of scissors. Fuchsia’s smile froze on her lips.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

She grabbed my arm, but in my flurry I grazed the back of her hand with the scissors. She backed off and wiped a dribble of blood from her hand. With her moist pink tongue she licked the cut. It was more than I could take. It drove me mad. My mother and aunt had been right to warn me against her kind.

Down went the scissors, again and again.

It was the opulence of her breasts that saved her life. They acted as a buffer and prevented the blades from damaging any vital organs inside her chest. Or that’s what they told me later on.

I was arrested and thrown into borstal on that same day.’

Lambert died soon after he had told me about his crime. His brittle bones became his downfall. As we were breaking rocks, he stumbled over his leg irons and knocked his skull on a stone. It burst like a ripe watermelon. How his head ever could have taken the pressure even of a cold shower remained a mystery to us all.

I was charged with sweeping Lambert’s remains together. The bone chips looked like finest china. Or egg shells. Splattered with a little blood.