I had been aware of Miss Kelly since she had arrived in the neighbourhood. The three-storey house at number 28 had been unoccupied for some time before her arrival. The tall, strong Nanny figure and the cowering person in the large pushchair I kept encounter daily in the park had intrigued me for a while. Talking to Miss Kelly on occasions I had perceived that the occupant of the carriages she pushed, hidden behind the plastic rain cover, was not all he seemed. He was usually well wrapped up regardless of the weather, wearing pale blue woollen mittens and a matching woollen hat that was always pulled well down, almost obscuring his face save for the omnipresent dummy that was permanently in his mouth. A blanket with a bunny rabbit appliqué was invariably tucked comfortingly around him too. Miss Kelly always rebuffed any attempt on my behalf to communicate and departed quickly.
I was confident I was privy to their secret and determined to find more about this unusual couple. I had a long-standing interest in such matters but was reluctant to broach the subject with her in the street. Now I was about to be afforded the perfect opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. We had met again in the park, despite the warmth of the spring day the pushchair inhabitant was securely clothed as usual. This time she paused and began to engage me in conversation.
‘It is Christopher’s birthday tomorrow,’ she told me, so, I knew his name. We walked on together; grunts that emanated from the pushchair told me Christopher was asleep. ‘There will be a small tea party to mark the occasion and I would like you to attend. I know you are curious about us and I also know now that you are the kind of woman who will, how shall I put it, appreciate my disciplinary methods? We shall expect you at three’.
“Of course, I will be delighted to come,” I replied, “just one thing, how old will Christopher be tomorrow?” I asked.
She turned the pushchair around and smiled as she began to walk away from me.
“Seventeen”, she replied.
I arrived at three on the dot. 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, disciplinarian 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 only 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. I counted seventeen candles to put on the cake, and was looking forward to meeting the reclusive Christopher when I heard Miss Kelly’s voice. ‘Come along baby Christopher, 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. In his mouth was a baby’s dummy, he sucked frantically at the teat. This young fellow was extremely embarrassed and humiliated at my witnessing his baby plight. He was wearing a toddler style white t-shirt with a picture of a cute teddy bear in the centre. But it was the lower part of his body that intrigued me the most. Crinkling at Miss Kelly’s touch was a pair of yellow plastic baby pants with what appeared to be more teddy bears imprinted upon them. What they could not disguise was that fact that they covered thick, snowy white towelling nappies. This particular seventeen year old was most definitely dressed as a baby, and what’s more he looked the part.
I estimated his height as about three foot eight tall and his weight at forty to forty five pounds, about your average five to six year old. Except, he was allegedly seventeen years old today. He tried to avoid my gaze by trying to bury his face into Miss Kelly’s shoulders. She would have none of it; sitting him on a breakfast chair she clipped the straps of his baby reins to the back of it and swung a hinged tray around in front of him that she clipped to the other side of the chair. Baby was now securely on display in his high chair.
On his hands he wore the sweetest pair of knitted mittens, soft pale blue wool, with tiny yellow ducks embroidered upon them, on his feet, that swung helplessly below the high chair were matching bootees, tied with a pert, flourishing bow of blue ribbon.
Miss Kelly fastened a plain white towelling bib around his neck that had ‘Baby Christopher’ written across it in blue stitching.
She smoothed the bib with her hand and looking directly at him announced that it was time, “my ickle babykins had some Birfday cakey-wakey.” I was surprised at her lapse into baby talk as her demeanour was that of a stricter, nanny type of carer.
She lit the candles and together we sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The poor boy was crimson with embarrassment as she removed his dummy and urged him to blow out the candles. He appeared reluctant, “now babykins, don’t be a naughty little ba-ba on your birthday. Do as you are told and blow out your candles.” She scolded.
That was more like the Miss Kelly I imagined. ‘What a clever baby you are,’ she cooed, reverting to baby talk as he reluctantly blew them out in two attempts.
‘Would you like to give Christopher his piece of cake?’ she enquired. ‘Ill just get you something to wear’.
She presented me with a white, starched frilly apron explaining that Christopher could be a messy eater. I tied on the crisp cotton garment and scooped a piece of cake onto a spoon and moved it toward his mouth. “No-No I don’t want it.” He said, in a squeaky infantile voice, refusing the cake by moving his head sideways.
“ Hold his chin my dear, you must show baby who is in charge.”
As I grasped his chin, I noticed that his face was totally devoid of facial hair as was the rest of his body; indeed, he showed no sign of adolescence whatsoever.
I was slightly nervous and forcing cake into his mouth caused him to cough, crumbs cascaded from his mouth, making a mess on his clean 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 sugary babyish voice, desperate, apparently, to avoid being spanked, especially I supposed, in front of a stranger.
‘Baby eat cakey all up’, he spluttered. He took the spoon from me with his mittened hands and plunged it into the cake.
Miss Kelly gave him a reproachful stare, then sat down and began to pour us tea, leaving Christopher struggling hopelessly to feed himself.
We chatted into the afternoon, Miss Kelly occasionally turning her head to keep a watchful eye on her beleaguered charge. I could only 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’s small stature was inherited but physically he was fine but perhaps because of his appearance he had become spoilt at home and became, as a teenager an attention seeker. With the police taking more and more of an interest in his antics, Miss Kelly, a family friend, had been asked to intervene and instigate a schedule of complete baby discipline for his own protection. She had determined the time was now right for Christopher’s training to progress, hence my invitation to his party. I told Miss Kelly of my own interest in petticoat and baby discipline, and how I had helped my mother infantilise 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 my Chrissycuddles tired?’ she enquired in a syrupy voice. ‘Is it time for baby to get ready for beddy-byes?’
Immediately he desperately tried to sit up. ‘No Nana too thoon,’ he lisped, trying to look alert, ‘Cwissie not tired.’ The thought of being dressed for bed so early on his seventeenth birthday was provoking panic in his voice.
Unfortunately for Christopher, before he could protest further Miss Kelly had already lifted him out of his highchair and started to remove his t-shirt that she used to roughly clean the smeared chocolate cake from his face.
I was dispatched to the kitchen to prepare a bottle of baby milk, and when I returned Miss Kelly Christopher was completely naked sitting upon an old fashioned child’s potty. ‘Are we all done?’ she asked the squatting boy, ‘you know Nanny spanks naughty babies who don’t go potty before beddy-byes time.”
Poor Christopher was the picture of abject misery sitting there. She lifted him off the potty 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 earlier about your big boys talk. You’re 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 the rough flannelling he was getting and no doubt, his dismay at being destined for bed at such an early hour.
The nursery was decorated in shades of baby boy blue. Soft infantile toys lined a shelf upon which also stood young children’s bedtime story books. I easily imagined Christopher all tucked up in beddy-byes while Miss Kelly read him a bedtime tale.
It was the cot that dominated the room. Over the end rail was draped a long, blue winceyette sleep suit with elasticated cuffs at the wrists and the ankles, I held it up and wondered how Christopher would look in such an infantile item of sleepwear.
Remembering I had been told to bring clean nightwear, I went to the dresser. It was full of neatly folded babyish nightwear; I chose a pair of pale yellow, winceyette, traditional pyjamas with a Peter Pan collar that buttoned to the neck. The pattern consisted of two teddy bears dressed in blue striped pyjamas; Christopher would look so sweet wearing them.
Pausing only to pick up a teddy bear that was lying in the cot, I returned to find him lying on a changing mat being pinned into fresh fluffy white nappies. A pair of plastic pants printed with nursery characters was settled snugly over them.
I handed Miss Kelly the pyjamas. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said smiling at me, ‘I’m afraid you have chosen baby Christopher’s least favourite pyjamas.” She turned to him and tickled his tummy, “Babykins thinks these lovely pyjamas are far too babyish for him but Aunty Helen and Nanny know different, don’t we? Yes we do, these jimmy-jams are perfect for our little babykins aren’t they Chrissycuddles?”
Christopher shook his head furiously. ‘But I'm not thleepy, I don’t want to go to beddy-byes'. His eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Aunty Helen has chosen these lovely pyjamas for you to wear, so you will be dressed in them by Nanny and then you will apologise to Aunty Helen for your behaviour’, 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 yellow winceyette
‘Now say you are sorry to Aunty Helen’ she said, giving his bottom a playful swat to send him on his way toward me. Christopher tottered unsteadily forward due to his bulky nappies and too large pyjamas. “I’m vewy sowwy for being naughty Aunty Helen,” he said softly with his head bowed. I leaned forward and gave him a big hug as he looked so miserable standing there contrite in nappies and pyjamas all ready for beddy-byes.
I scooped him up and cradled him maternally in my lap. Lifting the collar of his pyjamas I tied on a clean bib, as proffered by Miss Kelly, smoothed the collar precisely down again and slipped the teat of the bottle between his lips. The warm milk flowed as I 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 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 Christopher sucking contentedly on his dummy.
I looked at my watch; it was barely six o’ clock, and Chrissycuddles birthday party had come to an end.
I was invited back several times and I must say that Christopher was more helpless and infant like each time. Usually dressed in babyish nappies and pyjamas he spent most of my visits dozing in his bouncy chair.
Eventually, on what turned out to be my last visit there, Miss Kelly informed me that Christopher was going to live with two spinster sisters on the South coast. Reading between the lines it appears the two women had been introduced to Christopher and offered to “adopt” him.
I now know that he spent many years as their, “baby”, permanently kept in nappies, baby pyjamas and being put to bed at six pm every night.
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