Short Story / Bathsheba Swallow’s Balancing Act (Analysis)
This is all true.
Bathsheba Swallow lived at the mouth of the South West. And, for as long as anyone can remember, Bathsheba had always wanted to be a catwalk model. Anybody with eyes could see that she possessed all the necessary accoutrements required to help her become what she wanted to be; she had a lithe body sheathed by tight flawless skin, a symmetrical face from which blinked two sparkling eyes, a button nose, and lips that could break into a wide smile on demand. Not that Bathsheba had much to smile about because her life up to this point could only be described as anticlimactic, much the same as everyone else’s. What was worse was that Bathsheba Swallow had few friends, and those she had only went back a short way. This was because Bathsheba had made perfection the goal of her identity, and, she was fearful that if other people did not share her ideals, then subsequently her ambitions may be sullied by their association. So in her wisdom she sacrificed true friendship in the hope that it would guarantee her flawless beauty, and thus, a glowing future.
Poor Bathsheba Swallow.
Every night Bathsheba Swallow would dream about her future; malnourished dreams that rose like rainbow skinned fish from the depths of her eiderdown and then teemed into the corners of her bedroom. And it was there, starved of the oxygen of reality, they’d founder on the ash floorboards of her bedroom and eventually die just before the first waves of morning light washed through her curtains. Bathsheba was sure that some point soon, her day would mirror these twilight musings. But until that time came, these vivid dreams were all that held her uncomfortable world together.
One evening, as Bathsheba fished at the edge of the lake, just by the derelict factory that once manufactured bespoke space helmets for famous American astronauts, she began to feel slight pangs despondency and started to doubt, as she reeled in a juicy Coelacanth for her dinner, if her great moment would ever come. But, when she returned home she found the evening newspaper on the doormat with a headline that shouted the details of a fledgling model agency that was holding auditions, looking no doubt, for new talent.
This was it, Bathsheba said to herself. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life. She ran upstairs to her bedroom and began preparing herself for the following day.
The following morning Bathsheba had decided, after much deliberation, to wear a forlorn little number tailored from black taffeta silk, tastefully decorated with the silver ghosts of all the cobwebs she’d ever dusted from off the ceiling of her kitchen and whalebones. After she’d zipped herself up, Bathsheba then straightened the seams of her black silk stocking and squeezed her feet into her narrow fitting red patent leather six inch stilettos. She carefully took her favourite halo from its ebony box and placed it stylishly above her head, then finally completed this wonderful ensemble by hanging her one incredibly expensive handbag over her arm. One might think that Bathsheba was ready to roll but she had one last ritual to perform before she could step through the front door. Bathsheba stood proudly staring at herself in the mirror and said in a confident voice whilst combing her hair, ‘You’re a lioness! Gerrr!’ And with her tail high, off Bathsheba Swallow went to fulfil her destiny.
Bathsheba was the first to arrive at the auditions and was thus led in to a large room and set before a panel of three. They started by asking Bathsheba pertinent questions, question Bathsheba had been asking herself her whole life and whose answers she had been rehearsing in exquisite detail. She told them she wanted to travel the world and meet people. She told them she wanted to promote world peace and bring harmony wherever she found disharmony. She told them she hoped to move in circles that may allow her to meet male members of the British aristocracy, where perhaps one day, if the wind blew in the right direction, she would fall in love and be lucky enough to marry one – a knight of the realm perhaps, or failing that, a baronet. Of course she ultimately wanted a white wedding in darkest Africa, which would also give her and her new husband the opportunity to adopt a baby and maybe, if the money ran to it, sponsor a rhinoceros threatened by extinction. The panel thanked Bathsheba for her honesty and candour and then asked Bathsheba if she would display what they considered to be a catwalk models greatest skill, walking.
This was it. This was the moment Bathsheba’s life had been leading up too. Bathsheba Swallow stood up and attempted to strut like she’d never strutted before.
Six beady eyes followed her as she perambulated before their gaze. Bathsheba tried not to but still noted the reactions on the faces of the panel. One took a sharp intake of breath, one looked down, the third just said ‘Stop there please, you have an awful gait. Thank you. Next please.’
And that was it. The only sound Bathsheba heard after that was the sound of her own wonky footsteps as she made her way out of the room.
Poor Bathsheba Swallow.
It would not be a lie to say that Bathsheba Swallow was pretty destroyed by what happened. She was terribly bloodied by the days experience but to her credit she remained unbowed. You see, Bathsheba Swallow came from awkward stock and was determined to pick her self up and remedy this chink in her amour. So, the very next day, she through on her yellow cashmere coat and took herself off to the library.
Once there Bathsheba searched the shelves until she found exactly what she was looking for. She embarrassed herself somewhat by shrieking ‘Eureka!’ at the top of her voice when her eyes came to rest on it, and had to hide from the chorus of Shhhh’s that came in her direction. Nevertheless, she took the dusty treasure she’d unearthed to the counter, had it stamped, and then went home to study its contents. Once there, Bathsheba kicked of her wedges and lay on her bed with the book which I should have mentioned was entitled ‘So You Want To Be A Catwalk Model’ by Anthony Le Tigre. Bathsheba quickly thumbed through the pages until she came to the chapter she wanted; ‘How To Glide Baby’ then started to read the words with extreme concentration. After she’d come to the end of the chapter, Bathsheba couldn’t believe the advice tendered by Mr Le Tigre. All she had to do to improve her posture was place a book on her head and simply walk about without it letting fall to the floor. Bathsheba was unsure at first, but what had she to lose? Nothing, that’s what. So that is exactly what she did. She started off with children’s books at first, the Famous Five, Wind in the Willows, books of that nature. Then, over time, she graduated to more adult reading matter, books by Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare or Steven King; each of them balance squarely on top of her head as she practiced the fine art of catwalk walking.
On Sundays when she went to church she had a copy of the Good Book perched on her head, although, when she took round the collection plate, she exchanged it for an old copy of ‘Das Kapital’ by Karl Marx. Bathsheba figured that if she had to play a part in the redistribution of wealth she may as well do it properly. On some Sundays the devil in Bathsheba would place a copy of the Koran on her head instead of the Bible. This was both a dangerous and bold sin indeed, but Bathsheba was determined not to deny her self the dark pleasures of a different kind of opium. But perhaps we shouldn’t explore that particular avenue and leave it closed.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, Bathsheba would take a leather bound copy of the ‘Story of O’ from the drawer her bedside cabinet and pace the length of her room with it tied to her head. This always eventually got her off to slumber, even if it was with a pained expression on her face.
People began to notice subtle changes in Bathsheba Swallow. They appeared gradually, then suddenly, then spectacularly. Outwardly, her heels became shorter and shorter until she stood on her own two feet. However, after much consideration she decided to retain her favourite black peep toe court shoes just in case an occasion arose that may have called for them. This could have taken the form of an invitation to a high society wedding reception, or, more likely, if she was ever requested to officiate at a firing squad. Whatever, it’s an unerring fact that no matter how clever you are, it’s simply not an excuse to completely divest oneself of all style and grace. Bathsheba still understood that fact. Inwardly Bathsheba lost the need to incessantly chase an ideal of beauty that she could never hope to achieve. She became something she’d never been before; comfortable in her skin.
Bathsheba Swallow, poor no more.
Top scientists and eminent physicians struggled to hide their bafflement at the change in Bathsheba Swallow, although a certain Dr Ulysses Turkey of the University of Albuquerque wrote and presented a paper which was agreed by all to explain what had happened quite succinctly. If the reader will permit me to pluck a few lines from its executive summary, it read:
‘It appears that the constant proximity of books to the subject’s brain has permitted a transfer of information. Not a literal transfer i.e. the entire wording of the book, but more the ideas and notions, although, Dr Turkey added, in the case Aleister Crowley’s lauded book ‘Magick in Theory and Practice’, the spells and potions; which over time, have dripped off the pages and permeated their way into Miss Swallow’s brain. ‘
That, it seems, was the long and short of it.
Bathsheba Swallow spends all her time in the library now, surrounded by hundreds if not thousands of old friends. She’s still as beautiful as she ever was, but she’s an intelligent beauty now and a natural one. What’s more, she’s only smiles when she’s happy, and of course, whenever she wants to.
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I really enjoyed this. It’s a simple story that builds and builds and keeps you wondering whats going to happen. It leaves you wanting more and wanting to know more about Ms. Swallow. I love the style and the pace. This you could have published. Thanks for sharing
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