Closing ranks in the pecking order

Timing is everything, even if you’re not directly responsible for it.

Being the youngest in the family has its pros and cons. However, when you weigh the advantages against the disadvantages, I have to admit the ‘cons’ take pride of place.

The first thing that strikes me is each sibling’s version of childhood. Those who came before me (quite a few actually) recall parents who were martinets, a very different image from what I was presented. According to my brothers and sisters, they were punished severely for the smallest infraction (or so they would have me believe). So, to see me being treated with what they regarded as kid gloves (again, that’s how they tell the story) made their blood boil.

They say I could get away with murder while they were brought to book for minor wrongs such as making too much noise while the older ones were having their siesta. Of course, what they won’t mention is the fact that shrieks from the four reaching a crescendo at the quietest part of the day would be enough to wake the dead.

I have also been accused of spying on them and relaying information to the adult ‘enemy’. In my defence, I was doing what was right, that is, informing the authorities of nefarious plots against them or suspicious activities that could end in disaster. Isn’t that what’s called nipping something in the bud? As the saying goes, ‘forewarned is forearmed’. Protecting my sole source of support and sympathy in the face of inimical forces working against me was born out of the will to survive. Needless to say, they thought otherwise.

In retaliation, I often found myself not included in games they’d invented which (surprise, surprise) only needed four players. Or, they’d let me join but I soon found myself declared ‘out’ by vociferous referees. If only they hadn’t sounded so gleeful while proclaiming my ouster from the game, I would have taken it in my stride. But I am good at detecting nuances in tone (another survival skill the youngest in the family develops) and there was definitely an element of rejoicing that resembled the euphoria of having vanquished a virulent pest.

I learnt the hard way that running to the parents to complain every time I thought I was being treated unfairly wasn’t exactly the most appropriate thing to do. There was always a reckoning in the form of silent ostracism. ‘Silent’ because the parents must never know we were not on talking terms as this was frowned upon. Theirs was a subtle approach. In front of the parents, they were the epitome of cordiality, but once the guardians were out of sight, it was back to the cold treatment. This comprised no replies to any queries you were likely to make, no lending story books to read (which was the most difficult to bear) and cold looks of disdain if you were stupid enough to forget there was a war going on and tried to be your usual friendly self!

Being in the minority in such a situation required great strategy to regain their confidence. The first step was to single out the weakest link in the group. That was usually the middle sister who was a soft touch. The sight of my woebegone face as I sat watching their games almost always did the trick. As the others became meaner and meaner in their demeanour, the more she melted. This was too good a chance to pass. I admit I ingratiated myself into her good books and soon I was back in the fold. I had slipped through the enemy lines without anyone noticing.

Of course it was too good to last. The next time they were hauled over the coals and saw me spared from parental wrath, the hostility began all over again. It was a never-ending battle of trying to keep all sides happy, an exhausting exercise.